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[0210sjy]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚  sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.

(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.

paid! jake x fem! reader ˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI ! inspired by 10 things i hate about you !

Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.

What he didn't understand though, were your laws.

No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.

No driving without adult supervision.

No going out past 10PM.

No girlfriends until eighteen.

No accepting rides from people he didn't know.

No staying out without answering his phone.

The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.

These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.

You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy. 

The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life. 

"Don’t drink." you state.

Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."

He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"

You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."

He groans. "It's a party." 

You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."

He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it. 

A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"

Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.

Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.

Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”

The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.

Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.

You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.

He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”

They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”

That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy? 

“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.

Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”

“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”

Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged. 

The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.

It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.

Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.

Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like tha —"

“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”

Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.

Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”

Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

Jake shakes his head, “What?”

“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”

And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”

“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.

Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”  

Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.

Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.

The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.

Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”

By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.

"You're a good man, Jake."

"I'm aware."

"No, like, a really good man."

"Thank you."

"The best."

Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.

"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."

Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.

Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough. 

Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”

Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.

“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.

“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”

“No.”

Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.

“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”

Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”

“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.

You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.

It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes. 

You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”

You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.

For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door. 

That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.

Wow. Okayyy.

You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.

Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.

“Hey.”

You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.

He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.

For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.

“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”

You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”

Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”

That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”

The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”

You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”

“No.”

He frowns. “So it’s personal.”

“No.”

Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.

“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.

Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”

For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.

Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.

Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.

Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.

Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”

Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"

“It had the best lighting.”

“It has me.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.

You don’t look up. “No.”

Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.

“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”

Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”

He blinks. “So?”

“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”

“You know my grade?”

“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”

It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”

This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”

The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”

“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”

You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”

Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked for economics.”

“And I gave you something useful.”

His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.

You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.

For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.

“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.

Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it. 

“No.”

Riki stares. “No? Jake.”

“No.”

Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”

Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.

“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you. 

“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.

Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella. 

The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary. 

“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”

Jake groans. “No.”

“Please.”

Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him. 

Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.

A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.

The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.

The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”

Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.

It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.

After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.

“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.

Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”

You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”

You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”

You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”

His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”

Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”

“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”

You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”

You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.

The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”

“I have coffee at home.”

For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”

You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.

He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”

You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.

Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”

Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.

By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.

The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes. 

You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.

The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.

You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"Wow."

You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.

Specifically you.

"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.

His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.

"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom. 

You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."

"Right."

"I do."

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.

He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"

You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."

That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"

You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.

The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.

You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."

You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner. 

You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.

A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”

You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”

He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.

The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.

His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”

Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”

For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.

Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”

Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.

Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”

You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.

Then you look up to see Jake. 

“What the hell?” you hiss.

He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”

You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”

“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”

Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.

However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.

“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”

He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.

“No.”

“Then one.”

“Jake.”

“You can yell at me outside.”

You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.

The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.

The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”

You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Which lasts forty-seven seconds.

“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”

Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”

He shrugs. “Occasionally.”

“About me?”

He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.

You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Well, yes.”

You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.

You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”

“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”

You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”

Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.

“I’ve been told.”

“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.

He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”

“No.”

“Board member?”

“No.”

Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”

Your head snaps up. “A guy?”

He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”

You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”

“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”

You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“Good.”

Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird.”

He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.

He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.

“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”

For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.

A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.

He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.

You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.

Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”

Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”

The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”

You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”

Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”

You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.

He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”

You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”

The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it. 

Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”

You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.

You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”

He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.

You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”

“No.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”

You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”

Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.

His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”

A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”

“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”

Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”

Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”

He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”

You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”

“You called him Chicken.”

“Because his name is Chicken.”

“Which is insane, by the way.”

You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.

You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”

“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”

His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”

For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.

“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”

He glances at you. “I did.”

You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”

“I said hey.”

“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”

He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.

“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”

He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.

“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”

You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.

His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”

“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.

“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”

“Unlikely.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”

For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”

His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”

He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either. 

Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”

The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.

Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.

Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.

“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”

“That is not what you said.”

“I know.”

“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”

“I know what I said.”

Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.

His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.

You clear your throat. “I should go back.”

His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”

You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”

He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”

You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”

His mouth curves. “Fine?”

“Yes.”

He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.

“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.

He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”

You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”

His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”

You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.

“In front of everyone?”

“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”

You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore. 

The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.

One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.

You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a dress shirt.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer. 

“Just wear it.”

The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.

You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.

You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”

“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.

For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again. 

It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”

Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.

By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.

That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.

Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.

There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.

Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.

At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.

Riki had paid him.

Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.

It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty. 

He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”

He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”

“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”

Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”

“A date.”

There is silence — one awkward silence.

Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”

“No, obviously not.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”

“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”

Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.

“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.

Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”

“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”

Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”

By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.

You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”

There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?

You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”

You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”

“Come with me.”

The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.

Then he says, “Okay.”

You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely.  “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.

On the other end, there is a small pause. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”

The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.

“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”

You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.” 

He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”

You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”

Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”

There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.

You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”

He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”

The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.

Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.

His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”

You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.

You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car. 

The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him.  The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.

You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.

You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”

He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.

“Come on,” he says.

Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.

At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.

He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”

“People are walking.”

“Badly.”

Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.

He catches himself at the last second. “What?”

You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.

“I’ve been craving dumplings.”

The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.

For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”

You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.

You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”

“Was that gratitude?”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink. 

You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.

You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.

You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.

Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”

He picks it up. “It does.”

You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.

“Put it back.”

Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”

He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”

“No, why did you buy it?”

“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does. 

The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.

For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.

Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.

You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.

You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”

He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.

You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.

Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”

He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.

You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.

“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”

You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.

“Are you blushing?” you ask.

Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s cold.”

You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.

So you stay.

He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.

You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.

“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.

You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.

By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether. 

He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.

When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.

“I can carry my own stuff,”

“I know.”

He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.

Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”

You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.

“A little,” you say.

His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I feel greedy.”

Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze. 

Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.

“Only tonight.”

“Because of the market?”

“Sure.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”

He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.

You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.

He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”

You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”

He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says.  Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.

That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

“You’re not going.”

“Neither are you.”

You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.

It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.

He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.

You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”

He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”

You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.

“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”

His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.

Then you kiss him. 

He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.

“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.

Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again. 

Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”

For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.

“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.

His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”

“That’s your excuse?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”

You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.

“Then let me do better,”

You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.

You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”

His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.

For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.

You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.

He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.

The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.

You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”

His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.

Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.

Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”

His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.

And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.

Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.

When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions. 

In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.

You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”

You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.

Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.

For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.

“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”

“You usually have more to say.”

His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck. 

He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.

“You’re very careful.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”

You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.

Except, you do. And it is very obvious.

You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.

“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”

He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.

“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.

But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it. 

A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids. 

 “I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.

You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”

He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.

He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.

He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.

He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently. 

“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.

His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.

“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.” 

He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark. 

He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer. 

He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.

With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.

“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head. 

He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head. 

He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.

“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.

His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.

He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles. 

The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”

“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?” 

He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.

He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.

Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets. 

“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.

You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.

He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.

Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed. 

He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”

You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.

He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”

He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.

His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.

You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.

“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “

If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact. 

“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip. 

You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.

“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.

He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.

“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.

“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “

He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure. 

Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does. 

“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”

You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”

He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”

“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”

You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.

Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds. 

“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat. 

The next few days have been… a turn.

Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.

The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.

You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.

The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.

Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.

You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.

You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.

After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.

Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough. 

One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”

With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.

Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.

When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”

You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.

He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.

Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.

Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.

The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in. 

Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.

You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”

“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”

That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”

He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing. 

His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).

Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize. 

For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.

Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter. 

You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.

He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”

For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers. 

The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.

A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”

Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”

Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.

Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”

“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”

There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.

“Taming the lion,” someone says.

Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.

The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.

Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”

Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.

Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”

“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”

“What?” Jake asks, distracted.

Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.

“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”

Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.

He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.

And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.

Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.

You turn and walk.

Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.

You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.

“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”

The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.

You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.

He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.

Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”

“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”

Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”

You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.

That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”

Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge. 

You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.

“Is that true?” you ask.

His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”

You stare at him.

“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”

He goes still.

That is the answer.

You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.

You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”

The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.

He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”

“I thought you chose me,” you say.

“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”

Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”

He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.

“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”

You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”

Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”

His breath catches. “Please.”

You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in. 

“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.

You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.

You hate men. Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.

Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning. 

Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.

But history is dead. Men killed it.

Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.

By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.

On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus. 

“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.

Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.

“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”

You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind. 

By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing. 

At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.

Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”

Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.

At eight minutes, you sit up. At nine, your feet touch the floor. At ten, you stay where you are.

Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.

The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary. 

That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.

“What?”

He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”

You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”

“I don’t want delivery.”

“Then make something.”

“I want to go out.”

You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”

Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”

You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.

“It’s late,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you have Jake, apparently.”

He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.

He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”

You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.

With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”

The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark. 

When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.

Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.

For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.

“What?”

He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”

You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?

Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”

You look at him, face unreadable.

“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”

You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”

Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”

The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.

“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”

He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”

The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.

You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”

For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.

“I really am sorry,” he says.

When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.

“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.

He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”

You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.

For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.

“You’re so stupid.”

“A dumbass, I know.”

You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.

“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.

You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”

Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”

Your eyes narrow at him.

“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”

The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.

He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”

Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.

“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”

“Riki.”

“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”

You hate him a little for saying it.

You hate him more because it makes you think.

The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it. 

You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”

“I know.”

You look at him.

He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.

Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”

Your mouth almost curves.

“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.

That night, you cannot sleep.

It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.

You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.

You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.

The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.

When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.

The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”

You nod once. “Right.”

“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.

You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car. 

“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.

You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.

He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”

You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.

“Okay.”

You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”

He goes still.

“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.

“Okay.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And you still hurt me.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”

You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”

He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile. 

“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.

Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.

Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.

“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”

He does not answer.

“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”

Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.

“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”

For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.

He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.

“Can I?” he asks.

You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.

You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.

“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”

You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”

He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”

Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”

“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp. 

His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”

For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.

Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”

You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”

“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”

He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.

Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”

The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”

He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.

“I want you,” he says.

He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.

For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.

Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe

“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.

His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.

His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”

You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.

For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.

His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”

“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.

His mouth softens. “Yeah.”

You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.

His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”

You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.

The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.

Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.

“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.

He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.

When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”

For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”

Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.

“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.

Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”

His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.

You hate him. You hate him a lot.

You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”

He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Done. No more.”

short sequel

[kaleidohscopic]

TRY AGAIN — JJH

PAIRING: jaehyun x female reader SUMMARY: if you could have it your way, you'd never have to see, hear, or even think about jeong jaehyun ever again. a fortuitous blind date, and that same dimpled smile after all those years, is somehow enough to make you reconsider. maybe he was always meant to be by your side. GENRE: exes to lovers! au, slight coworkers! au, romance, angst, slow burn, humour, some pining, a touch of smut WARNINGS: swearing, alcohol consumption, too many descriptions of coffee and wine, mentions of sex, general mature content and themes, reader is not good at talking about her feelings, joy x doyoung, i try to write about the complexity of relationships and personal growth (i fail miserably) WORD COUNT: 32.4k NOTE: oh. my god. it's finally here! there's certainly something different about writing for your ult. office scenes inspired by the internship i did at a big 4 firm that ended up rejecting everyone from my department (yes i'm still bitter). i actually wanted to get this out back in august to celebrate jolo but alas, Life. i guess this is a parting gift? (jaehyun i am nothing and nobody without you.) i poured a lot of heart into this fic and posting it feels like letting my child go out into the world alone... be safe my darling xx

You should’ve brought an umbrella. 

The early evening sky was darkening faster than usual, ominous grey clouds hovering between the skyscrapers like an unspoken but imminent threat. Though the ground was still dry, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be for long. Your haste to leave your apartment this morning had robbed you of the good sense to check the weather forecast, mind too preoccupied with tonight’s agenda to spare a thought for the possible torrential downpour that summer seemed to be so fond of. 

A glance down at your feet sent a twinge of annoyance through you. Of course you picked the black pumps to wear today. They were pretty, which was why you had slipped them on in the first place, wanting to make a good impression even if you told yourself you didn’t really care that much, but they were also expensive, and you did not want to get them wet. You said a silent prayer. Hopefully the impending rain would be kind to the leather.

“You better not be flaking,” Joy warned, voice crackling through your phone speaker. “I don’t really care what he thinks of you for not showing up, but it’ll reflect badly on me, and I can’t have that.”

You suppressed a smile. Ever the drama queen.

“I am literally walking out of the station right now. The Italian place, right?” you asked, pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs to gather your surroundings. The restaurant she had picked out wasn’t exactly an unknown location to you, but it had been a while since you last visited, and the buildings seemed to look back at you with a dazed unfamiliarity.

She gave an affirmative hum. “Two streets down from the exit. The reservation is under my name, but I think he might be there already.”

“Yippee. How exciting.”

There was a loud sigh from the other end of the line, and you could almost hear her rolling her eyes at you. “You do know I set this up with your best interests at heart, right?”

“Are you sure it’s not because you were bored and needed to use some poor soul for your own entertainment?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who put three packets of salt in Jungwoo’s coffee,” she fired back. 

Okay, maybe that one was on you. But it had been pretty funny seeing him spit it out all over the office kitchen counter and then meticulously clean up the mess with paper towels, all the while eyeing everyone on your floor with suspicion.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “give him a chance. I think you guys could really like each other.” There was a pause. “Plus, he’s super fucking hot. Like if I wasn’t happily taken I would be climbing him like a tree.”

“Gross. I’m filing a complaint with HR.”

“Reporting me to my own department? I’ll make sure that file never even makes it through the portal,” she cackled at your empty threat, and you joined in with her. “Seriously though, just give him a chance. At least stay until the mains come out.”

“Fine,” you acquiesced, though you made sure she heard the huff that accompanied it. “But if he starts talking about cryptocurrency I am leaving.” 

Joy only laughed, assuring you he probably wouldn’t, and bid you goodbye with a parting command for you to enjoy yourself. 

On days like these, you couldn’t decide whether you were grateful or unlucky to have been placed on a team with her for your first project at the company. Technically speaking, Joy was your senior by almost two years, but even at that first daily stand-up half a year ago, filled with nervous smiles and clumsy introductions, you had the feeling the two of you would gel. By the time that first project wrapped up, the two of you had long progressed past mere co-workers, having bonded over 8-hour days of Powerpoint formatting and your mutual dislike of olives. You had never been more thankful for someone so vivacious to show you the ropes, and help you settle into the new environment with such ease.

However, Joy was a meddler.

Her meddling was what had you currently navigating the crumbly asphalt in your nicest shoes to meet the apparent hunk she had set you up with. You didn’t know much about the guy since she refused to give you his name, afraid you’d search him up on social media and then make up some excuse to back out once you had seen his face — like you had done with the previous two that she’d picked out for you.

Apparently, this one was from the Digital department, and had been at the company for a little over a year. Those were two out of the three pieces of information that she had deigned to bestow upon you, the third being that he had dimples, which she thought you’d appreciate.

Oh, and now the fourth one being that he was ‘super fucking hot’.

Who knew? Maybe you would enjoy yourself. Getting back into the dating scene was pretty low on your priorities, with your career and trying to stick to a consistent gym routine taking up the majority of your time, but you were never opposed to a bit of fun. 

Maybe Mr Super-Fucking-Hot could be a bit of fun. 

Just take it easy, you thought to yourself, spotting the glass windows of the restaurant as you rounded the corner. Il Giardino, read the sign that hung above the door. Cute.

Hastily, you shifted your bag and cardigan to the other arm and smoothed out the creases in your black trousers. You had tried for something a little dressy, but also office-appropriate since you were coming straight from work, and not like you had tried too hard and spent an unnecessary number of hours thinking about what to wear on this stupid blind date. Another quick glance at your reflection in the window, just to make sure there was no food or lipstick in your teeth, and you pushed past the door.

Soft jazz filtered through your ears as you stepped inside. The restaurant was nicely decorated, a few vintage Italian posters hanging on the exposed brick walls, and an overall rustic feel that paired well with the warm, earthy ambience. Judging by the patrons already seated, this place was a popular date night location, with all but one table occupied by couples sharing soft touches and flirty smiles over half-filled glasses of red wine.

Joy certainly knew how to pick a spot.

You gave the smiling hostess Joy’s name for the reservation, managing a weak smile of your own when she informed you that the other half of your party had already arrived, and followed her through the tables further into the restaurant. Outside, the first few raindrops had begun to splatter against the asphalt, slowly darkening the road with wet patches that were sure to grow into puddles. It seemed you had arrived just in time to escape the rain.

The hostess stopped at a more private table towards the back, and gestured towards the empty seat with that same welcoming smile. Mystery man, aka Mr Super-Fucking-Hot, was sat with his back to you, leafing through what you assumed to be the drinks menu. His silhouette from behind was alright-looking, you supposed, if you really had to put a label to it, but there was something vaguely familiar about the shape of his head. Perhaps you had crossed paths in the office lobby before?

You approached the table, trying to sneak a peek of him out of the corner of your eye, just to see if he lived up to Joy’s oh-so-generous description, without being so painfully obvious—

And froze.

“Is everything alright?” the hostess asked, still beaming at you. 

You barely heard her through the cotton wool that seemed to suddenly fill your ears, hands instantly clamming up as you took in the man in front of you. His warm eyes widened a fraction of a millimetre with recognition, quickly followed by something else you couldn’t place.

This was not happening.

“Is everything okay?” the hostess tried again. The corners of her mouth were beginning to slip, and she cast you a mildly concerned glance.

How strange you must have looked, standing stock-still beside your reserved table like a statue. The only things that could dispel the notion you had suddenly turned into stone were the light flush to your cheeks, and the deafening pounding of your own heart that you were sure the whole restaurant could hear.

“Everything’s fine, just give us a minute please,” Jaehyun finally said, flashing the hostess a kind smile. She took her cue to leave, but not without another curious look between the two of you, hurriedly brushing away the waiter who was approaching the table and preparing to rattle off the specials. 

Hearing his voice seemed to break the spell that had rendered you so immobile. You straightened, shifting your bag higher up your shoulder, and turned to leave. Whatever this was, you were not entertaining it.

Chair legs screeched abruptly against the floor. 

“Wait,” he pleaded. 

Your eyes landed on his hand latched around your wrist first, before they moved to his face again. Slowly, his fingers loosened, but he kept you in his hold. 

“Will you sit, please?” he asked softly. 

You looked at him. Really looked at him, taking in his full, straight brows, the slope of his nose, the pinkness of his lips. His cheeks had slimmed since you had last seen him, allowing the sharpness of his jaw to really come through. Breathtakingly handsome as he always had been. A little older, a little more masculine, and yet somehow still the same.

And maybe because you still saw him, the boy that you loved, the first and likely only boy you had ever truly loved, you did sit, sliding into your chair like it was made of ice.

“It’s been a while,” he began, lowering back into his seat. You gave no indication that you had heard him at all, eyes focused on the flickering tealight candle at the centre of the table. The wax was a pinkish red colour, and the light scent coming from it was sweet, with a touch of tartness. Pomegranate, maybe. At your silence, he cleared his throat and tried again. “How have you—”

“Did you plan this?”

He pulled back a bit, as if in genuine shock. “No, I swear, I had no idea it was you. Joy only told me it was someone from her department, and that you were pretty, and she thought you’d be my type.” A pause. “Did you?”

Your reply was icy. “Why would I plan to see you?”

He looked away at that, sucking in a breath through his teeth. You were probably mistaken, but something akin to hurt flashed in those eyes as he gave a short nod at your words. Likely a trick of the light. It was a little too dim in here. What reason would he have to be hurt? Why would he be bleeding when you were the one with cuts all over your hands from picking up the glass shards of your own broken heart?

An uncomfortable beat passed. “Well, I’d say it was nice to see you, but you know I’m not good at lying,” you said. Shouldn’t have sat down in the first place.

Grabbing your bag and cardigan, you made to stand up again, regretting your decision to come here, regretting giving in to Joy so easily, regretting leaving the house this morning without a stupid fucking umbrella. The drizzle outside had turned into a downpour in no time, and the street drains were definitely going to clog up tonight. 

Seoul and its fucking summer monsoon season.

“Can we just—please, can you—fuck. Can we have dinner and just talk? As friends?” His hand shot out across the table, as if itching to grab yours again, but thought better of it, letting his fingertips rest against the edges of the linen napkin you hadn’t even bothered to unfold. 

A refraction of light from his sleeve caught your eye. His cufflinks. He was wearing the cufflinks you had gotten him for your high school graduation all those years ago. 

They had been expensive. Four months of pay from your part-time job at the ice-cream parlour was just enough for the pale pearls set in sterling silver. You supposed it would have been silly of him to throw them away when they were so valuable. It wasn’t like you had thrown away the gold pendant he had given you either. That necklace hadn’t hung around your neck for a long time, but it still sat somewhere in the depths of your jewellery box, underneath all the newer ones you had bought for yourself or received from friends over the years.

“Fine,” you found yourself saying. “Sure. As friends. Why not?” 

Sinking back into your seat, you reached for the wine menu immediately. Enduring the next hour in the company of your ex-boyfriend without a drink? Unbearable. As much as you liked to convince yourself you were over him, from your behaviour tonight it was clear you most certainly were not, and only alcohol could soothe that blow to your pride.

Your eyes flitted down the page of reds, then the whites, then the sparklings. Christ, the prices in this place were not pretty. Joy would have to be in a completely separate tax bracket from you if these were the kinds of establishments she frequented. 

For a brief moment, you thought about ordering the most expensive bottle on the list — a Penfold’s 2018 Shiraz — just to be spiteful, but decided against it. If you were really going to be sharing a meal ‘as friends’, he would not be footing the entire bill. You wouldn’t let him.

The waiter, under the impression that things had somewhat cooled down, finally approached your table, albeit a bit cautiously. Hearing but not really listening, you let him sing praises about the wild mushroom ravioli, ordering it just to save yourself the effort of reading through the rest of the menu. When he reached the beverages portion of his spiel, you settled for a more reasonable bottle, a 2021 merlot.

It was only once he had left to put your orders in that you realised that you had not even checked if Jaehyun was driving tonight.

“I’ll pay for the wine, if you’re not drinking,” you said, fiddling with your napkin. You could probably finish the whole bottle yourself anyway. Maybe that would make it easier to look him in the eye.

“You really don’t need to do that,” he replied, voice soft but firm. The weight of his eyes on you was almost a tangible thing. “I’ll have a glass.”

Your waiter returned, making a show of uncorking the bottle before pouring it out into both your glasses. You couldn’t down the first one fast enough, draining half the contents in one long mouthful like it was your first taste of water after finishing a marathon. Jaehyun was more deliberate with his glass, taking only a few small sips before he set it down on the table again. If he noticed the speed at which you emptied yours, which it was pretty hard not to with the way you were gulping the wine down, he said nothing.

God, this was fucking awkward.

“So,” he began, trying to mask the crack of his voice with a cough, “what made you agree to this thing?”

You reached for the bottle. “Felt like I owed it to Joy,” you said, pouring yourself another glass. “I flaked out of the last two she organised.” 

Maybe you should have just gone on that first one with Taehyung, or Taehyun, or whatever his name was. Then you could have avoided this situation altogether. 

“So you do this kind of thing a lot, then?” came his careful question.

You were curt. “No.” 

He blinked a few times, the movements slow with confusion at the abruptness of your answer. You knew you were being difficult. You wanted to be. Five years could heal most things, but unspoken words could linger like splinters under your fingernails, festering below the surface. Calluses had hardened over the splinters of your breakup, tough and protective, but now it was as if they were pushing through to the surface again, your fingers newly tender at the sight of him after all those years. 

A small part of you wanted to give him a taste of your hurt, wanted him to feel the prick of tiny wood chips in the flesh behind his nail beds. The larger part, however, knew malice would do no good for you. You had survived the pain. There was no reason to survive poison as well.

“No, I don’t,” you tried again, a little softer, a little less jagged around the edges. “I think she just likes to set them up for fun. This is my first time on one of these blind uh…” The word date sat heavy on the tip of your tongue but refused to budge. “One of these things.” Maybe another mouthful of wine would wash it down.

“Her definition of fun can be rather interesting,” he said, politely filling the silence.

You hummed in agreement, raising the freshly filled wine glass to your mouth again as you scrambled around in your head for something, anything to say. It had been a while since you had last been out on the dating scene, and you were well aware of it, but good grief, it was like your conversational skills had evaporated into thin air.

“How do you know Joy?” was what you decided on after a deliberately slow sip.

Thankfully, Jaehyun seemed to still know how to carry a conversation. “She’s one of the HR reps for Digital, so we’ve spoken a few times before. And her boyfriend is a friend from university.” He paused to take a sip of his wine. “Have you met him?”

You shook your head lightly. “No, not yet. Hoping to, soon.” 

“You’ll like him. Doyoung’s a great guy. Patience of a saint.”

“He’d have to be to keep up with her,” you said, hints of a chuckle sprinkled in your voice. 

Something about the fact that he was already privy to more of Joy’s personal life than you were had a sliver of jealousy wriggling in your stomach. She was supposed to be your friend, and yet you knew very little about Doyoung besides his name, while your ex-boyfriend across from you had been buddy-buddy with him for probably years and years. Not that it was a competition to see who held more information about their coworker outside the office, but the feeling that you were somewhat losing didn’t sit well.

“It’s actually my first time on a blind date as well,” he said, allowing himself a tentative smile. “You know how convincing she can be. I mean, I don’t think I’d ever go on one if she hadn’t roped me in. It feels a bit silly meeting up with a complete stranger, you know?” He turned his smile to you, still tentative but coloured with a tinge of hopefulness, like he wanted you to understand, like he knew you would. 

How could you not? There had once been a time where you believed that you and Jaehyun had been two halves of the same soul, carved into existence from the same stone. There had once been a time where you knew him almost better than he knew himself. 

A time rather distant from now.

You kept your answer non-committal. “Sure,” you murmured, wishing his pretty face wouldn’t fall so quickly at your nonchalance, wishing you hadn’t caught the slightest droop to the curve of his mouth. Everything about him was still too familiar. “I’m just a bit surprised to hear that, I guess. You were so desperate to meet new people back then.”

Three seconds passed in silence. 

His eyes dropped to his lap, as did yours to your own. This previously reasonable bottle of merlot was loosening your lips rather unreasonably.

“Sorry, that was—” Unnecessary? Mean? 

True? 

“I didn’t mean to say that,” you finally managed, the words spilling out of your mouth in a tumbled rush. 

Or maybe you had. 

Jaehyun could only flash you a weak smile. “It’s fine,” he said, though you both knew it wasn’t really.

Frigidity returned to the air between you, stopped just short of freezing over by the reappearance of your waiter, along with a plate of goat’s cheese arancini. Jaehyun politely gestured for you to eat first, watching as you speared the crusty surface with your fork and moved it over to your own plate. For a few seconds, the only noises that could be heard from the table were the clinks and clanks of stainless steel utensils against ceramic plates. The arancini could not have come at a better time, affording both of you the opportunity to hide behind the guise of eating, and put off the need to make strained conversation, even if the time it bought you was fleeting.

Meet new people. Those were the exact words he had said to you all those years ago. Han River on a Tuesday night, cherry blossom petals fluttering through the balmy April air, the iciness of winter finally melting away into a distant memory to reveal fresh green carpets and vivid blooms — few things could have been more romantic. Spring is the season of love, they said. 

But for you, spring was the season of loss. It was the season when love ended, when love could be taken back and snatched away in the blink of an eye. On a Tuesday night in April, you learned that your love was not just not enough, but that it was a burden, an obstacle between Jaehyun and living his life to the fullest. That time spent with you was time squandered. That you were robbing him of the complete university experience, and to an extent, his youth.

Jaehyun had always been a wanter. He wanted boldly and he wanted freely, never dwelling too long on how his wanting could appear in the eyes of others, never shy about his desires. When he was ten years old, he wanted a dog, despite the reddening of his nose and the watering of his eyes whenever he’d get within arm’s distance of the bichon frisé. In tenth grade, he wanted you, with cans of peach soda and sweet little notes in your locker until you finally said yes to being his girlfriend after three days of public pursuit. 

(You had arguably wanted him more, and for longer, though nobody had been none the wiser — you were rather good at hiding your feelings.)

Two months into your first year at university, his wants changed. He wanted more space and more freedom to meet new people. He wanted to be able to attend club social outings, and get to know his seniors, and play drinking games with his new roommates, instead of trekking to the other side of Seoul every week to see you, his girlfriend, who had now become his obligation.

It would have been a lie to say you hadn’t noticed a shift in his behaviour in the months leading up to that fateful night. Smiles had become a little wearier. Texts had become sparser. You had chalked it up to the challenges of settling into the new routine and rigorous coursework, and the distance between your schools that occupied opposite sides of the city. Sure, the hour-long subway ride from his campus to yours wasn’t the greatest asset to your relationship, but 18-year-old you had remained optimistic it would endure whatever curveballs your first year of university and the beginnings of real adulthood would throw at you. 

You had survived the CSAT together and emerged in one piece. What else could be harder than that?

“You’re right though,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on his own piece of fried goat’s cheese. “I guess I was.”

You let your fork drop with a soft clang. “Let’s not, uh—we don’t have to talk about that.” Pink petals were swimming at the edges of your vision. 

Please, let’s not talk about that.

A flicker of something behind his eyes could almost convince you he wanted exactly the opposite of your unspoken plea. Maybe this was a conversation he didn’t actually want to avoid the way you so desperately did. 

And maybe he would have said something too, if not for the waiter who returned at that precise moment. 

“The mushroom ravioli,” the waiter announced, setting the plate down in front of you, “and the amatriciana spaghetti. Enjoy.” 

Four pieces of pasta covered in sage butter looked back up at you. 

You made a mental note to never order ravioli at an Italian restaurant ever again. 

The sound of scraping utensils returned to your table, lightly blanketing the stilted pause in conversation with idle noise. Without much enthusiasm, you sliced at one of the four pieces of your ravioli, throwing what you hoped were sneaky glances at the full plate of spaghetti sitting in an appetising red sauce laid out before your ex-boyfriend. 

“Do you want to try mine?”

Sneakiness had never been your forte.

Your polite refusal came quickly, even if it was rather weak to your own ears, but Jaehyun was already twirling a portion out onto the share plate the waiter had kindly provided a few minutes earlier. He made sure to scoop some sauce and pancetta bits on top as well, before gently pushing the plate towards you. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, though you made no move to dig in.

Everything wasn’t supposed to feel this familiar. You weren’t supposed to soften so easily at the sight of his dimpled smile. You weren’t supposed to feel that strange tug in your chest at his thoughtfulness, at the way he could still pick up the slightest change in your expression. And maybe the bar was too low, and here you were fawning over nothing more than the bare minimum, because what guy would see his date enviously looking at his food instead of her own and blatantly ignore it?

But with Jaehyun, it was different. You knew it was. Within every action, there was familiarity and practice, there was thought and care, there were years of history that were unerasable, even with the passage of time. You weren’t the same wide-eyed teenagers now as you had been then, and yet scenes from the rest of that excruciating first semester flickered in your mind. 

A silent breakdown during a business administration lecture. Your roommate’s concerned expression when you decided to skip dinner again.

The tug in your chest was leading you back into dangerous territory. 

For the third time tonight, you debated grabbing your things and walking straight out. You had only promised Joy that you would stay until the mains came out. If you were going to leave now, technically, you would still have fulfilled your end of the promise. Arguably, this wasn’t the best time to make an exit — fifteen minutes earlier would have been much better so that the kitchen would have time to cancel your stupid ravioli before they started preparing it. Leaving now wouldn’t be the most optimal, but it was still an option. A tad heavy on the dramatics, but you could live with that. You’d just never be able to step foot in this establishment again.

A shame. The spaghetti looked good. You’d have to search up if this place did delivery.

“You can go if you really want to, I won’t hold it against you,” Jaehyun said quietly. His eyes were fixed on the fork he was twirling through his dish. You supposed you should’ve been surprised at the way he could read your mind without even looking at you, but you couldn’t find the energy in you to pretend.

“But,” he continued at your silence, “if you’re willing to stay, I’d really like it if we could just catch up?” At this, he finally met your eyes and offered a small smile. “It has been a while, after all.”

Maybe it was the sincerity contained in those soft brown eyes. Maybe it was because you really did want to try the amatriciana spaghetti while it was hot and fresh off the stove. Whatever it was, you found yourself resolving to stay, despite all the reasons not to, despite the sound of them loud and clear in your head, ready at your disposal. Allowing yourself to indulge in nostalgia once in a while couldn’t be that bad for you. Right? 

So you stayed. And you ate (his spicy amatriciana scored a landslide victory over your mushroom ravioli). And you talked. As two friends would do, catching each other up on the things that had shaped your lives since you had gone on your separate ways. 

Conversation was clunky at first, that was to be expected. Even the closest of friendships would encounter some choppy waters when reconnecting for the first time after five years. But conversation with Jaehyun gave way to smooth sailing much quicker than you would have expected. He still wore the face of the boy who would sneak an extra serving of fried sweet potato from the cafeteria because he knew you liked them, but he wasn’t quite the same. Older, certainly. Maturity wasn’t something that went hand-in-hand with age like you had thought when you were younger, but he was more mature too. Surer of himself, and his place in the world.

You heard of the summer he spent in the UK after graduation, visiting his uncle and their family, appreciating classical architecture and the leisure inherent to rolling green hills that he hadn’t been able to find in the metropolis he had grown up in. (The food, however, was an entirely different story. He had never been so overjoyed to see a bowl of rice that wasn’t covered in mushy peas or sitting in a puddle of questionable-looking curry.)

He learned of your semester exchange in Amsterdam, including the unfortunate incident involving you, a runaway bicycle, and the freezing water of the Dutch canals. Fortunately, a nasty cold and two weeks in bed over the Christmas break were the worst things that came of it. Those few months had been eye-opening, to say the least. Stepping outside of your own bubble had made you realise how much more there was to the world, and how little you knew of it.

Yes, Jaehyun had changed, but then again so had you. The realisation dawned halfway through dessert, slowly settling over you as you spooned at the tiramisu in the centre of the table. Perhaps it hadn’t been fair to him that you had been harbouring this seed of antagonism towards him for all these years. He, so afflicted by youth, as you both had been back then, was only doing what he thought was right and necessary. Could you really fault him for that? You had seen enough of life now to know that sometimes, nobody was to blame.

There was a comfortable lull in the conversation before he spoke again. The sound of his voice drew you away from the window, where you could see that the rain had slowed from the earlier dramatic downpour to a lighter shower. 

“I know I probably wasn’t who you were expecting today,” he said, a little hesitant and gauging your expression.

“You definitely were not.” You gave him an amused half-smile over the rim of your barely-filled glass, which he returned. The bottle of merlot sat tall and empty on the table.

“I just wanted to say,” he began, taking in a breath, “I’m glad it was you. It was really nice to see you again. And I’m sorry if you were disappointed that it was me.” 

There was something sad in the curve of his mouth, you thought. It tempered the warmth in his eyes.

“I’m not disappointed,” you heard yourself say. “Really.”

It was the truth. You knew he could see it written across your face. Dishonesty and insincere flattery were not familiar weapons you wielded. He knew that. He knew you.

Jaehyun sat back, bringing his own glass to his lips and draining the lingering contents. Perhaps to hide the private smile that broke out across his handsome face, which you pretended not to see, turning your attention back to the raindrops pattering against the window. 

The evening air was cool on your bare arms when you stepped out, taking shelter under the awning in front of the restaurant. You weren’t the only one who had forgone a weather app consultation today. Jaehyun stood beside you, hands tucked neatly in the pockets of his slacks, a not unwelcome companion while you waited for your taxi to arrive. He’d call one later, after he made sure you had gotten in the car and were on the way home.

“I guess I’ll see you around?” he asked, tone light. 

You cast a sidelong glance at him. His profile was backlit by the warm light emanating from inside the restaurant, carving out the straight bridge of his nose, a soft shadow cupping the fullness of his bottom lip. Would there ever be a time the sight of him wouldn’t take your breath away?

“Maybe,” you breathed. Letting him back into your life wasn’t a decision you felt ready to make yet, and you had no intention of promising him anything you couldn’t be sure you’d be able to deliver. Even if you would only be promising him friendship.

He didn’t push it further and hummed in understanding. Then your taxi was pulling up in front of the restaurant, the splash from the tyres just missing the hem of your trousers, and you were bidding him goodbye, staring a second too long at the dimples that appeared, and trying not to step in a pothole puddle as you clambered rather ungracefully into the car. 

But because realisation was never punctual, it was only when you arrived home, carefully kicking off the black pumps and patting them dry with a microfibre cloth, that you realised two things. 

First, you had left your cardigan at the Italian restaurant.

And second, Jaehyun had footed the whole bill.

There was a reason the seventh floor was your favourite floor in the building.

It wasn’t because of the little in-office cafe with the cute but ridiculously overpriced pastries that tasted even better than they looked, or the deceptively comfortable bean bag chairs by the far window that would always tempt you with a mid-afternoon nap every time you sank into one of them.

No. The seventh floor was your favourite because it had a Nespresso machine. Free use. Company-funded.

A seventh floor coffee was one of the only things that could get you to leave the comfort of your desk and willingly walk up two flights of stairs. (The elevators always took too long.) On Monday afternoons like these, after an entire morning swimming through attendance and sick leave reports from the last quarter, the promise of a smooth and velvety cappuccino felt like your only hope for humanity. Unfortunately for you, it seemed like everybody else had the same idea, if the line in front of the coffee machine was anything to judge by. 

“You should have told me!”

You gave Joy an incredulous look. “Right. Because I definitely knew exactly who he was.”

“Well, you could have worked it out. You’re a smart girl.”

“You said a total of three sentences about him.”

She paused, fixing you with a contemplative stare. Her eyebrows were doing that weird lifting thing when she was running something through her head. “Five sentences,” she finally managed, tapping around the rim of her empty mug. 

Why she came up with you at all when she wasn’t a coffee person, would probably take two sips of the espresso, and then complain it was too bitter, was beyond you. Sometimes you wondered if she was really that good at her job, or if her workload was just so non-existent that she could take five coffee breaks a day. It couldn’t be the latter, because you had seen that her calendar was full for the entire morning.

“Let’s not spend the next fifteen minutes talking about last Friday,” you sighed, already pushing thoughts of dimpled smiles and warm eyes to the far corner of your mind. Hopefully not to be revisited for a while. “I want my head outrageously blank while I enjoy this cappuccino. Swear to god Junmyeon is trying to drown me with those leave reports.”

“You know he only assigns them to you because you’ve never told him you hate doing it.”

“He assigns them to me because I’m the only one available who can get it done properly. You’re always blocked out, and Jungwoo has that weekly coaching session. Jisung tried to help me do it this morning, and he didn’t even separate paid from unpaid leave. The numbers looked like we were bleeding PTO.”

She gave you a sly smile. “You know you can block yourself out too,” she said off-handedly. 

“You can what?”

This was new information.

“You’re telling me someone else could be sifting through that 70-page file if I just schedule in a random meeting with myself?” you asked again, to which she nodded.

“Has yet to fail me. But make sure you name it something that makes sense, and don’t do it all the time, otherwise it’ll look suspicious.”

Corporate bullshitting was a fine art, and you were beginning to realise you were still but a novice at it. 

“And lay off the intern,” she added. “He’s just a child.” “He’s taller than Junmyeon.”

“A child in spirit, then. You know what I mean. He sort of reminds me of a cute little mouse,” she mused, trailing off. If her apartment complex didn’t have a pet ban, you had a feeling she would be taking in every stray animal off the street.

However, she was right. Jisung had been a bigger help than you had expected of a second-year commerce student. Even if it was just skimming through a finished presentation pack to fix up any typos and align text boxes, you couldn’t deny that having an extra pair of eyes and hands had made your life a little bit easier. Maybe you would even miss him once his summer placement came to an end and the semester rolled back around. As long as there weren’t too many more incidents like the one from this morning.

Speaking of this morning…

“Hey, does that mean you’ve been making yourself unavailable so you don’t have to read the—”

“Oh look! The line’s getting shorter. You should move up before someone cuts in.”

You shuffled forward, but not without throwing her a displeased look along with a grumble or two. Next time the quarterly attendance analysis rolled around, you were definitely making use of the trick she had just told you about. A quick glance up ahead. There were now three people in front of you in the line, but only one green capsule left on the rack. 

Please, caffeine gods be willing, let that last one be yours.  

“I can’t believe I told you that I thought your ex-boyfriend was super fucking hot. I feel so icky, like I’ve betrayed you somehow,” Joy said, making a face. The dimpled smile fought its way back into your consciousness, and you suppressed the twist in your stomach that seemed to accompany every recollection of it. 

“It’s honestly fine. There’s no way you could have known.” You shrugged, partly to reassure her it wasn’t a big deal, and partly to shake off that funny feeling in the pit of your stomach.

The better part of your weekend had been spent trying to make sense of the night, after battling a merlot-induced migraine for most of Saturday morning and early afternoon. Three glasses had been a necessity to get through dinner, but it was ultimately overkill. You were no longer the girl from two years ago who took advantage of her afternoon class the next day by destroying a few soju bottles with your roommates. On a weeknight, too.

Joy gave your arm a soft squeeze. “Still, I’m sorry I put you through that. Hopefully it wasn’t completely awful?”

Completely awful, it was not. Awful at some parts? Maybe. 

Truthfully, you hadn’t been prepared to see Jaehyun again. Not to say that you had never thought about it — you definitely had, running simulations through your head about how you would run into him on the street, ignore his greeting and walk past him like he didn’t even exist. But those were the musings of a heart-broken teenager, turning to spite and cheap endeavours at revenge to cope with the loss of her first love. Last Friday did have spite rearing its ugly head, but that spite was short-lived, and only one aspect that made up the whirlwind of emotions that came with seeing him again after all those years. 

“No, it wasn’t all bad,” you were about to say, when your eye was suddenly caught by a movement up ahead. 

A slender, veiny hand reached out to grab the last green pod from the coffee rack. You watched as the thief’s fingers closed around the capsule and slotted it into the machine. He pressed the lever down — because of course, it was a man. Not only was he on the better side of the gender wage gap, but he also had to be ahead of you in the caffeine race as well.

The sound of the capsule being punctured was the final blow. 

“My coffee,” you lamented under your breath.

“Have some patience,” Joy chided. “We’re nearly there. You’re like a zombie when you don’t have your little cup of bean juice.”

You shook your head glumly. “The last Peruvian. I waited for so long. It was supposed to be mine, and he took it.” 

“Who did?”

“The guy at the front.” 

Your eyes were still glued on the hand as it wrapped around the mug filled with your favourite blend, completely unaware that it had just robbed you of the only small pocket of joy you had been looking forward to all afternoon. Peering around the two people still ahead, your gaze travelled up his exposed forearm and the sleeve of the white dress shirt cuffed there. If only you could catch a glimpse of the face that had stomped all over your hopes and dreams… 

The lady in front of you shuffled closer to the coffee machine and finally cleared your line of sight. Coffee stealer’s ear came into view before his face did, and he was—

“Jaehyun?”

His name fell out of Joy’s mouth before you could even get your own to start working again and beg her not to call out to him. For a moment you were afraid you had conjured him out of thin air from the uninvited thoughts of him circling the outskirts of your mind. At least now you knew he wasn’t a hallucination.

Jaehyun’s eyebrows pinched in confusion first, then surprise, before finally smoothing over with recognition. He offered a small wave, eyes flitting from Joy over to you, and then he was walking over, and you were fighting for your life trying to mask the panic that was bubbling away inside your chest.

You shot Joy a frantic look. Why did you do that?

I don’t know! Sorry, said her returning one. The corners of her mouth were turned down in an apologetic frown, but she quickly schooled it into a smile at Jaehyun’s approach.

“I’ve never seen you on seven before,” Joy said, the spitting image of friendliness, nevermind that you were beside her and desperately looking for an exit out of the incoming conversation. “You’re always holed up somewhere on ten.”

You supposed you should have known this would happen sooner or later. Six months without running into each other when you worked at the same company, in the same building, was the exception, not the rule. You were just grateful Joy didn’t try to bring up her clever little dinner setup that had been plaguing you the entire weekend, or try and rope the two of you into awkward and unnecessary introductions.

“Someone told me I should come down and try the Nespresso machine. Apparently it’s really good,” he said, gesturing at the mug you had been staring at for the past three minutes.

“It is,” were the first two words you managed. Both pairs of eyes shifted towards you, waiting for the rest of your comment to come, but you could only disappoint, the syllables hanging thick and dumb in the air. 

There appeared to be some sort of blockage in your mouth-to-brain pipeline.

Joy cleared her throat lightly, throwing you a sideways glance. “Which one did you try? They all taste the same to me, but she only drinks the green ones,” she said, ignoring the panicked twitch of your mouth. She knew full well that he was the one you’d been staring daggers into ever since he grabbed that stupid capsule. Your stupid capsule.

Jaehyun’s eyes flicked between your face and the steaming drink in his hand a few times.

“Do you want mine? I think I might have taken the last green one.” He offered the mug to you. “I didn’t really know what to press, so it’s just a cappuccino. Regular milk. I haven’t had any yet.”

“It’s fine, you should have yours. I’ll get another one,” you politely declined. No matter how much you liked the Peruvian blend, it was not worth the charity from your ex-boyfriend. Even if it was the only thing that could get you through the rest of the afternoon. Even if he was holding the exact thing that you had been planning on getting. 

Hopefully the kitchen staff would restock those capsules by tomorrow.

The look he gave you was not a convinced one, but he didn’t push further. With your dismissal of his offer, the three of you lapsed into a sticky silence. Even Joy, who was so adept at making topics of conversation out of nothing, had little to add, passing up the challenge of pulling meaningful sentences out of your mouth. The stifling tension between you and Jaehyun must have been more powerful than you thought. 

“Shoot, I think I’m getting a Teams call,” Joy suddenly said, making a show of pulling her phone out and tapping the screen. 

Liar. She didn’t even have the app notifications turned on. 

“I should probably take this, but I’ll see the both of you later.” She flashed a contrite smile, and then she was off, almost speed-walking her way down the stairs you had come up together, all the while pressing her phone to her ear with a little too much urgency for a mid-afternoon cold call. By the look on Jaehyun’s face, he hadn’t been all that impressed by her impromptu theatrics either.

“Are you still in the line?”

“Sorry, yes,” you muttered at the woman behind you. Clearly, you were not the only one impatient for their caffeine fix. 

Finally, you were at the counter. You stared blankly at the rack of capsules. The empty space where the green ones were usually stored was glaringly obvious, jumping out at you while you skimmed through the other blends for a passable alternative. After many more seconds than would have been necessary to pick one flavour out of the remaining three, your fingers closed around a gold one. It would have to do for today. 

Jaehyun watched as you dropped the capsule into its slot and made your selections. Why he was still here with you was somewhat of a mystery. You would’ve thought that Joy’s hasty exit would have prompted him to do the same, saving the both of you from having to make bumbling small talk about the weather, or the weekend, or whatever else that two people working at the same company, with no other relational history, could talk about to fill in the silence.

Maybe he wanted to talk about the dinner bill. The fact that he had settled it, without you even noticing, had been weighing on your mind. It was less of a money thing — though you were pretty sure the total hadn’t been a modest number — than a pride thing. Being indebted to others always left a smear on your conscience. 

Being indebted to your ex-boyfriend was like someone had shit all over it.

Whatever. If he didn’t bring it up first, you would. This was the 21st century. You were both financially independent adults. Splitting the bill on a first date didn’t have to be such a contentious thing. 

Although technically, it was far from your first. And it wasn’t a date either, because you had refused to label it as such in your head.

The last few drops of milk and espresso trickled into the mug, before the machine stopped whirring altogether. You knew he was still there. You could feel his presence behind you. He had probably been waiting for the noise to stop so that you’d be able to hear him speak. Taking your mug off the stand, you turned to face him. 

“Your cardigan,” he said.

“Huh?”

Confusion splashed over you. You weren’t even wearing one today.

“I have your cardigan,” he amended. “From Friday. You left it inside the restaurant. One of the waiters brought it out, but you had left already, so I took it with me.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I have it now, if you want it back.”

“You do?” 

“I mean, it’s at my desk. I brought it in today,” he added quickly, seeing the way you were looking about his person like you were expecting it to materialise into his hands.

You blinked a few times, trying to clear the brain fog that had decided now was the perfect time to strike. “Yes, I—thank you, um, for that. I can take it off you…?” 

Had you meant to have it sound so much like a question? It seemed like your capacity for human speech was always afflicted by some sort of malfunction in his presence.

“Okay, uh, do you want to come up to my desk? I’ve got it there.”

The elevator ride up to the tenth floor was a short one. You could have taken the stairs just to get the extra steps in, but with both of you holding uncovered drinks, three flights of stairs combined with your clumsy fingers were a slip hazard just waiting to happen. Still, despite the short journey, the seconds inside the elevator seemed to drag on for much longer.

Before you could lose your nerve, you opened your mouth to crack the silence. 

“Let me pay you back for dinner.” 

Good. It sounded good. Firm, but not overbearing. Hell yeah, you were getting the hang of this conversation-with-your-ex-boyfriend thing. 

Jaehyun seemed a bit taken aback by that, turning to you slightly with surprise woven into the crease of his brow. “You really don’t need to do that,” he said after a beat.

The elevator dinged, and he stepped out through the sliding doors before you could form a coherent response. It took a second for you to follow, the coffee inside your mug almost making a dangerous appearance all over the elevator floor as you caught up with his strides. 

“Think of it as me taking care of a junior colleague. I am your senior, you know,” he said over his shoulder, a smile gracing his features at the latter part.

“Only by half a year,” you grumbled. “That doesn’t even count.” The light shake of his broad shoulders let you know he had heard your gripes over his attempts at enforcing seniority. His accompanying laugh was a soft one. You barely caught it above the noise of the tenth floor office.

The mellowed cosiness of the fifth floor HR department was hard to be found here. You were used to some chatter, with the occasional high-pitched laugh from Joy punctuating the air. On days he was feeling particularly jovial, Junmyeon could be heard humming from whichever desk he had decided to park at for the day (such was the beauty of hot-desking and hotelling). The few occasions you shared a table with him had allowed you to recognise the melody of The Beatles’ Strawberry Fields Forever — always the same song, and he hummed everything except for the words ‘strawberry fields’, which he insisted on singing, albeit softly.

Nothing about Digital was soft or cosy. Except maybe the sofa in one of the open creative spaces. The floor buzzed with activity, from the influx of incoming call ringtones to agenda-packed meetings in conference rooms. A group of people were clustered around a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard covered in diagrams that were undecipherable to you, engaged in animated conversation while pointing at various parts of the board. Some of them greeted Jaehyun as he walked past with you in tow.

“I had no idea Digital was this busy,” you mused out loud, following him as he weaved through the desks.

He chuckled lightly. “We like to talk a lot. And some of us can get a bit loud,” he said. The joking undercurrent to his voice had you thinking that the second part was said with someone in mind. “But it’s more hectic than usual. We’ve just won a really big bid and Johnny’s excited about his first time leading one of the streams.” He paused to wave and give a thumbs-up at the man standing at the very front of the whiteboard group (you assumed this was Johnny), who returned the greetings with just as much enthusiasm. 

Jaehyun had always been a people person. That was one thing that would likely never change.

The two of you arrived at his desk, a quieter one next to the windows offering an almost unobstructed view of the city. He dug around his workspace, pulling out a Jo Malone gift bag. 

“Ignore the bag,” he said, catching your wary expression. “I didn’t want to stuff it in my duffel with the rest of my gym stuff.” 

You took it from his outstretched hand, with a quick glance to check that it was in fact your cardigan. The ribbed black fabric sat inside, folded neatly over itself. 

“It got rained on quite a bit, so I washed it. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course, that’s kind of you, Jaehyun. You didn’t have to.” For a moment, you wondered if he still used the same pine-scented laundry detergent. The smell of it used to cling to his school uniform, a burst of freshness you always sought during the muggy summer days.

“Thank you,” you said, giving him a grateful smile. “I thought I lost it for good.” In your mind, you had already made peace with the fact that you would probably see the thing ever again. Yet all weekend, it had been taking up space in Jaehyun’s hamper, uncertain as to when it would finally be able to reunite with your closet.

You gave him a careful look. 

“Did you plan on seeing me today?” you asked. 

“No. Yes. I mean—” The tips of his ears took on the faintest hint of a pink flush. “I didn’t know if I would run into you, so I’m glad I did. But otherwise, I was just going to give it to Joy and get her to pass it along to you,” he trailed off, gaze shifting sideways to the cityscape posted on the other side of the glass windows. 

Neither of you had bothered with exchanging contact details after dinner, an oversight that was more deliberate than not on your part. His re-entry into your life was something you hadn’t felt quite ready for. And yet—

“Do you want my number?”

Stupid mouth. The words were out before you even registered that you had spoken. You prayed he wouldn’t pick up on the unintended suggestion of the question, though judging by the quick raise of his left eyebrow, you weren’t the only one who realised the other possible interpretations of your words. 

“I mean, just in case something like this happens again. So you can contact me directly,” you added quickly. Heat slowly crept its way up to your cheeks. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“Sure,” he said, lips curling into a smile. “If that’s okay with you.” 

Considering you were the one who had said it out loud in the first place, it would have been strange if you suddenly decided it was not okay with you.

There was some fumbling with each other’s phones, before you were typing your number to add into his contacts, and he was doing the same to yours. Would he realise yours was still the same string of digits as it had been five years ago?

“Well, I’d better get going,” you said, handing back his phone. Now was as good a time to make an easy exit as any. You had planned on gossiping with Joy in the level seven kitchen for the rest of the hour, but back to your desk appeared to be the more likely destination this afternoon. 70-page files didn’t read themselves. “Thanks for the cardigan. I’ll see you later, then?”

Jaehyun looked like he had more to say, but you were already turning around, ready to leave the hubbub of the tenth floor. Ready to leave the presence of your ex-boyfriend-turned-friend? Acquaintance? You shook your head lightly. A drink was needed to unpack that box of worms.

A call of your name had you pausing mid-step.

“Your coffee,” Jaehyun said, tapping you on the shoulder to hand you your mug. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, taking it from his grasp. You hadn’t even bothered to take a sip of the non-Peruvian cappuccino, the surface still untouched. It was probably cold now. Maybe you’d pass it off to Jungwoo, this time sans the salt.

“You know, if the dinner bill thing bothers you that much, you can just make it up to me later.”

You blinked at him a few times. “Make it up to you how?”

“Ah, that’s for me to decide,” he replied, a boyish glint to his smiling eyes. Both his dimples popped out, and you found yourself unable to choose which one to focus on. 

Then he was moving, and you were left staring at the broad expanse of his back as he walked away. Head full of thoughts wondering what the hell kind of favour he would now hold over your head, you almost walked straight into Jungwoo as you came out of the elevator.

“Hey, I got a Nespresso from seven. You want it?” you asked, offering him the coffee you stopped yourself from spilling all over him. He eyed the mug apprehensively.

“You put salt in it again, didn’t you?”

“No? Where did you even get that from? Hang on, how do you know it was me?”

Jungwoo sucked in a breath through his teeth. “So it was you! I knew it! You know, you really are a scary woman,” he grumbled. “Who ever would have thought an evil spirit lurked behind such a kind face?”

“So that’s a no to the coffee?”

“I don’t trust you anymore, so no.”

“Suit yourself,” you shrugged, making your way back to your desk. The attendance reports stared back at you as you logged into the monitor, drawing a sigh out of you. You took a sip of the coffee.

And frowned.

You brought the mug to your mouth again. Like the first sip, the second was also lukewarm. But like the first sip, the second also tasted exactly the same as your usual Peruvian blend. Maybe there really was no difference between all the different coloured capsules, you thought, skimming through page 33 of the file.

That thing about realisation never being on time? Still true.

On the subway ride home, gripping the handle with all your might while sandwiched between two middle-aged men in stuffy suits, it dawned on you.

Jaehyun had given you his coffee instead.

“Thanks everyone for dialling in today. We’ll chat soon.”

The screen reverted back to its default background as the call ended, and you let out a sound somewhere in between a groan and a whimper. Junmyeon did not look to be faring any better, head in his hands while his elbows rested on the meeting room table.

“Can somebody please tell Jackson and the rest of the Marketing heads that Summer Fridays doesn’t mean they can just take Fridays completely off?” he groaned, the sounds escaping through the gaps in his fingers. “Our absenteeism looks like it’s at an all time high. Nayeon, you’re friendly with him, aren’t you?”

The girl pressed at her temples. “I mean, we were in the same advertising and PR club back in university, if that counts for anything. But yeah, I’ll schedule some time with him and go over it.”

“Great, thank you,” Junmyeon sighed, throwing his head back. “Alright, I’ll send around a debrief email later this afternoon. Thanks everyone for your time.”

You didn’t have to be told twice. A second later and you were out of the eighth floor Marketing meeting room, already on your way to the Nespresso machine downstairs. Another coffee at 4pm was slightly pushing it, but you needed a pick-me-up urgently to wash away the gruelling two hours spent going through company policy with Marketing.

The buzz of your phone was a momentary distraction from your mission. 

It was a message from Jaehyun. Something silly in response to a text you had sent earlier in the day. 

jaehyun [04:07 pm]: in dire need of a fake mango right now jaehyun [04:07 pm]: mmm fake mango milkshake

The smile that crept up onto your face was almost like a reflex in the way it couldn’t be helped.

Now that you were acquainted again, it was like you saw him everywhere. How you had managed to completely avoid each other for the last half a year or so was a fascinating mystery. Some mornings you’d run into him in the building lobby. He’d hold the elevator doors open for you, and you’d exchange pleasantries on the ride up to the fifth floor, where you’d get off and bid him goodbye, or see you later. And see him later you did. Whether it was at the seventh floor coffee machine, or in line at the cafeteria on twelve, the sight of his face had become a nice interruption to the hours spent at a monitor, or in a call like the one you had just escaped.

He would come down to the fifth floor sometimes, stopping by Joy’s desk or yours to say hello and have a chat if you weren’t busy. You found yourself wishing he would spend less time with Joy than he did with you — not because you wanted to see him more (because that was absolutely not the reason at all), but because he was steadily gaining a lead over you in the Joy friendship competition. The three of you had spent a few lunch breaks at the cafeteria together, granted that your schedules matched, with an odd appearance from Jungwoo every now and again.

You saw more of Johnny (loud) and Mark (louder), Jaehyun’s friends from Digital who you’d normally hear before you’d see them. Johnny was his “beloved coffee mate” (Jaehyun’s exact words) and possibly the only other person in the building who cared about the green Peruvian capsules as much as you did. Mark was… Mark, for lack of a better description. There was nobody the boy couldn’t strike a conversation with. If he really needed to, you suspected he could probably get along with a wet paper towel. 

You had been offered an invitation to join the three of them for one of their weekly lunches outside the company building. Johnny was more than happy to let you know he was somewhat of an expert at finding the hottest eats in the area, having put half his floor onto the cold noodle place he had sought out at the start of the month. And laugh as you had when he proudly told you about it, Johnny’s influence was no joke. News of the restaurant had somehow trickled its way down to HR, with Junmyeon just the other day asking around the team if anyone had tried the place before. 

Perhaps you’d join them next week. It was always nice to be ahead of the trend. 

You arrived at the seventh floor kitchen and sighed. The rack was out of green capsules again. Although, maybe that was to be expected. It was nearing the end of the day, and the gold capsules were finished too. So much for a 4pm pick-me-up, you thought, though it might have been for the better — too much caffeine in one day always made you a bit antsy and had your resting heart rate up in the high 80s. 

With empty hands and a pout on your lips, you made your way back to the fifth floor. 

Joy’s eyes were glued to her screen when you walked past her. “Jaehyun stopped by while you were in that Marketing call,” she said without looking at you, squinting at a spreadsheet. 

“Did he?” you replied, trying your best at nonchalance despite the little flip of your stomach. 

“Are you talking about her handsome friend from Digital?” Jungwoo peered around the table with a playful grin on his face. 

You were back on good terms now, thanks to your promise to pay for his lunch from the cafeteria for a whole week to make up for the coffee incident. The look in his eyes right now had you thinking life was better that week where he had been afraid of you.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Joy said distractedly in between clicks of her keyboard. “Jisung, can you just double check these numbers for me? I’m in the second tab of the Excel file.” 

The intern was quick to comply. You had a feeling she was his favourite senior. 

“Anyways, I think he left you something.”

You made your way over to your desk, ignoring Jungwoo’s oohs and ahs. Sure enough, there was something sitting next to your diary and the three empty glasses you hadn’t had the chance to rinse out yet.

It was a coffee capsule. Specifically, it was a green coffee capsule. 

There was a sticky note stuck to the back of it, which you turned around to read. His handwriting was still identical to that of the silly little notes he used to leave in the margins of your home economics workbook. 

saved this last one from johnny’s clutches. enjoy ^.^

Despite the jitters from the end-of-day caffeine fix, you smiled the whole way home.

“I’ve found a way you can make it up to me.”

You pulled the phone away from your ear to check the screen. 9:34 am. The Saturday morning still had you in its clutches, and it took a few seconds to process the sounds you were hearing. 

“Who is this?” you croaked, sleep lacing your voice. 

“It’s Jaehyun.” 

You sat up a little straighter against the pillows. “Jaehyun?” you echoed. 

“Yes, it’s me. Do you not check the caller ID before you answer?”

You grumbled something about it being too early on the weekend to have your head screwed on properly, to which he laughed, a vivid sound even through the phone. 

“Do you have plans later today?”

You hesitated. Technically, no, unless a hot date with Netflix and whatever leftover snacks you could find in your pantry counted as plans. You were due for a grocery trip soon. The three eggs and single sprig of spring onion in your fridge would not last for long. Cooking had never been something you enjoyed, especially not after a full work day, and yet living alone required so much of it. You didn’t want to make up a non-existent dinner reservation, partly because you knew he’d be able to tell the untruth just by listening to your voice, and partly because something unpleasant niggled at your insides at the thought of lying just to avoid him.  

“Why, what’s up?” you asked instead.

“Well, you know that jazz festival?” You gave an affirmative hum. “I have tickets for today. Mark and I were supposed to go together, but he just called me saying he can’t make it. Something about a leak in his apartment from all the rain. So…”

You stifled a yawn. “So?” Your brain was still trying to catch up with the land of the awake and living. 

“Come with me?”

The words took a while and a few blinks to register. When they did, your first instinct was to say no. Jaehyun was fine in small doses. A quick chat over coffee, sporadic texts throughout the day, conversation within the safety of a group setting — these were all fine. Manageable. Nice, even. But Jaehyun in the flesh, outside of the office, with nobody else around to buffer the strange sort of tension that seemed to always thrum between the two of you — that was an entirely different ball game altogether. Sometimes, a mere run-in was enough to have your heart going a little faster than usual, nerves lighting up at the unexpected sight of his face. 

“I am not above begging. Please don’t make me go to this thing by myself.”

And yet, there was a flicker of something pleasant and sweet, something akin to excitement that curbed the nervous flutter in your gut. You were fifteen again, waiting outside the movie theatre, a little too giddy at the thought of spending time with the boy whose sweet smile had become the cause of your stomach somersaults. And that was before you had even admitted to yourself that you liked him, as more than a friend. 

“What time is it?” you found yourself asking.

So maybe you were seriously considering it. You had been meaning to put that new film camera to use. The thing had been collecting dust in one of your drawers ever since you bought it on a whim one night scrolling through Pinterest. Somehow, the rows of tables and monitors in the office didn’t seem like the most interesting camera subjects compared to the scenes of concerts and beach bonfires that had driven your impulsive purchase. 

“Well, the doors open at 11, but the first performer is at 12. And Lauv’s set isn’t until later in the evening.”

“Lauv is performing?” Your voice had gone up almost an octave, but you couldn’t care enough to be embarrassed. This was a crucial piece of information. Now you had to be there. 

He laughed. “So is that a yes?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s a yes.” The covers were flipped off your legs in an instant.

It wasn’t that Jaehyun looked bad in slacks and a dress shirt. That was not the case at all. But you had grown used to them on him over the last few weeks, and the sight of his long legs in a pair of well-fitting trousers no longer caused a spike in your heart rate. 

Jaehyun in casual clothes outside the office was uncharted territory. 

The midday sun was strong outside the subway station. Clad in a black graphic tee over a pair of baggy green cargos, Jaehyun stood idly at the entrance, face hidden by the brown baseball cap on his head and eyes trained on his phone. How someone could look so gorgeous in something so ordinary was a secret only he knew the truth of. He caught sight of you from across the road, waiting for the pedestrian light, and raised his hand in a wave. 

“It’s different seeing you out of your work clothes,” he said. 

“Different good or different bad?”

A soft smile grazed his lips. “Just different. You look younger.”

“So do you,” you replied. 

You look like the boy I was in love with all those years ago. 

“Did you taxi?”

“No, I took the bus. There’s one that goes straight from my building. I didn’t know you lived around here,” you mused to yourself.

“My place is really close.” He pointed somewhere behind him. “Five minutes that way, tops. You should come over sometime.”

A slight pause. Jaehyun’s eyes flitted down to the pavement. You weren’t sure if the heat in your cheeks was from the sun or something else entirely. 

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “we should probably go. It takes 40 minutes to get there, so if we leave now we should be able to catch the 1pm.”

The subway on the weekend was nowhere near as awful as it usually was during the weekday rush hours, but packed nonetheless. You definitely preferred being stuck in a carriage full of bright-eyed and chattering teenagers than the usual crowd of solemn-faced office workers. When a seat finally freed up, Jaehyun was quick to offer it to you, manoeuvring himself so that he could stand in front of you as you sat down. Toe to toe, the tips of his shoes grazed yours, and you were suddenly reminded of study periods at the library. The two of you could never agree on who first started the game of footsie under the desk.

“See those girls over there?” you asked quietly, nodding towards a group of likely high schoolers down the other end of the carriage. Jaehyun turned his head to follow your gaze, catching sight of the girls who immediately erupted in whispers and giggles upon making eye contact with him. “They’ve been staring at you for the last two stops.”

He was quick to turn back towards you, nose scrunching and slightly embarrassed. “Kids these days are so weird,” he said with a soft groan. “Why are they doing that?”

“You know they’re only staring because you’re handsome.” 

Despite the pinkness of his ears, he was smiling wide. “You think I’m handsome?”

You blinked up at him. “I didn’t say that.” Did I? “I meant they probably think you’re handsome. Which is why they’re staring. You know. It’s nice to look at good-looking people.” 

The rushed explanations did nothing to shake the feeling that you had slipped-up somehow, and he had caught it. Jaehyun’s dimples only deepened at your backtracking.

“You know what I mean,” you finally huffed, biting back a smile at the deep sound of his responding laugh. “Whatever. I think this is our stop.”

The festival couldn’t have picked a better day to be held. The skies were clear and blue, and the air carried a light breeze that provided a welcome relief from the heavy stickiness of midsummer. It was a nice change from the sporadic rainstorms that had plagued the city over the last two weeks or so. Mark’s leaking apartment was proof of the temperamental weather. If you had one bone to pick, the sun was a tad strong, but that was to be expected. You had come prepared, tugging the bucket hat down further to cover your face. 

Alaina Castillo’s set was well underway by the time you and Jaehyun made your way into the venue grounds. A decent amount of people had already arrived, trickling in to fill up the gated area in front of the main stage. The two of you filed in with the rest, finding a place towards the back of the growing crowd where there was ample room to breathe without inhaling someone else’s breath. 

You had never been one for being stuck in a swarm of people. A harsh reminder of why that was the case appeared when, out of nowhere, a stranger’s elbow dug into your arm, knocking you sideways in their determined path towards the barricade. 

The steadying hand around your shoulder was instantaneous. 

“Are you okay?” Jaehyun asked, and you mumbled something affirmative in reply, trying not to dwell too much on the warmth of his skin on your bare arm. His eyes followed the stranger who was still pushing on through the crowd in front. “People really need to watch where they’re going,” he muttered, brows drawn together in a frown.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded more smoothly. It was a little unsettling how normal and nice everything felt. Jaehyun kept close to you for the sets that followed, the distance between the two of you gradually shrinking as the crowd grew in size. The occasional brush of your forearms as you moved to the music was no longer something to jump at like you had the first time it had happened. You managed to snap a few pictures on your almost-new film camera, mostly of the artist performing, but there was one of you in there somewhere amidst the stage shots, taken by an insistent and smiley Jaehyun during one of the set breaks. 

“So this is why you wanted someone to come with you,” you said, sliding onto the bench and passing him one of the burgers from the food truck.

“It’s so much more efficient when you can line up for two things at once. If I was by myself, I’d either wait for the beer and let my burger get soggy, or wait for the burger and let my beer get warm and flat. This way the food is fresh, and our drinks are ice cold out of the fridge.”

You cracked a smile. “And here I thought you called me because you enjoyed my company.”

“I do enjoy your company,” he said without missing a beat. “The other stuff is just an added plus.”

You took a sip of the cold beer, hoping it would stave off the quick flush of your cheeks. Jaehyun said things so easily. Too easily. It was harder and harder to adhere to that invisible boundary you had been so adamant on protecting. 

Why were you so reluctant to let him back in? Why all the walls? He made it too easy for thoughts like that to creep in and loiter in the back of your mind. 

Evening had begun to settle, the brightness of the midday sky fading away to a twinkling twilight blue over your heads. The music was quieter at the picnic tables by the tents, where festival-goers sought respite from the main stage crowds with a cold beverage and something greasy. Between mouthfuls of an early makeshift dinner, you and Jaehyun sat in your own bubble, comfortably falling into conversation about the performances throughout the day, or whatever else happened to be on your minds.  

“Your mouth opens so wide,” you said, watching as he all but inhaled half the burger in one go. His nose scrunched up as he tried to take the massive bite, and the sight of it was such a far cry from his usual cool guy image that you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to snap a picture of it. The click of the shutter had him looking up at you mid-chew with a dismayed expression.

“That’s not fair. You attacked when I wasn’t ready!”

“I’d hardly call that an attack,” you said, not without a smile. “I was just getting a candid.”

He wiped his fingers on the napkin. “Okay, my turn then,” he said, gesturing for you to hand the camera over. You obliged, letting him point the lens at you and fiddle with the knobs along the top. His slender fingers navigated the controls with a practised ease.

“Relax,” he added softly, noticing your fidgeting. Twenty-something years, and you had made little progress in mastering the art of posing for photos. “Pretend the camera’s not here, and it’s just you and me.”

Right. Like that was supposed to make you loosen up.

“I actually used to be really into photography. Got pretty good at it too,” he said.

“Really? I don’t remember that.”

“Picked it up in uni,” he explained. “Had all this free time on my hands and didn’t know what to do with it. Besides drinking.” A pause. “Honestly, first year second semester was pretty rough after… you know.”

The last part caught you somewhat off-guard. After that fateful April night, you had always assumed Jaehyun was off living his best life, blowing through society events with the new friends he had made, maybe even letting a few of them warm his bed now that you weren’t around. It wouldn’t have been the biggest surprise. Even at nineteen, Jaehyun’s good looks were uncontested. His sweet and attentive personality was the cherry on top of an already delectable cake. Whatever he got up to when the sun set, you were none the wiser, having completely wiped his existence from your phone by the time your first semester exam period rolled around. 

Though you didn’t go as far as to block his number, he never reached out, and so Jeong Jaehyun became a relic of the past, embracing his newfound freedom now that he had shed himself of you, his unwanted baggage.

Or so you thought.

“But yeah,” he continued, “I started getting into photography. Burnt a hole in my wallet trying out a bunch of different cameras,” he said with a chuckle. “I liked film the most though, I think. It’s the only one I still use now.” 

“What do you like about it?”

He took a moment, pausing in thought. “The colours, mostly. How it’s a bit muted, it has that vintage feeling.” You hummed in agreement. “Selfies on a film camera are fun as well.”

“You must really like looking at yourself,” you teased, enjoying the sight of his ears flushing with colour from where they poked out above the camera.

“Not like that,” he said in reply to the raise of your eyebrows. “It’s more like… when you take a selfie on film, you can’t see yourself, right? Whether the focus is focusing, or if the angle is right.

“Or if your whole face is actually in the shot, not just your right eye.”

“Exactly. But then taking the picture anyway. That’s what I like.” He pulled away from the camera to flash you a small smile. “Isn’t it funny, the way we try so hard to capture moments of time?”

Jaehyun’s attention returned to the viewfinder, leaving you to quietly dwell on his words. How else could one keep a piece of time stored away if not through photos? And yet, photography would never be able to capture the entirety of a moment the way a memory could. The sound of the band’s bass guitar from the side stage in the adjacent garden. The smell of summer carried by the evening breeze as it ruffled through his hair.

The warm feeling in your chest as you sat across from him at this wooden picnic bench, surrounded by people, sharing wistful conversation and a basket of fries. 

The feeling of coming home.

The shutter clicked.

“Got it. That last one is going to turn out so nice.” Jaehyun smiled triumphantly, cheeks dimpling. “If you make this your profile picture you have to add the ‘photo by’. I need my credits.”

You blinked away the precarious thoughts. “Alright, mister photographer man, give it back now. Don’t use up all my film before Lauv.”

He handed the camera back to you, looking very pleased with himself. The light from the nearby tents cast a dusky glow over his face. Jaehyun from Digital was sharp and polished. The Jaehyun before you now, with his hair dishevelled from taking off the cap earlier, was softer, more open, and more subtle in the way he had slipped under your defences and picked the locks chained around your heart. 

The question now was whether you’d let him in further than you already had.

He tugged at his collar. “God, it’s still muggy at night, isn’t it?” 

“You stay here, I’ll get us some more beers,” you said, already standing up.

If anything, you were grateful for the errand, a welcome distraction from the tumultuous battle between your heart and your head that always forged on at any thought of him. The line for the bar was no shorter than it had been half an hour ago, to nobody’s surprise (this was a festival in Seoul, of course the queues would be severe) and it was a while before the two cold plastic cups were in your hands. 

The short time away from him had given you the space to steer your mindset back onto the charted platonic course. A little voice in the back of your mind objected, and was making a damn convincing argument about why you should be more inclined to go beyond plain friendship with Jaehyun, but you chose to ignore it, suppressing the nagging with a deep breath and a smile that you hoped looked less conflicted than how you felt. Beers in hand, you carefully made your way back to the picnic table — only to be met with a rather interesting sight.

Jaehyun was still where you had left him, thankfully. But the two girls that now stood around him were a new addition. 

“Hey,” you greeted, tapping him on the shoulder to pass him one of the beers. The taller girl visibly deflated when he flashed you a grateful smile, taking the plastic cup from your hand. The shorter one, however, ran her eyes up and down your figure with an almost calculating gaze.

“Is this your friend?” the shorter one asked, question directed at Jaehyun.

“Uh, yeah, um—hi,” you answered very eloquently, introducing yourself. You tossed a glance between Jaehyun and the two girls. “Do you um—are you guys friends?”

“Well, no, not really. Minjeong and Jimin just came—”

“We were actually going to ask if you guys wanted to join us up closer to the main stage?” the shorter one (Minjeong perhaps?) asked, flashing a sweet smile you suspected was more for Jaehyun’s benefit than yours. “We have a blanket and a few chairs set up, so you can sit and watch the closing set. It’s much more comfortable than standing inside the barricade.”

“Jaehyun looked a little lonely by himself,” the taller one added.

Lonely because you left him for ten minutes to go get some cold drinks? These girls were unbelievable.

“What do you say? Want to join us?”

Maybe you should’ve taken the group of highschoolers on the subway earlier more seriously as a forewarning. Not that you had any say in what Jaehyun could and could not do — he was his own person, and the closest thing you had to a claim on him had disintegrated years ago. If he wanted to go hang out with pretty strangers, he could go and do exactly that, and you didn’t have to follow him either. The invitation had clearly been meant for him more than it had been for you.

So what if you had been looking forward to enjoying the last set together? You were a big girl. You could brave the main stage crowds by yourself if you had to.

Jaehyun glanced at you, searching your eyes while you tried your best to keep your face neutral and devoid of the uneasy thoughts bubbling away beneath your skin. He was his own person. He could make his own choices. 

After a second or two, he seemed to find what he was looking for, and turned back to the two expectant girls with a polite smile. “We’ll take our chances with the pit,” he answered. “But thank you for the offer. That’s kind of you guys.”

The two girls made their exit shortly afterwards, but not without a final look at him, and a decidedly less enthusiastic one at you. It was quiet for a few moments, the two of you sipping on your beers without a word, waiting for the other to speak.

“You could have gone with them if you wanted to,” you finally mumbled, eyes fixed on the contents of your cup.

To your surprise, Jaehyun let out a soft chuckle. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m pretty sure Minjeong had an engagement ring on her finger.”

“Oh, what?” 

You definitely had not noticed, too occupied by the saccharine looks she was throwing his way.

“Yeah. It was a pretty big diamond too. I think she must have forgotten to take it off today.”

You turned to look at him then. Jaehyun already had his eyes on you, sporting a lazy grin. “Come on, you can’t think I’m the type to mess around with married women?”

“That’s not what I—I didn’t know—”

“Don’t worry,” he interjected. “You’re still cute when you’re jealous.”

The quick heat rising to your face dispelled any of the remaining nonchalance in your expression. “I wasn’t—I’m not jealous,” you spluttered. “I was just worried—I mean, not worried,” you paused, sighing. “I thought you’d leave me.”

His eyes sought out yours, keeping them captive once they grabbed a hold. 

“I wouldn’t leave you.”

The teasing brevity to his voice had disappeared. Somehow, you had the feeling he wasn’t simply talking about the jazz festival. The sincerity in his gaze made it hard to look away, but you had to, in the name of self preservation. Too long staring into those brown eyes was an unnecessary test of the upper limits of your heart rate. 

“Maybe she came with her husband. He could be up there on that picnic mat, waiting for her.”

He laughed, throwing his head back. “Trust me, if her husband was here, she would not have been looking at me like that.”

To their credit though, finding a spot to watch the main stage proved to be rather difficult now that everyone had arrived to catch the final act. For a moment you considered leaving the pit to take the two girls up on their offer. But with Jaehyun by your side, you were able to navigate the crowds with a bit more peace of mind, his presence a solid and comforting anchor within the sea of people. A few rogue pushes here and there had you stumbling — and perhaps the two beers on a rather empty stomach were coming on faster than you had expected — but he was there, steadying you with a gentle hand around your arm, or the light press of his firm chest against your back.

And maybe you leaned into him for longer than necessary to regain your balance, but was that really a crime? To enjoy the touch of a friend? Was it a crime for warmth to pool in the pit of your stomach at the sight of him swaying along to Lauv’s Enemies?

No, the little voice in your head denied forcefully. Jaehyun grooving to the music had always been one of your weaknesses. 

As the closing chords of Paris in the Rain sounded out across the venue, you pulled out your film camera.

“Walking down an empty street.”

A gentle nudge of Jaehyun’s shoulder had him turning towards you, nose scrunched in a happy half-laugh from watching the performance. You moved to face the back of the crowd and raised the camera high, pointing it towards the two of you. 

Was the stage in the shot? Was Lauv? 

Were you?

“Puddles underneath our feet.”

Call it courage, or liquid courage, or just plain recklessness on your part. Rising up on your tiptoes, you pressed your cheek to his, and clicked the shutter button. 

The final chord of the song struck, softly, like an afterthought, and the crowd burst into appreciative hoots and applause, marking the end of the performance.

You were beaming as you turned back towards him. “Do you think I got that one?”

Jaehyun simply stared at you, lips parted and turned up slightly at the corners. He looked more caught off-guard than he had when you had told him you thought all the Cigarettes After Sex songs sounded the same. You felt the glowing smile on your face slip, little by little, as you let his eyes roam your features, gaze indecipherable. They flitted to your lips, and for a second you were sure you stopped breathing.

Just do it! Just fucking do it! screamed that little voice in the back of your mind.

And perhaps you would’ve done it too, whatever it was, if it weren’t for the shove from behind that sent you almost face-planting into his chest.

“What the hell?” you yelped, whipping your head around. 

What was with the people here today? You never thought jazz lovers could be so aggressive and insensitive to others’ personal space. Trying to find the perpetrator was a futile task, since the crowd had started to disperse following the end of the performance, moving in all directions.

Jaehyun looked over you with concern, the earlier expression on his face now gone. 

“Come on,” he finally said, fingers gently circling around your wrist. “Let’s get out of here before we get trampled by the crowd.”

Overhead, the blue-black sky that had been so cooperative for the whole day emitted a low rumble, as if to emphasise Jaehyun’s words. Sure enough, by the time the two of you arrived at the station, it had started to sprinkle. Perhaps the clouds had been holding back the rain until the very end of the festival. How considerate of them, you thought.

The ride back into the city felt shorter than the one to the venue, though it couldn’t have been. Saturday nights were even busier than the weekday rush hour, with people young and old out and about, ready to tame the weekend with sheer determination and a bottle of soju in the stomach. This time, there were no free seats in your carriage, but you didn’t mind. Standing with Jaehyun, your heads pressed together to go through the videos in his camera roll, made the time pass faster. There was something to his photos, you decided. Something in the angle, or the light, or the composition, that made them look nicer than the ones on your phone. Maybe you ought to take a photography course too.

The clouds may have been considerate enough for the festival to hold off dumping their contents during the day, but they certainly were not for the two of you tonight. Standing under cover at the subway station exit, you watched as the torrential deluge only seemed to worsen. Thunder cracked angrily through the air. It wasn’t July without the threat of flash flooding. 

“Any drivers around?” Jaehyun asked.

You gave a sad shake of your head. “Nobody’s picking up my request. Must be because of the rain,” you muttered. Overhead, the sky split open with a strike of lightning, startling you, and you jumped back a bit, further into the covered area of the exit.

“How about the bus?”

“I think I just missed one,” you answered, checking the timetable on your phone. “It says the next isn’t for another twenty minutes. But with the rain, it might be delayed even longer.”

You flicked through the taxi app, then the bus timetable app, and then finally back to the weather app, which you always seemed to forget to check on days like this. Three consecutive 100% signs stared back at you, and you let out a sigh. The sky would not be clearing up anytime soon.

“My apartment is only two streets down, if you want somewhere to wait out the rain,” he said.

You looked up at him. The smile on his face was guileless, but at the same time, there was something guarded about it, like he was expecting your rejection. Perhaps you had studied his face for too long, because then he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and averting his eyes to the ground.

“Or you don’t have to, we could just—”

“Okay,” you said.

His head shot back up. “Okay?”

You shrugged, a smile finding its way to your lips. “I’d rather not be soaking wet on the bus.”

“Okay,” he repeated, corners of his mouth turning upwards to mirror yours. “To my place, then.”

The usual five minute walk to Jaehyun’s apartment from the subway station turned into a two-and-a-half minute mad dash under the downpour. Despite your attempts at keeping to storefront shelters and ducking under the cover of big trees, the short trip had ended up with the both of you drenched to the bone, teeth chattering as you dripped rainwater all over his lobby.

You said a silent apology to the building cleaners. 

It was a relief to be dry again. Jaehyun’s sweats swamped you, the French terry fabric pooling around your feet as you sat on the couch in his living room. The top was no better, reaching almost to your knees, with the sleeves completely covering your fingertips. His clothes weren’t always this big on you. At least he still used the same pine-scented laundry detergent. 

The sound of the running shower blended smoothly with the raindrops pelting violently against the balcony window. You wrung your hands, unsure of what to do while you waited for him to come out of the bathroom. It was easy to feel out of place in a home foreign to you. The sleek furniture and minimalist colour palette of the apartment looked nothing like Jaehyun’s childhood bedroom. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to come to his place. While you were pretty sure he hadn’t invited you up with any ulterior motives in mind, there was still something ambiguous about being in your ex-boyfriend’s home and wearing his clothes. And only his clothes. 

You would have liked to keep your undergarments on, but they had also been soaked through. Going bare in these too-big sweats had seemed the less questionable option, compared to sitting with a wet patch around your butt and crotch. Heat flooded your face as you thought about your underwear and bra hanging on the heated towel rack in the bathroom. 

Whatever. It wasn’t like they were things he’d never seen before. And as for his clothes, of course you’d wash them before giving them back to him. 

It was then that you decided that you had enough of sitting around in a puddle of fabric and your own thoughts. Jaehyun’s living room wasn’t all that big, even if it felt roomier than your own, with enough space to fit a decently-sized couch and small coffee table. The tv on the far wall sat atop a rather large entertainment unit that, upon further inspection, also housed a record player and an impressive collection of vinyls. 

You padded over, eyes flicking through the various titles printed on the covers. One of them had been taken out from the shelf and sat splayed on top of the cabinet. Maybe he had meant to play it, or just forgotten to put it away. Slowly, you let a finger trace around the edge of the jacket and over the black lettering of the title. You’d recognise that white album cover anywhere.

Only you knew how much effort it had taken to source the thing, scouring auction sites and dodgy online stores until you finally bit the bullet and ordered it from a reasonable-looking seller with a 4.7 star rating. But it had all been worth it. The unadulterated joy on Jaehyun’s face as he undid the wrapping paper to reveal Frank Ocean’s Blonde was not something you could easily forget. Later, you found out that it had probably been a bootleg, since the official Blonde vinyls were a limited release, but he had hardly batted an eye when you broke the news.

“Still my favourite birthday present that anyone’s gotten me,” Jaehyun said. 

Dressed in a plain white tee and a pair of grey sweatpants, he leant against the bathroom door, surveying you with an easy smile. You must not have heard the shower turn off, the noise drowned out by the storm raging outside. His hair, still damp from the shower, hung over his eyes, and you watched as he brushed it back with his right hand, arm flexing with the movement.

The sudden flare in your lower belly was something you’d rather not feel, alone in these four walls with him, with nobody else around to witness or put a stop to whatever might follow. You’d like to think self control was something you had a firm grip on, but it seemed Jaehyun was made to put you to the test.

“Actually think it might be my favourite present ever,” he added, pushing off the door frame. He reached you in a few strides, maintaining a polite distance between your bodies.

“I didn’t even realise you still had this,” you murmured, letting him take the record from your hands. You tried not to flinch at the brush of his fingers against yours. “You didn’t even have one of these back then,” you said, lightly tapping the case of the record player.

“I changed my mind, actually. The turntable is my favourite present.”

An unfamiliar twinge of dread zipped through you. “Who gave it to you?” 

Could it be an ex-lover’s gift sitting on display in his living room? That did not sit nicely in your stomach.

“Myself.” 

He was holding back a laugh, eyes squeezed into crescent moons and too busy appreciating his own joke to catch the quick roll of your eyes. Instantly, your chest felt a little lighter, and the dread vanished as quickly as it had come on.

“Here, let me put it on,” he said, shuffling over towards you to lift up the case on the record player. With gentle fingers and a delicateness you didn’t see often, he unsleeved the record and carefully placed it on the turntable. A few fiddles with the side knobs and a precise adjustment of the needle arm later, the opening bars of Frank Ocean’s Pink and White filled the air of his living room.

For a minute, there were no words exchanged, the two of you simply content to enjoy the music as it filtered through the speakers. There was a quiet smile on Jaehyun’s face. You wondered if he, like you, was thinking of the last time you had listened to this album together.

The image of the two of you, sprawled out on his bed, sharing a pair of wired earphones, was hard to shake. It had been early evening, or nearly twilight. Sometime before sunset. The reflection on the ceiling of his childhood bedroom had changed along with the sky, until the only light left in the room was the dim blue glow from the laptop on his desk. At his mother’s call for dinner, he had gently shaken you awake, fingers light on your shoulder and against your cheek. 

Jaehyun was undoubtedly handsome in the light. But there was something about dusk and the softness of the shadows on his face that made him all the more compelling. You usually weren’t one to initiate, so the kiss you pressed to his mouth in the barely-lit room had surprised you both. 

Even now, the thought strangely sent a flood of heat to your cheeks.

“Sorry, did you want something to eat? I haven’t been a very good host.”

The grumble of your stomach answered before you could. You bit back an embarrassed smile, but Jaehyun was not so frugal with his amusement, letting out a short chuckle. Your feet followed him as he made his way to the kitchen. Perched on the marble countertop, you watched as he rummaged through the fridge.

“I have eggs, yesterday’s leftovers, and a shit ton of beer cans,” he announced. 

You exchanged a glance.

“Let’s do ramen, actually. That sounds better.” He bent down to dig through the pantry, pulling out two red packets, before moving back to the fridge and getting two eggs. “I can crack these in too, and—why are you looking at me like that?”

It was your turn to laugh, the wide grin on your face a contrast to the cautious smile on his.

“Are we having ramen?”

His brow creased a little. “I thought you liked ramen?” The innocent tilt of his head made him all the more endearing to look at.

“I do, but… did you really invite me back to your place… to have ramen?”

It took a few seconds for the ball to drop. You held back giggles as his ears flushed hotly, as they always seemed to do on the occasions you decided to indulge yourself and tease him.

“Come on, that’s not—you’re doing it on purpose,” he said, bottom lip jutting out with the suggestion of a pout. Despite his grumbles, the shape of his mouth slowly settled into a defeated smile at your visible glee of having flustered him. 

Jaehyun, soft-spoken and easy-going, was not the type to be easily ruffled. You excelled and enjoyed the challenge of it more than most.

“No,” he said once your laughter had somewhat subsided, voice low and velvety. “But I wouldn’t be opposed.”

And suddenly it wasn’t so funny anymore.

The silence that followed was a loud one. It was hard to ignore the way your mouth dried up at his words. Something warm and tingly spread from your stomach all the way down to your toes as you stood there under his level gaze, eyes drawn to his like magnets. He had to know. The effect his words had on you were surely plastered all over your face, obvious in the tight grip of your fingers against the countertop and the shortening of your breaths.

Jaehyun leaned in a little closer and you felt the inhale stick in the back of your throat. Then he cracked a crooked smile, pretty teeth all on display. 

“Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.”

He moved away then, busying himself with pouring water into a pot and bringing it to a boil while you tried to blink yourself out of the daze. “Ramen okay?” he asked over his shoulder.

You cleared your dry throat, somehow finding your voice again. “Ramen is fine. Thank you,” you added after a beat. You took a deep breath, waiting for the rush of blood to drain from your face. 

Something sour settled in your chest — something akin to disappointment, though surely it couldn’t be. Disappointed that what? Jaehyun wasn’t actually sexually attracted to you? When you were obviously still attracted to him, despite all your attempts at convincing yourself you weren’t?

You scoffed to yourself. As if.

A quick shake of your head was almost enough to clear your mind, save for the remnants of that sour feeling that lingered. You asked if there was anything you could do to help, not wanting to simply sit around on your thumbs and wait to be fed. He had insisted you do exactly that, warning you there was only enough space in the kitchen for one, and assuring that there was nothing he needed from you besides patience and faith in his cooking. 

Patience you could give him. Faith was a little harder to muster, given your memories of the kitchen disaster from when he had tried to make okonomiyaki. 

The questionable, half-burnt half-uncooked taste was one thing. You finding random pieces of cabbage on the tiled floor for days afterwards was another thing entirely.

However, it seemed Jaehyun had improved from his old ways. The steaming pot he brought over to the coffee table not only smelled delicious, but looked the part too. You helped carry over the small bowls and chopsticks, along with two cans of beer, despite his requests for you to just sit and be ready to eat.

You took the first bite, blowing on the noodles to cool them down before slurping them into your mouth. All the while, he watched you, an expectant expression painting his face. 

“Wow. You’ve grown up, Jeong Jaehyun. Who would’ve guessed you’d become such a whiz in the kitchen?” 

He smiled, a bashful one at your compliment. “Being able to cook ramen is nothing impressive,” he said, digging in with his own chopsticks.

“There was no way you could have made this for me when we were 17. Look at this egg!” The centre was perfectly soft, not too runny, but not rock hard either. Just the way you liked them. 

You took another mouthful. “You’re a changed man,” you said. “Honestly, your place is a lot cleaner than I expected it to be.”

“That’s what living with four other guys will do to you. I had to learn how to clean out of pure survival,” he chuckled. 

“Was it really that bad?”

He grimaced. “You should’ve seen my dorm room. Basically a biological hazard.”

“They didn’t let non-students into the building. Your building RA was crazy scary, remember?” Even now you could remember the perpetual scowl of the law major when Jaehyun brought you into the dorm lobby.

“It was probably for the best. You would’ve broken up with me on the spot the second you walked through the door.”

You shared a laugh. Strangely, jokes about your break-up were light-hearted in their landing, the words leaving much less of a prickly uncomfortableness than you had been expecting. Perhaps it was still an event of importance in your life, but that cloudy unpleasantness you had come to associate it with had dissipated. It was a turning point, certainly. But so was graduation, and moving out, and travelling overseas for the first time. 

Your feelings about those things weren’t all bad. As you shared the pot of ramen and sipped on your beers, you realised, neither were your feelings about Jaehyun.

“I’m telling you, I was drinking Taeyong under the table. And I do mean that literally. He was passed out and laid across the stools.” He grinned, proud at the memory of beating his senior even five years later. You couldn’t help but grin too, amused by the sincerity of his expression and the way his shoulders set in accomplishment.

“Okay, okay. So now you’re a better drinker, you’ve gotten good at cooking, and you’re cleaner too.”

“And funnier,” he added.

“That one is still up for debate,” you joked, and his eyebrows furrowed together in mock offence. Digs at his sense of humour were not taken lightly. 

“Just because you don’t get my high quality gags,” he sighed, shaking his head. “You’re missing out.”

You nodded, making a noise of agreement if only to appease him. 

“What about me? How am I different?” you asked, voice curious. 

Jaehyun didn’t miss a beat. “Hmm, I think you got older?”

“Come on, I’m being serious!”

His laughter subdued then, surveying you thoughtfully. A quiet smile tugged at his lips when he spoke again. 

“You’re more outspoken than you used to be.” He paused, taking a sip from his can while trying to find the right words, all the while keeping his eyes on you. “You prioritise yourself more. And you’re more sure of who you are. You shine brighter, I think.”

Strange, how a person’s gaze could strip you down and make you feel so naked. There was nothing but earnestness in his eyes, plain and absolute, and the intensity of it was almost too much for you to bear. After all your time apart, Jaehyun could still see you, and see through you. 

I think you still know me inside out, and that scares me, you wanted to tell him.

Instead, you looked away first, tearing your eyes away from his with considerable effort. The pot of ramen on the coffee table, lukewarm now, was almost finished. The music had also stopped playing a while ago. Neither you or Jaehyun had bothered to get up and flip the vinyl to the other side, too busy eating. All that was left was the rain, and even that had faded to a soft pattering against the glass, following its own rhythm. 

Hastily, you stuffed a piece of kimchi into your mouth, for lack of anything better to do. The crunch of it in your mouth was loud, and you fought back a cringe.

“Did your mother make this?” you asked, hoping your attempt at diverting the conversation wasn’t so obvious.

If Jaehyun noticed, he didn’t show it, only nodding in confirmation. 

“She dropped some off last month,” he replied. “Remember how you told me her’s was better than your own mother’s?”

You let out a scandalised gasp. “As if I would ever say such a thing! Don’t let my mother ever hear something so blasphemous about her favourite daughter.”

“You’re her only daughter.”

“And you care too much about technicalities. Just because I’m the only one doesn’t mean I can’t still be the favourite.”

The crisp crunch of another piece of kimchi punctuated the end of your sentence. There was certainly something different about Mama Jeong’s recipes. If there was one thing you missed besides Jaehyun himself, it would have been his mother’s cooking. The woman knew her way around a stovetop better than a Michelin chef, at least in your eyes. 

You thought of her warm smile, and her even warmer embrace. Jaehyun had inherited many things from her, kindness being the greatest of them. Back then, she had been so sure of your future place in their family, welcoming you into her home as if you were her own daughter. You wondered where she stood on that now.

Still clinging onto that idea, perhaps, or were her sights now set on someone else?

“You’ve got something…”  Jaehyun murmured.

He reached across the table, over the pot and the small bowls, the movement quick and almost instinctive. Soft fingers found purchase on your left cheek. His thumb was gentle as it brushed away the stray chilli flake from the corner of your mouth.

Just the lightest touch against your bottom lip. And the warmth of his hand cradling your face.

Then he froze, as if to catch himself, but the damage was already done.

Jaehyun pulled his hand back with a start, an inscrutable expression across his face. He spilled a quick apology that you smiled away, putting on a composed front. At least, you assumed it was an apology. It was hard to hear anything above the buzzing chaos of your mind. The air filled with idle noise as the two of you shuffled in your seats.

“I should um—I should probably get going,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. The meal had long been finished. Your hands were already beginning to gather up the bowls and utensils into a stack for easy carrying. 

Jaehyun hummed, something akin to resignation in the noise. “Yeah, uh… I guess so.”

“Let me help you clean up first, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Despite his protests against you assisting with any kind of housework, there you were at the sink, helping him scrub everything nice and clean within the small space of his kitchen. Maybe he was right about there only being enough space for one person behind the counter. The aluminium beer cans went into their designated bins, and you made sure to wipe down the coffee table too.

This time, your half-damp, half-dried clothes found their way into a Byredo shopping bag — Jaehyun would rather die than not smell good — though your shoes still squelched rather uncomfortably when you slipped your bare feet in. By luck, you were able to book a taxi and could pass on the wet walk to the bus stop.

You thanked him again for bringing you along, noting that you probably got more out of the alleged ‘favour’ than he did. 

“Trust me, going with you made the whole thing so much better,” he said, both cheeks dimpling in your favourite smile of his. “And let me know if you need to get the film on your camera developed. I know a place.”

The ride home was flavoured by a sudden loneliness. Maybe it was the view of the city at night, or the absence of people out on the rainy streets, that had an empty feeling settle in your chest. 

Perhaps you should have delayed leaving his apartment. Perhaps you shouldn’t have left at all, and instead weathered the night away with Jaehyun on the couch, some slasher flick playing on the television while you shook under the blankets and tried not to scream at the jumpscares, like you used to. You never did understand why he liked horror films as much as he did.

Perhaps he’d slot his fingers between your own and give them a reassuring squeeze, and gaze at you with the kind of amused fondness he only ever reserved for you.

Heat flooded your face. As if you were entertaining the thought of spending the night at your ex-boyfriend’s place. And getting butterflies at the thought of holding hands? 

How embarrassing.

One thing was for certain. The walls you had put up were cracking, and there seemed to be little hope of patching them up.

“Will you stop messing with that thing?”

Jungwoo clicked his tongue against his teeth, fingers still fiddling with the ribbon on the gift bag. 

“It’s not straight,” he grumbled, pulling at the bow.

“You’re so pedantic.”

“It’s called being detail-oriented,” he fired back, leaning against the backseat of the taxi with a sigh.

You raised an eyebrow. “You say that like I’m not.”

“Well,” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. His mouth formed the shape of a smirk. 

You flicked a glance towards the rearview mirror, checking to see if the driver was paying attention to the two of you in the back. After verifying he was not, you landed a few (soft…ish) punches on Jungwoo’s upper arm, revelling in the shocked little noises he made, along with a few mumbles of ‘that actually hurts’ and ‘crazy woman’. 

How nice it was to let your hands fly without the threat of some other fifth floor witness reporting you for physical harassment. 

“I’m telling Joy the present is entirely from me,” you warned, turning around to face the front again.

“Right, except the card inside says my name too. So that’s not going to work.”

You reached into the gift bag, pulling out said card before rolling down the window. “Let me just throw this out.”

It was Jungwoo’s turn to deliver a light smack to your wrist. You dropped the envelope back in the bag, not without tossing an eye-roll his way. He knew just as well as you did that there was no real substance behind the threats — banter with Jungwoo was more for amusement than anything else. Deep down, you were quite fond of him, even if your actions tended to say otherwise, and you’d like to wager he quite enjoyed your company too. 

You couldn’t wait to get a few shots in him later tonight. Word had it he was a notorious lightweight. 

“Hopefully nobody vomits. I’d hate to be cleaning that up in my own house.” He shuddered at the thought. 

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” you smiled sweetly, patting him on the shoulder. “You just focus on sticking to your limit, okay? I heard what happened at last year’s wrap up event.”

He bristled. “Nothing happened! It honestly wasn’t even that bad. I’m getting unfairly slandered,” he sulked. “I think you should stop hanging out with Joy so much.”

“Yeah, alright. Should we just skip her birthday party and turn the car around then?”

“Shut up.”

The taxi pulled up in front of Joy’s apartment complex, a tall modern thing with much bigger windows than your own building. And so much more glass, too. After splitting the taxi fare with Jungwoo, the two of you stood at the entrance, waiting for the intercom to connect. 

“Are you sure you pressed the right buttons?” Jungwoo asked, peering over your shoulder.

“Yes, of course. Apartment 814.”

“Maybe you should let me try.”

You let out a sigh. “It’s three numbers, Jungwoo. How is it going to be any different if it’s you pressing them instead of me? Do you think the keypad is going to magically—”

“Hello?” 

An unfamiliar male voice crackled through the intercom. “Are you here for Joy?” 

“Yes,” you and Jungwoo answered in unison. 

“Great, I’ll come down to get you guys now. Will only be a minute!” and then the line disconnected.

You and Jungwoo exchanged a glance. “Is he going to let us in?” you asked. 

“He literally said he’d come down to get us,” he answered flatly. “Do you not listen?”

“It was hard to hear him clearly with all the noise in the background,” you grumbled in defence. Hopefully Joy’s walls were thicker than your own, and her neighbours would not lodge a complaint halfway through the night.

The elevator doors slid open to reveal the face of the intercom answerer. It wasn’t detective work to match up the real thing to the pictures Joy would sometimes show you, though he looked taller in real life than he did in the photos from their weekend Jeju trip.

“Sorry about the wait, it was a bit hard to hear the doorbell,” he greeted, ushering you both inside with a warm smile. “I’m Doyoung, by the way.”

You and Jungwoo both introduced yourselves as you stepped into the elevator after him, to which he responded with a hum in recognition, and a knowing grin.

“Are you on door duty for the night?” Jungwoo asked.

Doyoung nodded, pressing on the button for the eighth floor. “It appears I am. She has her hands full with guests to entertain, so,” he trailed off, eyes glazing over for a split second, “you’ll see what I mean when we get up there.”

You had never imagined that a 2-bedroom apartment could fit so many people. Granted, it was nothing compared to the kind of parties you frequented during your university days where cheap spirits and green soju bottles lined the counter, but it was quite a distant cry from the gathering you thought it would be. Judging by the look on Jungwoo’s face, he had not been expecting this either. 

There had to be at least forty people. It almost made you wonder why she didn’t just book out a space instead of letting everyone invade her and her boyfriend’s shared home.

Doyoung made his exit rather quickly after letting you in, probably off to tend to one of his many other duties as unofficial host — poor guy was likely in for a very busy night — leaving you and Jungwoo to fend for yourselves in the entryway of the apartment. There was barely any room left in the tiled space for you to put your shoes.

How did Joy even know this many people? was the thought at the forefront of your mind as you helped Jungwoo stack his sneakers next to yours on a rack further down the hallway. Her present was left on a table near the entry piled with gift bags and wrapped boxes that you assumed was the designated drop-off area. 

Speaking of the birthday girl, you spotted her mingling in the living room and pointed her out to Jungwoo, though it was no easy feat finding her. The number of people, coupled with the dim ambient lighting, made it a challenge to recognise familiar faces. Joy, champagne glass in hand, was swept away in conversation with one of the most beautiful women you had ever laid eyes on. The gorgeous lady held a matching champagne flute in one hand, while the other was wrapped around the arm of—

“Junmyeon? What the hell is he doing here with that beautiful woman?” 

Jungwoo took the words right out of your mouth, a somewhat displeased noise making its way past his lips. You couldn’t help but echo the sentiment.

“Can’t believe this turned into a work function the moment we stepped through the door,” you all but groaned. “And here I thought having you around was bad enough already.”

You expertly dodged the elbow he jabbed into your side.

Joy spotted the two of you then, lingering by the kitchen, and quickly excused herself from the conversation to rush over. The champagne wobbled precariously in her glass as she approached, engulfing the two of you in a sweet-smelling hug.

“My little children! I’m so glad you could make it!” she cried, resting her chin in the space between your shoulder and Jungwoo’s. You exchanged a glance with the boy amidst the chorus of ‘happy birthday’s. 

There was a 77% chance she was drunk already.

“Had a little too much fun tonight?” you asked, helping to prop her upright again.

Joy only beamed in response. “All the more fun now that you two are here. My favourite fifth floor prisoners.” She gave your cheek a soft pinch.

“Quick question,” Jungwoo began, “why is our manager in your house?”

“With his arm around a beautiful woman way out of his league?” you added, swatting her fingers away from your face.

“That’s my sister Irene,” she said, like it was common knowledge. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you have a sister?”

“Okay, well not my real sister,” she amended, hurriedly waving off your words. “She was a senior in my department. I was really close with her back in university, so, basically my sister. I think we look pretty alike, honestly.”

“And her relation to Junmyeon is…?”

Joy threw a conspiratorial glance around before leaning in, beckoning the two of you closer. This time, a few drops of the champagne did manage to escape via the side of her glass, narrowly missing Jungwoo’s white socks.

“I set them up. On a date!” she whispered, eyes glinting with pride. Why she chose to whisper when it was already hard enough to hear her above the noise at her normal speaking level was beyond you.

You blinked at her a few times. “You set up a goddess like that… with our manager?”

Joy waved another hand dismissively. “Oh, please. Like Junmyeon’s not handsome too. You only think that because you’re too used to seeing him frown and squint at a monitor.” 

You cast a glance in his direction. Maybe she was right. Junmyeon did look somewhat more like a human without his glasses and the semi-permanent lines etched into his forehead. He even looked (dare you say it) quite nice. But maybe it was the poor lighting that made it seem that way.

“Anyways, it’s been about… two months now? I think they look pretty good together,” she mused, following your gaze. 

Junmyeon must have said something funny — a rather loose use of the word by your standards — because Irene had her lovely face scrunched up in a laugh, the pitched sound of it ringing out clearly above the noise of the apartment. In her amusement, she even threw a hand out to slap him lightly on the arm, which he appeared very pleased by.

Sure, you laughed at his jokes too, but it was more out of corporate self-preservation than actual amusement. 

“He kind of has been in a better mood recently,” Jungwoo said thoughtfully.

Joy grabbed his hand with fervour. “Yes, exactly! See? Thanks to my sacrifice, we can all enjoy a nicer, much more pleasant office environment.”

“I’d hardly call that a sacrifice,” you chuckled. “You take too much pleasure in playing matchmaker.” Joy’s response was nothing more than a guilty smile, followed by her emptying the rest of the glass.

It was then that you heard it — the deep, reverberating laugh that always bordered a little bit on breathlessness. It was slightly unnerving how quickly you could pinpoint the sound of his voice without even seeing him, or knowing that he had entered the room. 

You turned around first, eyes drawn to the entry hallway in search of the face to which the laugh belonged. Of course he was going to be here. You knew that. He had said as much two days ago, bidding you farewell across the cafeteria table with a promise to ‘see you on the weekend at Joy’s’.

Lunch with Jaehyun had recently become a rarer occurrence. From what he told you, and the bits of information you gleaned from Joy about Digital, Johnny had pulled Jaehyun onto his team to try and get a firmer grip on the reins not even two weeks ago. Already, the intensity of the new workload was obvious.

You certainly saw him less, much to your disappointment — you could admit that to yourself now.

Jaehyun emerged from the hallway then, midway through another laugh with an arm slung around Doyoung’s shoulders. Funny, how all the other faces were so murky and hard to identify under the dim lighting. And yet, the shape of his dimpled smile was unmistakable to you, as bright as the beacon of a lighthouse on the midnight sea. 

Doyoung scanned the room, catching sight of Joy with you and Jungwoo. He gestured at his girlfriend, and Jaehyun obediently turned in your direction, likely wanting to give his greetings to the birthday girl.

Your eyes locked, and your heart gave a woeful little squeeze in your chest.

“I’m just going to do a quick check on the drink inventory,” Doyoung said as they approached, “I’ll be right back. And please take care of my favourite guest.” With a final friendly pat on Jaehyun’s shoulder, he was off, ducking into the kitchen. 

“Happy birthday!” Jaehyun beamed, arms circling around Joy in a hug which she enthusiastically returned. He grabbed Jungwoo’s hand, pulling him in for one of those man greetings. (Since when were they close?) Their apparent friendship was an unexpected development. 

And then it was your turn. You wondered if it was as easy for others to find solace in a mere gaze as you did with Jaehyun. His eyes did not stray far, wandering around your face, something tender and comforting in his appraisal of your features. A hand came up to brush against your lower back, a gentle and quiet greeting against the excitement of the previous two. His lips pulled into a soft smile as he called your name in greeting. 

“You two are ridiculous,” Joy scoffed.

You inhaled sharply. Was it really that easy to tell? The depth of your attachment?

“You planned this, right? I mean seriously, matching outfits?” she asked, gesturing at you and Jaehyun.

You blinked a few times, looking down blankly at yourself. The dark wash denim and white silk that you had picked out yesterday looked back at you familiarly. Then you glanced at Jaehyun, taking in his white t-shirt, half tucked into a pair of jeans that were exactly the same wash as yours. 

The coordination was completely unintentional — you had no idea what you were going to wear tonight the last time you had spoken to him — but the look on Joy’s face told you there was no use in trying to convince her of the truth. 

(You would’ve argued that the cowl neck of your white silk top elevated your outfit above Jaehyun’s plain white tee, but you digressed.)

“Okay. I’m done with this,” Jungwoo said, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I’m going to do what single people do, and that is to get a goddamn drink.”

“Me too, another bubbly,” Joy chimed, grasping onto Jungwoo’s arm as he turned to leave for the kitchen. “See my success rate? Let me set you up with someone. My hairdresser’s daughter went to Korea University Business School and graduated not too long ago.” 

The rest of her appeal to play matchmaker for Jungwoo was swallowed up by the music and chatter of her guests. And then it was just you, and Jaehyun, and the thirty other people filling up the living room. 

The two of you shared a glance before dissolving into a few light giggles. 

“I do think I pull it off better,” you teased, giving Jaehyun another once-over. He was as handsome as always, the white cotton draped picturesquely across his lean frame while the dark jeans made his mile-long legs look even longer. He could wear a garbage bag and make it look couture. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said with a crooked smile. 

He raised his arm to reveal the denim jacket draped across his arm that you hadn’t noticed before, too busy making sad little googly eyes at him that you hoped other people couldn’t see. The jacket was coloured in the same wash as his jeans, and your own. 

You gave a scandalised gasp. “No, a matching set? How am I supposed to beat that?”

“You can’t. You can only admit defeat to the double denim. I out-Justin-Timberlaked you.”

“Justin Timberlake is not a verb.”

He only grinned in response, teeth pearly and eyes sparkling as he took in the slight pout of your mouth. 

“Whatever,” you conceded with a wave of your hand, though a smile crept its way onto your face. “You win. Let’s get something to drink.”

Jungwoo and Joy were nowhere to be found when the two of you made your way to the kitchen. What you did find was an impressive selection of bottles atop the marble counter, a selection that easily outdid the ones from your university days in both quality and variety. 

At least one thing was the same. Green soju bottles were always a dependable presence. 

“Shall we go for your favourite?” Jaehyun asked, holding up what looked to be a bottle of wine. You moved a little closer, peering at the label through his fingers.

“I do enjoy a good red,” you replied, accepting the glass he offered you with a quiet ‘thank you’. You took a small sip — because tonight, you felt no need to gulp down alcohol like a camel to ease your nerves — before adding, “Merlot is far from my favourite though.”

“Really?’ He raised an eyebrow. “I do seem to remember how you pretty much finished a whole bottle by yourself. At dinner, that time at the Italian place.”

You held back a wince at the recollection of that fated blind date. Of course he’d remember that. It would be hard to forget the way you all but sculled down three full glasses in the time it took him to finish one. A quick sideways glance revealed the slight upturn to the corners of his mouth, paired with a telling glint in his eyes. Jaehyun was teasing.

“It was honestly quite impressive,” he said, lips curling into a full-blown smile now.

“That was different,” you said. The next sip went down a little faster than you would have liked. “That was out of necessity.” 

There was no way I could’ve made it through that night without alcohol in my system, you almost said, but caught yourself just in time. 

A few seconds passed before either of you spoke again.

“Were you really upset to see me?”

Gone was the playful lilt to his voice. This question was asked softly, carefully, the sound of it so delicate you were afraid it would shatter in the air at your clumsy reply. Slowly, you turned to look at him, seeking the reassurance you were sure you could find in his eyes, but they had moved to the contents of his own glass. You followed their path, watching as he gave the liquid a few absent-minded swirls.

“Maybe. A little, I think,” you admitted. “I don’t know. There was a lot going on in my head that day. When I realised it was you.”

A pair of giggling women — Joy’s guests who you didn’t know — approached the counter, one of them tentatively reaching for something in front of you. Noticing her struggle, you shuffled slightly towards Jaehyun, trying to make some space around the counter. The one with her hand outstretched flashed you a grateful smile, which you politely returned, although with far less vigour. 

Perhaps the bustling kitchen in the centre of all the foot traffic wasn’t the best place for a conversation like this.

There was some fussing with the bottle cap, or whatever it was that they couldn’t quite get to work, followed by a considerably clean pour for two people who were clearly not quite sober. Then they were gone, giggling the entire way out of the kitchen and freeing up the space around you.

If you wanted to, you could have stepped back and returned to your original spot before their arrival. Put some more distance between you and Jaehyun again. Not that you were seriously encroaching on his personal space, but it was enough for you to recognise the proximity.

Instead, you took the smallest of steps closer and placed a hand on his forearm. His eyes flitted down at the touch, taking in the way your fingers lay feather-light on his skin, just above the ridge of his wrist. 

“I’m glad it was you,” you said. The words were true, but the honesty of them still tasted odd on your tongue, and you fought back a cringe. Jaehyun finally turned to meet your eyes, some semblance of hope, or maybe it was relief that coloured his expression. “And I’m glad we’re here, now,” you added.

You hoped he knew you weren’t talking about the far right corner of Joy’s kitchen.

Jaehyun smiled, and it was like the sun had finally risen up over the stark mountain peak, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. It was the kind of warmth you didn’t realise you craved until the full force of it spilled over you, washing away the blue and the cold. 

“Me too,” he said softly.

Even if you hadn’t fallen victim to Joy’s schemes, you would like to think the two of you would still end up here, only via longer and slightly different routes. Perhaps an unexpected run-in in the lobby on a Tuesday morning, or the eventual and excruciatingly awkward introduction through Joy. Whatever it may have been, you’d like to think you would’ve found your way to each other again eventually. 

Curiosity tickled your mind. “What about you?”

“Hmm?”

He was still smiling, the lines by his nose just visible, and he had his eyes on you, though there was a faraway look about them. Something about his gaze reminded you of the way you’d regard a painting, framed and hung up on a wall in some art museum — carefully examining the details of the brushstrokes against the canvas, yet all the while trying to hold the whole piece in your mind’s eye, and let it touch the surface of that primal emotion somewhere inside of you. The depth of his gaze was enough to make you self-conscious, and you quickly averted your eyes, taking another sip from your glass. It was a good excuse to school your features before you spoke again.

“How did you feel when you saw me? Were you upset?”

Jaehyun regarded his own glass wistfully. “Not exactly upset, no,” he began, though a movement in his peripheral had him trailing off. 

Another of Joy’s guests had appeared, hovering beside the two of you with his eyes set on the bottle of whiskey directly in front of you. Politely, Jaehyun side-stepped away from the counter and wrapped a gentle hand around the bend of your elbow, guiding you out of the hectic buzz of the kitchen. It stayed there, warm and comforting, until you found your way back to the open space of the living room, and even then he was slow to let you go, fingertips lingering a just second too long before they retreated back to his side. 

“I think I was surprised, more than anything,” he continued. “Didn’t really know what to expect, not that I was expecting much. I never even thought I’d get to see you again after university. Thought you were gone for good.”

He paused, one side of his mouth quirking up slightly. The movement was small, and you wondered if you were supposed to have caught it at all.

“You stood there, with your bag in one hand and your cardigan in the other, looking like you were waiting for me to spontaneously combust—”

“Okay, I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“—and all I could think about was how you were even prettier than I remembered. And back then I already thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.”

At that, you were quiet. Whatever silly rebuttal or attempt to defend yourself died quickly on your tongue as you let his confession settle beneath your skin, warming it from the inside out. Jaehyun was not even one bit fazed, looking like he had just said something trivial about the weather, or stated some objective fact like ‘grass is green’. For him, honesty had never been the heavy, cumbersome challenge it was for you. Judging by the resigned smile on his face, he wasn’t expecting some grand response from you either, which was all the better, because god, what were you supposed to say to something like that?

“Oh, there you are,” came a voice from behind you, followed by a hand on your shoulder. 

Joy’s timing was impeccable, as always.

“Sorry, this one is coming with me,” she said to Jaehyun, looping her arm around yours with half-drunken determination. “Us fifth-floors have some business to settle. With darts.”

Your eyes followed the direction of her outstretched arm, where sure enough, there was a dartboard hanging on the wall by the balcony. Jungwoo was there, standing obediently with his hands crossed in front of his stomach as he politely nodded along to whatever Junmyeon was animatedly saying. The beer bottle Jungwoo cradled, now forgotten, seemed more like an accessory than an actual beverage. He caught your eye and sent you a frantic look.

You whipped your head back to Jaehyun. “Please don’t let her take me.” 

Surely, he could see the pleading, the desperation in your eyes.

Jaehyun, having witnessed the whole exchange between you and Jungwoo, only grinned. “It does sound like some serious business,” he said, cheeks dimpling. Joy made a noise of agreement and gave your arm a little tug.

“You’re more than welcome to come and spectate, Jaehyun,” she called out over her shoulder as she herded you towards her destination. His only response was a hearty laugh. You stared at him in despair as you were towed away by the birthday girl. Next time you’d invite his boss to the function.

The game of darts (or seven games, if you were being precise) was decidedly less awful than you had expected. Junmyeon had promised not to speak about work and by some miracle, actually stuck to his word. Maybe you even got to know the guy a little better, outside of his office habits like the specific order in which he drank his three teas everyday (yuja, then chamomile, and lastly peppermint). Like you, he was somewhat of a wine enthusiast, though his knowledge of French vineyards was far superior to yours. 

By the third round, the game had clearly left your little work circle. Jaehyun joined in at one point, competitiveness getting the better of him. Doyoung tried his hand too, and he was honestly abysmal, but smiled the whole time and seemed to be enjoying himself, even if he had to pick the darts off the floor on every turn. Out of all the players over the course of the seven games, Junmyeon’s date Irene had been the most unexpected hidden card, scoring three bullseyes in a row. 

Oh, to be a goddess and have perfect hand-eye coordination. 

“You feeling okay?” you asked a rather blank-looking Jungwoo. His eyes were beginning to droop, and so was the rest of his body, long limbs sprawled out against the leather. You could swear he only had his initial bottle of beer and the two celebratory soju shots Joy had forced him to take (from which you were not exempt either), and yet here he was, half-asleep on the couch.

“Hmm,” was his eloquent reply.

The party was slowly drawing to a close, the living room much emptier now than it had been when you first walked in. Junmyeon and Irene had made their departure some twenty minutes ago, and there were only a handful of guests left, most of them getting ready to leave as well. Grown adults didn’t gamble with their sleep schedules. 

Doyoung emerged from the hallway, running a hand through the mess of hair on top of his head, already tousled from the fifty or so times he had repeated the action throughout the night.

“Okay, she’s knocked out,” he sighed. On his face, you glimpsed the first sign of relief you had seen all night. “I don’t think she’s going to puke, but I left a bucket by the bed just in case.”

You flashed him a grateful smile. “Thank you for tonight. I can’t imagine it was easy having to wrangle all these people for so long.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal. As long as Joy’s happy and had a good time.” 

Even though he was clearly exhausted, Doyoung smiled, and the fondness held within it felt like a private thing you shouldn’t have witnessed. Your mind went, now as it always did, to a certain dimpled smile.

“I’d better get this one home,” you said instead, gesturing at Jungwoo slumped on the couch. You turned towards the boy, patting his shoulder gently. “Come on, time to go.”

“Mmffh.” 

Another brilliant and enlightening response.

The owner of your favourite dimpled smile stepped out from the bathroom to the sight of you struggling to get Jungwoo upright enough to loop an arm around your shoulders. The half-asleep boy was lean, but definitely heavier than he looked, or perhaps the few glasses of wine over the course of the night had sapped some of the strength from your body. Jaehyun was at your side in an instant, shouldering most of Jungwoo’s weight as the two of you dragged him to a standing position.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, no room for discussion in his tone. You had no mind to protest anyway. 

Doyoung was already busying himself with clearing plates and glasses from the living area when Jaehyun bid him farewell. The guy seemed to have formulated a detailed plan of attack to get his apartment back to the no-doubt spotless state it had been prior to tonight.

“I sorted out most of the empty bottles so you should be able to just throw them out in the morning,” Jaehyun said over his shoulder. He crouched on the ground, guiding Jungwoo’s disobedient left foot into the correct shoe, carefully doing up the laces once both feet were inside their corresponding sneakers. 

You tossed a glance back at Doyoung whizzing around the place like a Roomba, feeling a pang of guilt for not having done much to help him clean up. Even though you had been a much more gracious and tidy guest than other people in Joy’s company, you couldn’t help but feel like there was more you could’ve done, apart from babysitting a very not-sober Jungwoo and making sure he didn’t crack his head open on the corner of the coffee table. 

“It’s fine,” Jaehyun said softly. You turned to look at him, half-surprised, and he only flashed you a small smile. “Doyoung likes to clean. I think he finds comfort in it.”

He was fluent as ever in your micro-expressions. Maybe one day you’d learn to stop being surprised by it. 

The taxi back to Jungwoo’s place was shorter than you had expected. His head lolled between your shoulder and Jaehyun’s in the backseat, before finally finding a home in Jaehyun’s lap. Even when you finally tucked the younger boy safely into his own bed — after going to great lengths to extract his building code which involved a series of profuse apologies to his neighbours who you had mistakenly rung in the middle of the night — there was an impressive imprint on his right cheek that exactly matched the side seam on Jaehyun’s jeans. You could’ve sworn there was a small, wet patch of drool left behind on the denim, and you were sure Jaehyun himself had noticed it too, but he gave no indication of complaint.

“Are you far from here?” Jaehyun asked once the elevator had brought the both of you back down to Jungwoo’s lobby.

“I’m actually just a fifteen minute walk away,” you answered.

The invitation in your voice was silent, and you knew he would’ve accompanied you home even if you lived on the other side of the city. Still, some achingly pleasant emotion settled over you when you heard his footsteps fall in with yours against the pavement. He took his place between you and the open street, shielding you from the bustle of late night delivery bikes and club bound taxis.

Though the days still resembled summer, nights were when the beginnings of autumn could reveal itself. The slight chill in the air was not unbearable, but still noticeable against your bare arms, and just enough for goosebumps to spring up on the skin there. Before you could even bring your hands up to wrap them around yourself, Jaehyun shrugged off his jacket and wordlessly draped it over your shoulders. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, drawing the collar close around your neck. The stiff denim was a little rough, but warm from his body heat all the same, with faint traces of his woody scent lingering on the fabric.

Jaehyun thrust his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Now you out-Justin-Timberlake me.”

“Still not a real word.”

You supposed there was something about night-time that made it feel all the more forgiving to the emotional afflictions of the human condition. Perhaps it was only against the muted palette of the midnight blue sky and the dimly lit city streets that you felt brave enough to face the truth of your feelings, without agonising over the consequences of acknowledging them. Even so, you found yourself wishing the night would stretch on for just a little longer. Honesty always seemed to wear off faster than it came on.

“You’ve been crazy busy lately.”

Jaehyun’s responding laugh contained little amusement. “Crazy busy is one way to put it. I can’t believe Johnny has had to deal with all of this the whole time. This client is so,” he paused, trying to find the right word, before finally settling on “demanding.” The look in his eyes gave you the feeling there were many other more colourful adjectives he wanted to use instead.

The two of you passed the convenience store corner of your street. Your place was not too far up ahead, the glass building doors almost visible if you squinted. The night was coming to an end, and something cold and heavy settled in your chest to accompany the realisation.

“They want us in New York working on the new client site as soon as possible, so we’ve been running around trying to get visas and everything sorted,” he sighed. 

Your footsteps faltered. 

“You’re going to New York?” you asked. 

He nodded. 

“When?”

“Within the next week, if everything comes back approved.”

You hadn’t even noticed that you had come to a standstill until Jaehyun’s footsteps also slowed to a stop. The both of you stood like that, under the dim glow from the streetlights, in the middle of the sidewalk. 

“We’ll probably be there until the end of the year, at least until the design piece is done,” he said. 

Did your face betray the sudden drop of your stomach? Did the sound of a fissure cracking through your chest escape through the slight parting of your lips?

It was silly, really. That one small piece of information could turn your entire world on its head. International travel on a project wasn’t a rare occurrence. And you supposed you would’ve found out sooner or later, even if he hadn’t told you, because he had no obligation to update you about every development in his life, even if they involved crossing continents. Even if you wanted to know every little detail. 

Jaehyun’s eyes moved from his shoes to your face. The shadows cast by the streetlights made it hard to decipher his expression, but you thought there was a pleading look to his handsome face. What he was pleading for, you weren’t entirely sure. 

You cleared your throat and finally found your voice again. “That’s really exciting, Jaehyun,” you managed, trying to keep your tone light. “I hear New York is gorgeous this time of year.”

The smile you pasted on your face was a flimsy one, and you could feel your top lip begin to tremble when he didn’t quite return it. Before it could turn into a grimace, you let the corners of your mouth fall. There had never been any use in putting on an act in front of him. Unsure what else to say without sounding insincere — though you were excited for him, truly, this little fit of sadness was a silly thing that would pass surely and quickly — you turned and resumed your steps towards your apartment. 

Another few minutes and you’d be in the safety of your own home. Free to let your top lip tremble and quiver, and let the inexplicable lump in your throat force its way out, rather than try to swallow it down.

It only took a few steps for you to realise that Jaehyun had not followed. You looked over your shoulder to find him standing there by the streetlight, eyes fixed on the ground again. 

“I don’t want to go,” he said, toeing at a crack in the concrete. “If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. I don’t want to leave…”

You.

He may not have said that last word, but you heard it all the same. Your chest squeezed with emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“But you have to,” you said softly. A gentle breeze blew through the early autumn air and you briefly wondered if your words had been carried adrift.

He looked up at you then, eyes burning into yours with unspoken sentiments. A thousand words were conveyed with that one look, those few seconds in which you understood everything he wanted to say, and nothing he wanted to say, because he hadn’t said much at all. Just like how he could read your emotions with a simple glance at your face, you saw his reluctance. You saw the irresolution in his resolve, and how it wavered as he turned over in his mind the things he wanted to say to you, and how much of his heart he was willing to risk. 

“But I have to,” he agreed. 

Jaehyun still knew you inside out, yes, but you knew him too.

Your feet dragged over the last few hundred metres to your apartment complex, until you finally reached the door and there was nothing left you could do to delay the inevitable.

“Here,” you said, handing his jacket back to him. “Thank you for walking me home.”

He took it from your outstretched hand, fingers just brushing your knuckles. “Of course.”

And maybe Jaehyun was just as unwilling to let you go. His feet stayed firmly planted on the concrete pavement in front of your building, even though you were pretty sure no harm would befall you across the five steps into the lobby. The two of you stood there for a while, neither quite knowing what to say, or how to ward off the odd melancholy you knew he felt too.

There were so few guarantees of forever in life. You knew that. And even if you had never really gotten him back in the first place, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were losing him again. Except this time, he wouldn’t just be a 67-minute subway ride away. This time, he’d be a 14-hour flight away, on the other side of not the city but the world, with 7,000 miles and the entire Pacific Ocean separating you. 

And yes, he’d come back eventually, but who could promise that the feelings between the two of you now would be the same upon his return? You knew that you were in no position to demand he refrain from exploring other romantic pursuits, to deter him from making new connections in the diverse metropolis that was New York City, and all the excitement and energy that came with it. 

You had unknowingly gotten in the way of that once.

“Well, I’d better get inside,” you said quietly, gesturing at the building behind you. Jaehyun only nodded.

This was it. All things must come to an end, you thought as you walked up to the lobby door. Even if they never really started. Perhaps you and your hesitance to let him in had played the biggest part of all, and whatever it was between you and Jaehyun wouldn’t be ending before it began if you had only been more forgiving at the start. Less pointy and disagreeable. Perhaps then you would be parting now on more certain terms, and you’d carry some peace of mind knowing he’d be coming back to you, instead of the crushing weight of disappointment currently lodged underneath your sternum.

And yet, what difference did it make? You’d be losing him anyway, no matter what you did. In two weeks’ time, he’d be sitting in a conference room on a different continent, regardless of whether you said nothing or cussed him out to his face right now.

Your hand froze on the steel handle for only a second before you turned around to face him again. Three determined strides was all it took to close the distance between you. 

“What is it?” he asked.

There had been few occasions where you had seen Jaehyun drunk, or at least not sober, in the years you had known him. Your split early on in university had not afforded you many chances to witness his supposedly high tolerance in action at weekend benders. Nothing more than a few underage sips snuck from his dad’s glass at the dinner table. You took a second now to look at him, really look at him, taking in all the details of the face you knew almost as well as your own. 

Pink. Everything about him was so pink, from the slight tinge around the whites of his eyes, to the lingering flush in the apples of his cheeks.

To the pretty colour of his soft, full lips. 

They parted with confusion when you approached. Carefully, you reached out a hand and placed it against his cheek, feeling the way he leaned into your touch almost immediately. His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest of moments before they were searching your face again, almost fervently. 

“I just…” you whispered, trying to commit this picture of him to memory. 

What difference did it make?

It was hard to tell who moved first. You’d like to believe it didn’t matter.

The rhythm of your lips against his was unfamiliar at first, clumsy from years of disuse. Through slow and careful movements, you reacquainted yourself with the shape of Jaehyun’s mouth, the pillowy swell of his bottom lip as it gently slid in between your own. It fit there perfectly, like it always did. His hands came up to graze the curve of your waist, resting lightly on your skin as if he was afraid you’d crumble like sand in his grasp. 

You tilted your head, parting your mouth ever so slightly to let the tip of your tongue brush against the underside of his top lip. The kiss changed immediately. You felt his surprise in the small puff of air that escaped through his nose and landed softly against your cheek. His fingers gripped at you with a newfound strength, pulling you flush against him. Even through the fabric of your shirts, the outline of his toned chest was unmistakable. Your hands found their home in the softness of hair at the nape of his neck, revelling in the throaty sound that left him as you ran your hands through it. 

How had you denied yourself of this for so long?

Jaehyun must have pulled away first, because suddenly you could breathe again, shaky gasps coming in and out through your mouth. He fared no better, pressing his forehead gently against yours while he tried to catch his breath.

You couldn’t think. You felt electrified, as if every nerve ending in your body was simultaneously firing, as if your blood was laced with dynamite. Hell, you had half a mind to invite him up to your room and finish off what you had so brazenly started.

“It’s late,” he finally managed, voice rough. “You should head in.” His hands, however, stayed firmly in place around your waist. You watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with each swallow.

Right. Perhaps it was best to let the night end here, before you could do anything else that you might regret. 

“Yeah, I should probably,” you murmured, catching the way his eyes followed each movement of your mouth as you spoke. The sound of your voice seemed to break the daze he was in, and you felt his grip on you loosen, slowly and reluctantly. The arms you had looped around his neck made their way back to your sides. You were released from his warmth far too quickly.

Impulsive decisions (like inviting your ex-boyfriend to spend the night in your one-bedroom apartment with nowhere to sleep except in your bed) seldom ended well. You should’ve known better than to make those rookie mistakes.

You had barely turned around to walk up to your building doors when Jaehyun wrapped a warm hand around your wrist and pulled you back into him. He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing the small noise of surprise that left your mouth. This time, his kiss was softer, surer, and in it you tasted the sweetness of unspoken promises he was determined to keep. 

“I’ll see you when I get back,” he said, dark eyes fixed on you with conviction. Your lip colour had smudged by the side of his mouth, leaving behind a faint pink stain that only added to the pretty hue of his now kiss-swollen lips. 

He was still the most gorgeous person you had ever seen. 

“See you when you’re back, then,” you echoed. 

Some odd emotion, neither happy nor sad, settled in your chest as you pushed open the door to the emptiness of your home. You had rushed to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jaehyun before he left, only to find he had gone already, and the sidewalk outside your building was as vacant as to be expected for this hour of the night.

No matter. You’d wait for him to come back. 

“One more prosecco before he disappears to the bathroom for the rest of the night.”

You cast a glance at the catering table and clicked your tongue against your teeth.

“Half a prosecco,” you concluded, taking a sip from your own glass. 

Joy raised a shapely eyebrow at you. “You know it doesn’t hit until at least twenty minutes after he gets the munchies.”

“True, but he specifically told me he skipped lunch today so it would hit earlier, and he’d have the energy to mingle.”

“Well,” she shrugged, “I guess that’d do it.”

The two of you turned your gazes back to the catering table, where Jungwoo was doing some serious damage to the salmon ceviche tostadas. The glass in his hand was empty, and you watched as he asked for a refill from one of the waitstaff.

“Someone should really stop him,” Joy sighed. “Before we get a repeat of last year.”

“Someone should,” you agreed.

Neither of you made a move.

As far as year-end wrap-up events went, this one wasn’t too bad, even if it was your first at the company. This year, HR had managed to book one of the smaller function rooms at an upscale hotel, with an open bar and hors d’oeuvres menu to match. It was a nice chance to celebrate the year’s achievements, and get to know the other people in the department a little better. Already a year in this place, and you’d be lying if you said you knew the name of every person on your floor.

September to November had flown by in a blur. Recruitment for the company’s graduate program next year had been an intensive few months of screening, interviewing, reviewing, and then interviewing again. As hectic as it had been, the fruits of your team’s efforts had been warmly recognised with smiles and praises from the senior managers and higher-ups you’d had the chance to speak with tonight. 

Traditionally, each department hosted their own event, though from what you gathered, HR and Marketing were the only ones that put in any real effort. While HR liked to keep things classy, Marketing liked to go all out.

“Do you think it’s true that Marketing rented out a yacht this year?” you asked. Surely their budget wasn’t that excessive.

Joy made a face. “God, I hope not. It’s the middle of December. I’d be surprised if the Han River wasn’t all frozen over.”

Winter had come early this year, sinking its cold fingers into November and staking its claim. Yet, there had been no snow, even though it was only a few days out from the holidays. Though it was nice that your clothes stayed relatively dry all day from the lack of precipitation, you couldn’t help but miss the sight of the city covered in a blanket of white softness. 

“There he goes,” Joy said, nudging your arm. You turned to see Jungwoo excuse himself from the conversation, setting down a barely-touched glass on the tablecloth. He made a beeline for the men’s restrooms, or as close to a beeline as he could manage in his current state, face flushed and a little queasy.

It was a good thing the company’s holiday closure started tomorrow.

“Okay, you win. Want to come and get a refill with me?” she asked. “We can say hi to a few of the directors over there.”

The thought of having to network with more seniors, when you had already spent the last hour and a half donning bright smiles and laughing politely at their lacklustre jokes, was not a pleasant one. You knew it would be a good thing for you to go and introduce yourself, but your battery for social interaction had long since been depleted. Perhaps you should’ve taken a page out of Jungwoo’s book.

Still, you flashed Joy a grateful smile. “You go ahead. I might grab some air, actually.”

“Okay,” she replied, eyes warm with understanding. “But make sure you put your coat on. It’s freezing out there.”

She was right, of course. The toasty interior of the function room was a completely different world from the frigid gust of wind that greeted you as soon as you pulled the sliding door open. An upscale hotel needed to have a matching upscale view of the city. You leaned against the balcony railing, blocking out the icy sting of the metal against your hands, and took in the sight of the not-quite-frozen Han River below, and the sparkling Seoul Tower further away on the skyline.

You’d only be out here for a little bit, you told yourself. Just a few minutes, and then you’d head home.

Truthfully, you could have left half an hour ago when your reserves for socialising had just run out, and be within the warm and familiar confines of your own bed right now, doom-scrolling to your heart’s content. But these days, the solitude of your apartment that you had once found comforting had evolved into a loneliness that you’d rather avoid. 

The empty echoes of your own footsteps across the tiled floors didn’t bounce against the walls like deep laughter did.

Absent-mindedly, you thumbed at the pendant sitting at the hollow of your throat. You had turned your jewellery box inside out, almost fully convinced that you had lost the thing entirely until you finally spotted the milky pearl set in white gold, underneath all the other chains. It was gorgeous when you had first opened the velvet box all those years ago, and it still was now, even if you hadn’t seen it for quite some time. Jaehyun always had an eye for beautiful things.

You weren’t the only one who endured a few packed and chaotic months. Johnny’s team had flown out of the country the Wednesday after Joy’s birthday and had been sequestered in New York ever since. Between your swamped schedules and the 14 hour time difference, conversations with Jaehyun were intermittent at best, and sparse and uncoordinated at worst. Sometimes he’d message with silly little things, like the time he sent you a picture of a doll sitting in the window of an antique shop.

this reminded me of you, the accompanying text had said.

He was due back soon, and there was still much left to be said, but above all, you only hoped that he was well, and that the New York winter was much more forgiving than it was here at home.

The cloudy wisps of air formed by your breath floated upwards before they dissipated into the night sky. No wonder the balcony was empty — who would want to be out here when there were mozzarella stuffed mushrooms and central heating on the other side of the glass?

You heard the doors slide open behind you as someone else equally as crazy decided to step out into the cold. Just as well. It was time for you to head back anyways. You turned to make your way inside, only to freeze in your tracks.

“They told me I’d find you out here. You really know how to pick a spot, huh?”

A soft gasp left your mouth.

“Jaehyun?”

He gave you a smile, your favourite smile, where his dimples were only just visible, and there was the hint of a pout to the shape of his lips. He was here, and he was in front of you, looking at you like you were the most wonderful thing in the world that he would ever have the good fortune of knowing. Your chest swelled almost painfully at the sight of him.

“When did you get back? How did you even get in here?”

“We landed in Incheon earlier this afternoon. I had to pay the door guy outside a hundred bucks for him to let me in.”

Your eyes widened. “He can’t make you do that!”

“Just kidding,” Jaehyun chuckled. “I only had to show him my company ID.”

He walked over to where you stood by the railing and rested his arms against the metal. His profile was sharp against the darkness of the night sky, and you took a moment to study the details while he took in the view. 

“Are you tired?” you asked. “It can’t be easy adjusting to the time difference.”

“A little,” he admitted. The bags under his eyes were dark and purple now that you could see his face up close. He must have been exhausted. Nobody ever slept well on long haul flights. “You should see Johnny though. He would have come tonight, but jet lag is seriously kicking his ass.”

You shared a laugh, traces of your breaths mingling in the air. Beside him, you settled back into your original spot, mirroring the way he leaned against the metal railing. Jaehyun was close, but not too close, your elbows only a few centimetres apart. A mellow silence settled over the balcony as you gazed out at the river, watching the never-ending stream of cars as they circled the waterfront. 

With even this, you were content. His mere presence next to you was a remedy in itself, regardless of the words shared or touches exchanged. You felt more at home in this moment now than you had in over 3 months.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, still gazing out into the distance. The gravity in his voice hinted at circumstances beyond the recent season he had spent on the other side of the world. And yet, he had said it so simply, as if the words were an immovable truth that would withstand the corrosion of time.

“I’ve missed you too,” you replied.

Maybe it was just that simple, because it was the truth. The nights weathered away in your own apartment were only lonely because there had been an absence of him, an absence that was known to you, even if you had not felt it for many years.

He turned to you, taking in a shaky breath. “I should never have let you go.”

“Oh, Jaehyun—”

“I was young, and foolish, and I thought I knew what I wanted. And I had you, but I thought I wanted more, because I wanted everything. I wanted the whole damn world.”

Something sharp pricked behind your eyes as you listened to the honesty pouring out of him.

“And then I lost you, and it was—god, it was… like someone had sucked all the colour out of my life. And I had no one to blame, because I was the one who did that to myself. To us.”

It was so hard to not notice the pain etched into his beautiful features. The tight set of his jaw. The redness that rimmed his eyes. Your fingers ached to reach over and smooth out the crease between his brows.

“There were so many things I could have done to make things right between us again. Even if you wouldn’t have me back. But my pride, and my ego… I did nothing—”

“You can’t pin it all on yourself, Jaehyun,” you said, shaking your head. “I had no idea what I wanted. And even when I did, I never acted—I never stood up for myself. I could’ve fought for us, but I didn’t. I just accepted everything. Hell, I never even told you how I felt.”

You flashed him a watery smile. “We needed the time away from each other, don’t you think?” 

There was a moment where the two of you simply stared at each other. A hurricane of repressed emotions swirled in your chest, finally breaking the surface five years on. Jaehyun must have felt the same, reliving all those memories now. You could see it on his face.

Youth was so beautiful, and precious — even the heartbreak, and all the other foolish things that came along with it. 

“I let you go once, and maybe that was meant to happen.” He took a step closer. “But we’re not dumb teenagers anymore. I’m not… I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

His eyes locked on yours as he gazed at you with reverence. “Don’t you still feel the same? Even after all these years?”

I do, you wanted to say. 

You would have too, if it weren’t for the small speck of white that landed in Jaehyun’s dark hair. It was visible for only a few seconds before melting away. You looked up and sure enough, the night sky was dotted with white.

“First snow,” you breathed, watching as the snowflakes fell from the sky. “Do you know what that means?”

Jaehyun gave you a small shake of his head. Of course. He never believed in superstitions.

You reached for his hand, feeling his fingers respond to yours immediately. He was so warm, and his touch breathed life back into your frozen body.

“If you see the first snow with someone you love, it means that your love will be true and long-lasting.”

A few seconds passed as he took in your words, trying to make sense of them.

“You… love me?”

“I do,” you admitted. A teardrop finally spilled out from your waterline, leaving behind a wet track on your cheek that stung in the cold. “Even when I thought I hated you, deep down, I think I still loved you.”

One of his hands came up to wipe away the trail of moisture from the escaped tear. The action sent a shiver through your entire body.

“I never stopped loving you,” he confessed softly, stroking your cheek. You felt it then, that deep, aching feeling that had threaded itself into the very marrow of your bones. 

Longing. You longed for his presence, his smile, his touch. You longed to hold his heart in your hands again, and give him yours in exchange. You had missed him more than you could bear, and here he was, telling you his heart was where it had always been, sitting in the centre of your palm. 

Perfect moments didn’t exist, but damn did this one come close.

“Come here,” Jaehyun whispered, pulling you into him. 

His mouth was just as sweet as you remembered. His lips were a little rougher, slightly chapped from the cold. His kiss was slow and patient, taking his time to explore the shape of your mouth and mould to it again. You felt his smile, the slight tension in his bottom lip giving him away, and you couldn’t help but reciprocate, a quiet giggle bubbling in your chest before escaping through your lips. 

“I really fucking missed you,” you mumbled against his mouth, another giggle accompanying the words. “You kissed me and then you were on a plane to the other side of the world.” 

“I told you I’d see you when I was back, didn’t I?” he reminded, giving your waist a small squeeze. “And for the record, you kissed me. Not that it matters.”

You swatted a hand against his chest. “I see you still care too much about technicalities.”

Jaehyun only laughed, that deep and familiar sound you had craved to hear for the last 3 months. He pulled your hands into his warm ones, and pressed his lips to your knuckles. 

“Your hands are cold,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around yours. 

“Well, I was about to head back inside when you found me. It’s nice and toasty in there.”

“Do you want to go in now?”

You looped your arms around his neck and buried your head into the crook of it. “Let’s just stay out here for a little bit longer,” you said, words muffled by the fabric of his coat. “You always run hot in the colder months anyways. Enough to keep me warm.”

He hummed in agreement, holding you flush against him as the snow fell around you. In his arms, you were the most at ease you had been in years, and the thought was almost enough to bring a fresh new wave of moisture to your eyes. 

“What is that—something’s digging in,” he suddenly said, pulling away from you. His eyes landed on the pendant that had slipped out from underneath the lapels of your coat. Wordlessly, he reached for it, running his thumb across the pale pearl that hung from your neck. 

“You kept this?” 

“Of course,” you answered. “You kept yours.”

He smiled, a big one, dimples marking his cheeks. “Of course,” he repeated. 

“We’re lucky, aren’t we? To have found each other again after all this time?”

Jaehyun’s reply took the form of another sweet and unhurried kiss. It warmed you from the inside out, all the way down to the tips of your toes.

“So we’re really doing this, right?” he asked. “We’re giving us a second chance?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me you said all that earlier just for shits and giggles?”

“Of course not,” he chuckled, squeezing your sides again. “I just wanted to make sure. I think I might lose faith in the world if you tell me you don’t want to be with me.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” you reassured. The snow was sticking to his hair, and you took a second to run your hands through it, brushing off the half-melted pieces. His eyes fondly followed your every movement.

“Good, because I plan on keeping you for a long time.”

You returned inside shortly after. The snow had picked up and it was clear that you couldn’t stay out for much longer (unless you wanted hypothermia, which neither of you did). The function hall was much emptier now than it had been when you stepped out, and of the remaining faces, none of them were familiar. 

A quick glance at your phone showed a few unread messages from Joy. 

joy [08:32 pm]: hey, had to leave, doyoung’s still working tomorrow so it’s an early night for me joy [08:33 pm]: hope you and jaehyun work things out joy [08:33 pm]: i’m rooting for you guys!!

joy [08:37 pm]: also can you see if jungwoo is okay joy [08:38 pm]: i don’t think he’s come out yet

“Can I ask a favour, just before we go?”

Jaehyun smiled back at you sweetly, devotion written in his eyes. “Anything.”

“Pop into the men’s room and check if Jungwoo’s still alive?”

Life was a funny thing. 

“There are so few things in life that are guaranteed. Death, for one, and taxes, for another. Sorry if that was a bit dark and killed the mood. You can laugh, by the way. But I think everyone here would agree, neither of those two are all that conducive to happiness.”

Roundabout. 

“So when the girl you’ve been chasing, for what feels like an eternity, finally gives you a second chance, you absolutely cannot take it for granted. You grab onto that chance with both hands, and even your teeth if you have to. It’s no guarantee for happiness, but it’s your best bet.”

Unpredictable. 

“I’m not a God-fearing man, but I’m a God-believing man. I thank God everyday for bringing such a magnificent woman into my life.”

He raised his glass. 

“Joy, you make me the happiest person in the world, and I can’t wait to be married to you.”

The crowd broke into warm applause as Doyoung finished off his impromptu speech by planting a kiss on his bride-to-be.

“He’s so good at talking,” you mused, wrapping your arm around Jaehyun’s. “If that’s his toast for this, I wonder what his vows will be like.”

A year ago, you would never have believed that you’d be attending your co-worker’s engagement party, much less with your ex-boyfriend who you hadn’t seen in 5 years. Spring had well and truly arrived, and with it came promises of love and new beginnings. The last rays of the April afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows of the riverside art centre. The venue was gorgeous, floating on the edge of the river with unobstructed views of the skyline and where it met the water — as always, Joy knew how to pick a spot.

“I didn’t know she rejected him before they got together. He must have really liked her.”

Jaehyun gave you a crooked smile. “Four years of university, and he never gave up. Even when she started dating that blockhead from liberal arts.”

“I bet he would’ve felt like the luckiest guy in the world when she finally said yes to a date,” you said, watching as the happy couple shared a moment, giggling about something nobody else was privy to. Jaehyun followed your gaze and made a small noise of agreement.

“Not as lucky as I am to have found you again.”

He ran his thumb across your knuckles. You could’ve sworn there was stardust sprinkled into those pretty brown eyes of his.

Life was a funny thing, for sure. It had a funny way of bringing back things you once thought you had lost forever. You knew now that you had to seize them before they passed by. Who knew if they’d ever turn up again?

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Jungwoo set his glass down on the table with a loud thunk, lightly startling you.

“I’m right here. You guys know that, right? I am right in front of you.”

A sheepish smile was thrown his way. “Sorry.” You patted his hand once, softly. “Your time will come, I’m sure of it,” you reassured. “How did the date with the KU Business girl go?”

“I flaked,” Jungwoo said simply.

“No! Why?”

He sighed. “Blind dates are really not my thing. It’s too awkward. And it feels so superficial. Like, what if you have nothing in common, or there’s no physical attraction, or—” 

Jungwoo paused, cutting himself off. “Actually, I’m not talking about this with you people. I’m going to get another drink.” With that, he turned and headed straight for the cocktail bar. You and Jaehyun gazed at him from behind as he walked off.

“I’m gonna be babysitting him again tonight, aren’t I?” Jaehyun asked, the question directed at nobody in particular.

“People are going to start wondering if you’re dating me or him.”

His mouth curled into a smirk. “Should I give them a reminder?”

“My boss is standing right over there, so no.”

Junmyeon and Irene were still going steady, to your surprise. You’d probably be seeing more and more of him, since Joy and the rest of the Parks genuinely treated Irene like one of their own. The thought wasn’t exactly a pleasant one, but not awful either. Maybe you were warming up to him.

“Also, you should probably be careful about who you call blockhead,” you said to Jaehyun, holding back a smile.

He fixed you with a suspicious stare. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know,” you trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his head. The smile broke through, your cheeks lifting as you tried to keep the laughter from coming out. He, on the other hand, was thoroughly unimpressed.

“You should really watch your mouth,” he said lowly, though he was smiling. There was a look in his eyes that sent a jolt straight to the pit of your stomach.

“Or what?”

His hands were all over you before you even made it through the door.

“My beautiful, gorgeous, sexy girlfriend,” he mumbled, peppering your neck with kisses between each adjective. The keypad finally beeped and you pushed down on the handle, letting the door swing open as you pulled him in by the collar.

“Stop talking and just kiss me,” you sighed, dragging his face back up to yours. He was all too eager to comply, mouth slotting over yours with practised ease. His tongue brushed along yours in the way he knew you liked, pulling your bottom lip into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure. Fire licked at your insides as he drew a light moan from you.

Four months in, the second time around, and everything with Jaehyun was still electrifying.  

Your hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, finally succeeding with undoing the top one after a few tries. Hands came up around the back of your thighs, lifting you up onto his kitchen countertop. The marble was cool to the touch, and you felt it through the silk of your dress, a soft gasp of surprise flying from your mouth into his awaiting one.

“Been wanting to do this all day, ever since you put this thing on,” Jaehyun rasped. The heat of his body radiated into you from where he stood between your parted legs. He was so warm up against you, and he smelled so good, you were positively light-headed with desire.

His mouth ghosted over the shell of your ear, sending a shiver through you. “You look so fucking good,” he said, teeth gently grazing the skin of your neck. “My pretty girl.” The quick press of his hips into yours pulled another moan out of you, and you braced a hand against the marble countertop.

Your fingers knocked against the edge of something sharp and sent it tumbling to the floor, where it landed with a heavier thud than you were expecting.

“What was that?” you forced out in between gasps. Jaehyun’s teeth nipped at your collarbone, showing no signs of letting up. “Wait, Jae, something fell on the floor.”

You had smashed a mug in your apartment in the midst of it once. Better safe than sorry.

Reluctantly, Jaehyun detached himself from you and bent down to retrieve the fallen item. He was breathing hard as he picked up a thick, padded envelope, and flipped it over to read the details.

“Photos,” he finally managed, tossing the package back onto the counter. “We can look at them later.”

His mouth was on you again, working at the spot between your neck and shoulder that always had your knees weak and toes curling. 

“Wait,” you giggled, “my film photos? I want to see.” He had sent the camera off almost two weeks ago, and you had been (im)patiently waiting for the developed pictures to be sent back. 

Jaehyun looked up at you with hooded eyes. “Really? You want to look at them now?”

You nodded. 

A beat passed before his face broke into a lazy smile. 

“Okay,” he chuckled softly, reaching for the envelope again. 

There was a good stack in there. The ones on top were more recent, with a few shots from his birthday that had recently passed. You had taken him ice skating at the outdoor rink atop Namsan Mountain. The twinkling lights that hung from the trees surrounding the rink were still beautiful, even through photos. Jaehyun was good at so many things that it was unfair — how could he be so talented and have a face like that? — but on that day, you discovered that ice skating was not one of his strengths, and the bruises on his tailbone could attest to that. 

“The colouring on these is really nice,” you murmured, flicking through the photos.

He hummed. “They are. This place doesn’t over-saturate the images, which is why I like them.”

A few more pictures from Christmas, where the two of you had set up a pillow fort — it had always been a childhood dream of yours — and stayed in watching movies for three whole days because it was too cold to do anything that required leaving the house. Funnily enough though, you had spent New Year’s Eve out in the cold with a few thousand others, waiting for the annual fireworks. There were a few shots of those as well. 

You neared the bottom of the stack, recognising the blur of colours that formed the crowd of the jazz festival from last year.

“All of these are out of focus,” you complained, a pout adorning your lips. The shots of the stage, of the artists, even the one of Jaehyun and the cute face he made trying to fit the burger in his mouth. Only the two pictures of you were crisply defined, because he had taken them. 

You flipped to the last photo. It was the one you took at the end of the show, during the closing bars of Lauv’s set. Miraculously, this one was in focus. You could see the press of your cheek against Jaehyun’s, and the slight surprise in his eyes as you had clicked the shutter. Lauv was nowhere to be seen, but maybe a clear shot of him as well would have been asking for too much. 

“Can I say something cheesy?” Jaehyun asked softly. 

“You’ll say it anyway.”

“I really wanted to kiss you. On this day.”

Strange, that it was these words which brought heat to your cheeks. Surely there were other things that would be more appropriate to blush about, instead of a months-late admission that was degrees more innocent than your current situation, where Jaehyun’s shirt was half undone, and the fabric of your dress was bunched up around your hips. 

“I wanted to kiss you right there, in the crowd. And then I wanted to kiss you again, here, when you made that stupid ramen joke. And when you had that chilli flake stuck on the corner of your mouth.”

You set the last photo down on the counter and turned back to Jaehyun, who was still standing between your knees. 

“And how about now?” you asked, the corners of your mouth lifting in a teasing smile. 

He cradled your chin, tilting your face towards his, and let the pad of his thumb brush over the swell of your bottom lip. 

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

The crescent moon was high and luminescent in the sky when you caught your breath again, the last few waves of euphoria ebbing away through your body. Jaehyun always indulged you.

Maybe a little too much. 

You turned to him, nestling your face into the crook of his neck and breathing in the scent of soap and his skin. A finger lazily traced over the ridges of his stomach. 

“That tickles,” he mumbled into your hair. It must’ve still been damp from the shower, but he didn’t seem to mind. Fatigue was already tugging away at him. 

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked softly, looking up at him. 

He shook his head, just slightly. “I like knowing you’re there.”

You resumed your movements, but it was only a few seconds before Jaehyun was shifting, soft laughs filling the intimate space of his bedroom.  

“That really does tickle,” he said, smile threaded into his voice. One of his hands reached for yours, pulling it up to rest against his chest. The gentle press of his lips on your forehead was a delicate thing. 

You fell asleep like that, feeling the steady beat of his heart, quiet and sure beneath your fingertips. It was warm in his hold, and safe. There was no other home you needed to know.

[jongst4r]

the baby project — park jongseong

in which you and jay are forced to take care of a fake baby for a week.

pairing: football player!jay x fem!reader

wc: 19.4k

cw: high school au, strangers to friends to lovers, forced proximity, themes of academic stress/pressure, a tiny bit of jealousy once, one kiss, mentions of multiple idols, reader is implied to be a year younger than jay, rivals to ?? (secondary characters), friendship dynamics, strong language.

warnings: none, it's all fluff!

a/n: happy jay day! i can't believe he's turning 24, time flies! <3 so, as a gift, i wanted to write a little (or not so little) something for you. i had so much fun writing this, so i hope you'll enjoy it as much as i did!

the bell had barely stopped ringing when ms. choi clapped her hands twice, the sound sharp enough to cut through the usual friday afternoon chatter.

“alright, everyone settle down. this is for both juniors and seniors today. phones away.”

you slide a little lower in your seat, already sensing something painful is about to happen. the shared class period with the seniors had always been a mixed bag — sometimes interesting, sometimes just loud. but today it feels different, almost… dangerous.

ms. choi smiles like she's about to hand out candy, and that's when you know. something big is coming. she may fool others with that sweet smile, but you know better than that.

every time she uses that smile, every time she has that glimpse in her eyes… it means trouble. she's known not only for being a great teacher, but also for her love for “life skills” projects. she always does one. she has done one ever since you started high school. every. single. year.

you can just cross your fingers and hope for the best.

“dear students, this semester we’re doing the baby project,” you hear a loud sigh coming from the back. she rolls her eyes, a little smile on her lips. “yes, mr. kang, the one you’ve all heard horror stories about. you’ll be paired randomly across grade levels. and you'll be given one electronic doll per pair. it cries, it needs feeding, changing, burping, playing — on a completely random schedule, including nights and weekends. just like a real baby,” she explains as she walks around the class. “you’ll keep a shared digital logbook. your combined grade depends on how well you cooperate and how high the doll’s health score stays by sunday night next week.”

“but ms. choi,” yunjin starts, raising her hand. “we're so busy! the drama club is starting rehearsals on monday, and it's 2 hours every day. how can i take care of the baby if i'm supposed to be singing?“

“yeah, same with the debate club. we're going on a tournament next weekend.” sunoo adds.

“and what about the football team?” jay, one of the seniors sitting on the back, cuts in, leaning back in his chair but clearly tense. “nationals are in three weeks. scouts are going to be there.” he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “if i mess that up, i can kiss my scholarship goodbye.”

then, the chaos starts. everybody is talking. there are so many voices in the room you can't even tell what they're saying.

ms. choi claps her hands once, sharp enough to cut through the noise. “alright, alright — everyone, that’s enough.”

the room slowly quiets. she softens her expression slightly.

“you’re all proving my point for me. you’re busy, stressed, juggling a hundred things… welcome to real life, where responsibilities don’t wait until it’s convenient. this is exactly why you’re doing this project. life doesn’t pause when things get busy,” she continues. “you learn how to manage responsibility alongside everything else.” she gestures toward the class. “and just to remind you — this is a paired assignment. so instead of complaining to me, start discussing how you’re going to handle it with your partner.”

yunjin opens his mouth, ready to say something.

“no 'but's,'” she cuts her. “my decision is done. now, let's go with the pairs!”

a collective groan rolls through the room. someone in the back actually whispers “please no.”

ms. choi ignores it and picks up the small bowls of folded papers.

“again, the pairs will be randomly assigned. one junior, one senior. and before you ask, mr. sim, no, there won't be changes accepted.”

“but mr. choi,” you hear jake, one of the seniors, speak. “i'm sure sunghoon and i would make great parents! look at us, handsome, funny, and very good at ta—”

then there's a loud sound, like a smack on the back of his head. then an “ouch!” coming from jake's mouth.

“seems like mr. park. doesn't agree,” ms. choi laughs, shaking her head. “let's keep going then. now, please, when i call your name, come sit with your partner at the front tables so we can go over the rules together.”

your stomach twists. you hate the idea of group projects. even more if you can't go with one of your friends. even more if you have to interact with a senior, as you don't know any of them personally. you glance sideways at kazuha, who is already giving you a sympathetic look from two seats away.

you watch ms. choi rummaging through the papers of each bowl. then, names started getting called.

“kim sunoo and kang taehyun.”

“nakamura kazuha and kim gaeul”

“huh yunjin and park sunghoon.”

you gasp, and yunjin’s eyes go wide.

park sunghoon is the captain of the football team, the 'popular guy.' he's the acclaimed king of the whole school. he's everything, and he can get everything he wants — for example, permission to celebrate private football events at the the covered courtyard behind the school. and yunjin, the president of the drama club, who had been trying to convince the director for months to be able to perform the christmas play at that exact same spot, can't stand him. at all.

you mouth “good luck” at her while she stands up, shoulders squared like she's heading into battle.

then, more names.

you don't pay attention to them. you just glance around the room, making a quick mental list of every single senior who hasn't been named yet.

you see ningning, one of the head cheerleaders. she isn't exactly mean — in fact, she gifted you her lipstick once, saying 'it suited you better' — but she just doesn't talk too much with others outside her friend group. there's jisung, known for being the president of the dance club. he's charismatic, and, according to yunjin who once shared a class with him, very responsible. he'd make a good partner, you think. even tsuki, the bubbly girl from the art club would be a better partner than some irresponsible football player who only thinks about running behind a ball!

but you hear your name, and time stops.

and then—

“…and park jongseong.”

your heart drops straight to your shoes.

park jongseong.

known as jay.

you know the name, of course. everyone does. senior. football player. not the captain — that's sunghoon — but still one of the core guys. tall, dark hair that always looks a little messy after practice, quiet confidence that makes him stand out without trying. he's sitting two rows behind you, same aisle. you have never once spoken to him. not a single word in your entire high school career.

you hear the scrape of a chair behind you. then footsteps.

when you turn, jay is already walking toward the front tables, hands in the pockets of his school jacket. his expression is calm, almost neutral, unfaced, but you catch the tiniest furrow between his brows. like he's processing the same information you are.

ms. choi points at the two empty seats side by side.

“go ahead and sit together.”

you stand up on autopilot, legs feeling a little unsteady. when you reach the table, jay is already there, pulling out the chair next to his. he doesn’t say anything at first — just gives you a small nod.

you sit.

up close he smells faintly like fresh laundry and the mint gum he probably chewed between classes. his knee accidentally bumps yours under the table and he pulls it back quickly.

“uh… hi,” he says, voice low so only you could hear. “i’m jongseong. but you can call me jay.”

you swallow.

“i know,” you answer, then immediately regret how that sounded. “i mean— hi, nice to meet you.”

he gives you a tiny half-smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “nice to meet you, too.” he pauses, staring at you.

after some seconds, you realize he's waiting for you to introduce yourself. “shit, sorry,” you laugh and tell him your name.

when she finishes making the pairs, ms. choi starts explaining the rules to the whole group again, but you can barely focus. the doll will be handed out first thing monday morning. you and jay will have to figure out a schedule for who takes it home each night. the logbook has to be updated every single time the baby needs care — with timestamps and who did what. if the doll’s “health” drops too low, it affects both your grades. no exceptions, even for football practice or club activities.

“cooperation is the whole point,” ms. choi says cheerfully. “this isn’t about being perfect parents. it’s about learning how to work with someone you might not know.”

you risk a glance at jay. he's listening, jaw set, fingers tapping once against the table. when ms. choi finishes and tells everyone they can talk with their partners for the last ten minutes of class, he turns toward you.

“so… we’re doing this,” he says, almost like he's confirming it to himself.

“yeah,” you breathe. “looks like it.”

an awkward silence stretches for two whole seconds.

“i can take it— well, him? her? i don't know, the baby,” you both laugh. “friday night and saturday next week if you want,” he offers. “i have a game on sunday morning, so i can give you the baby then.”

you nod a little too fast. “that works. i can do sunday night. no problem.”

“cool.”

another pause.

“i think i’ve never actually talked to you before,” he admits quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry if this is weird.”

“it’s okay. i haven’t talked to you either.”

he lets out a short laugh under his breath. “great. we’re starting from zero then.”

the bell rings before either of you could say anything else.

you stand up quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. jay does the same, hesitating for half a second like he wants to say more, but then just gives you another small nod.

“see you monday, then.”

“yeah… see you monday, jay.”

you practically run outside the classroom.

the second you step into the hallway, yunjin is already waiting, kazuha and sunoo right behind her like backup.

“oh my god,” yunjin says, eyes sparkling with pure chaos. “you got paired with jay? that jay? senior football jay? he’s on the team with sunghoon, right? you know how much i hate that cocky, arrogant guy. and now i have to deal with him for a whole week because of this stupid doll.” she sighs. “he’s probably going to act like the baby is beneath him or something. i swear if he tries to boss me around i’m going to lose it.”

sunoo grabs your arm, practically bouncing. “i've heard he’s so handsome up close, is that right? did he smell good? tell me he smelled good. but also — taehyun already told me we’re both screwed. he said he doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of a baby, and that we are going to tank the grade if the doll starts crying during his football practice or something.”

“you looked like you were about to pass out when ms. choi called your names.” kazuha is quieter, but her lips are twitching into a smile. “for my part… at least gaeul seems really nice — she’s super calm and organized. we were already talking about making a schedule right away. she even offered to take the first night so i can finish my dance practice.”

you groan, covering your face with both hands. “i literally never talked to him before today. he said ‘hi i’m jay’ like we were meeting for the first time at a funeral. and now i have to figure out nights and weekends with a senior who’s worried about scouts and nationals.”

yunjin laughs loudly. “this is going to be the best week of my life. you should’ve seen sunghoon when he realized it was me. he looked traumatized. good. he deserves it after stealing the courtyard spot from drama club twice.”

the four of you start walking toward the lockers, your friends still peppering you with questions.

meanwhile, on the other side of the building, jay is leaning against the wall outside the senior lockers while his friends immediately swarm him.

jake throws an arm around his shoulders, grinning like an idiot. “dude. you got paired with that quiet junior girl. she seems normal enough.”

“you better get along with her, man. nationals are in three weeks and scouts are coming,” sunghoon raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “you can’t afford to lose points on some dumb project. if that doll messes with your sleep or makes you miss extra training, your scholarship is on the line.”

taehyun smirks, leaning against the locker. “exactly. i already told sunoo we’re both screwed if you don’t figure out how to keep that thing quiet during practice. coach is not going to care that you’re playing house.”

jay shoves jake’s arm off, but there’s no real heat in it. his ears are a little red.

“shut up. it’s just a project. we’re not even friends. she seems… normal. nice, i guess. i’ll just make a schedule and get through it. i can’t let this mess with training.”

“still,” sunghoon says, more serious now, “make it work with her. we need you sharp for nationals. don’t blow the scholarship over a fake baby.”

jay rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “you guys are the worst. it's just a doll. it can't be that bad, can it?”

still, as he walks toward the parking lot for practice, he can’t stop replaying the short conversation in his head — the way you’d looked a little nervous but tried to play it cool, the soft way you’d said his name.

he shakes the thought away.

it's just a week taking care of a fake baby.

nothing more.

-------

MONDAY. DAY 1:

the alarm on your phone goes off way too early, but you are already wide awake, stomach twisting with nerves. monday morning. baby project day one. you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror while brushing your teeth, trying to convince yourself it's just a stupid doll. nothing to freak out about. you grab your bag, double-check you have a charger and your notebook, and head to school.

the hallways are louder than usual — everyone buzzing about the pairings from friday. you spot sunoo waving frantically from across the corridor, but you only manage a weak smile before slipping into ms. choi’s classroom.

the seats have been rearranged overnight. instead of the usual rows, there are double desks pushed together. a small sign on the board reads “sit with your assigned partner — no exceptions.”

your eyes find jay immediately. he's already at the desk near the middle, one leg stretched out, scrolling on his phone. his hair looks a little damp from morning practice, and he's wearing the school hoodie with his jersey number on the sleeve. when he notices you, he straightens up and gives you a small nod.

you slide into the seat next to him, bag dropping to the floor with a soft thud.

“good morning, partner,” he says quietly, voice still rough from sleep or maybe from shouting on the field earlier.

“morning,” you reply, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “ready for this?”

“not even a little.” he lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “are you?”

“i barely slept. i kept imagining the baby crying at 3 a.m. and my mom killing me.”

before he can answer, ms. choi walks in carrying a stack of papers and a large box that definitely has the babies inside.

“good morning, parents,” she announces cheerfully. the whole class groans. “yes, i said parents. you’re sitting with your partners because today we start officially. first, fill out this information sheet together. it helps you treat the project seriously. you need to know your child before taking care of them.”

she passes the sheets down the rows. you take one and lay it flat between you and jay.

the questions are exactly as expected, printed in neat black ink:

fill out the birth certificate! 1. name of the parents: 2. is your baby male or female? 3. what is their name? 4. how did you pick out the name? 5. include a picture of the baby with each parent!

jay leans closer to read it, his shoulder brushing yours for a second. “okay… so we need a name. any ideas?”

you shrug, trying not to overthink how close he is. “i don’t know. something simple? like… minjun if it’s a boy, or jiwoo if it’s a girl?”

he nods slowly. “jiwoo sounds nice. easy to say when it’s screaming and crying at midnight.”

you both laugh a little, the sound awkward but genuine.

ms. choi starts handing out the dolls one pair at a time. each comes in a soft gray carrier with adjustable straps and a small blanket tucked inside. when she reaches your desk, she places the carrier in front of jay.

“here you go. treat her gently.”

the second the doll leaves ms. choi’s hands, it lets out a loud, realistic wail — high-pitched and demanding.

jay’s eyes go wide. “holy shit—”

he fumbles with the carrier, nearly knocking it over. you react fast, reaching over and gently lifting the doll out. its tiny plastic face scrunched up, mouth open in another cry. you rock it automatically, the way you saw in those parenting videos online over the weekend.

“shh, it’s okay,” you murmur, bouncing it lightly against your shoulder. the crying stops after a few seconds, leaving only soft cooing sounds from the speaker inside.

jay stares at you, impressed and a little relieved. “you’re good at that.”

“i have a cousin who’s two. lots of practice.” you carefully place the doll back in the carrier, adjusting the blanket. “your turn next time it cries, though.”

he gives you a mock salute. “yes, ma’am.”

ms. choi claps to get everyone’s attention again. “now, while you fill out the sheet, i’ll go over the basics. you must bring the baby to class every single day. you also need to cover the basics. feeding: there’s a bottle in the carrier. hold it at the right angle or the sensor won’t register. diapers: the back panel opens — velcro, very simple. burping: pat the back firmly but gently after feeding. the doll will let you know when it’s done. and, in case you were thinking about it, no, mr. sim, the baby is neither a football ball nor a maraca,” some students laugh. “you can't shake it, play with it, or whatever strange things you're thinking about. you'll lose points for that.”

“what if it doesn't stop crying?” kazuha asks.

“well, you can try a lot of things for that! babies get sleepy, hungry, gassy… you never know! you can also try to get others to stop the crying,” she walks as she explains. “however, if it's too much and you just can't stop it, there's a hidden button on the battery's case. if you press it, the baby will shut down completely. however, it'll mean the project is over, and you'll be penalized for that.”

you look at the baby in the carrier. you don't exactly need a good grade, but it'd help you with . a lot. and, according to what jay mentioned the other day, he needs to get his scholarship. and that involves his grades. so… yeah, shutting the baby down early isn't an option.

“any questions?” ms. choi looks around the class.

sunghoon raises his hand from the back. yunjin, by his side, scofs as she tries to calm the baby. “what if it cries during nationals warm-up?”

ms. choi smiles sweetly. “then you learn to multitask, mr. park. life doesn’t stop for football. and miss huh won't be there to help you all the time.”

jay mutters under his breath, “great. exactly what i needed.”

you both turn back to the sheet, grabbing a pen.

you write down your names as the parents' names.

2. is your baby male or female? female 3. what is his/her name? jiwoo 4. how did you pick out the name? we wanted something simple and easy to say when she’s crying at 3 a.m. and we want to bury her in our backyards

you laugh as jay writes. “you can't say that! we're supposed to be loving, responsible parents!” he hands you his pen. you cross it and write down:

5. how did you pick out the name? we wanted something simple and easy to say when she’s crying at 3 a.m. and we want to bury her in our backyards it just felt right 6. include a picture of the baby with each parent!

jay pulls out his phone. “we should take the pictures now so we don’t forget.”

you nod. he holds the carrier between you while you both lean in. the first photo is awkward — you look tense, jay’s smile is too forced. the second picture comes out better: you are smiling softly at the doll, and jay has relaxed, one hand resting on the edge of the carrier like he's already protecting it.

“that one’s good, way better. we look more… parent-like,” he says, showing you the screen. his thumb hovers near your shoulder in the frame.

you feel your cheeks warm. “yeah. send it to me later? so i can print it out and all that.”

“sure, no problem.”

ms. choi continues explaining the logbook app everyone had to download on friday. “update it every single time. who fed, who changed, how long it took. wednesday’s class will be a parent support group — each pair shares one challenge and one win from the first days. be honest.”

the rest of the period passes in a blur of demonstrations. you practice feeding jiwoo with the bottle while jay times it. he changes the first pretend diaper, cursing softly when the doll makes a fussy sound halfway through. by the end, both of you are laughing more than you expected.

when the bell rings, you pack up quickly. jay lifts the carrier.

“i’ll take her first period. you can have her after lunch. is that okay?”

“sounds good.”

you both head for the door. the second you step into the hallway, jiwoo starts crying again — louder this time, like she's testing you.

“oh no—” jay shifts the carrier, trying to rock it while walking. some students turn their heads to stare at both of you.

you took over, bouncing her gently. “shh, jiwoo, it’s okay. we’re right here.”

the crying doesn’t stop. you and jay end up standing against the lockers for a full five minutes, taking turns rocking and patting her back. by the time she quiets, the hallway is almost empty.

“we’re late,” you say, checking your phone.

jay grimaces. “yeah. coach is gonna kill me if this happens during practice later. come on — i’ll walk you to your next class.”

you end up sitting together again in the shared second-period room. you hold the carrier the entire time, heart racing every time jiwoo makes even the smallest sound. jay keeps glancing over, ready to help, but the doll stays quiet. his friends who also share this class — jake and taehyun — are sitting a few rows back and keep whispering jokes you can’t quite hear, but jay shoots them a glare that shuts them up.

lunch is the real test.

you decide to have lunch together. “just in case the baby decides to cry more,” jay says.

you find an empty table near the windows. jay sets the carrier between you, and you both stare at the food on your trays like it's a peace offering.

“so,” he starts, poking at his rice, “how’s your morning been besides the crying?”

“terrifying. i kept thinking she was going to start during the quiz in history.”

he chuckles. “same. i had her during math and she made this little whimper right when i was solving an equation on the board. the whole class turned around.”

before you can reply, jake walks closer, sunghoon and kai trailing behind.

“look at the happy little family,” jake teases, leaning on the table. “jay, you holding up okay? or is the scholarship already crying?”

sunghoon smirks, arms crossed. “don’t drop her during practice, man. coach said no excuses.”

“she’s cute though. jiwoo, right? suits her. loud like you on the field.” kai grins.

jay rolls his eyes but there's no real annoyance. “go away. we’re trying to eat.”

your friends appear seconds later. yunjin slides into the seat next to you, carrying her own baby, eyeing the boys warily.

“everything okay here?” she asks, voice loud enough for them to hear. “need me to scare them off?” she grins. “by the way, sunghoon, sunghoon jr. says he wants his dad to change his diaper. right now.”

“the baby can't even ta—”

“i said right now.” yunjin's expression is serious. sunghoon rolls his eyes but takes the carrier. “he says 'thanks, daddy!'” she smirks.

kazuha sits more gracefully, glancing at the carrier with soft eyes. “she’s quiet now. good job. gaeul has our baby, so i'm off-duty. for now.”

sunoo plops down across from you, already pulling out his phone. “can i take a picture for the group chat? you two look like exhausted parents already.”

“sunoo, no.” you groan, trying to stop him.

but he snaps one anyway, jiwoo sleeping peacefully between you and jay.

the boys eventually wander off after more light teasing, leaving you and jay alone again with your friends hovering protectively nearby.

“they’re not that bad,” you say quietly once they were gone.

jay raises an eyebrow. “they’re idiots. but yeah… they mean well. they're mostly worried about nationals. scouts are coming, and i can’t afford to look sloppy because i’m sleep-deprived from a doll.”

you nod, understanding more than he probably realizes. “that makes sense. i… didn’t know the scholarship part was so serious.”

“it is. football is my way out — better college, better future. my dad travels all the time for work, so it’s mostly on me to make it happen.” he shrugs, but his eyes stay serious. “that’s why i was stressing in class on friday. if this project tanks my focus…”

“we’ll make it work,” you say softly. “i don’t want to mess it up for you either.”

he looks at you then — really looks, like he's trying to decipher something — and his expression softens. “thanks. most people would just complain about the extra work.”

the rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. after lunch, jay takes jiwoo to his remaining classes. you keep checking your phone for updates in the logbook app. he is surprisingly diligent — every feeding and diaper change logged with short notes like “took 8 minutes, she calmed down fast” or “almost dropped the bottle when jake scared me.”

when the final bell rings, you meet him by the main entrance. he is waiting with the carrier slung carefully over one shoulder, looking a little tired but steady.

“hey,” he says. “are you done for the day?”

“yeah.”

he hesitates then, shifting his weight. “look… i drove here today. my car is in the lot. if you want, i can give you a ride home. so you don’t have to take the baby on the bus. it’s probably loud and crowded.”

you blink, surprised. “really? you don’t mind?”

“not at all. plus, it gives us time to figure out the rest of the week’s schedule without rushing.”

you nod before you could overthink it. “okay. thank you.”

the walk to the parking lot is quiet at first. jay carries the carrier the whole way, checking on jiwoo every few steps. his car is a simple black sedan — nothing flashy, but clean inside. he opens the passenger door for you, then carefully places the carrier in the back seat, buckling it in like it was a real child.

once you are both settled and he starts the engine, the silence feels heavier.

“so,” he says after pulling out of the lot, “real talk. how are we actually doing this? i have practice every day after school until six or seven. sometimes later if coach is pushing us for nationals.”

you turn slightly in your seat to face him. “i can take her most school nights if you need to stay late. but weekends might be trickier. you have that sunday match, right?”

“yeah. early morning. i can do saturday daytime if you want the evening.”

you pull out your phone and open the notes app, making a quick shared schedule. “okay… you take friday night and saturday like we said. i’ll do sunday night. then we can switch off during the week depending on practice.”

he glances over at you, one hand on the wheel. “you’re really organized about this.”

“i overthink everything,” you admit with a small laugh. “plus, i don’t want to be the reason you lose sleep before scouts come.”

jay is quiet for a moment, eyes on the road. “i thought you’d be annoyed getting paired with some random football guy. most juniors don’t really talk to us.”

“i thought you’d be annoyed getting paired with a quiet junior who doesn’t know anything about football.”

he smiles at that — a real one this time, small but warm. “you’re not what i expected.”

“what did you expect?”

“someone who’d complain the whole time. or… try to flirt to make it less awkward.” he shrugs. “instead you’re just… calm. you calmed jiwoo down like it was nothing this morning.”

you feel your face heat up. “i was panicking inside.”

“it didn’t show.”

the conversation flows easier after that. he tells you about how he moved here four years ago, how football became his main focus because it gave him structure when his dad was always traveling. you share how your parents work long shifts, so you are used to handling things on your own. how your small friend group — yunjin, kazuha, sunoo — is basically your second family.

“yunjin’s already plotting how to survive sunghoon,” you say, laughing. “she keeps saying he’s going to act like the baby is a football he can just hand off.”

jay chuckles. “sunghoon’s actually decent when he’s not being captain mode. he’s just stressed too. we all are. scholarship stuff hits different when you’re the one who has to make it happen.”

you nod. “i get that. i’m not on any big path like that, but i still stress about grades and what comes after high school. this project feels like a sneak peek at how messy real life is.”

“exactly.” he pauses at a red light and looks over at you. “thanks for not making it weird. or at least… for making the weird parts manageable.”

“same. i thought you’d be all stuck-up jock energy. but you’re actually… nice. and you care about the project even if it’s because of football.”

he rubs the back of his neck again, a habit you are starting to notice. “yeah. can’t let a doll ruin my shot. but… it’s not just that anymore. it’s kind of fun figuring it out with you.”

the light turns green. he drives on, but the air in the car feels lighter somehow.

when he pulls up in front of your house, he parks but doesn’t unlock the doors right away.

“i’ll text you the log updates tonight if she wakes up. and… thanks for the ride. seriously.”

“anytime.” he reaches back and carefully hands you the carrier. jiwoo is sleeping soundly. “see you tomorrow.”

“see you tomorrow, jay.”

you step out, carrier in hand, and watch him drive away. your heart is beating a little faster than usual, but not from panic this time.

maybe this week won’t be so bad after all.

-------

TUESDAY. DAY 2:

the soft glow of your phone screen cuts through the darkness of your room at exactly 2:07 a.m. jiwoo’s cry blares through the speaker — sharp, insistent, and way too real for a plastic doll. you groan, rolling over and fumbling to grab her from the carrier beside your bed. your eyes are blurry, your hair is a mess, and every muscle protests as you sit up.

“shh, jiwoo, please,” you whisper, rocking her gently against your shoulder while you tap the feeding button on the app. the doll quiets for a few seconds, then starts up again. you try burping her next, patting her back with careful, practiced motions. it takes almost fifteen minutes before the crying finally stops and the logbook updates with a green checkmark.

you snap a quick screenshot of the timestamp and the note you type in — “2:12 a.m. — fed and burped, took 14 minutes, i handled it” — and send it to jay with a simple text.

you: jiwoo decided 2 a.m. was party time. screenshot attached. hope you’re sleeping better than me.

no reply. his status shows “last seen 11:47 p.m.” he is probably dead asleep after practice. you sigh, set the phone down, and try to drift off again, but jiwoo fusses twice more before your alarm finally goes off at 6:30 a.m. by the time you drag yourself out of bed, you feel like you have already lived a full day.

the morning air is crisp as you walk to school, carrier strapped across your chest like a tired parent. jiwoo stays mercifully quiet for the walk, but your eyes are heavy. you spot your friends near the main gate and wave weakly.

kazuha stands there first, her posture still graceful even with dark circles under her eyes and the carrier holding baby eunchae balanced on her hip. she offers you a small, exhausted smile.

“morning,” she says softly. “or… whatever this is.”

you let out a tired laugh. “exactly. jiwoo woke me at 2 a.m. and then again at 4. how’s eunchae?”

kazuha adjusts the blanket around her doll. “she was perfect until 3:30. gaeul texted me the whole time though. she said she'll take her tonight so we take turns. she’s really good at this. we even made a shared playlist of lullabies last night.”

sunoo appears next, practically dragging his feet, baby carrier slung over one shoulder like it weighs a thousand pounds. his usually bright face looks pale and puffy.

“taehyun is the worst,” he announces dramatically, flopping against the wall beside you. “he had the baby last night and barely slept. he texted me at 1 a.m. saying ‘how do you make it stop’ with like ten crying emojis. i had to walk him through feeding and burping over voice notes while half-asleep. this morning he looked like a zombie in the hallway and told me we’re both going to fail if this keeps up.”

you wince in sympathy. “at least he tried. jay didn’t even answer my text at 2 a.m. since he was probably dead asleep.”

yunjin storms up last, her carrier bouncing with every angry step. baby sunghoon jr. — he had insisted on the name yesterday just to annoy her — is tucked inside, quiet for once.

“that idiot sunghoon,” she starts immediately, voice rising. “he promised he’d meet me right at the school door this morning to take the baby for first period. i waited five whole minutes like an idiot while sunghoon jr. started fussing. nothing. no text, no sign of him. when i finally found him near the lockers he just shrugged and said ‘practice ran late, sorry.’ sorry? i had drama rehearsal notes to review! i’m so tired i could cry, and he’s acting like the baby is not a demonic object capable of breaking your eardrums.” she huffs, crossing her arms. “we’re supposed to be a team and he’s already dropping the ball. literally.”

kazuha places a gentle hand on yunjin’s shoulder. “i mean… at least you got through the night. gaeul and i split everything evenly. it actually felt… nice? like we were figuring it out together.”

sunoo nods, yawning widely. “taehyun kept apologizing in the chat this morning. he said he’ll take extra nights this week to make up for it. still, i feel like a single parent already.”

you adjust jiwoo’s blanket, smiling tiredly at their complaints. “jay at least offered to take her during his morning classes. but yeah… 2 a.m. hits different when you have to be functional by 8.”

the four of you stand there for a few more minutes, trading war stories like exhausted parents at a playground. yunjin keeps muttering threats about making sunghoon do all the night shifts, sunoo dramatically reenacts taehyun’s panicked voice notes, and kazuha quietly suggests making a group chat just for “surviving the project” tips. the conversation feels comforting in its shared misery, and for a moment the weight of the carrier on your chest feels a little lighter.

the morning classes drag. you sit with jay in mr. kim’s room, but he arrives a minute late, hair still messy from rushing. he slides into the seat beside you, eyes apologetic.

“sorry about last night,” he whispers as soon as mr. kim starts talking. “i crashed hard after evening practice. saw your text this morning — you handled it like a pro.”

you shrug, keeping your voice low. “it’s fine. she settled eventually. how did your night go?”

“pretty good, slept a lot. but… i took care of everything on the app. when you fed jiwoo, when you changed her, the whole thing. logged it all.” he pulls out his phone and shows you the app. “see? i even added a note that you did the 2 a.m. burping.”

you smile despite the tiredness. “thanks. teamwork, i guess.”

he nods, but his expression turns more serious. “i’m trying not to let this mess with training. coach already warned us about distractions before nationals.”

throughout the rest of the morning, your phone buzzes every so often with texts from jay.

jay: she’s being good in history. just made a small fuss during the quiz but i rocked her under the desk.

you: lucky. she’s sleeping now but i keep checking the health score every five minutes.

jay: same. we’re at 92%. not bad for day two.

jay: by the way, are you free after lunch? i have optional practice at 1 but i can skip if we need to handle something.

the messages feel easy, almost natural now. you catch yourself smiling at your screen more than once.

right before lunch ends, disaster strikes. you check the app while walking to your next class and freeze. jiwoo’s health score has dropped sharply to 76%. a red warning flashes: “baby showing signs of illness — needs immediate care and rest.”

your stomach sinks. you text jay quickly.

you: jiwoo’s sick. health at 76%. what do we do?

jay: meet me at the lockers after the bell. we’ll figure it out.

when you reach the spot, he is already there, carrier in hand even though it is your turn. his face is focused, brows drawn together.

“the app says she needs quiet time and extra feedings today,” he explains, voice low. “if we ignore it, the score keeps dropping. i already told coach i’m skipping the 1 p.m. optional session. i’ll make it up at the 6 p.m. full practice — extra sprints or whatever he wants.”

you bite your lip. “i was supposed to go to foreign language club. but i can skip too. we can take her somewhere quiet.”

he nods, relieved. “music room is usually empty after lunch. let’s go there.”

the two of you spend the next hour tucked away in the small practice room at the end of the arts hallway. jiwoo fusses on and off, but you take turns holding her, feeding her the special “medicine” drops from the kit, and logging every action. jay sits cross-legged on the floor beside you, back against the wall, gently rocking the carrier with one foot while you update the logbook.

“this feels weirdly real,” you murmur after a while, watching jiwoo’s lights finally shift back toward green. “like we’re actually worried about her getting better.”

jay chuckles softly, running a hand through his hair. “tell me about it. i keep thinking if her score drops too low it’s going to look bad on my record. but also… i don’t want to let you down either.”

you glance at him, surprised by how honest he sounds. “you’re not. we’re both trying.”

he offers a small smile. “yeah. we are.”

by the time the health score climbs back to 89%, the afternoon is half gone. you both head to your separate classes, but the shared worry lingers like a quiet thread between you.

after school, jay finds you near the exit.

“practice is at 6,” he says, shifting the carrier to you. “but come watch if you can? the field’s open. you can bring jiwoo and hand her off to me after. that way i get some time with her before the real session starts, and you don’t have to wait around alone.”

you hesitate only a second. “okay. i’ll be there.”

the bleachers are mostly empty when you arrive, just a few other students scattered around. you sit a few rows up, carrier beside you, watching the team warm up. jay spots you almost immediately and jogs over during a water break, sweaty and breathing hard but grinning.

“you came,” he says, wiping his face with the bottom of his jersey. up close you notice the way his shoulders look broader in the practice gear, the small scar on his nose you had never noticed before.

“figured it was only fair after you skipped optional practice for her,” you reply, carefully handing over the carrier. jiwoo is quiet for now, lulled by the fresh air.

he takes her gently, adjusting the straps like he has done it a hundred times already. “thanks. i’ll bring her back after this set. coach is letting me sit out the last drills if i do extra conditioning later.”

you watch as he jogs back to the field, carrier carefully set down near the bench where the manager can keep an eye on it. the boys notice immediately. jake yells something teasing across the grass, sunghoon shakes his head with a smirk, but jay just flips them off without missing a beat. seeing him balance football and the doll makes something warm settle in your chest.

practice runs long, but right at 7:30 jay waves you down. he is breathing heavily, hair sticking to his forehead, but he looks energized rather than exhausted.

“we’re done for now,” he says, slinging his duffel over one shoulder and taking the carrier with the other. “my house is closer than yours. do you wanna come over? my mom’s home and she’s been dying to see the baby everyone’s talking about. plus we can eat something real before i drive you back.”

you agree before the nerves can talk you out of it. the walk to his car is short, and soon you are pulling up to a neat two-story house on a quiet street. jay parks in the driveway and kills the engine.

“warning — my mom is going to be excited,” he says with a sheepish smile. “my dad is traveling again, so it’s just us.”

the second you step inside, the smell of something warm and savory greets you. mrs. park appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes lighting up the moment she sees the carrier.

“oh my goodness, you must be her!” she exclaims, voice bright and welcoming. “jay told me all about the project. come in, come in. and this must be little jiwoo!”

she coos over the doll immediately, asking to hold the carrier while you both take off your shoes. jay watches with an embarrassed but fond expression, rubbing the back of his neck.

“mom, please stop acting like that's a real baby. and please, don’t scare her away on day two.”

“nonsense. this is my grandaughter now. and that poor girl is already surviving parenting with you — i'm sure she’s tough.” mrs. park winks at you. “you two look exhausted. sit down. i’ll heat up some ramen. real food, not that cafeteria stuff.”

jay leads you to the living room, where you both collapse onto the couch. he takes jiwoo for a bit, rocking her absently while you text your friends quick updates. the house feels lived-in and comfortable — football trophies on a shelf, family photos on the wall, a stack of textbooks on the coffee table.

“this is nice,” you say quietly, watching him with the baby. “different from school.”

he glances up, a softer look in his eyes. “yeah. at school everyone sees the football guy. here it’s just… me trying to cook the best ramen ever.”

true to his word, he heads to the kitchen a few minutes later and returns with two steaming bowls of instant ramen, perfectly prepared with an egg and green onions on top. he sets one in front of you, then sits close enough that your knees almost touch, still holding jiwoo in one arm.

“here. eat before she decides it’s crying time again.”

you take the bowl gratefully, the warmth spreading through your tired body. “thank you. seriously. i didn’t expect any of this today.”

he shrugs, but his smile is genuine. “neither did i. but it’s not so bad having someone to do this with. makes the scholarship stress feel a little less heavy.”

you talk while you eat — about his upcoming match, your favorite subjects, the way yunjin is plotting revenge on sunghoon, how taehyun apparently sang lullabies badly over voice note last night. jay laughs more freely here, in his own space, the reserved jock facade melting away into someone thoughtful and a little shy when he catches you watching him.

after dinner, mrs. park insists on taking a photo of the three of you — you, jay, and jiwoo — for her own memories. jay protests half-heartedly but ends up smiling anyway.

when it is finally time to leave, he drives you home through the quiet streets, windows down just enough to let in the cool evening air. jiwoo sleeps in the back the whole way.

“thanks for today,” he says as he pulls up to your house. “skipping practice, coming over… all of it. i know it’s extra for you.”

you unbuckle, turning to face him. “i wanted to. you're… pretty nice, actually.”

he meets your eyes, something soft and new flickering there. “you’re pretty nice, too.”

the moment stretches for a second longer than it should. then jiwoo makes a small sound in her sleep and the spell breaks.

“text me when you get her settled tonight,” you say quietly.

“i will. goodnight, sleep well.”

“night. try to sleep.” you laugh softly.

you step out and walk toward your house, watching his taillights disappear down the street. your heart feels fuller than it did this morning, the exhaustion mixed with a quiet, growing warmth. day two is over, but something between you and jay has quietly begun to shift — slow, steady, and surprisingly real.

-------

WEDNESDAY. DAY 3:

the morning light filters through your curtains as you get ready for school, jiwoo’s carrier already waiting by the door from last night’s hand-off. jay had taken her after he dropped you home yesterday, and you had fallen asleep surprisingly fast, knowing she was with him. your phone buzzes with a single text from him at 7:12 a.m.

jay: on my way to school. jiwoo survived the night. barely. see you in class.

you smile at the message, a tiny flutter in your chest that you quickly brush off as leftover tiredness. you grab your bag and head out, the carrier feeling lighter today for some reason.

when you walk into ms. choi’s classroom for first period, jay is already there, slumped a little in his seat at your assigned double desk. his eyes have dark circles underneath, his hair is messier than usual, and he is rubbing his face with both hands like he can wipe the exhaustion away. the carrier sits between your spots, jiwoo quiet inside for now.

you slide into the chair next to him, setting your bag down gently.

“morning,” you say softly, studying his face. “you look… really tired.”

he lets out a low chuckle, voice rough and sleepy. “yeah. i didn’t sleep much. jiwoo decided 1:30 a.m., 3:45 a.m., and 5:20 a.m. were all perfect times to scream. i fed her, changed her, burped her — the whole routine. at one point i had to knock on my mom’s door and ask for backup because she wouldn’t settle. mom rocked her for like twenty minutes while i logged everything.”

your eyebrows shoot up. “why didn’t you text me? i could’ve talked you through it or at least stayed up with you over messages.”

jay shakes his head, offering a small, genuine smile that makes the tiredness in his eyes soften. “i thought about it. but you handled the 2 a.m. shift on monday night, and you have her all day today. i wanted you to actually sleep. you’ve been good about this whole thing — didn’t seem fair to drag you into another rough night when i could handle it.”

you feel a warm pull in your chest at his words, something gentle and considerate that you hadn’t expected from the quiet football senior. “that’s… really sweet of you. but next time, text me anyway. we’re supposed to be a team, right?”

he nods, leaning back in his chair. “yeah. a team. i’ll remember that.”

before you can say more, ms. choi claps her hands at the front of the room, her usual bright energy filling the space. the desks are arranged in a loose circle today, pairs sitting side by side.

“good morning, everyone! welcome to our first parent support group session. today we’re going to share — honestly — one challenge and one win from the first two days of the project. no sugarcoating. this is about learning how to communicate and support each other through real-life messiness. we’ll go around the circle. volunteers first, or i’ll pick.”

the room fills with a mix of groans and nervous laughs. sunoo raises his hand immediately, looking like he has been waiting to vent.

ms. choi nods at him. “kim sunoo and kang taehyun — go ahead.”

sunoo sighs dramatically, gesturing to taehyun who sits beside him with equally tired eyes. “our challenge is that we’re both terrible at this and might actually fail. taehyun had her monday night and texted me panicked voice notes because he couldn’t figure out why she wouldn’t stop crying. i had to guide him like a customer service rep at 1 a.m. last night she woke up three times and we both barely slept. we’re worried we won’t make it to the end of the week without the health score tanking.”

taehyun rubs the back of his neck, adding in his calm but deadpan voice, “yeah. the challenge is sleep deprivation and my complete lack of baby instincts. the win is… we’re still at 84% health and we haven’t thrown the doll out the window yet. small victories.”

the class laughs lightly. ms. choi smiles encouragingly. “honest. good. next?”

yunjin jumps in without waiting, her voice sharp but tired. baby sunghoon jr. rests in the carrier between her and sunghoon, who looks mildly guilty.

“challenge: my partner thinks the baby is an optional accessory he can pick up when it fits his football schedule,” yunjin says, shooting sunghoon a pointed look. “he promised to meet me at the door yesterday morning and didn’t show. i waited, the baby fussed, and i had to handle it alone before rehearsal. he’s great on the field but apparently coordination off it is a struggle.”

sunghoon clears his throat, voice low. “challenge accepted. i messed up the hand-off. win is that last night i took a night shift so she could sleep, and the health score actually went up. we’re learning… slowly.”

yunjin huffs but there’s a tiny reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “fine. that part was decent.”

next come kazuha and gaeul. kazuha speaks first, her voice calm and measured as always.

“our challenge was the random crying during my dance practice yesterday, but we worked around it. win is that we actually enjoy teaming up. gaeul is super organized — we made a shared calendar and even a playlist of soft songs for when the baby gets fussy. health score is at 95%. it feels nice working together.”

gaeul nods, smiling warmly at kazuha. “exactly. no big drama, just steady progress. we’re both getting better at reading the cues.”

more pairs share — some funny stories about dolls crying in the middle of tests, others about late-night arguments over whose turn it was. then ms. choi’s eyes land on you and jay.

“go ahead — your turn.”

you glance at jay. he gives you a small nod, like it’s okay if you start. you take a breath.

“challenge… the nights are harder than i thought. jiwoo woke me at 2 a.m. monday, and jay had a rough one last night too. we’re both tired, and balancing it with classes and his football schedule is tricky. but the win is that we’re actually communicating. he skipped optional practice yesterday to help when she got ‘sick,’ and we got the health score back up together. we’re… managing. better than i expected.”

jay leans forward slightly, voice steady but quieter than usual because of how worn out he is.

“yeah. challenge is the sleep and making sure this doesn’t mess with nationals prep — scouts are watching. win is she’s really good at calming jiwoo down fast, and she’s been flexible with the schedule even when i have practice. we’re figuring it out as a team. health at 89% this morning. not perfect, but we’re not failing.”

ms. choi nods approvingly. “honest and balanced. that’s what this is about — supporting each other when life gets busy. good work, you two.”

the support group wraps up with a few more pairs, and then ms. choi reviews some tips for the rest of the week. the rest of the morning feels lighter after the sharing session. you and jay sit together in the next class, trading quiet comments about the other pairs’ stories. he looks less weighed down now that he has talked about the rough night.

lunch arrives, and instead of sitting with your separate friends, you both naturally head to the same table near the windows again. jay carries the carrier this time, setting it carefully between you. jiwoo stays mostly quiet, and he handles a small fuss with surprising ease — rocking her gently while you unpack your food.

“you’re getting really good at that,” you say, watching him pat her back with the right rhythm.

he shrugs, but there is a small proud smile on his lips. “practice makes perfect, i guess. last night was rough, but this morning she only cried once and settled fast when i fed her. mom helped with tips too — she said i was holding her too tense at first.”

you laugh softly. “your mom seemed really excited about the project yesterday.”

“she is. keeps asking for updates like it’s a real grandkid.” he pauses, glancing at you. “she liked you, by the way. said you seem kind and level-headed. high praise from her.”

your cheeks warm a little at that. “tell her thanks. the ramen was good too.”

the conversation flows easily over lunch — about how sunoo and taehyun are dramatically bonding over their shared exhaustion, how yunjin is slowly warming up to sunghoon despite her complaints, and how kazuha and gaeul make the whole thing look effortless. jay talks a bit more about football, the pressure of the upcoming match, and how skipping optional practice yesterday actually made him focus better in the evening session because he wasn’t resenting the project.

“it’s weird,” he admits, taking a bite of his food. “i thought this would be a total distraction, but having someone to share the load with makes it feel less like a chore.”

you nod, feeling those small butterflies again as you watch him interact with jiwoo. “same. i was nervous about being paired with a senior i didn’t know, but you’re… easy to talk to.”

he meets your eyes for a moment, something soft flickering there before he looks back at the carrier. “you too.”

the afternoon classes pass without any major jiwoo meltdowns. you take her for most of them while jay attends his, but he texts you updates and silly memes about tired parents whenever he can. by the final bell, the day feels surprisingly nice — productive, calm, and warmer than the chaotic start of the week.

as you pack up for the last class of the day, jay appears beside your locker.

“i’ll walk you,” he says simply, taking the carrier from you even though it is your turn.

you blink. “it’s out of your way though. your class is on the other side of the building.”

he shrugs, adjusting the straps on his shoulder. “doesn’t matter. we can talk a bit more. plus, jiwoo’s been good all afternoon — i want to make sure she stays that way until the hand-off.”

you fall into step beside him, the hallway buzzing around you but feeling distant. the conversation stays light — favorite snacks for late-night study sessions, funny stories from his team practices, how you and your friends sometimes do convenience store runs at midnight. every so often his arm brushes yours when he shifts the carrier, and each time a small spark of butterflies flutters in your stomach.

when you reach the door of your classroom, he stops and hands the carrier back carefully.

“here. she’s all yours for the rest of the day. text me if she gives you trouble.”

you take it, fingers brushing his for a brief second. “thanks for walking me. and for last night… even if you didn’t text.”

he smiles, that half-smile that is becoming familiar. “anytime. see you tomorrow.”

“see you tomorrow, jay.”

you watch him walk away down the hallway, shoulders a little straighter despite the tiredness. as you step into class and sit down, the butterflies linger — quiet, unexpected, but definitely there. the project is forcing you two to spend time together, but the way he chose to let you sleep, the way he walks you even when it is inconvenient, the easy conversations… it is starting to feel like more than just a shared grade.

wednesday ends on a gentle note, the kind that leaves you replaying small moments in your head long after the final bell.

-------

THURSDAY. DAY 4:

the night passes smoother than the previous ones. jiwoo only wakes you once, around 1:40 a.m., with a short, fussy cry that you handle quickly. you feed her, burp her, and rock her back to sleep in under ten minutes, logging everything neatly in the app before crawling back under the covers. when your alarm goes off in the morning you actually feel somewhat rested — a small win that makes the walk to school feel lighter.

you meet jay at the usual spot outside ms. choi’s classroom. he looks better today, the dark circles under his eyes faded a bit, and he gives you a genuine smile when he sees you approaching with the carrier.

“morning,” he says, voice still a little husky from sleep. “how was she last night?”

“surprisingly good,” you reply, handing the carrier over for his morning classes. “only one wake-up and she settled fast. i think we’re getting the hang of her patterns.”

he nods, adjusting the straps carefully. “that’s a relief. i had a decent night too after the rough one yesterday. thanks for taking the full shift today — practice is going to be brutal later.”

the morning classes go by without any major incidents. jiwoo stays mostly calm in your care, and jay texts you occasional updates from his side, including a funny photo of her “sleeping” on his desk during a break. the shared logbook fills with small notes back and forth, and the health score hovers steadily in the high 80s.

by the time lunch ends and afternoon classes begin, the schedule clash becomes obvious. jay has mandatory football practice starting at 6 p.m. — right when jiwoo’s app starts giving warning beeps about needing attention. you check your phone during the last period and see the health score dipping slightly. you make a quick decision.

after the final bell, you grab the carrier and head straight to the football field instead of going home. the late afternoon sun is warm on your back as you walk across the grass, the distant sound of whistles and shouts growing louder. a few players are already warming up, stretching and jogging drills.

you spot jay near the bench, helmet off, talking to coach. he turns when he hears footsteps and his face lights up the moment he sees you — eyes widening slightly, shoulders relaxing, a bright, surprised smile breaking across his face.

“hey,” he calls, jogging over immediately. sweat already dots his forehead, and his practice jersey clings a little to his chest. “you came all the way here?”

you shrug, trying to play it casual even as your heart does a small flip at how happy he looks. “the app said she needs care soon, and your practice clashes. figured i’d bring her so you can take a turn during water break. didn’t want the score to drop because of timing.”

he takes the carrier gently from you, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary. “you’re a lifesaver. seriously. coach is strict about focus today, but water breaks are every twenty minutes. i can handle her then.”

before you can respond, sunghoon and jake wander over, helmets tucked under their arms, matching grins already forming.

“well, well,” jake says, voice loud and teasing. “look who decided to bring the baby to practice. jay, you lighting up like that when she shows up? that’s new.”

sunghoon crosses his arms, smirking as he eyes the way jay is carefully adjusting the carrier on his own shoulder. “yeah. i’ve never seen you smile that big during warm-ups. usually you’re all focused and grumpy. now one junior with a doll shows up and suddenly you’re glowing.”

jay rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears turn pink. “shut up. we actually care about this project. unlike some captains who can’t even meet their partner at the door on time.”

sunghoon laughs, not bothered. “touché. but seriously, man — you two are starting to look like actual parents showing up to support each other. it’s cute.”

jake wiggles his eyebrows. “cute and dangerous for your focus. coach is gonna notice if you keep glancing at the bleachers every five seconds.”

jay shoves jake’s shoulder lightly, but he is smiling despite himself. “you two are the worst. go run laps or something.”

the teasing intensifies for a few more seconds until coach blows the whistle, calling everyone back to drills. jay hands the carrier back to you for now, giving you a quick, grateful nod.

“i’ll come find you at the next water break. thanks again for coming.”

you find a spot on the lower bleachers, close enough to watch but not in the way. practice is intense — sprints, tackling dummies, passing routes. you keep an eye on jiwoo, feeding her when she starts to fuss and logging it right away. the health score climbs back up steadily.

during the first water break, jay jogs straight over, breathing hard, grabbing his bottle with one hand while reaching for the carrier with the other. he handles jiwoo with surprising gentleness for someone who just finished running drills, rocking her lightly while taking quick sips of water.

“is she good?” he asks between breaths, sweat dripping down his temple.

“yeah. she calmed down fast when i fed her. you’re getting really natural with her now.”

he grins, tired but proud. “thanks to you. team effort, remember?”

the break ends too soon, and he hands her back before jogging off again. you watch him rejoin the team, noticing how sunghoon claps him on the back and says something that makes jay shake his head with a laugh.

the second water break comes, and this time ningning — one of the head cheerleaders — walks over just as jay approaches you. she is in her practice uniform, ponytail swinging, bright smile on her face. she stops right beside jay, barely glancing at you or the baby.

“hey jay,” ningning says, voice sweet and flirty, tilting her head. “you looked really good out there today. that last route you ran? impressive. maybe after practice you can show me some tips? i’ve been wanting to get better at… coordination.”

she steps a little closer, ignoring the carrier in your hands and the way jay is clearly focused on you. a tiny, unexpected spark of jealousy flares in your chest — sharp and warm at the same time. you hate how it feels, but you can’t stop it. ningning is confident, popular, the type who fits perfectly with the football crowd. you are just… you, standing here with a fake baby like an awkward parent.

jay barely hesitates. he shifts closer to you, one hand lightly touching the edge of the carrier as if to anchor himself.

“thanks, ningning, but i’m good,” he says politely but firmly, voice steady. “i've got practice, then i have to handle this project with her. we’re kind of busy with the baby schedule.”

ningning’s smile falters for a second, her eyes flicking to you and then to jiwoo. “oh… right. the doll thing. well, if you change your mind later—”

“i won’t,” jay cuts in gently but clearly, offering her a small nod. “but good luck with your cheer stuff.”

she walks away with a little wave, but the flirtation is obviously shut down. jay turns back to you immediately, expression softening.

“sorry about that,” he says quietly, taking the carrier again for the last few minutes of his break. “she’s always like that. doesn’t mean anything.”

you swallow, the jealousy fading as quickly as it came, replaced by a warmer flutter. “it’s fine. you didn’t have to… i mean, you could’ve talked to her.”

he shakes his head, looking at you directly. “nah. we’re doing this together. plus, i’d rather figure out how to keep jiwoo’s score up than worry about cheer tips right now.”

coach’s whistle blows again. jay hands the carrier back, his fingers brushing yours once more.

“stay if you can? after practice i’ll drive you home again — unless you have plans.”

you nod, heart beating a little faster. “i’ll stay.”

the rest of practice drags on, but you find yourself watching jay more than the drills — the way he moves with focus and energy, the quick smiles he shoots toward the bleachers when he thinks you are looking. when practice finally ends, he jogs over, hair damp with sweat, grabbing his bag and the carrier in one smooth motion.

“ready?” he asks, voice tired but content.

“yeah.”

as you walk toward the parking lot together, the teasing from sunghoon and jake echoes faintly behind you — “look at the happy family leaving together!” — but jay just laughs it off, shoulder bumping yours lightly.

thursday leaves you with a quiet realization: the jealousy you felt was small, but real. and the way jay shut it down without hesitation makes those butterflies feel a little stronger, a little harder to ignore.

-------

FRIDAY. DAY 5:

the night slips by in a haze of quiet routine. jiwoo wakes only once, around midnight, with a soft whimper that you soothe almost instantly. you rock her against your shoulder in the dark, whispering nonsense words until she settles, the carrier lights blinking green again. the logbook entry feels routine now — “12:07 a.m. quick rock and burp, settled in 4 minutes.” you fall back asleep faster than you have all week, the exhaustion from earlier days softening into something almost manageable. when morning comes, the house is quiet, your parents already gone for their shifts, and you feel a strange sense of calm as you prepare for school.

friday had left a lingering warmth in your chest — the way jay had shut down ningning so quickly at the field, the easy way he had handed jiwoo back with that soft half-smile, the texts that kept coming even after practice. you catch yourself replaying those moments while you walk to school, the carrier light on your chest. your friends are waiting at the gate again, their faces a mix of tired smiles and dramatic sighs.

“jiwoo was an angel last night,” you tell them, adjusting the blanket. “only one wake-up and it was over fast. i actually got decent sleep.”

kazuha nods, her own carrier steady. “same with eunchae. gaeul and i are in a good rhythm now. she even sent me a good-morning text with a lullaby suggestion.”

sunoo groans theatrically but grins. “taehyun took her again and only panicked once. he’s starting to brag about his burping technique. it’s cute in a chaotic way.”

yunjin crosses her arms, though her eyes sparkle with reluctant amusement. “sunghoon actually texted me at 11 p.m. asking if the baby needed anything before he crashed. progress? maybe. but he still calls her ‘the tiny distraction’ when he thinks i’m not listening.”

the conversation flows easily as you all head inside, trading more stories about night shifts and health scores. the shared exhaustion has bonded the group in a way that feels almost familial now, and you laugh more than you complain. the morning classes pass in a blur of notes and occasional glances at your phone. jay texts you a couple of times from his own classes — short updates on jiwoo’s schedule and a silly meme about sleep-deprived parents that makes you smile in the middle of english.

by the time lunch arrives, you meet him at the usual table near the windows. he looks focused but relaxed, the carrier already between you as he rocks it gently with one foot while eating.

“was she good for you last night?” he asks, voice low so the nearby tables don’t overhear.

you nod, taking a bite of your food. “yeah, really calm. only one quick fuss. you?”

“perfect. slept straight through after practice. thanks for handling the full day yesterday — it helped a lot with an essay i had to hand today.” he leans in a little closer, eyes meeting yours. “we’re actually doing okay with this, aren’t we?”

the question feels heavier than it should, laced with something unspoken. you feel the tension from yesterday’s field visit linger in the air between you — the teasing from his friends, the way he had chosen to stay focused on the project, on you. “yeah,” you reply softly. “better than i expected. you’re not as bad at the dad thing as you thought.”

he chuckles, the sound warm and low. “don’t give me too much credit yet. tonight’s my full night with her, right? after practice.”

you confirm the schedule you had texted earlier. practice is running late again — coach pushing hard for nationals — so it will end around 8 p.m. jay offers to pick you up from your house once he’s done, since he will be taking jiwoo for the night anyway. the idea of seeing him after dark, outside of school, sends a quiet thrill through you that you try to ignore.

the afternoon drags a little, jiwoo staying mostly cooperative in your classes. you update the logbook diligently, and jay keeps the texts coming — casual questions about your day, a photo of his lunch tray with a caption about missing “family lunch,” and a reminder about the pickup. each message builds the tension a little more, the easy rhythm between you feeling less like a forced project and more like something you both look forward to.

when the final bell rings, you head home, jiwoo in the carrier. you do homework, help with a few chores, and wait for the evening to unfold. around 8:15 your phone buzzes.

jay: just finished. showered quick. heading your way now. still okay if i pick you up?

you reply instantly. the wait feels longer than it is, your heart picking up pace when headlights finally sweep across your driveway. you grab the carrier — jiwoo quiet and ready for the hand-off — and step outside. jay’s car idles at the curb, him leaning over to open the passenger door from inside.

“hey,” he says as you slide in, the familiar scent of his mint gum and fresh laundry filling the small space. he looks tired from practice but his eyes brighten when they land on you and the carrier. “she been good?”

“perfect,” you answer, buckling in while he carefully takes the carrier and secures it in the back. “how was practice?”

“brutal but good. coach had us running extra for conditioning. nationals nerves are real.” he pulls away from the curb, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face. “i was thinking… instead of just dropping you off right away, do you want to grab dinner somewhere? nothing fancy — there’s that 24-hour diner a few blocks from here. we can eat quick, update the log together, and then i’ll take her for the night.”

the invitation catches you off guard in the best way. the tension that has been building all week — the shared glances, the protective way he handled ningning, the easy conversations — tightens in your chest. “yeah,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual. “that sounds good. i’m actually hungry.”

he smiles, that small half-smile that makes the butterflies stir stronger. “cool. my treat. you’ve been carrying a lot of the load this week.”

the drive is short, filled with light talk about practice drills and your last class quiz. jay parks near the diner, a cozy spot with neon signs and the smell of burgers and coffee drifting out. he insists on carrying the carrier inside, his free hand brushing yours accidentally as you walk through the door. the place is half-empty at this hour, soft music playing in the background.

you slide into a booth across from each other, the carrier placed carefully on the seat beside you. a waitress drops off menus and water, cooing briefly at jiwoo before taking your orders — simple burgers, fries, and shakes for both of you.

conversation flows naturally at first. jay talks more about the scholarship pressure, how scouts will be at the sunday match, and how the project has surprisingly helped him manage stress by forcing him to schedule everything better. you share stories about your friends’ drama — yunjin slowly softening with sunghoon, sunoo and taehyun turning their panic into a running joke. the food arrives warm and comforting, and you both eat while taking turns glancing at jiwoo, who stays peacefully asleep.

halfway through the meal, an older woman at the next table leans over, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the carrier. she has kind wrinkles around her eyes and a gentle smile.

“oh, what a beautiful little family,” she says warmly, clasping her hands. “you two look so young to have such a precious baby. how old is she?”

the question hangs in the air. you open your mouth to correct her — “oh, no, she’s not real, it’s a school project” — but jay speaks first, his voice smooth and playful, leaning into the moment with surprising ease.

“she’s almost a month old now,” he says, reaching over to gently adjust jiwoo’s blanket with careful fingers. his tone is soft, almost proud. “our little jiwoo. she’s the most precious thing ever — keeps us up at night but we wouldn’t trade it for anything.” you can't help but laugh quielty.

the old lady beams, eyes crinkling. “she has your eyes, young man. and you, dear, have such a gentle way with her. new parents are always so sweet together. cherish these moments — they go by so fast.”

you feel heat rush to your face, the tension spiking sharply. your heart pounds as you glance at jay, expecting him to laugh it off or explain. instead, he just nods along, that soft smile still in place.

“we will,” he says sincerely. “thank you. she really is everything to us.”

the woman wishes you well and turns back to her own table, leaving a charged silence between you and jay. you stare at him, eyebrows raised, the butterflies turning into something heavier, warmer, more insistent.

“what was that?” you whisper once she is out of earshot, half-laughing, half-flustered. “i was about to tell her it’s a doll for school.”

jay rubs the back of his neck, but his eyes meet yours without embarrassment. “i know. sorry— it just… felt harmless. she looked so happy thinking we were this cute young couple with a real baby. i didn’t want to disappoint her. plus…” he pauses, voice dropping lower, the tension thickening the air around the booth. “it wasn’t entirely weird to play along. we’ve been doing this all week — the hand-offs, the late texts, the worrying together. it kind of feels like we are figuring out the parent thing. even if it’s fake.”

his words settle over you like a blanket, heavy with implication. the project has forced proximity, but moments like this — the field visit, the car rides, now dinner — are turning it into something more. you feel the pull stronger than before, the way his gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary, the way your skin tingles when his knee brushes yours under the table.

“you’re quite dangerous when you decide to be charming, aren't you?” you murmur, trying to keep it light even as your pulse races.

he laughs softly, but there is a new intensity in his eyes. “only with you, apparently. the project’s messing with my head a little. or maybe it’s just making me notice things i didn’t before.”

the rest of the meal passes in a haze of charged conversation — lighter topics mixed with quieter admissions. he asks about your plans after high school, you ask about his football dreams beyond the scholarship. every shared laugh, every accidental touch while reaching for fries, builds the tension higher. jiwoo stays quiet, almost like she is in on the moment, her presence a constant reminder of the fake life you are building together.

when the check comes, jay pays despite your protest, waving it off with “you’ve earned it after all the night shifts.” outside the diner the air is cooler, the streetlights casting a soft glow. he drives you the short distance home, the car filled with comfortable but electric silence. jiwoo is secured in the back, ready for her night with him.

he parks in front of your house but does not unlock the doors right away. the engine hums low, and he turns slightly in his seat to face you.

“thanks for tonight,” he says quietly. “dinner, the company… all of it. i know it’s late and you could’ve just handed her off at the door.”

you unbuckle slowly, heart still racing from the old lady moment and everything unsaid. “i had fun. even when you decided to play happy family with a stranger.”

he chuckles, but his expression turns more serious, eyes searching yours in the dim light. “about that… i wasn’t completely joking. this week has been weird, but in a good way. being paired with you — it’s made me realize i like spending time with you. not just for the grade or the schedule. more than that.”

the confession hangs there, raw and tentative, increasing the tension until it feels almost tangible. you swallow, the butterflies now a full storm in your stomach. “i… feel the same. it started as awkward, but now it feels like we’re actually connecting. the project’s forcing us to be honest in ways we probably wouldn’t otherwise.”

jay nods, his hand resting on the gear shift close to where yours lingers on the console. for a moment it seems like he might reach over, close the small distance, but he holds back, respecting the slow pace you both seem to need.

“get some rest,” he says finally, voice gentle. “i’ll handle jiwoo tonight and text updates.”

you step out, the cool air hitting your flushed cheeks. “night, jay. drive safe with her.”

“night.”

he waits until you are inside before pulling away, taillights fading down the street. inside your room you collapse onto the bed, replaying every second of the evening — the old lady’s assumption, jay’s easy play-along, the quiet admissions in the car. the tension has shifted tonight, no longer just friendly cooperation but something deeper, sweeter, full of possibility. the fake baby has cracked open real feelings, and as you drift off, you wonder how much longer you can both pretend it is only about the project.

the week is winding down, but whatever is growing between you and jay feels like it is just beginning — slow, tentative, and impossible to ignore.

-------

SATURDAY. DAY 6:

saturday morning arrives with a silence that feels almost foreign after a week of being woken by high-pitched digital wailing. when you finally blink your eyes open, the sun is streaming through the curtains in long, dusty bars of gold. you reach for your phone instinctively, your thumb hovering over the baby app before you remember: jay has her.

you scroll through your notifications and find a string of texts from him, sent in the quiet hours of the early morning.

at 3:14 a.m.:

jay: she’s finally out. took her twenty minutes to settle after a diaper change. why does she look so peaceful when she’s been a menace for two hours?

jay: also, i think i’m hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but i’m pretty sure she just made a sound that sounded like 'ball.' she’s going to be a star athlete.

then, the last one, sent at 8:30 a.m.:

jay: morning. we’re alive. barely. i’m caffeinated and jiwoo is currently staring at a wall. park at 11 still on?

you smile into your pillow, typing back a quick confirmation. the butterflies that settled in your stomach at the diner last night are still there, humming a low, steady tune.

the park is halfway between your houses, a sprawling green space filled with families and dogs catching frisbees. you spot jay almost immediately, leaning against a large oak tree near the pond. he’s wearing a simple black hoodie and joggers, the baby carrier strapped to his chest. he looks like he belongs in a catalog for 'world's most attractive tired dad.'

when he sees you, his face breaks into that wide, genuine grin that always makes your pulse skip a beat.

“look who it is,” he calls out as you get closer. “jiwoo, look, your mom is here to save us from this boring tree.”

you laugh, stepping into his space. the scent of his laundry detergent and a hint of coffee hits you. “morning. how are the 'star athlete' and her exhausted father doing?”

“she's being suspiciously quiet today,” jay says, looking down at the doll. “it’s like she knows it’s the weekend. she’s been in 'easy mode' since 9:00 a.m. i’m actually a little scared she’s plotting something big for later.”

“maybe she just wants us to have a nice day,” you suggest, reaching out to adjust the tiny hat on jiwoo’s head. your fingers graze the fabric of jay’s hoodie, and for a second, your gaze catches his. the air between you feels thick and sweet.

“i’d like that,” jay says softly.

you spend the next two hours wandering the paved paths of the park. without the pressure of school hallways or the rush of practice, the conversation feels effortless. you talk about everything and nothing. he tells you about his favorite childhood dog — a golden retriever who was terrible at fetching — and you tell him about the time you tried to dye your own hair in middle school and ended up with a patch of neon orange that took months to fade.

“no way,” he laughs, his shoulder bumping yours as you walk. “i need to see pictures of that. please tell me your parents have evidence.”

“buried deep in the family archives,” you say, shaking your head. “you have to earn the right to see the orange hair phase, park jongseong.”

“oh, so we're on a points system now?” he teases, his eyes sparkling. “how do i earn points? do i get some for being a solo parent last night?”

“maybe a few,” you admit.

eventually, you find a wide, flat stretch of grass away from the main crowd. jay drops his duffel bag — which you realize is filled with both baby supplies and football gear.

“alright,” he says, pulling out a well-worn football. “since we have some peace and quiet, and since you've spent all week watching me run around a field, it's your turn. i’m going to teach you how to throw a proper spiral.”

you eye the ball skeptically. “jay, the last time i threw something, it was a crumpled piece of paper at a trash can and i missed by three feet. i don't think this is a good idea.”

“trust me,” he says, stepping closer. he stands behind you, his presence warm and grounding. “it's all about the grip. here.”

he reaches around, his hands covering yours as he guides your fingers onto the laces of the ball. his chest is inches from your back, and you can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. your heart is doing triple-time against your ribs.

“fingers on the laces,” he murmurs, his voice right next to your ear. “don't grip it too tight. you want a little space between your palm and the ball. see?”

you nod, your voice feeling trapped in your throat. his hands are large and calloused, a contrast to the gentleness of his touch.

“now, bring it back by your ear,” he instructs, moving your arm with his. “step forward with your opposite foot, and when you release, flick your wrist. like you're pointing at the target.”

he steps back, giving you space to try. you take a breath, step, and throw. the ball wobbles through the air, traveling about ten feet before thudding unceremoniously into the grass.

jay lets out a snort of laughter.

“don't say it,” you warn, pointing a finger at him.

“i wasn't going to say anything!” he says, holding his hands up in defense. “it was... a very brave first attempt. the target was the ground, right? because you hit it perfectly.”

“you're the worst,” you laugh, picking up a handful of grass and tossing it at him.

“hey! i'm the coach!” he jogs over to retrieve the ball. “again. focus. imagine ningning is standing right where the ball lands and you're trying to— no, wait, that's mean. imagine there’s a scout there. or just imagine i'm there waiting to catch it.”

the next twenty minutes are a blur of laughter and terrible throws. jay is patient, constantly encouraging you, and eventually, you manage a throw that actually spirals, landing right in his outstretched hands.

he let out a loud “yes!” and jogs back to you, lifting a hand for a high-five. “see? natural talent. scholarship is basically in the bag.”

“i think i'll stick to my day job,” you pant, your face flushed from the exertion and the fun.

“which is?”

“come on. i'll show you.”

you lead him to the far edge of the park, where a small, hidden trail winds through a patch of dense trees. it opens up into a tiny clearing overlooking a quiet creek. there’s an old, sun-bleached wooden bench tucked under a willow tree.

“this is it,” you say, sitting down and patting the spot next to you. “my quiet spot. i come here to read when everything feels a bit too loud.”

jay sits, careful of jiwoo in the carrier. he looks around at the dappled sunlight on the water and the way the willow leaves sway in the breeze. “it's nice,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer register. “it's really peaceful. i get why you like it.”

“it’s the only place i can actually hear my own thoughts,” you admit.

“what are your thoughts saying today?” he asks, turning his head to look at you. the light catches the amber flecks in his eyes.

you feel the weight of the question. your thoughts are currently a chaotic loop of his hand felt warm on mine and i don't want this project to end.

“mostly that i'm glad we got paired together,” you say, choosing the safest version of the truth. “even if ms. choi is a madwoman for doing this to us.”

jay laughs, but it’s a quiet, thoughtful sound. “yeah. she’s definitely crazy. but i think... i think i owe her a thank you note. i don't think i would've ever had the guts to just come up and talk to you otherwise. i always saw you in the halls, and i thought you seemed... cool. but you were always so quiet and had that 'don't bother me, i'm reading' look.”

“i do not have a 'don't bother me' look!” you protest, nudging him with your elbow.

“you totally do. it’s intimidating,” he insists. “but i’m glad i got past it. i like the 'bothering you' part of my day the best now.”

the afternoon fades into a soft orange glow. eventually, hunger wins out, and you head back to his house. mrs. park is out running errands, so the house is quiet and cool.

you end up in the kitchen again, making simple sandwiches while jay gives jiwoo a “bath” (wiping the doll down with the designated kit wipes). it feels domestic and easy. you find yourself humming a song as you plate the food, and jay catches your eye, a small, knowing smile on his face.

“what?” you ask, feeling your face heat up.

“nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “just... you're a good mom, jiwoo. your dad is lucky.”

“jay!”

“what? i'm just stating facts for the logbook,” he teases.

after eating, you sit on his living room floor, surrounded by textbooks you’re both pretending to read. in reality, you’re mostly talking. the conversation shifts to tomorrow — the match.

“it's at 10:00 a.m.,” jay says, his expression turning a bit more serious. “the scouts from the state university are going to be there. it’s the biggest game of the season so far. i’m... i’m actually pretty nervous.”

“you'll be great,” you say firmly. “i've seen you practice. you're the most dedicated person on that field. they'd be idiots not to see that.”

“will you really be there?” he asks, his voice low. “even though you don't have to be? the project is technically 'at home' on sundays.”

“i'll be there,” you promise. “front row. i’ll even bring a sign if you want, although sunghoon might try to steal the spotlight.”

“please don't bring a sign,” he laughs. “but just seeing you there... it'll help. a lot.”

as evening settles in, he drives you back to your house. the car ride is quieter than the one to the park, a comfortable, heavy silence filling the space. he pulls into your driveway and kills the engine, but neither of you moves to get out.

the streetlights are just starting to flicker on. jiwoo is asleep in the back, her little electronic breathing the only sound in the car.

jay turns in his seat, his arm resting on the back of yours. he looks like he wants to say something — his mouth opens, his brow furrows slightly, and his eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

“hey,“ he says, his voice barely a whisper.

“yeah?“ your heart is thundering.

he reaches out, his thumb catching a stray lock of hair near your ear and tucking it back. his touch is lingering, his hand staying near your jaw for a second too long. the tension is so thick it feels like a physical thing between you, a cord pulling you closer.

“i...” he starts, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. he looks almost pained, like he's fighting an internal battle.

he stops. he swallows hard, his hand dropping back to the steering wheel.

“i'll... i'll see you tomorrow morning,” he says, his voice a bit strained. “10:00 a.m. don't forget the 'medicine' drops for jiwoo, just in case she gets fussy in the stands.”

you feel a wave of disappointment, followed by a rush of affection. he's chickening out. but in a way, it's endearing — the confident star athlete, reduced to nerves by a quiet junior.

“i won't forget,” you say, reaching for the door handle. “good luck tonight with her. and good luck tomorrow. you've got this.”

“thanks,“ he says, his eyes still fixed on you as you step out of the car.

you walk to your front door, feeling his gaze on your back. when you get inside, you watch from the window as his car pulls away. your heart is still racing, the memory of his hand near your face burning on your skin.

tomorrow is the last day. the project ends, the doll goes back, and the 'fake' family is over. but as you look at the last text he sends you before you go to bed — get some sleep, partner. see you at the kickoff — you know that whatever this is, it isn't fake at all.

-------

SUNDAY. DAY 7:

sunday morning arrives with a sky so blue it feels intentional, a backdrop designed for a series finale. you wake up before your alarm, the silence of the room feeling heavy now that jiwoo is with jay for the final morning. today is the day. the last day of the project, the big game, and the unspoken deadline for whatever has been growing between you and park jongseong.

you dress carefully — denim jacket, comfortable shoes, and your hair done just the way you know he likes it, even if he hasn’t said it out loud. your heart is already doing a nervous dance in your chest as you grab your bag and head to the stadium.

the high school bleachers are already filling up when you arrive. the air smells like cut grass, popcorn, and that electric, high-stakes tension that follows the football team everywhere. you spot the junior-senior crew almost immediately. yunjin is there, wearing a drama club hoodie but sitting suspiciously close to where sunghoon’s jersey is draped over a seat. sunoo is waving a literal foam finger, and kazuha is looking calm as ever, baby eunchae resting in the carrier between them.

“there she is!” sunoo yells, beckoning you over. “the woman of the hour! how are the nerves?”

“awful,” you admit, sliding into the seat beside them. “where’s jay?”

“down by the locker rooms,” yunjin says, nudging you with her elbow. “he’s been looking at the entrance every thirty seconds. you better go say hi before he pulls a muscle from craning his neck.”

you laugh, but you don't need to be told twice. you head down the bleachers toward the gated area where the players are doing their final warm-ups. jay is easy to find. he’s in full gear — jersey number tight across his shoulders, pads making him look even more imposing, cleats clicking on the pavement. he’s holding the carrier in one hand, looking slightly out of place amongst the hyper-masculine energy of the pre-game huddle.

when he sees you, the focused, 'footballer-mode' mask he wears completely shatters. his eyes light up, and he breaks away from a conversation with jake to jog toward you.

“you’re here,” he says, his voice a little breathless.

“i promised, didn’t i?” you smile, your heart doing a somersault.

he holds out the carrier, looking relieved. “coach said i have to hand her off now. i was worried you’d get stuck in traffic or something.”

you take the carrier from him, the weight familiar and grounding. you look down at the doll, then back up at him. a bit of mischief sparks in your brain, fueled by the adrenaline of the morning. you lift the carrier slightly, tilting jiwoo’s head toward jay.

“alright, jiwoo,” you say, pitching your voice into a high, silly, muppet-like squeak. “tell your dad what we practiced.”

jay blinks, a surprised laugh bubbling out of him.

you wiggle the carrier’s handle so the doll bounces. “you’re gonna do great, daddy!” you squeak in the cute voice. “go kick the ball really hard! make sure the scouts see how fast you are! we believe in you!”

jay is clutching his stomach, laughing so hard his ears have turned a bright, endearing shade of red. “oh my god, stop. you’re killing me.”

“we have a bet with sunghoon jr. that you’ll score two goals!” you continue, the muppet-voice getting even more ridiculous. “don’t let us down, big guy!”

jay reaches out, his hand covering yours on the carrier handle for a brief, warm second. his laughter subsides into a soft, glowing look that makes your breath catch. “thanks, jiwoo. and thanks... for being the weirdest, best partner ever.”

“go,” you say, your normal voice returning, soft and encouraging. “we’ll be right there in the front row.”

“watch me,” he says, and it feels like a promise.

the game is a blur of noise and color. you sit with the carrier on the seat beside you, your hands clenched in your lap. every time jay gets the ball, the crowd erupts, but your world narrows down to just him — the way he moves with a blend of power and grace, the way he communicates with his teammates, the sheer determination in his stride.

halfway through the second half, the score is tied. jay breaks through the defense, the ball a blur at his feet. he maneuvers past two defenders, the stadium holding its collective breath, and then — thud. the ball hits the back of the net.

the roar is deafening. jay is swarmed by his teammates, jake jumping on his back, sunghoon ruffling his hair. but as the team head back toward the center line, jay turns. he scans the bleachers with a frantic intensity until his eyes land right on you.

he raises a fist in the air, a bright, triumphant grin directed straight at your section. you’re blushing so furiously you feel like you might actually catch fire, but you’re cheering louder than anyone, holding jiwoo up like a tiny trophy.

by the time the whistle blows, they’ve won. the field is a sea of people, but you stay in your seat, waiting. you watched the scouts talk to him, watched his mom hug him, watched the team celebrate. slowly, the crowd thins out. your friends head to the parking lot, yunjin giving you a knowing wink as she drags sunoo and kazuha away.

“we’ll see you tomorrow at the hand-off!” she calls out.

finally, it’s just you, sitting in the quiet of the cooling afternoon, with jiwoo resting in her carrier. the shadows of the goalposts stretch long across the grass.

you hear the gate creak. jay is walking toward you. he’s changed out of his jersey into a simple school tee, his hair damp from a shower, his jacket slung over one shoulder. he looks exhausted, but there’s a glow about him that has nothing to do with the win.

he climbs the bleachers and slides into the row behind you, sitting so his knees are right next to your shoulders.

“hey,” he says, his voice low and intimate in the empty stadium.

“hey, star player,” you turn slightly to look at him. “the muppet-voice worked, i think.”

he laughs, a tired, happy sound. “it definitely did. i kept hearing it in my head every time i got near the goal.” he reaches down, his hand resting on the back of the seat next to yours. “scouts seemed happy. i think... i think the scholarship is safe.”

“i never doubted it,” you say softly.

the silence that follows isn’t awkward; it’s heavy. it’s the silence of a countdown.

“so,” jay says, his voice dropping an octave. “tomorrow morning. 8 a.m. ms. choi’s room. we give back the doll, she checks the final health score, and that’s... that’s the end of the project.”

“yeah,” you swallow. “back to normal life. no 2 a.m. logs. no shared calendars. no medicine drops.”

jay stares out at the empty field for a long time. his fingers trace the edge of the bleacher. “i was thinking about that. the 'back to normal' part.” he looks back at you, his expression guarded, shy in a way you’ve never seen him. “i don't think i like it.”

your heart starts to thud against your ribs. “you don’t?”

“no.” he lets out a sharp breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “this week was supposed to be a nightmare. i was so stressed about nationals and my grades, and then i got paired with this quiet girl i’d never spoken to, and i thought... great, another thing to juggle.”

he leans forward, his face closer to yours now. the scent of his soap — something clean and citrusy — drifts over you.

“but then we started talking,” he continues, his voice steadying. “and i started looking forward to the 2 a.m. texts. i started looking forward to walking you to class. i even liked the weird dinner at the diner where we pretended to be a real family.”

he pauses, his eyes searching yours, searching for permission to keep going. you can’t speak; you just nod, your pulse racing.

“i know the baby was fake,” jay says, his voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “the project was an assignment. the schedule was a requirement. but... i don’t think what happened between us this week was fake. i don't think the way i feel right now is part of the grade.”

you feel a tear prick at the corner of your eye — a mix of relief and overwhelming warmth. “jay...”

“i really like you,” he says, the words coming out in a rush, raw and honest. “not as a partner. not as 'the girl who’s good with dolls.' just you. i don’t want to go back to being the senior who only sees you in the hallway. i don’t want to stop having an excuse to talk to you.”

you reach out, your hand finding his on the bleacher. his skin is warm, and his fingers immediately lace through yours, tight and grounding.

“i was so scared,” you admit, your voice trembling. “i thought as soon as we handed jiwoo back, you’d just... go back to being the popular football guy and i’d be the quiet junior again. i didn’t want the week to end either. i like you too, jay. so much.”

the tension that has been building since monday — the accidental knee bumps, the car rides, the protective glances — finally snaps. jay leans in, his free hand reaching up to cuppe your cheek. his thumb brushes over your skin, his touch so gentle it makes you melt.

“is it okay if i kiss you?” he asks, his eyes searching yours one last time, his breath warm against your lips.

“yes,” you whisper.

he starts to lean in, his eyes fluttering shut. you close yours too, leaning forward, the world falling away until it’s just the two of you in the quiet stadium—

WAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAH!

the sound is like a physical blow. you both jump, nearly knocking heads. jay yelps, his hand flying back to the bleacher, while you scramble to look at the carrier.

jiwoo is screaming. not just a little fuss — this is the full-volume, 'i-haven't-been-fed-in-years' digital tantrum. her red lights are flashing like a police siren.

“no!” jay groans, throwing his head back and laughing in pure, frustrated disbelief. “not now! jiwoo, are you serious right now?”

you’re laughing too, doubled over, the tension broken by the sheer absurdity of it. “she knows! she’s jealous! she wants the attention back!”

“she’s a cockblocker,” jay mutters, though he’s grinning. “a plastic, electronic cockblocker.”

you fumbled for the bottle in the bag, clicking it into the doll’s mouth. the screaming stops, replaced by the aggressive, rhythmic sucking sound of the sensor registering the 'feeding.'

jay leans his forehead against your shoulder, still chuckling. “i can’t believe her. we were this close.”

“well,” you say, looking down at the doll, then back at the boy who just confessed his heart to you. “it’s part of the project, remember? 'responsibilities don’t wait until it’s convenient.'”

jay lifts his head, his eyes soft and bright. he reaches out, taking the bottle from you to hold it himself, his other hand moving back to your waist.

“fine,” he says, his voice low and playful. “we’ll finish the feeding. we’ll finish the project. but tomorrow, after we hand her back...”

he leans in again, this time stopping just an inch from your ear.

“...i’m taking you on a real date. no dolls. no logs. just us. and i’m going to finish what i started.”

you shiver, a smile spreading across your face. “i’d like that, jay.”

the sun disappears behind the horizon, leaving the stadium in a soft, purple twilight. as the doll makes a satisfied burp sound, jay pulls you into a hug, his chin resting on top of your head. the project is almost over, but as you sit there in the quiet together, you know that the 'real life' ms. choi talked about is just beginning. and for once, you aren't nervous about it at all.

-------

MONDAY. THE PROJECT ENDS:

monday morning feels different. the usual heavy dread that accompanies a school week has been replaced by a strange, bittersweet hum of finality. you stand in front of your mirror, adjusting your uniform one last time, and for a moment, your room feels too quiet. the gray carrier is gone — jay had it for the final night, even though you had originally planned on taking her — and the absence of that small, plastic weight on your chest feels like losing a limb.

as you walk to school, you see other juniors and seniors trudging toward the entrance, all of them carrying their respective 'babies' for the last time. the atmosphere in the hallways is a chaotic blend of relief and mourning. sunoo passes you near the lockers, looking like he’s aged ten years in seven days, but he’s wearing a triumphant grin.

“we’re free!” he shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “taehyun and i checked the score at midnight. 86%! we survived the apocalypse!”

you laugh, but your eyes are already scanning the crowd for a specific messy-haired senior. you find him standing right outside ms. choi’s door. jay is leaning against the wall, the carrier slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the star player who just won a game — relaxed, confident, and glowing. when his eyes land on you, that lopsided half-smile appears, the one that makes your heart do a triple-backflip.

“morning, partner,” he says, his voice low and warm as he steps away from the wall to meet you.

“morning,” you reply, feeling your face heat up as you remember what happened on the bleachers. “how was the final night?”

“she was an angel,” jay says, looking down at jiwoo. “i think she knew it was moving day. she stayed quiet all night. either that, or she felt bad for ruining the moment at the stadium.”

you giggle, nudging his arm. “don’t blame the baby. maybe she was just giving her dad some space to think.”

jay’s expression softens, and for a second, the bustling hallway fades away. he reaches out, his pinky finger hooking into yours for a brief, hidden moment. “i did a lot of thinking. and i’m ready for this to be over. the project, i mean. not the rest of it.”

the bell rings, sharp and insistent, breaking the spell.

ms. choi’s classroom has been transformed. the double desks are back in their original rows, and a large table at the front is lined with empty cardboard boxes, waiting to receive the electronic residents. ms. choi herself is practically vibrating with energy, wearing a bright floral dress and holding a clipboard like a trophy.

“alright, parents! settle down, settle down!” she claps her hands, the sound echoing with finality. “it’s the day we’ve all been waiting for. the day of liberation! please, bring your children to the front and place them in their respective bins. and don’t forget to leave your shared logbooks on my desk.”

the room erupts in a flurry of movement. it’s a parade of tired teenagers. jake and sunghoon walk up together, looking like they’ve just returned from a war zone.

“she called me ‘handsome’ in the logbook,” jake whispers loudly to ms. choi as he hands over his doll. “i think she’s going to miss me, ma'am. can i get a visitation schedule?”

ms. choi laughs, shaking her head. “sit down, mr. sim. your ‘child’ needs a factory reset, not a visit.”

you and jay walk up together. you place the logbook — filled with a week’s worth of late-night notes, frantic updates, and the occasional silly doodle jay had added during history — onto the stack. then, jay carefully lowers jiwoo into the box. for a second, he lingers, his hand resting on the doll’s head.

“see ya, kid,” he mutters.

as you head back to your seats, ms. choi starts pulling up the final data on the projector. the room goes silent as the health scores and participation metrics flicker across the screen.

“i have to say,” ms. choi begins, her eyes scanning the class with genuine pride. “i am incredibly impressed. every single year i do this project, and every year i expect chaos. but this group? you’ve shown remarkable maturity. even those of you i was… shall we say, concerned about.”

she looks pointedly at sunghoon and yunjin, who are sitting as far apart as possible while still sharing the desk.

“ms. huh, mr. park… a final health score of 82%. considering you spent half the week arguing over courtyard permits in the comments of your logbook, that is a miracle. i’m glad to see you could put aside your differences for the sake of your ‘son.’ although, sunghoon, perhaps next time don’t try to use the doll as a football? it was logged as a ‘high-impact incident.’”

the class roars with laughter as sunghoon turns a bright shade of red. yunjin just smirks. “he tried to teach him a header, ma’am. i had to intervene. i worry about sunghoon jr.'s safety.”

“and mr. kim, mr. kang,” ms. choi continues. “the most frequent loggers in history. 400 entries? i didn’t realize a doll could be fed every fifteen minutes. but your dedication to communication was top-tier.”

she moves down the list, teasing each pair with a mix of affection and wit. then, she stops. she looks at the top of the chart, where one pair sits with a staggering 96% health score.

“and finally… our star parents.” she gestures toward you and jay.

you feel every eye in the room turn toward you. jay shifts in his seat, clearing his throat, but he doesn’t look away.

“96%,” ms. choi muses, a playful glint in her eye. “not only was the health near perfect, but the logbook was… well, it was a narrative. i particularly enjoyed the entry where mr. park explained the history of football to a doll at three in the morning to get it to stop crying. and the photo of you two at the diner? very authentic.”

she leans against her desk, her smile turning soft. “it’s clear that some of you took the ‘life skills’ part of this assignment very seriously. you didn’t just manage a doll; you managed each other. and i think,” she looks between you and jay, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “that some of those skills might translate quite well into the real world. wouldn't you agree, jay?”

jay rubs the back of his neck, his ears turning pink, but he catches your eye and winks. “best partner i could’ve asked for, ms. choi.”

“well!” ms. choi claps her hands again. “the grades are posted. you are all free to go. but remember — life doesn’t stop being busy just because the doll is gone. keep looking after each other.”

as the bell rings, the room explodes. people are hugging, high-fiving, and sprinting for the door. it’s a mass exodus of relief.

you and jay take your time packing your bags. the silence between you is heavy again, but it’s a good kind of heavy. the “fake” part of your life is officially over, and the “real” part is waiting outside the door.

“so,” jay says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “no baby. no logbook. no ms. choi breathing down our necks.”

“yeah,” you say, looking up at him. “what now?”

jay reaches out, taking your hand in his — not for a moment, and not hidden. he laces his fingers with yours right there in the middle of the empty classroom.

“now,” he says, his eyes focused on yours with that same intensity from the stadium. “i take you to the courtyard. we sit in the sun. and i don’t have to check a phone once.”

the walk through the hallways feels like a victory lap. you see jake and sunoo arguing about who had the harder night shifts, and you see yunjin and sunghoon actually talking — really talking — near the drama hall. the school feels smaller, friendlier.

when you reach the courtyard, the spring sun is warm on your skin. you find a quiet bench under a cherry blossom tree, the petals beginning to drift down like pink snow. jay sits close, his shoulder pressed against yours, his hand still holding yours tightly.

“it’s weird, isn’t it?” he asks, looking out at the grass. “not having to worry about a crying sound every five minutes.”

“it’s a little too quiet,” you admit. “i keep thinking i hear her.”

jay pulls your hand up, resting it on his knee. “i’m glad we did it. even the 3 a.m. shifts. it was the best week i’ve had since i moved here.”

“even with the football stress?”

“especially with the football stress,” he says, turning to face you. “because i wasn’t doing it alone. i’ve spent four years trying to be the guy who has everything under control by himself. the project showed me that... i’m better when i’m half of a team.”

he reaches up with his free hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, just like he had at the stadium. but this time, there are no bleachers, no crowds, and no electronic babies waiting to interrupt.

“i really meant it, you know,” he whispers, his face inches from yours. “what i said yesterday. i don't want to go back to how things were.”

“me neither,” you breathe, your heart pounding a rhythm of pure, unadulterated joy.

jay leans in, and this time, the world stays silent. when his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, tentative, and tastes like the mint gum he always chews and the promise of something real.

when he pulls back, he’s grinning, his eyes bright. “ninety-six percent health score,” he mutters against your forehead. “but i think the relationship score is a hundred.”

you laugh inevitably, leaning your head on his shoulder as the cherry blossoms fall around you. the baby project is over, but as you sit there in the sun with jay, you know that the real work — the beautiful, messy, wonderful work of being together — is only just beginning.

© jongst4r, 2026

taglist: @solonenova, @neabrownn, @drowsypanther, @redessertired, @pinkdazed, @enhypenlvrsstuff, @strwberrylhs, @insignificantlillady, @vanillakirstein, @jaeynslutt, @d2iose, @gchirpy, @k13endall, @h4esexng, @phjayyy, @unnatrual, @kookiesnkim, @kpopishgirlie, @kaejua, @ineedjaeyun, @moonchild-31, @cortised, @borderdaytwo, @wonrlls, @heartsski, @dollhoonki, @kristynaaah

[soo0hee]

Off The Record

Pairing — FerrariDriver!Yoon Jeonghan x media!afab!Reader

Summary — 3 seasons with sky sports. 3 seasons of navigating between drivers, the fia and stubborn team principals. 3 seasons and non had taken your breath the way 2025 had thus far. The reason? Yoon Jeonghan. Ferarris posterboy and the man haunting your gridwalks as of recent.

Genre — fluff, humor, angst

Warnings — language, alcohol, car crash, f1 inaccurcies along with medical ones

Word Count — 12.8k

Rating — NC-17

A/N — thank you my luv for checking this big boy through for me @imtoanonymousforyou ❤️

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©soo0hee on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!

This work is part of the LIGHTSOUT collab by @camandemstudios ! Please check it out!

“And it’s lights out and away we go!”

Your headset was already a little too loud, the roar of engines carrying all the way up to the commentary box where you stood wedged between the anchor desk and a pile of cables that hadn’t been put away yet.

Imola was chaos in ways other tracks weren’t; tight corners, unpredictable weather in the sense that you could roll the dice for what you’d get and highspeed straights that demanded precise driving and even more concentration.

It was a constant reminder that this wasn’t going to be a calm job. Not that you had ever signed up for calm.

Your third season with Sky Sports and one would think the nerves would ease by now. That the pit lane sprints and mid-interview weather changes would stop making your stomach twist. They hadn’t. But you’d gotten good at handling it as best as your abilities allowed it.

You leaned slightly over the railing, eyes flicking to the big screen as the cars shot down to Turn 1. Someone locked up straight away while someone else took the inside line far too aggressively. You were already scribbling down notes, half-listening to the commentators as they bounced off each other in a series of ahhhs and ohhs just as one of the Ferraris clipped his Frontwing on the curb.

An interesting start that probably nobody could have seen coming like this.

47 laps in, adrenaline still humming in your veins you monitored closely how Red Bull ordered both its cars into the pit lane for a swift double stack to undercut before the Aston Martin team could get the same idea.

“Brilliant braking right there into Turn 7 from both Mclarens and gone they are down right into the Chicane. Han being behind his teammate only be 3 tenths making Hoshi probably sweat under that helmet.”

You adjusted your headset.

16 laps still to go.

16 laps in which Haas had to retire one of the cars due to Rear damage, an Alpine and Williams car fought for the upper hand over P8 right as Sauber overtook both with a drastic maneuver you knew the FIA would let slide so easily.

You felt no surprise when the familiar FIA popped up on the screen announcing a 2 second penalty for car 27.

The already cloudy sky became darker. Thick rain drops soaking the tarmac to the point you thought they’d issue a red flag when RedBull claimed a 1-2, followed by Ferrari on P3.

Quickly you gathered your thoughts, things and umbrella that you had brought simply to be safe, brushed of your headset and made your way to the media pen, skipping the podium celebration entirely. You’d smell the champagne soon enough. Simply the thought of it made your nose itch.

If there’s one thing you came to know about yourself since you started 2 years ago, it was that you hated champagne.

And for one second as your mind lingered on your champagne hatred a little to long you were distracted enough to not watch where you ended up.

The next, a very solid body collided with yours hard enough to send the folder you were still holding onto tumbling. Pages scattered like confetti, sliding under the feet of anyone unlucky enough to be nearby.

“Sorry—” you blurted, already crouching to grab what you could before someone stepped on them.

“No, that was me.”

The voice pulled your attention up before your hands had even stopped moving.

Yoon Jeonghan.

Ferraris golden boy as even the F1 Instagram account called him, still clad in his race suit rushing to receive his 3rd place trophy.

The red of his overall a stark contrast to his bleach blond hear and dark brown eyes and looking like a PR-approved photograph waiting to happen. Not a hair out of place. Expression unreadable, but not unkind.

Fascinating how until now you had not once had a conversation longer then the standard hello-bye moment until now.

He bent to retrieve one of your sheets, straightening to hand it to you. “Sky Sports, right?”

You took it automatically. “Uhm yeah… That’s me.”

His gaze flicked to your lanyard, then back to your face. “You’ve been around a while.”

“Third season,” you said before you could think about how flat that sounded.

“Strange we’ve never talked before.”

You gave a short laugh. “You usually make a point of avoiding us.”

That earned a small smile, quick and almost sharp.

“Maybe. But I’m not avoiding you now.”

You blinked at him, trying not to look as thrown into a blender as you felt.

“Maybe you should. You know with podium probably waiting for you and all.”

Someone brushed past, forcing you both to shift to the side. Jeonghan moved easily, like people rearranging themselves around him was just part of his life.

“Where were you headed in such a rush?” he asked.

You lifted the folder. “Media Pen. Trying to get there before the chaos starts again.”

He tilted his head, amused. “I don’t know, you seem to be the typ who likes a little chaos.”

That made you pause. “What makes you say that?”

“Three seasons in and you’re still here,” he said simply.

Before you could reply, his PR manager called him from further down the paddock. Jeonghan glanced over, then back at you.

“Guess I’ll see you around then.

It sounded like a promise.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the flow of team personnel and media.

The next time you saw him, he was standing in front of your camera with a bright red Cap pulled low and P3 next to his name on the timing screen. The media pen was its usual crush of people. Too warm, too loud, and just uncomfortable enough to make you wish podium interviews came with a compensation shot of something strong.

Ferrari’s PR gave you the nod to step closer, and you stepped forward, mic in hand this time instead of the folder that still needed proper sorting from earlier.

“Jeonghan, third podium of the season and here at Imola. How do you feel?”

He turned toward you, eyes meeting yours in surprise for half a second longer than necessary before he answered. “Feels good. Car was strong, strategy was spot on, and we kept it mostly clean at the start. Couldn’t have asked for more.”

You nodded like you hadn’t just noticed how annoyingly perfect he still looked after 63 laps. Maybe a tad bit less sweat then 15 minutes ago.

“It looked intense defending against Mclaren at the end. Were you confident you could hold it?”

There was the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth. “Confident enough.” His eyes flicked to you again, lighter this time, but still deliberate. “I’ve had harder things to defend against.”

You tilted your head. “Like…?”

His smile sharpened just a fraction, tongue peeking out in a way that made him seem a little to cocky then good for you.

“Oh wouldn’t you like to know.”

It was nothing. Barely anything. But it still landed somewhere in your chest it had no business being.

You cleared your throat, keeping your expression neutral for the sake of the camera. “Well, congratulations on the podium.”

“Thank you.” he said, and it was ridiculous that it sounded like he was talking to you, not the camera filming over your shoulder.

And then he was already moving down the line to the next mic, leaving you with a hot mic, a louder-than-normal heartbeat, and a cameraman who was definitely smirking at you.

“Shut up, Woo.” ----------

By the time you got back to the hotel, the adrenaline from the race had worn off and your legs felt like they’d been carrying a car all day instead of just a mic. You’d barely made it through the revolving doors before the warm, stuffy air-conditioned air of the lobby wrapped around you.

All you could think about was how fast you could get upstairs, shower, and collapse. Early flight tomorrow. Stupid early. The kind of early where you wonder why you had booked it in the first place.

You were halfway to the elevators when the doors swung open and he walked in.

Jeonghan.

Still in the Ferrari team jacket, hair falling just right again because, of course it was. He wasn’t alone either; Joshua Hong, his teammate, was right there beside him, both laughing quietly about something you didn’t bother listening to.

You tried to keep moving, like maybe you’d just blend into the rest of the lobby furniture, but Jeonghan’s eyes caught yours before you could look away.

It wasn’t long, just a flicker of recognition. The kind of look you gave someone you had only just spoken to once but remembered vividly anyway. And then, just before you passed each other, he gave you a wink. Smooth, easy, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t slow down, but you were pretty sure he noticed the way your steps faltered for half a second.

By the time you reached the elevator and hit the button, they were already heading toward the front doors, voices fading as the night swallowed them up. Out to celebrate, no doubt.

You stepped inside the elevator and let your head fall back against the wall.

Early flight tomorrow. Stupid early. And now you were going to be lying awake thinking about a wink instead of sleeping.

Damn it.

----------

Your alarm went off at 4:15 a.m.

You hated yourself. You hated whoever invented early flights. You hated the version of you who thought booking one after a race weekend was a good idea.

The airport was half-asleep when you dragged your suitcase through the sliding doors, hoodie pulled up and coffee gripped like it was a lifeline. You were halfway through convincing yourself you could nap on the plane when movement in the corner of your eye made you glance over.

And there he was. Again.

Jeonghan. Same black cap from the night before, hoodie zipped up, backpack slung over one shoulder like he hadn’t just been on a podium 12 hours ago. Or went out celebrating at 10 pm the night before.

He looked entirely too awake for this hour. You stopped just long enough for your brain to catch up. “Are you following me?”

Did you sound paranoid? Maybe a little bit.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “More or less.”

You rolled your eyes, but it was hard to hide the way your lips twitched. “Airport’s big, you know. Plenty of other gates.”

“Mm,” he said, falling into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. “But this one has you and my plane.”

You didn’t know what to do with that, so you focused on walking, coffee still clutched in one hand.

The line for security swallowed you both up, and by the time you got to the trays, he was already unzipping his backpack, chatting easily with the staff like he had all the time in the world

Somewhere between the scanner and the gate, you decided you weren’t awake enough to figure out whether he was serious or just entertaining himself at your expense.

You spotted him again just past the duty-free section, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket like he had nowhere in particular to be. Which was suspicious, considering he was in the exact same terminal as you.

You glanced over as he fell into step beside you. “So, why go to Monaco already? You could’ve stayed in Italy a bit longer.”

“Early work call,” you said, lifting your coffee like it would agree with you. “Besides, I’m not the sightseeing type.”

He gave you a small, knowing look. “And apparently not a morning person either.” He chuckled.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I never claimed to be one.”

For a moment, you just walked, him with that unhurried strut you knew from track walks, you scanning the overhead screens for your gate.

“You’re making it very hard for me to believe you’re not following me.” you said finally.

“Good,” he replied, without even glancing your way.

You didn’t bother asking if he was joking.

The seats at the gate were mostly empty when you got there, so you picked one near the corner, dropped your bag at your feet, and wrapped both hands around your coffee. The plan was simple: stare into space until boarding.

You’d just started zoning out when Jeonghan sat down in the chair next to yours.

Of course.

He set his backpack on the floor, stretched his legs out like the extra space was his by right, and glanced sideways at you. “You always this quiet in the mornings?”

You blinked at him, still half in your pre-boarding fog. “You always this chatty before sunrise?”

He grinned. “Depends who I’m sitting next to.”

Your tired brain took an extra beat to catch that, and by the time it did, he’d already looked away like he hadn’t just dropped something that made your stomach do a small, very inconvenient flip.

You took a long sip of coffee, mostly to buy time. “Well, I’m not exactly sparkling conversation right now. So I’m sorry to disappoint”

“That’s fine.” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I’m good at carrying it.

You didn’t know if he meant the conversation or something else entirely. Tho you weren’t sure what he mean by that either. And in your sleep-deprived state, you weren’t sure you wanted to ask.

He shifted slightly, turning just enough that his knee brushed yours. “Besides,” he added, voice light, “I didn’t sit here for the comfortable chairs.”

You frowned, glancing at the identical plastic seats across from you. “They’re all the same.”

“Mm, not really.” he said, eyes flicking to meet yours. “This one comes with better company.”

Your brain stalled for a second, the words taking their sweet time to land. “Right because I’m such a lively person at 6 in the morning.” you managed, because what else were you supposed to say when you’d been awake since 4:15 and were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.

He smiled like he knew exactly how scrambled you felt.

“You’re cute when you’re still waking up, you know that?”

Your coffee suddenly felt way too hot in your hands.

“That’s… debatable." you muttered, looking back at the boarding screen as if it could save you.

“Not debating,” he said easily, leaning back again, like he hadn’t just completely thrown your morning equilibrium out the window, “just my opinion.”

----------

Somehow you had survived the flight after having been separated after boarding the plane. Him staying in first class while you went back to economy and you had to admit, you were absolutely jealous of him and his stupid amount of legroom.

You also hadn’t seen him again until media day which in Monaco, still made you stumble through the works. In theory it shouldn’t be any different to other races but somehow it just felt different.

The paddock was busy enough that you didn’t have time to think about it.

Until you were forced to.

You were halfway through an interview with Alpine’s drivers, both in matching team gear, sunglasses pushed up, giving you the exact kind of media-friendly answers you could edit perfectly into a segment when you felt someone step in just a little too close behind you.

“Don’t mind me.” a familiar voice said, low enough that only you caught it.

You didn’t have to turn around to know.

You kept your mic steady, nodding along as Jay answered your question, but your brain was already somewhere else entirely.

When the Alpine PR gave you the signal that the segment was over, you thanked both drivers, handed the mic back to Wooyoung who grinned at you like a little kid and then turned.

Jeonghan was leaning casually against the barrier, still in his Ferrari polo, cap turned backwards like he had all the time in the world.

“Wasn’t aware you were covering Alpine today.” you said.

“I’m not.” he shrugged, mouth twitching. “Just thought the view was better over here.”

Your brain lagged a second, same as it had in the airport. “Right. Because Jay and Jake are—”

He cut you off with a small shake of his head. “I wasn’t talking about them.”

You blinked, trying to decide whether to call him out or pretend you hadn’t heard it.

He didn’t give you the chance, pushing off the barrier with that easy, unhurried stride. “See you around.”

And just like that, he was gone again. Leaving you standing in the middle of the media pen with the Alpine PR giving you a what just happened? Look.

You swore under your breath and hoped that the FIA would fine you for cursing one of their poster boys.

The rest of your interviews blurred together after that.

You kept hitting your marks. Questions were asked, mic angled just right, thank you’s and polite smiles while somewhere in the back of your head, Jeonghan’s words were still looping.

“Wasn’t talking about them.”

You’d told yourself the airport thing was nothing. A one-off. An odd coincidence that wouldn’t survive a packed race calendar and two separate jobs. But Monaco was already doing what Monaco did best; slowing everything down just enough that you had time to think about things you didn’t want to think about.

By the time your last scheduled segment wrapped, the sun had dropped low enough to turn the harbour water gold and the media pen was starting to empty out. You handed off your mic and made your way toward the quieter end of the paddock.

Ferrari’s hospitality building was impossible to miss with its three stories of bright red branding and the glass catching the last of the sunlight.

You didn’t have a reason to be anywhere near it, but it was also the most direct route back to the Sky truck and after a long day, direct routes won every time.

You were halfway past the main entrance when someone called your name.

“Y/N.”

You turned around.

Jeonghan was leaning against the railing just outside the door, jacket off now, sleeves of his polo pushed up. He looked like he’d been done with media hours ago but had nowhere better to be.

“You free for five minutes?” he asked.

You glanced at the clock on your phone. You technically had edits to check before they sent the highlight reel to HQ, but… five minutes wouldn’t kill you.

“Maybe.”

“Good enough,” he said, pushing off the railing. “Come on.”

You followed him around the side of the hospitality unit. The sounds of the paddock faded here - no shouting PR reps, no camera shutters. Just the clink of masts from the yachts in the harbor and the hum of the city beyond.

“What do you need? You’ve been haunting my paddock walks since last week and yet I haven’t seen you since Monday until you decided to interrupt my interview today.”

That earned you the faintest smile. “Well, I fixed that, didn’t I?”

You shook your head, fighting back a laugh. “Is this your usual approach? Just… show up wherever someone’s working and throw the off?”

“Only if it works.”

There was that tiny beat again, the one where your brain stalled for just a second too long. You turned your eyes back to the water, hoping the angle hid it.

“And what exactly are you trying to get out of throwing me off?”

He didn’t answer right away, which you told yourself was a win. But then—

“A conversation,” he said finally. “One where you’re not holding a mic and I’m not giving you media answers.”

You glanced sideways at him. “That sounds suspiciously like you want me to interview you off the record.”

“Not exactly.” His gaze stayed on the water, but there was a curve to his mouth now. “More like I want to know why you seemed… surprised to see me in the airport the other day.”

“That’s your question?”

“Seems fair,” he said. “You looked like you didn’t expect me to be there.”

You let out a quiet huff. “I didn’t expect anyone to be there at that hour. It was 6 in the morning.”

“More like 6:20.” he corrected.

That made you glance at him again. “You remember the exact time?”

He shrugged. “Not hard. It’s when I saw you.”

You hated the way that landed,how casual it sounded and how it still sat in your chest like something heavier.

“You’re making it sound like you planned to run into me.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.” he shrugged.

You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your tired brain from four days ago would not have survived this conversation. Even your well-rested brain was struggling to do so.

“Alright,” you said finally, leaning back against the railing. “Let’s say you did. Why?”

He turned his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Because you’re interesting.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them made them feel like more than they were.

“Interesting,” you repeated, trying not to sound skeptical. “That’s it?”

“For now.”

Silence settled for a moment, comfortable, but edged with something you weren’t ready to name. The harbor breeze carried the faint scent of fuel and salt water, and somewhere in the distance, someone laughed from the deck of a yacht.

You broke it first. “You know, most drivers try to avoid getting too close to media outside of official stuff.”

“I’m not most drivers,” he said without hesitation.

You snorted. “Yeah, I noticed.”

That earned a soft laugh from him. “And yet, you’re still here talking to me.”

“Because you asked for five minutes.”

“And you haven’t walked away.”

You hated how much he was winning this. “Maybe I’m just waiting for you to say something worth quoting.”

“Would you quote me if I said I wanted to see you again?”

That threw you off. Not the words themselves, but how direct they were compared to everything else he’d said.

You recovered with a weak, “Depends on the context.

“I’ll work on giving you one.” he said, straightening from the railing. “You around tomorrow?”

You thought about your schedule. “Media pen, pit lane walk, maybe the press conference if our anchor gets stuck.”

“I’ll find you,” he said simply.

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t stop your mouth from twitching. “You make that sound like a threat.”

“More like a promise.”

He stepped back toward the main walkway, tossing a small nod over his shoulder. “See you, y/n.”

You stayed where you were for a moment, watching the light shift on the water. Then you pulled out your phone, checked the time, and realized 5 minutes had turned into 15.

---------

Friday mornings in Monaco were deceivingly calm.

The pit lane walk was technically open, but most teams kept things low-key. Mechanics were checking tools, engineers huddled over laptops and the occasional sponsor group being shown around like they were in a museum.

You were halfway down the lane, mic clipped to your belt and notes in hand, when you heard someone fall into step beside you.

“I told you I’d find you.”

You didn’t need to look to know. “And you’re early.”

Jeonghan’s cap was low against the sun, Ferrari jacket unzipped. “Figured if I showed up later, you’d pretend you were too busy to talk to me.”

“I am busy,” you said, scanning your notes. “We’ve got Aston in five minutes and Mercedes right after.”

“Five minutes is plenty,” he replied like it was a fact. “So… how’s your morning?”

You side-eyed him. “Normal. Coffee, notes, trying to avoid tripping over cables.”

He smirked. “And now me.”

You opened your mouth to fire something back, but he kept going. “You look more awake today.”

“That’s what happens when I’m not in an airport before sunrise.”

“Shame,” he said, glancing down at you. “You were cute half-asleep.”

You tripped over your own tongue before settling for, “You’ve mentioned that.”

You focused on your notes, hoping it might slow your pulse. “You know you’re distracting me before an interview?”

“That’s the point.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Because you’re fun when you’re trying not to get flustered.”

Your brain screeched to a halt. He chuckled softly, like he’d just confirmed something for himself.

“Jeonghan” a voice, Ferrari’s PR, called from further up the lane waving him over.

He gave a small nod in their direction but didn’t move. “Guess I’ll let you work. For now.”

“For now?”

“Don’t look so worried!” he said, stepping back. “I’m sure I’ll see you again before the weekend’s over.”

You shook your head, turning toward Aston’s garage, but you caught the faintest grin still tugging at his mouth as he walked away.

Funnily you didn’t see him again that weekend. At least not long enough for him to fluster you or catch more then a short glimpse as you took position in the Sky Truck while Yuna was the one out for Media duty.

Barcelona and Canada you skipped altogether due to having been called back to headquarters and your well deserved break that you had pushed back to the point your boss made you take it forcefully with the threat of blocking your paddock pass for the rest of the season to solve desk duty.

You went back home very quickly after that and realized that it was freaking boring.

You still watched the races. Redbull with another 1-2 in Spain and Mercedes managing Podium for one of their drivers alongside Redbull and Jeonghan in P1.

A small part of you wanted to text him congratulations until you remembered that you didn’t have his number and sliding into his dms on instagram felt weird.

And now you were back.

Austria. Qualifying day. The smell of grilled sausages and tyre rubber in the air, the Red Bull Ring surrounded by green hills that looked like a painting.

You’d barely gotten your mic checked when you saw him.

Ferrari red. Cap low. Jacket half-zipped. Yoon Jeonghan, walking down the paddock like you hadn’t vanished off the radar for a month.

You tld yourself to keep moving – there were cars on track, timings to watch and yet his eyes found yours before you could look away.

And then he was right there, easy as if the last time you’d seen him hadn’t been Monaco.

“Back from your extended holiday?” he asked.

You gave him a look. “Barcelona was work.”

“Desk duty.” he said, like it didn’t count.

“And Canada was vacation!”

“Boring?”

You narrowed your eyes and his grin told you he already knew the answer.

“Thought so.” he said. “You missed me?”

You snorted. “That’s a stretch.”

He glanced toward the track, where the echo of an engine bounced off the grandstands. “Shame. I was almost starting to miss you.”

Almost. The word hung there, light but deliberate.

Before you could think of a response, your earpiece crackled with a cue. “I’ve got to go and you have a quali to drive!”

“Go,” he said, stepping aside. Then, like an afterthought, “But don’t disappear for another month.”

You started walking, pretending you didn’t hear the last part with excellence.

----------

Somehow, Yuna had talked you into it.

“One drink.” she had promised bright-eyed, already pressing the elevator button. “We’ll people watch and judge them for their sandal and sock combination.”

And then one drink became two. Two became three, four because the pours were generous and Yuna was funny and the hotel bar was warm and low-lit and soft all at once, lulling you into a certain sense if security that made you start to slide pleasantly sideways in your seat when her phone buzzed.

“Give me 2 minutes.” she said, sliding off the stool. “Don’t move. Guard my fries.”

You saluted with your glass. “Aye.”

Yuna disappeared in the lobby.

Two minutes turned into five. Five turned into you staring at the fries like they were a mission you could fail. Your legs felt liquid. Your cheeks were warm.

And some sat down in Yuna’s empty stool. Someone who very much was not Yuna.

“y/n.”

You turned and blinked.

“Jeonghan.”

Black hoodie, his Cap low and that relaxed, dangerous kind of calm. He looked like he had wandered in here on purpose and also like he had no plans beyond… this. You. The bar. Time to kill.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” he said, mouth tugging into a smile.

“Didn’t think I’d be here.” you admitted, chin in your hand. “Yuna dragged me here. Then she… disappeared. Which is rude.”

“Abandoned at the bar. Tragic.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “How tragic are we talking?”

You attempted math. “One glass. Two. Three.” You squinted at the counter surface. “Four.”

“Ah.” He leaned an elbow on the counter, the picture of patience. “So we’re honest tonight.”

“We’re always honest.” you muttered a little insulted, then immediately gave in: “Okay, maybe not always. But tonight I’m very honest. And tragic.”

“What’s the tragedy?” He sounded like he already knew it wouldn’t be serious.

“I lost my keychain.” The words came out with more feeling than they had any right to. You put your glass down with a careful clink. “My favorite one. Paddock pass on one end, little silver car on the other. Three seasons and now? Gone.”

He didn’t laugh. He looked amused, yes, but not cruel. “Devastating.”

“It is! It’s probably somewhere in the paddock or a gravel trap or—” You made a helpless noise. “Ugh.”

“Did you check your bag?”

“Obviously.” You patted it anyway, just in case it would magically appear. It did not. “It’s not there.”

“We’ll find it tomorrow,” he said, easy as water.

“Why would you help me?” Suspicion, squinting.

“Because,” he said, leaning closer. “you pout when you talk about it. It’s very entertaining.”

“I don’t pout!” you pouted.

He grinned slowly. “Yes, you do.”

You scowled at your wine.

He was close. Too close and not at once. He still had a polite inch of space left but it felt close. Warm. You could smell him. Clean, faintly citrusy, a little like detergent and gasoline. Something that made your shoulders loosen without permission.

You didn’t know why you noticed all of a sudden.

You also didn’t know why your eyes kept jumping, completely of their own accord, from his eyes to his mouth. Back up. Back down. Stop it. Stop it. Stop! IT!

ARGH.

“Careful.” he said softly like he caught you mid-stare and was merciful about it. “You’re going to spill if you keep trying to drink and glare at the same time.”

You looked down. Your glass was tilted. You fixed it. “I wasn’t glaring.”

“No?” His knee brushed yours as he shifted. “What were you doing?”

“Assessing. Judging.” That sounded… official. You tried to own it. “You’re very—” Your brain tripped and you gestured a little wildly. “Here.”

“Here” he echoed, pleased. “I am.”

You should have slid your stool back. You did not. You scooted closer instead. A tiny inch. Barely anything. But you felt it everywhere.

He noticed. The edge of his mouth did that thing again. “You good?”

“Peachy.” you said, too fast.

“Mhm.” He was unfair when he hummed like that. “Do you want water?”

“No..." you lied because pride is a bitch when its threatened.

He signaled the bartender anyway, didn’t even look away when he did it. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.” He nodded at your glass. “You on four?”

“Four and a half actually.” you confessed, then frowned. “Is a half allowed?”

“I’ll allow it as long as it’s the last half.”

“Good. Thank you, savior of my alcohol tolerance.”

“Happy to be of service.” he said. “Tell me about the keychain again.”

“Huh?” You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I like when you get serious about small things.” He angled toward you, forearm along the counter, voice easier, lower. “What did the little car look like?”

“Silver,” you said, earnest. “Flat. A little scuffed. Like me.”

His eyes flicked up. “Scuffed?”

“Professionally,” you said. “Travel scuffed.”

He laughed, quiet and warm. It did something inconvenient in your chest. You took the water the bartender set down and pretended it was the funniest, most neutral thing in the world. You drank because he was watching. You drank because suddenly it mattered to do what he asked.

You set the glass down. Your eyes slipped to his mouth again. Treacherous. Why were you like this?

He lifted a napkin, reaching slowly, a question in his face. You froze. He tapped the corner of your lower lip, feather-light. “You spilled some.” he murmured. “May I?”

“You already did,” you whispered, brain three steps behind. Again.

“True.” He drew his hand back, careful, leaving goosebumps that you pretended were cause by the AC.

That was in fact a big fat lie.

You stared at his mouth again because your eyes had no discipline. He noticed, of course he noticed, because he missed nothing.

“You’re staring,” he said, gentle, amused.

“Just thinking,” you said.

“About what?”

You told yourself to pick literally any safe topic. You did not. “If your mouth is always like that.”

He went still, the pleased kind of still. “Like what?”

You had the sense to look away at the bottles lined up behind the bartender.

“Like it knows things.”

His laugh this time was softer, like he didn’t want to scare the moment. “That´s a new one.”

“Ugh,” you said, hiding your face in your hands. “I’m drunk.”

“You are,” he agreed, fond. “And very honest.”

“I don’t want to be honest.”

“haven´t we been there already?”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Can you stop being right? Yes, thank you.”

“Can’t.” He rested his chin briefly on his shoulder, studying you like he had time. “You smell like wine.”

“And you smell like…” You leaned in before you could think better. The citrus mixed with the detergent slipped right into your head and hit every switch. You blinked, slow. “Like the inside of an expensive closet.”

He choked on a laugh. “Okay...”

“It’s accurate.” You were very certain. “Clean. Dry. A little… lemony.”

“Yes, because i have lemon trees growing in my closet” he supplied, eyes warm.

“Right.” Your voice had gone soft without permission. Dangerous.

You realized how close you were and didn’t move.

Jeonghan watched you not move. It pleased him in a way he didn’t bother hiding.

“You always get this brave on glass four?” he asked.

“I’m not brave,” you muttered. “I’m… slippery.”

“Loose-lipped?”

You nodded, tragically solemn. “Like a ship with no—” You circled your hand. “Flappy thing.”

“Sail?”

“No. The other. The thing that you know-” You mimed rocking. “Keeps it from doing that.”

“Keel?” he said, eyes dancing.

“Yes. That.” You pointed at him like he’d passed a test. “You know boats.”

“I know metaphors when they’re adorable.”

“I’m not adorable. I’m a serious professional who lost her keychain.”

His smile went bright and wicked for a blink. It did terrible things to your balance. “You can be both,” he said. “I like both.”

The word like hit with bell-tone clarity. You stared at him. Wide-eyed and a little like bambi. Not close enough. Your brain put up a error screen and then quietly left the building.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

“How am I looking at you?” he asked, equally quiet.

“Like you’re going to… do something.” Your eyes slipped down again before you could catch them. Mouth. Mouth. Stop it. “And like I’d let you.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t crowd. His hands stayed exactly where you could see them loose on the bar. His voice stayed soft. “Would you?”

You swallowed. The room tilted, only it wasn’t the wine. “Maybe...” you heard yourself say, very small. “It´s… confusing.”

“Is it really?” His brow ticked, interested, not pushing.

“Yes.” You stared at his hoodie string like it held answers. “Because this is… you are confusing.”

“I’m simple,” he said, which was patently untrue. “I see something I like. I get curious. I get closer if I’m allowed to.”

You scooted that last, forbidden inch. Sat in the warmth of it. Let the cedar and the quiet and his patience swallow your excuses.

“You’re allowed,” you said, and even drunk, you absolutely meant it.

He laughed under his breath like you’d handed him a gift and he knew to unwrap it slowly. “Don’t tempt me tonight,” he said, almost a warning, almost a promise. “I like your honesty too much to take advantage of it.”

The floor returned under your feet. Gratitude landed low and heavy. You breathed out and felt the breath come back to you.

“That’s… annoyingly decent of you,” you said, trying for light and hitting grateful instead.

“I’m a menace in the daylight.” he said. “But I try not to be one after your four glasses of wine.”

You smiled softly. “You’re still a menace.”

“I know.” He nudged the water toward you with one knuckle. “Drink.”

You drank. It tasted like the right choice.

“Tell me what you’d put on your next keychain.” he said, like he’d chosen the safest lane for both of you. “Silver car again?”

“Something small,” you said. “Something that doesn’t look important but is.”

“Like you.” he said, too fast to be planned.

You blinked. Wide eyes again. “That was—”

“Accurate.” he said, not taking it back.

You stared at his mouth again because apparently you were doing that now. He didn’t make you feel bad for it. He just let you, like it was fine. Like you could want things without it being a life or death crisis.

“Where is Yuna?” you muttered, dazed, and then realized you didn’t care if she came back or not. You cared that he was here and you were here and the night was a low hum wrapped around you both.

“On a call.” he guessed, amused. “Or conspiring.”

“Sounds like her.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” you said. “She’s chaotic.”

“Good to know.” He checked the time, then glanced back at you. “I’ll walk you to the elevator when you’re ready.”

“I’m not ready.” you said, and then, quieter, “But I should be.”

“Finish your water.” He waited while you did, like there was nowhere else more important. When the glass was empty, he stood, hands in his pockets, not offering an arm, not assuming. “Come on.”

You slid off the stool. The floor did a small wave. He stepped closer without touching you, close enough to catch you if you needed catching and far enough to make it your choice. You didn’t need catching but you wanted it.

In the lobby’s softer light, you noticed other things about him. The way he moved like everything bent around him just a little. The way he looked at you like he’d decided you were not background, not tonight. The way the cedar followed like a quiet dare.

At the elevator, you hit the button. Your hand looked steady. Your heart did not.

“Thank you.” you said, because manners were something to hold. “For the… water. And the menacing.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

The doors slid open. You stepped in. He stayed out.

“Jeonghan,” you said, and he lifted a brow like he liked how his name sounded when you were a little gone. “Don’t forget about the keychain.”

“I won’t,” he said. The doors started to close; he dipped his head, that wicked, soft half-smile back. “And don’t forget about being brave.”

“I’m not brave,” you said, but the doors had already sealed the words in with you.

You leaned back against the wall and let your head tip, citrus lingering in your nose like you’d breathed it too deeply.

Confusing. You were confused and you were also smiling.

Upstairs, your room felt too quiet. You set your bag down. You checked the zipper pocket anyway, even though you knew. No keychain. Fine.

You turned off the lamp and laid down on top of the covers. The room swayed once, gently, like a boat with a keel.

You thought about his mouth again. You thought about the way he didn’t push. You thought about being brave which you definitely weren´t..

Then you fell asleep still wearing one shoe, because that was your limit for the night.

Tomorrow, you’d figure out what you’d actually do with all this wanting.

Tonight you let yourself like the way he smelled.

---------

The paddock was too loud.

Engines in the distance, crew voices overlapping, the sharp clack of camera shutters as every sound seemed to hit the exact part of your skull that had been throbbing since you woke up. You’d had water before bed, two ibuprofen in the morning, and still felt like someone had replaced your brain with damp cotton.

Curse your love for wine. (I am a wine girly okay, sue me...)

You were halfway to the Sky Sports truck, head down, sunglasses on, when someone stepped neatly into your path.

“Morning, Peach.”

“Jeonghan.” you said flatly, pointily ignoring the nickname he seemed to have bestowed on you “You’re loud.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“Doesn´t matter. You’re still loud.”

He smiled like you’d handed him a personal victory. “And you look tired.”

“Wow. Thanks, haven´t noticed that one so far.”

“Headache?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

You adjusted your sunglasses, debating whether to walk around him or just tell him to move. You didn’t get the chance to do either, because he stepped closer; close enough that you caught that same clean, scent from last night and tipped his head toward the side building.

“Come here.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“Because, I asked nicely.” he said, already turning away.

You should’ve kept walking but instead you followed like a duckling. Past the clatter and hum of the main walkway, through a side door into one of the quiet hospitality rooms no one was using.

The door clicked shut behind you, muting the paddock noise.

“Why are we-?” you started, but then he was there, crowding just enough to back you against the wall, one hand braced beside your head. His eyes held yours, steady, unreadable except for the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.

“Still loud?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t get to answer before he leaned in and kissed you.

Frozen in place, not able to move or do anything you held your breath.

You shouldn´t be kissing one of the drivers or better, he shouldn´t be kissing you and why the fuck did it feel so incredibly right?

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either, like he’d been thinking about it last night just like it had followed you into your wine tinged dreams and decided patience was overrated. Warm, deliberate, certain. You inhaled sharply

By the time he drew back, your headache was still there but had been demoted to background noise.

“That’s not fair.” you said, voice unsteady and breathy.

“I know.” he replied, unapologetic.

He reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled something out and pressed it into your hand. You looked down. A keychain - small, silver, shaped like a sleek little race car.

“Figured you needed a replacement.” he said. “Better than your last one too.”

You stared at it, then back at him. “You— when did you even— What?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave you one more look, like he was memorizing something, and stepped back toward the door.

“See you later, Peach.”

And then he was gone again, leaving you alone in the quiet room, holding a brand-new keychain and wondering how you were supposed to get through the rest of the day like nothing had just happened.

The whole afternoon had been a blur after that.

Cars on track, pit stop stats in your ear, cameras to dodge, drivers to chase for post-race comments and through all of it, you couldn’t shake it.

The kiss.

It had been hours ago and still sat in your chest like a live wire. Every time you caught sight of red in the corner of your eye, your head turned automatically. But he was busy.

By the time the chequered flag dropped, you’d resigned yourself to carrying the buzz home with you.

And then Ferrari scored a podium.

The media pen was chaos. Jeonghan looked like a headline with his still champagne slick hair, suit darkened at the shoulders, grin loose and easy for the cameras. You held your mic out for other drivers, but your eyes kept snagging on him across the way, the way his hand raked through his hair between answers or the way he laughed at something his Joshua said.

By the time the pen cleared and the crew around you thinned, you’d already made the decision.

You caught him just as he stepped away from his last interview, grabbing a water bottle from a Ferrari staffer. “Walk with me for a moment.” you demanded and didn´t wait for an answer.

He blinked, amused. “Bossy.”

“Now!” you insisted, already turning toward one of the quieter side corridors. He followed without any kind of argument and you didn’t stop until the sounds of the paddock faded enough that you could hear your own heartbeat. He leaned on the wall, still smiling faintly. “So what’s the ru—

You kissed him.

It wasn’t neat. Champagne still on his skin, the faint taste of whatever sports drink he’d been handed earlier, but it was yours. Your choice. Your pace. Your kiss.

When you pulled back, your pulse was hammering and your voice came out lower than you expected. “That’s mine. This morning was yours. Now we’re even.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. “Even, huh?”

You nodded, but it felt weak with the way he was looking at you.

“Not sure I agree.” he murmured, leaning in again a little slower this time, giving you the chance to stop him.

The second kiss was warmer, surer, the kind that settled low and deep and left your legs feeling untrustworthy. When he pulled back, his grin had gone crooked. “Now we’re even.”

Before you could fire back, he stepped away, still walking backward like he couldn’t resist having the last word. “See you, Peach.”

You stood there for a moment, breathing hard, wondering how you were going to survive the rest of the season like this.

----------

You arrived early in Silverstone.

Not because you were eager to travel, okay maybe a little, but because Sky had decided your face should be present at Tag Heuer’s annual pre-race charity event. Which, in layman’s terms, meant a black-tie gala filled with more champagne than sense.

The dress had been a deliberate choice. Sinfully expensive, cut to show exactly what you wanted it to, in a bold red that made you feel just a little dangerous. You’d told yourself it was for the cameras and not for Jeonghan. But who were you trying to fool..

You’d picked it because you knew exactly Jeonghan would be there.

By the time your car pulled up to the venue, a sprawling glass-walled space lit like something out of a luxury watch commercial, most attending were already inside. Yoou could see them through the tall windows: clusters of mostly suits and gowns, laughter over the soft hum of a live string quartet you´d find horribly cliche on a normal day. But not today. Today you were on a mission.

You stepped out, the evening air cool against bare shoulders, heels clicking on the stone as you crossed to the entrance. Cameras that captured the event flashing as you posed with one or two executives before walking inside.

Inside, the lighting was low and golden, champagne glasses catching the glow. A wall of Tag Heuer branding loomed over the entrance where a few photographers tried to wrangle drivers into posed shots. You spotted a few familiar faces instantly. San in an immaculately tailored black suit, Keeho laughing with someone near the bar, Hyunjin leaning in to talk to a small group by the far wall.

And there, near the center of the room, was Ferrari red. Not in his racing suit, but Jeonghan in a black tux with a deep red pocket square; subtle, but it matched your dress enough to make you wonder if he’d been deliberate too. The little voice on your shoulder scolding you for thinking so instantly.

He was mid conversation with a pair of older guests, smiling politely, glass of champagne in hand. He hadn’t seen you yet.

Your pulse kicked up, and you told yourself it was just the heels, the room, the noise. And the atmosphere of the venue that made you feel far fancier then you were probably.

Jeonghan however on his side of the room was almost dying of boredom. The continuous talk board decisions he didn´t understand, brand endorsments he wasn´t even part of and old men cracking jokes that weren´t even remotely funny had him wishing for someone to come save him. His eyes flew over the room. Joshua was laughing with Mingi over something he hadn´t heard and he was stuck with a reporter that didn´t know when to stop talking.

Until he heard you laugh.

His spine straightened at the melodic sound reaching him even over the chattering of a room filled with people. He hadn´t even known you would attend too but suddenly his evening seemed much better and when his eyes found you standing at the entrance, he swallowed hard.

Whatever gentlemanly autopilot he had been running short-circuited instantly.

His head turned the rest of the way, eyes locking on you like he’d just been sucker punched. The noise of the room might as well have dropped out. His posture changed entirely. No more casual lean, no more restless shifting. Stillness, except for the slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze from the bare curve of your shoulders down the line of that bold red dress and back up again.

He swallowed again. Once. Twice. You saw the faintest tightening in his jaw, like he was fighting the urge to react any bigger than that in public.

The reporter kept talking, but Jeonghan didn’t even pretend to listen now. His eyes tracked you as you moved across the floor, taking in every step, every sway of fabric, the unapologetic way you wore that colour.

By the time you reached them, his lips had parted slightly, like he’d been about to speak and forgot how.

“Evening, gentlemen.” you said smoothly, letting the smile on your mouth play just enough to make him wonder.

He blinked once, dragged his gaze back to your eyes, and for a moment you swore you saw him lose his footing internally. “You-” He stopped, exhaled, tried again. “You look…” His voice dropped, almost like he meant it for you alone. “…gorgeous.”

The reporter, suddenly aware of the shift, took off with a polite, “I’ll let you two catch up.” and stepped away.

Jeonghan’s eyes followed them for exactly half a second before they were back on you. “You wore that on purpose.” Not a question.

You lifted your champagne in a small shrug. “Maybe.”

He laughed quietly, but his gaze lingered, tracing, returning to your face, dropping again, like he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t ask me to say I don’t like it,” he murmured, “because I can’t.”

The reporter was gone.

Which left you and Jeonghan in the middle of a room glittering with glass, gold light, and the low hum of expensive conversation. Somewhere behind you, the string quartet eased into something slow and rich, but all you noticed was him; the way his gaze had barely left you since you walked in.

You took a slow sip of champagne, watching him over the rim of your glass. “You’re staring.”

“I am.” he agreed without hesitation.

“Bold,” you murmured, lowering the glass. “In a room full of cameras, people might think you like me.”

His mouth curved. “Let them then.”

That was all the invitation you needed to close the space between you to stand not directly in front of him, but to his side, close enough that the fabric of his tux nearly brushed your bare arm. Close enough that when you looked up, you had to tilt your chin to meet his eyes.

His gaze dipped immediately, tracing the bold red sweep of your dress and the way it caught the light before coming back to your face.

“You’re quiet,” you said softly. “That’s… new. I´m not sure i like it.”

He studied you for a beat, then, “You do that on purpose?”

“What?”

“Stand that close and pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You smiled slowly, the corners of your mouth curling like you were letting him in on a secret. “Maybe I don’t pretend.”

His fingers tightened slightly on the stem of his champagne glass. “That’s dangerous.”

“I thought you liked dangerous.” You tilted your head, hair sliding over your shoulder. “Or was that just a line?”

“Not a line.” His voice had gone lower, just for you.

“Good,” you said, your eyes flicking deliberately to his pocket square. “Because if it was, I’d be really fucking disappointed.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, but his attention didn’t waver. You could feel it in the air between you, heavier now and drawn tight.

“You smell good.” you said suddenly like you’d just noticed.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “So do you.”

“I know.” You let the words land before adding, “But you should probably stop looking at me like that unless you want people to notice.”

“And if I don’t care who notices?”

You let your gaze drop to his mouth for just a heartbeat before meeting his eyes again. “Then you might be exactly the kind of trouble I was hoping to find tonight.”

His breath caught almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t step back. If anything, the space between you seemed to shrink even more.

He didn’t answer right away, just held your gaze, the weight of it settling low and warm in your stomach. Then his eyes flicked over your shoulder, scanning the crowd, before returning to you.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t a question.

“Bossy.” You said, throwing his words from last weekend back at him.

“Effective,” he smiled and without waiting for your agreement, he shifted so you naturally fell into step beside him. The moment felt like a deja vu.

The crowd thinned as he led you toward the edge of the main hall, past various groups of guests absorbed in their own conversations, past the bar where a line of champagne flutes caught the light like glass fire. You passed through an open archway into a smaller but not less impressively extravagant room. It was one of those side spaces meant for private sponsor chats; lit softer, quieter, the music just a faint hum through the walls.

He stopped only when you were far enough from the doorway that no one could casually glance in and see you.

Your back found the edge of a small display table, the surface cool through the fabric of your dress. He was standing close enough that you could catch that same clean, citrus-edged scent you’d first noticed in Austria.

“This better be important,” you said, your voice low but with that teasing lift you knew he’d pick up on.

“Oh, it is.”

His eyes flickered down again to your mouth, then back up. The silence between you stretched just long enough for your pulse to trip over itself.

“Still staring.” you murmured eyes also focused on his mouth just as you bit your lip in anticipation.

“I warned you,” he said, and it wasn’t clear if he meant about the staring or the fact that he didn’t care who noticed.

You tilted your chin up, deliberately closing the height gap. “And here I thought you brought me over here to talk.”

His mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “I didn’t.”

The air seemed to narrow around you both. You could feel every inch of him in the space between, like one wrong move, or the right one, would tip you forward into something you couldn’t take back

“You’re going to have to do better than looking at me like that.” you said, and the smirk you gave him was pure challenge.

It worked.

He stepped in just enough for the hem of his jacket to brush your hip, one hand braced on the table beside you. His other hand lifted, fingers skimming lightly along your jaw.

The warmth of his touch lingered as his thumb traced a slow, absent path just under your cheekbone. “Better?”

“Better...” you breathed, not breaking eye contact.

And then his mouth was on yours. Again. And this time you reciprocated eagerly.

It was certain, deliberate, like he’d decided the moment he saw you in that dress that tonight was going to end with this. The taste of champagne lingered between you, the faint press of his palm anchoring you where you stood.

When he finally drew back, you found yourself leaning in the smallest fraction, not ready to lose the heat of him.

“Better.” you said again, softer this time.

He smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek once more before stepping back. “Good.”

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. His breath was still brushing your skin, his hand still cupping the side of your face like he wasn’t ready to let you go yet.

Neither were you.

Your eyes stayed on his, searching for something, you didn’t even know what , but you found yourself leaning into the curve of his palm anyway. His thumb traced a slow path along your cheekbone, almost absent-minded, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your face.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The muffled hum of the gala next door was the only sound, but it felt far away, like this small room existed in its own bubble of time.

His gaze dipped to your mouth again before returning to your eyes. There was no rush in him now, just quiet intent, like he was reading you as much as he was looking at you. His fingertips slid lightly down the line of your jaw, brushing the edge of your neck before curling back.

You exhaled slowly, the warmth of his touch still clinging to your skin. “You always this patient?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“Not always.” he said, his thumb brushing just under your lower lip now. “Only when it counts.”

It wasn’t a threat, but it made your pulse skip all the same.

You let your hand rest lightly on his chest, fingertips catching on the smooth edge of his lapel. He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. If anything, he seemed to lean into it, the faintest shift of weight toward you.

His free hand found your waist, not gripping, just a steadying presence, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress in a barely-there rhythm.

The heat of it stayed, even when his hand slid away, slow and unhurried. His gaze followed, and when he finally met your eyes again, it felt like a promise neither of you had spoken aloud yet.

Eventually, the murmur of the gala on the other side of the door crept back into focus. You both knew you had to move, though neither of you seemed in any hurry to do so.

Jeonghan’s hand slid from your waist last, fingers brushing over the side seam of your dress like he was reluctant to let go. He didn’t look away as he stepped back, straightening his jacket with the same composure he’d walked in with, though his eyes gave him away.

When you finally pushed open the door, the golden light of the main hall spilled over you both. The room was just as loud and bright as you’d left it, but something between you had shifted, enough that you felt it even before you saw the way his gaze swept the crowd, checking the distance before falling into step just behind your shoulder.

He didn’t touch you again, not in any way someone could point to, but you felt him. The subtle shift of air when he moved closer to speak to someone in passing, the way his arm brushed yours for half a heartbeat as you reached for another glass of champagne from a passing tray.

He stayed near; close enough that if you turned, you’d meet his eyes without having to search for him. And each time you caught him looking, he didn’t look away. Instead, his gaze would linger, soft and steady, before flicking elsewhere like he’d said enough without speaking.

When another driver joined your conversation, Jeonghan stayed within the same orbit, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, listening without needing to insert himself. But when you laughed at something, his head tilted, watching you in a way that felt intimate.

The champagne in your hand had nothing to do with the warmth currently running hot under your skin. It was him. Always in the corner of your awareness, not pressing, not claiming, just there.

And you realized, as the evening stretched on, that it was almost worse than if he’d touched you outright. Because now you were counting the inches, waiting to see which one of you would close them again.

The night air was cooler than you expected. It slipped over your bare shoulders as soon as you stepped out of the venue, the murmur of the gala fading behind you. The sharp scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with the faint tang of rain on the pavement.

You’d meant to just call your driver, go back to the hotel and file the whole night under work obligations in your head.

But he was there, leaning against one of the stone lions near the steps, jacket open now, bow tie gone, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. He looked like someone who’d decided the party inside had given him everything it could and that whatever he wanted now was out here.

“You leaving?” Jeonghan asked, voice quieter than it had been all night.

“Yeah.” you said, glancing back at the doors before meeting his eyes again. “Work in the morning.”

He nodded once, then pushed away from the pillar and closed the distance between you in a few easy steps. Not too close, not like earlier but close enough that you could see the softness in his gaze, the way the gala’s warm light from behind haloed the edges of his bleached but slightly grown out hair.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, “You know this isn’t… nothing, right?” he said.

The words landed heavier than you expected.

You searched his face. “What isn’t?”

“Whatever’s going on between us.” He said it like a fact, not a guess.

Your heartbeat ticked up a notch. “That’s… an interesting choice of timing for this conversation.”

The air between you tightened the way it always did. Not from the champagne or the music or the crowd, but from the way his attention settled on you like he’d stripped everything else away.

You exhaled slowly. “Alright. So we acknowledge it.”

His head tilted slightly. “And we don’t ignore it.”

You hesitated, then let your mouth curve into the faintest smirk. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Only about this.” he said, no hesitation at all.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Him leaning in a fraction or you leaning toward him, but the space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating off him, even without touching.

“Guess we’ll see where it goes,” you murmured.

He smiled like he already had a plan. “Guess we will.”

---------

You noticed it before he said a single word.

Thursday morning in the paddock was its usual mix of barely contained chaos. Drivers moving between interviews, engineers disappearing into hospitality, cameras swinging in every direction. You were working in the pen, angling for a better position when a crew tried to squeeze through behind you.

A warm touch found the small of your back with just enough pressure to shift you an inch to the side. Not a shove, not lingering, just careful. You turned your head and found Jeonghan there, eyes already on you, the smallest private smile curling at the edge of his mouth before he stepped past.

It was nothing. It was everything. The warmth stayed long after he was gone.

----------

On Friday it was harder to convince yourself you’d imagined the change. FP1 and 2 was busy, the air full of the sharp scent of rubber and fuel when the drizzle started. You’d barely registered it before a shadow slipped into place beside you, the faint scent of citrus cutting through the damp

Jeonghan didn’t say a word, just tilted his umbrella so it covered you both while his gaze stayed on the track while the engineers prepared the car. The edge of his arm brushed yours each time the wind shifted.

-----------

Saturday was no quieter. The pen after qualifying was a wall of noise, drivers trading places in front of the mics while PRs gestured frantically from the sidelines. You were wrapping up with another team when you saw him two spots over, cap pulled low, hair damp, answering questions with that careful composure he wore after a heavy session.

You didn’t expect him to notice you, not with the crowd pressed around him, but mid-answer, his gaze flicked past the mic, found you and stayed there for a beat too long. No smile, no signal. Just that steady, deliberate weight, like he’d gone looking for you. When he turned back to the reporter, there was the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth, subtle enough you almost thought you’d imagined it.

------------

Sunday brought the grid walk and the kind of crowded tarmac that felt like its own race. VIPs, photographers, mechanics, all trying to occupy the same narrow strip between the cars. You were weaving toward a guest you needed to mic when someone brushed your arm just firmly enough to make you glance over.

Jeonghan again, this time slowing his stride to match yours for a handful of paces. His hand ghosted over the curve of your elbow, a light touch that felt more like reassurance than guidance.

“Busy?” he asked, his voice almost swallowed by the noise.

“Always.” you replied without looking away from the chaos ahead.

He gave a small nod, fingers falling away as he moved toward his car, and the crowd closed between you. The warmth stayed, stubborn as ever.

-----------

By the time the race was over, the paddock had slipped into that slower rhythm it always found on Sunday evenings. Crew members packed away equipment in loose groups, the smell of burnt rubber giving way to the faint sweetness of spilled champagne.

You were heading toward the Sky truck when you saw him across the lane; jacket unzipped, hair still damp from the spray, walking with his PR. You didn’t expect him to change course, but he did stride straight toward you.

No cameras, no witnesses close enough to catch the shift in his expression as he stopped in front of you. He didn’t touch you outright, but his arm stayed just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him in the cooling air.

“See you in Belgium.” he asked, like there was never a question about whether you would.

And somehow, between the umbrella, the glances, the lightest touches, and the way his presence had shadowed yours all weekend, you knew the answer was already written on your face.

Belgium - Spa Francorchamp

The message came just after breakfast.

Unknown

You up for dinner tonight, peach?

You stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. You had no idea how he’d gotten your number. No idea if this was something he did often. And no idea why your pulse jumped at the thought of answering.

So far, you hadn’t replied in the hectic of race day and by the time you made it to the paddock, the message was buried under weather updates, timing sheets and your boss urging you to be more proactive today.

When the formation lap rolled out, you were in the Sky box, headset on, eyes fixed on the monitors. The rain had stopped long enough ago to start the race without further delay, the track still slick in some places in ways that left your stomach feeling nervous.

The laps blurred together in the steady rhythm of commentary and sector times. You tracked him each time the red of the Ferrari cut through a corner, watched the seconds shift in tenths. He was running clean, holding position and defending against alpine effortlessly.

And then came lap 37.

It happened way to fast in a moment where you were busy scribbling down how Jake was repeatedly trying to overtake Jeonghan with an approach far to aggressive then the situation needed. A moment in which your eyes left the monitor for just 5 seconds while they were taking the line into Turn 8 and the next there was a flash of Alpine cutting across the camera’s frame, too close and way to fast for your liking.

The Impact was brutal, sending the Ferrari right into the wall with a loud crunch of carbon hitting the barrier that echoed through the feed and your bones before the picture cut to another angle, debris scattered over the tarmac.

Your breath hitched, heart stumbled painfully in your chest before stopping. At least that’s what it felt like.

Your throat closed uncomfortably, the chatter in your headset a suddenly a mumbled blur of voices, the monitor on the wall showing bright red car parts ripped apart, Frontwing weirdly bent into the air and far to still.

And that was where everything stopped for you.

Smoke rose from where the engine was trapped under fiber, barrier wrapped around the nose of the car like a blanket it wasn’t supposed to be wrapped up in.

“Ohhh and that’s Yoon in the wall while Sim has disappeared behind the Turn! It doesn’t look good for the Ferrari driver who has yet to make and attempt to get out of the car. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a Red Flag any moment now.”

David Crofts voice was only background noise, muted and covered by the raging storm inside your head.

The Red Flag notification popped up on the screen followed by an investigation of Car 24 (SJY) for causing a collision.

Papaya orange flashed, almost taking out a Sauber by slingering after hitting some debris scattered on the track as the drivers still behind brushed by before returning to the Pit lane.

Marshalls already on standby ready with fire extinguishers standing on the side line just as the first flames flickered near the right tyre in the back. The rose quickly but no movement from Jeonghan who looked like his head was slumped forward as he was fighting to stay conscious.

“Still no sign from Yoon.”

You stilled, breathing getting harder the longer you watched.

The medical car arrived just as the first wave of white fog hit the flames, quickly dyeing down as the marshals worked to get it out.

You watched. Watched how the medical leaned over the halo to check for any kind of life sign.

It felt like time was put on hold or at the very least into slow-motion, only speeding up again when with a lot of help Jeonghan was lifting himself out of his seat, his sluggish figure proof that he wasn’t okay. But he was moving and that, for the moment was enough to kick you into gear again. You jumped up, ignoring the clipboard clattering to the floor and Yuna flinching out of her fixed on the screen stupor before you were out of the door.

“Wait where are–“

Even if you had stayed long enough, you probably wouldn’t have heard her either way with the way you tunnel visioned as you made your way deeper into the paddock where the medical area.

The fact that your media pass didn’t grant you enough access to the med building didn’t even register until you were held back by security.

“I know, I know but please, I need to know that he’s okay! Please…” you begged the bulky man standing guard in front of the sliding door, the pity in his eyes at the sight of your desperation evident but not enough to sway him into letting you inside.

“I’m sorry ma’am but I still can’t let you in. I’m sure he is okay though” He said trying to reassure you which did absolutely nothing. “But between us, the medical car hasn’t arrived yet.”

The second part was said significantly quieter then the first, the words only meant for your ears.

The implication took a little to settle in.

If the medical car wasn’t here yet, that meant that it would arrive any moment now, meaning that even if you weren’t allowed inside, you were still able to see him just for a few moments which would hopefully calm your racing head and heart.

“He’s not here yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

You nodded quickly and watched the man step back into his position now that you weren’t trying to get past him any more. You turned around, inhaling deeply to try and regulate your breathing a little, almost like self meditation that failed to do its job spectacularly.

It was only when the flashing yellow lights of the medical car came skidding around the corner that you somehow managed to slow down.

Well less slowing down but more freeze in fear until it stopped mere 2 meters away.

The door back door opened and out climbed Dr. Ian Roberts, half carrying Jeonghan, half dragging him out.

His helmet was off already, making it obvious how out of it he really was.

Jeonghan hair was sweat slick, his eyes glassy and shaky as he had trouble to focus on keeping them open.

“Oh god, Jeonghan!”

Somehow, even when struggling to focus, his eyes fixed onto you standing there like a lost duckling.

“Hi, peach..” he rasped, voice weak and almost inaudible.

The team waiting for their arrival rushed past you, gurney ready to strap him down and roll him inside.

None of them bothered to give you even a glance, only Jeonghan focusing on you with a lazy smile.

And then he was rolled away

Nobody let you in, nobody gave you any information.

You just sat on the 2 steps in front of the medical building wondering why he wasn’t rushed to the hospital.

“You look worried.”

Eyes focused on the gravel underneath your feet you didn’t react at first.

“I don’t appreciate this frown on you, peach.”

If someone were to ask later you probably would have told them your face must have been the definition of ???.

A little banged up but upright, Jeonghan leaned against the wall next to the entrance, someone from staff standing close enough to step in in case he needed immediate rescue.

“What the fuck?”

“Is that how you kiss your mother, baby? Such a foul mouth you’ve got there. Lucky for you I kind of like it.” The wink he gave you was a little of kilter but otherwise completely fine.

You jumped up the stair, crashing into his body and almost taking him out yourself with the force with which you crashed into him and held him close.

“Never do that again, you ass!”

Arms sneaking around your waist after steading himself

“And you don’t sit in the rain for almost an hour. I’m not important enough to risk a cold!” he hummed into your ear.

Had he not still looked as white as a sheet you might have considered smacking him for that. Instead you ignored it to ask how he was feeling with your hand holding his face to make him look at you.

“Concussion, cracked rib and a murder headache but alive and ready to haunt you again.”

“You are—”

“Ready to go home? Absolutely. But I’d rather stay here with you if that means having you look at me like this a little longer.”

“I hate you. And I hate that you worry me so easily! What did you do to me you asshole.”

“Baby its called falling for someone. Just like I’m falling for you.”

You didn’t notice the staff pulling away and disappearing inside.

Carefully you looked over his face trying to see if he was lying about his state. He already looked butter then just an hour before.

Had you really been waiting for him that short? To you it felt like ages longer.

“You really are okay?”

“As okay as I can be, I promise.”

His hand slid over yours, kissing the inside of your hand for reassurance before linking your fingers.

“And for the record, I’m keeping you off the record for as long as my forcefull vacation will allow me.”

Bold of him to assume you had anything against that.

Especially since you got to play nurse…

[momentsofengene]

WHEN DUTY CALLS ✧ park sunghoon - part two

pairing: neurologist!sunghoon x ob-gyn!reader

after years of being co-workers, he never reciprocated the feelings you had for him. so you buried them and learned to live with it. that is, until a small encounter leads him to start showing you that he cares.

genre: co-workers to lovers, fluff, slow burn, hospital au

word count: 13k

part 1 || part 2

note: reposted this again since i was temporarily shadowbanned and tumblr’s spam filter hid this from tags & prevented me from notifying my taglist. if you’ve already read and interacted with the original post, tysm for the support 𑣲⋆

The operating room doors slid open behind you as you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to your clothes.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on your body after hours of surgery, your shoulders sore and your mind drained from the pressure earlier, but somehow, it wasn’t the operation occupying your thoughts.

It was him.

Your grip tightened slightly around the surgical cap in your hand as the memory from earlier replayed itself once again, the rooftop, the cold night air, the way Sunghoon looked at you, and the words he was just about to say before the emergency call interrupted everything.

Despite being able to save your patient, you still felt disappointed. Not because of the surgery, not because something went wrong, but because you never got to hear what Sunghoon was trying to tell you before you left.

You let out a quiet sigh, lowering your gaze to the floor as you slowly walked down the hallway. You could’ve sworn he was about to say something important back there.

The look in his eyes, the hesitation in his voice, it all felt like it was leading to something. And now, you were left wondering what exactly it was.

You were so caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t even notice Jungwon stepping beside you until he spoke.

“Hey Y/N, are you okay?” he asked, slightly tilting his head as he looked at you.

You looked up, a little startled from being pulled out of your thoughts so suddenly. “I am,” you answered after a short pause. “I was just thinking about something.”

Jungwon studied your expression for a moment before speaking again. “Wanna talk about it?” he offered gently, noticing how distracted you seemed.

You shook your head lightly and forced a small smile. “No, it’s okay. I think I just need some rest. I’m kinda tired after everything that happened tonight.”

Jungwon nodded in understanding. After hours of dealing with emergencies and surgeries, both of you looked equally exhausted.

“You should head home too, Jungwon,” you said, patting his shoulder lightly. “It’s already morning, and our shift’s finally over.”

“Aren’t you gonna go home?” he asked, his eyebrows raising slightly.

“I am,” you replied softly. “I just need to talk to someone first before I leave.”

Something about the way you said it made Jungwon look at you for a second longer, as if he already had an idea who you were talking about.

Still, he chose not to tease you about it like he normally would. Instead, he simply nodded and gave you a small smile.

“Alright then. Don’t stay too long.”

With that, you said goodbye to Jungwon before walking away, your footsteps echoing softly through the quiet hallway as your thoughts drifted back to Sunghoon once again.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

You headed straight for the doctors’ lounge, hoping to find Sunghoon there after everything that happened earlier. But the moment you stepped inside, your hope dropped almost immediately.

Only then did you nearly bump into Jay, who was just about to enter the lounge himself.

“Oh hey,” he said, slightly surprised as he took a small step back. “You okay?”

“Have you seen Sunghoon?” you asked right away, not answering his question as your concern took over first.

Jay furrowed his brows slightly as he tried to recall, pausing for a moment before speaking. “Yeah, I think I saw him leaving earlier,” he answered slowly. “He probably went home already. Why?”

You shook your head lightly, trying to keep your tone casual even if your thoughts were elsewhere. “It’s nothing serious, I just needed to talk to him about something.”

“Oh,” Jay said with a small nod, sensing it wasn’t something to push further. “Want me to call him? I can tell him you’re looking for him and—”

“It’s okay,” you cut in quickly before he could finish. “I’ll just text him myself instead.”

“Alright then,” Jay replied after a brief pause, giving you a small understanding nod.

You offered him a polite goodbye before walking away, your hand already reaching for your phone.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Sitting inside your car at the parking lot, you stared at your phone, Sunghoon’s contact open on the screen, for what already felt like twenty minutes.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, but no matter how many times you tried to start a message, nothing felt right.

You thought about saying, 'Hi, I didn’t get what you were trying to say earlier,' but even that felt too direct.

Then you considered, 'Hey, when are you free? I’ve been a little anxious about what you were going to say,' but that sounded even worse somehow.

You exhaled sharply, leaning back against the driver’s seat as you closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of your own hesitation settle in.

What am I going to do now?

──────────────────────────────

You sat inside the doctors’ lounge with Jungwon, discussing the post operative recovery instructions of different patients while reviewing the medical charts spread across the table between the two of you.

It had already been two days since that night with Sunghoon, yet somehow, the two of you still hadn’t talked ever since the interrupted conversation on the rooftop.

You never ended up texting him that night either.

Every time you tried to type something, you would just stare at the message for minutes before deleting it all over again, unable to figure out the right words to say without sounding awkward or too obvious.

“The bleeding should lessen within the week, right?” Jungwon suddenly asked, pulling you back to reality as he pointed at one of the charts.

You nodded absentmindedly, your eyes still fixed on the papers in your hands even though your mind was somewhere else entirely. “Mm. As long as her vitals remain stable.”

A few more moments of silence passed between the two of you, the only sounds inside the lounge coming from the faint flipping of pages and the distant noises echoing from the hallway outside.

Jungwon glanced at you from the side, his brows slowly furrowing as he noticed the distracted look on your face for what was probably the fifth time today.

“That’s for a different patient,” he pointed out, eyeing the chart you were currently holding.

“Huh?” Your eyebrows lifted in confusion as you quickly checked the name written at the top of the file. “It’s not? I thought we were checking Patient Yoon’s record right now.”

Jungwon let out a quiet sigh before leaning back slightly against his chair. “No, we already finished discussing Patient Yoon earlier,” he explained patiently. “The one we’re reviewing now is Patient Kim.”

“Oh…” you murmured softly after finally realizing your mistake. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even notice.”

“That’s it,” Jungwon said, gently taking the folder from your hands before placing it aside on the table. “Y/N, I’ve noticed you acting strange ever since that surgery two days ago. Is everything alright?” he added, his voice softer this time.

You parted your lips slightly, unsure how you were even supposed to explain everything that had been bothering you these past few days. “I…”

But before you could continue speaking, your phone suddenly vibrated inside your coat pocket.

You quickly pulled it out, only for your heartbeat to falter the moment you saw Sunghoon's name displayed on the screen.

Can we talk? I’m at the hospital garden right now. If you’re busy, just disregard this message. I understand.

You stared at the text for a few seconds longer than necessary, your chest tightening slightly as all the thoughts you had been trying to ignore these past two days suddenly came rushing back all at once.

Slowly, you looked up from your phone and met Jungwon’s gaze.

“I swear I’ll explain everything next time,” you said hurriedly as you stood up from your seat. “I promise. I just… need to go somewhere right now.”

Before Jungwon could even properly respond, you were already heading towards the door in a hurry, almost forgetting the charts scattered across the table.

Jungwon could only shake his head in amusement as he watched you disappear from the lounge, a small smirk forming on his face as he leaned back against his chair.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

As you stood inside the elevator, watching the numbers slowly going up, you could feel your heartbeat growing louder with every passing floor, as though it was echoing right inside your chest.

You didn’t really understand why, but the thought of finally talking to Sunghoon again after everything that had happened that night made you feel extremely nervous, almost like you were walking into something you couldn’t quite predict.

When the doors opened, a bright light from the hospital garden greeted you, and you stepped out towards the glass door that led outside.

The cool air hit your skin as you entered, and your eyes immediately began scanning the area, searching until they eventually landed on Sunghoon sitting alone on a bench at the far end, already waiting for you.

He was looking off at the view beside him, too absorbed to notice you approaching until you called his name.

His head snapped towards your voice the moment it reached him, and almost instantly, a small smile formed on his face as he saw you standing there.

“Hey,” he started, his voice softer than usual as he straightened up slightly. “Glad you could make it.”

You returned his smile, giving him a small, almost hesitant nod before slowly walking over and sitting down on the empty space beside him.

You noticed his posture shift the moment you sat down, his shoulders tensing slightly as if he had been bracing himself for this exact moment.

He cleared his throat, trying his best to relax as he turns to face you fully. “Y/N,” he begins, your name coming out softer than usual, almost careful.

“You know, I can’t stop thinking about that night… and how I didn’t get to tell you how I feel.”

The words land between you two, heavier than the quiet air around the rooftop garden. For a second, all you can hear is the distant hum of the hospital behind you and the faint rustle of leaves above.

Sunghoon looks at you like he’s debating whether to continue or stop, but something in him pushes forward anyway.

“I just…” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, his usual composure slipping just slightly. “I need you to know I wasn’t okay after that.”

He swallows, gaze steady but clearly strained now. “I wasn’t done talking to you that night. And I still–”

“Dr. Park.”

The voice cuts through the moment sharply as both of you turn.

Wonyoung stands a few steps away, slightly out of breath, her eyes flicking between the two of you. “I’ve been looking for you,” she says, shifting her attention to him.

“A patient was asking for you, and she says she has some questions regarding her husband who you performed that procedure on last week,” Wonyoung added.

“Shit, not again,” you heard Sunghoon curse under his breath, his shoulders tensing slightly as he stared at Wonyoung for a brief moment.

He didn't move immediately. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he exhales through his nose, clearly fighting the timing more than the request itself.

“Now?” he asks, frustration evident in his voice.

Wonyoung nods. “It can’t wait. The patient's been waiting for a while now.”

A long beat passes.

Sunghoon closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, like he’s trying to hold onto something slipping away too fast. When he opens them again, he looks at you.

There’s something unfinished there. Something he doesn’t say.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs, barely audible, as he was already standing.

And just like that, he’s gone again before the sentence he started ever gets to finish.

──────────────────────────────

A couple of days passed since that moment at the garden, and you still couldn’t fully wrap your head around it, especially the way everything ended so abruptly again before you and Sunghoon could actually talk.

The memory kept replaying in your mind, the interrupted conversation, the timing, and the words he almost said but never got to finish, all of it lingering in a way that only made your thoughts more restless.

Your anxiety only seemed to worsen the more you thought about it, as if your mind refused to let the moment go unfinished.

You wanted to talk to Sunghoon immediately after that second interruption, to finally clear everything up and understand what he meant, but every time you tried to find the right moment, something else always pulled you away.

At one point, you spotted Sunghoon near the hallway vending machine, quietly grabbing a snack after what looked like another long and tiring shift at the hospital.

Even from a distance, you could tell he looked drained, his shoulders slightly heavy as he waited for the machine to finish dispensing his food.

The moment his eyes lifted and met yours from across the hallway, he paused.

You also stopped in your tracks.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved or looked away, just standing there in silence as if both of you were weighing whether this time would finally be the right moment to talk.

You almost walked towards him.

After everything that had happened, and after all the missed chances, it felt like this might finally be it.

But before you could even take a proper step forward, your phone suddenly vibrated inside your pocket, sharply pulling you out of the moment.

You quickly pulled your phone out and saw a message from the senior doctor asking you to head to her office immediately to discuss Jungwon’s recent performance and progress during his rotation.

You looked back up almost immediately after reading the message, hoping he was still there waiting.

But the spot near the vending machine was already empty.

Sunghoon had already walked away again before you even got the chance to say a single word.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

You tried, really tried, to find another chance after that. Even going as far as asking Jay for Sunghoon’s schedule so you could align yours with his, hoping for even a small window to finally talk properly.

But the worst part was realizing that your schedules were completely opposite for the week, with you assigned to night shifts while he was consistently on afternoon duty, making it almost impossible for your paths to cross.

It felt less like bad timing and more like the universe itself was deliberately keeping the two of you from talking to each other.

──────────────────────────────

As you typed away on your laptop during one of your night shifts, you found yourself zoning out every few minutes, your thoughts constantly drifting somewhere else no matter how hard you tried to focus on your work.

The report in front of you was barely halfway done, yet you had already reread the same sentence multiple times without properly processing any of it.

You let out a quiet groan before dropping your head onto your folded arms on the table, completely giving up on pretending you were still being productive.

The sudden action immediately caught Chaewon’s attention from beside you.

She turned her chair slightly towards your direction, her brows furrowing as she looked at you. “What’s wrong with you? You haven’t seemed like yourself this entire week,” she pointed out. “Is your schedule really that bad?”

You glanced at her tiredly, your cheek still pressed against your arms. “Nah, I’m fine,” you mumbled. “It’s not like this is my first time doing night shifts.”

Chaewon let out a sigh before fully turning towards you, crossing her arms as she continued staring suspiciously at your exhausted figure.

“If it’s not the schedule, then what is it?” she asked, clearly unconvinced by your answer.

Before you could even think of an excuse to brush her off, she spoke again almost immediately. “And don’t even try lying to me,” she added, narrowing her eyes at you. “We’ve been friends for years, Y/N. I know when something’s bothering you.”

You let out another deep sigh at that, finally lifting your head from the table as your eyes slowly met hers.

“It’s just…” you started softly, hesitating for a moment as you tried to figure out how you were even supposed to explain all of this out loud. But when you saw the determined look on Chaewon’s face, you realized there was probably no escaping the conversation anymore.

So after a brief pause, you finally decided to continue.

“Two weeks ago, Sunghoon and I went up to the rooftop because I was getting sleepy during my shift and wanted some fresh air,” you began, absentmindedly tracing your finger against the edge of the table.

“At first it was normal, but then he suddenly became serious out of nowhere and looked like he was about to tell me something important.” You paused briefly, the memory replaying clearly in your head. “But before he could even say it, an emergency came up and I had to leave immediately, so I never got to hear what he wanted to say.”

You stopped for a moment and glanced at Chaewon, only to see that she still had her arms crossed and the same serious expression on her face, silently waiting for you to continue.

“Go on,” she said simply.

You sighed before continuing, leaning back in your chair. “And then last Monday, he asked me to meet him at the garden because he said he wanted to talk again.” A frustrated laugh escaped your lips. “But somehow, we got interrupted again before he could tell me anything.”

You looked to the side, disappointment obvious in your expression as you let out another sigh.

“You know what’s frustrating?” you continued quietly. “I’ve been trying everything I can just so we could finally have one proper conversation again, but it’s like the universe itself hates me and keeps finding ways to stop us from talking.”

“Okay, okay, hold on for a second,” Chaewon said the moment you finished talking, raising both of her hands dramatically as if she was trying to process everything you had just told her.

“You said he was going to tell you something important,” she continued, leaning closer towards you with narrowed eyes. “How did you even conclude that it was important? Did he actually say anything before you left?”

“Well…” You looked down at your fingers, fiddling with them as you tried recalling Sunghoon’s exact words.

“He, uh…” You hesitated slightly before continuing. “Back at the rooftop, he told me he started noticing things he didn’t before, and that no matter how much he tried to ignore it, it just kept coming back.” Your grip on your fingers tightened a little as the memory replayed in your head.

“And then at the garden…” You sighed softly. “He said he couldn’t stop thinking about that night and how he still hadn’t gotten the chance to tell me how he feels.”

You shook your head as your eyes drifted towards the ceiling, your thoughts spiraled once again. “You know, I really don’t want to assume anything but…” You exhaled softly, shaking your head. “It just feels too big to ignore.”

Chaewon suddenly lets out a loud squeal before you could even continue further, grabbing both your hands excitedly.

“Oh my god, Y/N,” she practically whisper shouted, shaking your hands dramatically. “You do realize that could only mean one thing, right? He definitely likes you.”

Your eyes widened almost instantly as heat rushed straight to your cheeks.

“What? No, he does not,” you denied quickly, even though your voice lacked confidence. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” But deep down, there was already a small part of you wondering if Chaewon was actually right.

“Y/N, come on,” Chaewon said, staring at you like the answer was painfully obvious. “I know you can feel it too. What else would he even say? Based on everything you told me, it seriously sounds like he was about to confess.”

“I don’t know…” you mumbled softly, your gaze lowering once again as your heart began beating faster at the thought.

“But what about Wonyoung?” you argued back, still unconvinced despite everything Chaewon had just said. “I saw them together before and, who knows… maybe they’re actually dating.” Chaewon immediately gave you an unimpressed look.

“Oh please,” she scoffed dramatically. “When was the last time you even saw them together, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly as you genuinely tried to remember another moment besides that one incident outside the operating room. But nothing came to mind.

Chaewon noticed your silence almost immediately and pointed at you accusingly.

“Exactly. None, right?” she said proudly, like she had just won an argument. “You saw them together one time and suddenly convinced yourself they were a thing.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Chaewon was already talking again before you could.

“And besides,” she continued, leaning closer towards you with a knowing grin, “they’re definitely not dating because Sunghoon likes you, not her.”

“I mean… maybe, but—” you started uncertainly, only for Chaewon to cut you off once again.

“No,” she said firmly while shaking her head. “There is no maybe. I’m telling you right now, that man likes you. He just hasn’t gotten the chance to properly tell you yet because the universe apparently enjoys ruining your timing.”

A small laugh escaped you despite yourself.

“Come on,” Chaewon continued, nudging your shoulder playfully. “Aren’t you at least a little happy? It’s not every day the person you like actually likes you back.”

“What?” Your eyes widened slightly as you stared at her. “Who said I like him?”

Chaewon immediately gave you a look.

“I mean liked,” she corrected with a teasing grin. “But honestly, what’s even the difference at this point? Either way, at least he likes you back too, even if it took him literal years to realize it.”

That finally made you smile properly, the warmth spreading across your cheeks impossible to hide anymore.

“Fine,” you sighed, shaking your head in defeat. “I’ll talk to him. And if he really does confess like you keep insisting he will, I promise you’ll be the first person to know.”

Chaewon instantly perked up at that, practically bouncing in her seat from excitement. “Yay!” she squealed happily. “I’m already looking forward to it.”

──────────────────────────────

The hospital cafeteria was unusually quiet that afternoon, with only a few staff members scattered around since the lunch rush had already passed.

The soft clinking of utensils and distant conversations filled the background, but none of it seemed to register in Sunghoon’s mind.

He sat at one of the corner tables with his tray barely touched, his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone as if waiting for something that stubbornly refused to appear.

Across from him, Jay casually ate his lunch while reviewing patient notes placed beside his tray, occasionally flipping through the papers between bites.

“Did you already sign the transfer papers for room 512?” Jay asked after a while, still focused on the documents in front of him.

Sunghoon briefly looked up from his phone. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

The slight sharpness in his tone immediately made Jay pause mid chew.

A short silence followed.

“…Okay,” Jay muttered slowly before returning to his food, deciding not to comment any further.

A few seconds later, Sunoo suddenly dropped onto the empty seat beside Sunghoon with his tray in hand, immediately sensing the weird tension surrounding the table.

He glanced between the two suspiciously before raising an eyebrow.

“Why do you both look like a divorced couple?” he asked casually.

Jay snorted quietly at the comment while Sunghoon only sighed tiredly, rubbing one hand over his face.

“He’s been like this all week,” Jay explained while gesturing towards Sunghoon with his fork.

Sunoo immediately turned towards him. “Still?”

“I’m fine,” Sunghoon replied flatly.

“Mm,” Sunoo hummed unconvinced before casually stealing fries from Jay’s tray. “You know, for someone who claims he’s fine, you’ve been staring at your phone like you’re waiting for your ex to text you back.”

Sunghoon immediately locked his screen before placing the phone face down on the table.

Jay noticed the movement almost instantly. “You’re waiting for her to text you, aren’t you?” he asked slowly.

Sunghoon stayed quiet for just a second too long.

Sunoo’s eyes widened dramatically the moment realization hit him. “Oh my god,” he gasped, pointing at him accusingly. “You are.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Sunghoon muttered under his breath, clearly already irritated by the conversation.

Jay leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms. “Then why do you look annoyed every five minutes?”

That finally earned them a proper response.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply through his nose before leaning back against his chair, looking completely done with both of them.

“Because every single time we try to talk, something interrupts us,” he admitted reluctantly. “First the rooftop. Then the garden. And now our schedules don’t even align properly.”

Sunoo slowly lowered the spoon in his hand, Jay blinked once, then the two of them exchanged a look. “Wow,” Sunoo whispered dramatically. “You’re actually suffering.”

“I hate both of you,” Sunghoon muttered immediately.

Jay ignored him completely, already piecing things together in his head.

Meanwhile, Sunoo suddenly leaned towards Jay slightly, lowering his voice despite the grin spreading across his face.

“I have a plan,” he whispered.

Jay narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret hearing that?”

Sunoo only smiled wider as he glanced towards Sunghoon, who still looked completely unaware of whatever chaos Sunoo was already planning inside his head.

──────────────────────────────

You were walking through the hospital hallways with your phone in hand, typing out a quick message to Jungwon reminding him to check on one of the post operative patients before his next rounds.

Your attention stayed focused on the screen as you walked, not really paying attention to your surroundings until you suddenly heard someone calling your name from behind.

You stopped in your tracks and turned around.

Sunoo was standing a few feet away from you, a little out of breath, and judging from the panicked look on his face, it seemed like something urgent had happened.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked the moment he reached you.

Seeing how unusually frantic he looked, you immediately nodded without hesitation. “Of course,” you replied quickly. “What is it?”

Sunoo let out a relieved breath before explaining. “I accidentally left my laptop in the doctors’ lounge, and I have a presentation with the senior doctor in ten minutes.”

He glanced down the hallway before continuing in a rush.

“I was already about to go back and get it myself, but then Jay suddenly called me saying he needed help in the restroom because there’s no tissue and he was, uh…” Sunoo trailed off awkwardly before making a vague hand gesture. “You know…”

“Oh…” you responded slowly, immediately understanding the situation.

“Well, don’t worry about it,” you assured him. “I’ll grab your laptop and bring it straight to the boardroom for you.” You said as you gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder while Sunoo’s face instantly brightened with relief.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” he said dramatically while clasping his hands together for a second. “You’re seriously a lifesaver.”

Before you could even respond, Sunoo already turned and hurried towards the direction of the restroom.

You watched him run down the hallway, a quiet chuckle escaping your lips as you imagined Jay somewhere inside panicking over the lack of tissue.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

“Hey man, what are you doing here?” Jay asked as he spotted Sunghoon beside the water dispenser, casually filling a cup.

“Drinking water. What else?” Sunghoon replied matter of factly, as if the answer was obvious, before taking a slow sip without even looking at him.

Jay sighed and shook his head slightly, already looking like he regretted approaching him.

“Anyway, you need to go to the doctors’ lounge right now,” he said, his tone turning a bit more serious.

Sunghoon raised a brow at him but didn’t respond immediately, still finishing his sip of water like the urgency didn’t apply to him.

Jay exhaled, clearly impatient, then continued anyway. “I just saw Jungwon getting pretty close to Y/N before I could even step in,” he said casually, watching Sunghoon’s reaction closely. “They’re really close. I'm telling you, one more step and it honestly looked like they were about to kiss.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Sunghoon choked slightly on his water, quickly turning away as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“They… what?” he asked instantly, his voice sharper now, disbelief flashing across his face.

Jay didn’t even need to say anything else.

The second silence fell between them, Sunghoon was already moving. He turned and headed straight for the elevator, walking faster than before as his earlier calmness completely disappeared.

Jay watched as Sunghoon impatiently pressed the elevator button over and over again, jaw tight and foot barely staying still.

When the doors still didn’t open fast enough for him, Sunghoon didn’t even think twice before turning away and heading straight for the stairs instead, leaving Jay standing there, a small smirk on his face.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Meanwhile, you were still inside the doctors’ lounge, carefully scanning every possible surface in search of Sunoo’s missing laptop.

You checked under the desk, between the chairs, and even inside the wall cabinets, but it was nowhere to be found, and the longer you looked, the more you started wondering if the presentation had already started without Sunoo realizing he left it behind.

Before you could think further, the door suddenly swung open with a loud push.

Sunghoon stepped inside, slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling quickly from running, with a thin layer of sweat on his forehead that made a few strands of hair stick to his skin.

“Where’s Jungwon?” he asked immediately, still trying to catch his breath as his eyes quickly scanned the small room.

“Jungwon?” you repeated, clearly confused as you straightened up from where you were searching. “He’s not here. I’m the only one here since Sunoo asked me to look for his laptop.”

“Sunoo?” Sunghoon echoed, his eyebrows lifting slightly as something clicked in his head.

“Yeah,” you continued, still focused on the situation. “He said Jay needed help in the restroom and—” That was enough to make Sunghoon let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Right,” he said, shaking his head. “Jay. The same Jay who literally told me to come here.”

You paused, slowly narrowing your eyes at him as the pieces didn’t quite make sense yet. “But I thought…” you started, still trying to process it.

Sunghoon sighed, running a hand through his hair as he looked at your confused expression.

“This was obviously a setup,” he said flatly. “Those two definitely planned this.”

He took a small step forward, then another, before stopping just a few inches away from you. “Do you really not know why they did this?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You shook your head slowly.

“They wanted us to finally talk,” he admitted, exhaling as if he had been holding it in for a long time. “I kind of told them what happened, so they did this… on purpose.”

Your expression shifted in surprise as the realization finally sank in.

“They did a good job then,” you said, your tone a mix of disbelief and sarcasm as you let out a small breath. “Also,” you continued, “they worked hard setting this up. It’d be a shame if we still got interrupted.”

At that, something shifted in his expression. Sunghoon suddenly looked nervous, like all the urgency he felt earlier had been replaced with something far heavier.

But after a brief pause, he took a deep breath, steadying himself as he finally spoke.

“Y/N,” he started, voice softer but firm, “what I’ve been trying to say this whole time is that I like you. More than you probably realize.”

He swallowed slightly before continuing, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting again.

“I don’t even know when it started, or how it happened, but somewhere along the way, I just did,” he admitted honestly. “Every time we spent time together, I just kept realizing how special you are, and how much I wanted you in my life, not just as a co-worker.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost like he was forcing himself to finish it properly.

“I’m not really good with words,” he added, a faint, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his lips, “and I know this probably came out of nowhere, but I just needed to finally say it.”

When he finished, he looked down, scratching the back of his neck as his ears slowly turned a deep shade of red.

And for a moment, the room fell completely silent.

You couldn’t believe it. Chaewon was right.

And even though a part of you had started to believe it too, hearing it directly from Sunghoon still made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.

The person you once liked, the one you thought had slipped further and further away from you, was standing right in front of you, saying he liked you back.

You just stared at him, completely speechless, your thoughts scattered as your heart pounded so loudly it almost drowned everything else out.

Slowly, you brought a hand to your chest, as if trying to steady your breathing, still trying to process the fact that this was actually happening.

“Sunghoon…” you called softly.

At the sound of your voice, his shoulders tensed slightly before his gaze slowly lifted from the floor to meet your eyes again.

Seeing the nervous look on his face made your chest warm.

You took a small step closer to him before gently slipping your hand into his, your fingers curling around his carefully as if reassuring him that this was real.

“I like you too,” you admitted softly, smiling at him. “And I think I’d like to give this... us... a try.” Your thumb brushed lightly against his hand as you continued.

“I mean, I already know you, but I still want to know more about you. Not just as co-workers or friends this time.”

The moment you finished speaking, the tension in Sunghoon’s expression immediately softened. A smile slowly spread across his face, one that looked far too relieved and happy to hide.

“I’d like that too,” he replied quietly.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.

You simply stood there hand in hand, staring at each other in the middle of the doctors’ lounge like the rest of the hospital had faded into the background.

And somehow, after weeks of interruptions, misunderstandings, and almost confessions, finally being able to stand there with him like this felt unreal.

Then, after a moment, Sunghoon cleared his throat awkwardly. “So… uh…” he started, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. “What now?”

You immediately caught the nervousness mixed with awkwardness in his voice, and it made you laugh softly.

Of course Park Sunghoon, who had just confessed so seriously a minute ago, suddenly looked completely lost now that you actually liked him back.

You smiled teasingly before answering. “Take me on a date, silly.”

“Yeah.” He coughed awkwardly, looking away for a second. “…Right. A date.”

A faint embarrassed smile appeared on his face as he scratched the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he admitted. “I’m just not really used to confessing. Usually girls are the ones confessing to me, not the other way around.”

You immediately rolled your eyes at the subtle cockiness hidden in his words, though the smile on your face only widened.

“Really?” you replied sarcastically. “Well, I’m not exactly surprised the great Park Sunghoon experiences things like that.”

Sunghoon chuckled softly at your response before giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “Mm,” he hummed quietly. “But you know what?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You’re actually the first girl I’ve ever confessed to.”

That instantly made your cheeks warm.

“Well, it was obvious,” you teased, trying to hide your embarrassment. “You looked like you were about to trip over your own words earlier.”

Sunghoon frowned playfully at you, making you laugh. “Kidding,” you said quickly before lightly pinching his cheeks. “But honestly… I’m flattered.”

That immediately brought the smile back to his face.

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there again, unable to stop smiling like idiots in front of each other.

Then Sunghoon spoke once more.

“So…” he started carefully, suddenly looking nervous again. “About that date…”

You waited patiently for him to continue.

“Are you free this Saturday?”

“I am,” you answered almost immediately, making his expression brighten instantly.

“Good,” he said, trying to sound calm despite the obvious excitement in his voice. “Then I’ll pick you up at your place.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The two of you eventually stepped out of the doctors’ lounge together, still caught up in your own conversation as you walked down the hallway side by side.

The atmosphere between you and Sunghoon felt noticeably lighter now, as if the weeks of tension and misunderstandings had finally disappeared the moment everything was confessed.

A few steps away from the lounge, near the end of the hallway, stood Jay and Sunoo pretending to look casual while waiting nearby.

The second they spotted the two of you walking out together, both of them immediately exchanged triumphant looks before giving each other an exaggerated high five.

“See?” Sunoo said proudly, pointing at himself. “I told you my plan would work.”

Jay let out a quiet scoff, though the grin on his face made it obvious he was just as satisfied with the outcome.

Meanwhile, you smiled at yourself as the realization finally sank in.

“I seriously thought Jay being stuck in the restroom was real,” you admitted while looking over at Sunghoon, your voice echoing slightly through the quiet hallway. “I even imagined him waiting there helplessly for Sunoo to save him.”

Sunghoon laughed quietly beside you while by the end of the hallway, Jay’s expression immediately dropped in horror.

“You told her that?” Jay asked Sunoo instantly, turning towards him with complete disbelief written all over his face.

Sunoo looked completely unapologetic.

“Well yeah,” he replied casually with a shrug. “What else was I supposed to tell her? Besides, it wasn’t only because of my amazing acting skills that she believed me.”

He flipped his imaginary long hair dramatically after saying that, earning an unimpressed stare from Jay.

Jay sighed heavily before dragging one hand down his face in defeat.

“I can’t believe you,” he muttered, already regretting every life decision that led him into helping Sunoo with the plan.

──────────────────────────────

Inside the operating room, you and Jungwon were busy cleaning up after surgery, carefully organizing the instruments and tidying the area while the nurses finished the last few tasks nearby.

The familiar scent of antiseptic still lingered in the room, and despite the exhausting operation earlier, the atmosphere felt calmer now that everything was finally over.

As you were arranging a few files on the counter, your phone suddenly vibrated inside your pocket.

You quickly removed your gloves before pulling your phone out, your eyes immediately scanning the screen.

The moment you saw Sunghoon’s name appear on the notification, asking if you wanted to have lunch together later, an unconscious smile slowly spread across your face before you could even stop it.

“You look happy.”

Jungwon’s voice suddenly echoed from across the room, making you glance up. “That must be Dr. Park.”

Your head immediately snapped towards his direction, eyes widening while your mouth fell open in surprise.

“How d– did you know it was Sunghoon?” you asked, stuttering from embarrassment.

“Oh, come on,” Jungwon replied while taking off his gloves, clearly amused by your reaction. He walked over before casually sitting on the chair nearby, crossing one leg over the other.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how your entire mood changes every time you hear his name or whenever you see him in the hallways,” he continued, looking at you knowingly.

You simply stared at him in shock. Was I really that obvious?

“You really like him.” Jungwon looked at you for a moment before shaking his head lightly. “And honestly, based on everything I’ve seen, I know he likes you too.”

That somehow shocked you even more. How did Jungwon realize Sunghoon liked you before you even figured it out yourself?

“How… how did you know?” you mumbled quietly, still staring at him in disbelief.

Jungwon chuckled softly at your reaction before leaning back against the chair.

“It’s really obvious once you pay attention,” he explained. “Remember that time we went out for gelato together?” You immediately nodded, already remembering the awkward encounter afterward.

“He kept glaring at me the entire way back to the hospital,” Jungwon continued dramatically. “Honestly, it felt like I committed some unforgivable crime just by standing beside you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh lightly at the memory.

“And the funny thing is,” he added while pointing at you, “he still looks at me like that whenever he sees us together.”

Your laughter slowly faded into embarrassment as you remembered all the moments Sunghoon acted strangely around Jungwon before.

“I know…” Jungwon quickly raised both hands in surrender after seeing your expression shift. “I probably should’ve told you sooner, but I wanted you to realize it yourself.”

Then a teasing smile slowly appeared on his face.

“And judging from your reaction right now, I’m guessing he already confessed.”

“He did,” you admitted softly, still sounding shocked about everything yourself.

You stared at Jungwon for another second before shaking your head in disbelief.

“You’re seriously so observant,” you said while walking closer to him. “I didn’t realize you noticed that much.”

Without thinking much about it, you reached over and ruffled his hair playfully like he was a little kid, immediately earning an annoyed glare from him.

“Well,” Jungwon said while standing up from his chair and fixing his messy hair, “now that you’re gonna be a couple, you might want to tell him to stop getting jealous every time he sees us together.”

He pointed at himself as if presenting evidence.

“I don’t think I can survive those death stares much longer whenever I’m beside you.”

You laughed again at his exaggerated complaint.

“Of course I’ll tell him that, Jungwon,” you replied apologetically before lightly pinching the cheek beside his dimples. “And I’m sorry if he treated you like that because of me.”

“Okay,” Jungwon said immediately while pushing your hand away. “Maybe you should stop treating me like a child and start helping clean up again before the senior doctor walks in and sees us gossiping inside the operating room.”

“Right,” you replied with a small laugh before finally returning to work, though the smile on your face still hadn’t disappeared ever since reading Sunghoon’s text.

──────────────────────────────

Saturday came in a flash, and before you knew it, you were standing in front of your mirror, carefully applying a final layer of lipstick before pressing your lips together and checking the result.

You were nervous, of course, the kind that sat quietly in your chest but never fully left, because your first date with Sunghoon had once felt so far away it almost seemed impossible, and now it was finally happening.

You glanced at yourself again, probably for the hundredth time, making sure everything looked right before your eyes landed on your outfit.

A soft smile formed on your lips as you admired the light blue sundress you were wearing, the fabric flowing gently as you moved, making you feel both pretty and a little more nervous at the same time.

Before you could overthink anything further, the doorbell rang.

You flinched slightly at the sound, your heart jumping as reality suddenly set in.

Quickly grabbing your purse, you made your way downstairs, each step feeling a little heavier and faster at the same time until you finally reached the front door.

You paused there for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before finally reaching for the handle.

When you opened the door, Sunghoon was already standing there.

He was dressed in a cream colored button up shirt, the sleeves loosely rolled up to his forearms, giving him a relaxed yet effortlessly put together look. His shirt was neatly tucked into a pair of off white high waisted trousers, and his hair was styled neatly with his bangs pushed slightly to the right, revealing his forehead and the subtle undercut on the side.

For a second, you forgot how to breathe properly.

His eyes immediately lit up the moment they landed on you.

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice gentler than usual. “You look beautiful.”

As he spoke, his gaze slowly moved over your outfit from top to bottom, as if trying to take in every detail at once.

You felt your cheeks heat up almost instantly, but you still managed to smile at him.

“Thank you,” you replied softly. “You look handsome too, as always.”

That made his smile widen just a little more, like he was trying to hide how pleased he was.

“I do get that compliment a lot,” he said lightly, his tone teasing, “but it definitely feels different when it comes from you.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, feeling your face grow even warmer.

“Let’s just go,” you said quickly, trying to hide how flustered you were becoming.

Sunghoon noticed it immediately, of course, and instead of letting it go, he only teased you a little more under his breath before gently reaching for your hand.

His fingers intertwined with yours so naturally it almost felt like they were always meant to fit there.

Once you stepped outside together, you were greeted by his familiar silver BMW parked just by the curb, shining softly under the daylight.

The two of you walked toward it side by side as Sunghoon opened the passenger door for you without a word.

You carefully slipped inside, giving him a small ‘thank you’ as he closed the door gently behind you before walking around to the other side to join you.

Once inside, Sunghoon placed the car key into the ignition and started the engine, the vehicle coming to life with a soft hum.

As he began to drive, you couldn’t help but notice how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel, along with the way his eyes kept flicking towards the road, then briefly to his watch, as if silently counting down the minutes of his own nervousness.

It was unusual seeing him like this.

At the hospital, he was always composed, confident, and steady, the kind of person who seemed like he had everything under control no matter the situation.

But here, in the quiet space of the car with just the two of you, he looked almost human in a different way, and that realization made your chest feel strangely warm.

Without thinking too much about it, you gently placed your hand over his, the one resting near the gear shifter, softly grounding him in the moment.

“Hey,” you said quietly, your voice gentle and reassuring as your fingers lightly brushed against his. “Don’t be nervous. It’s just me.”

Sunghoon glanced at you when the car slowed at a red light, his expression softening as a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“That’s exactly why I’m nervous,” he admitted honestly, his voice quieter than usual. “Because it’s you.”

Your heart immediately skipped at his words, warmth spreading through you as you smiled back at him.

“Don’t be,” you replied, trying to sound calm despite the way your stomach flipped. “You look more nervous now than you did during your medical procedure yesterday.”

Sunghoon let out a soft shake of his head, as if your comparison was completely unreasonable.

“That procedure was easier,” he said simply, a small smile on his face.

That made you laugh lightly, unable to help yourself as you watched the faint dimples appear on his cheeks as he smiled.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

You arrived at a riverfront restaurant just as Sunghoon turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.

As always, he quickly walked around to your side and opened the door for you, offering his hand to help you out with a small, familiar smile.

Together, the two of you made your way towards the entrance.

This time, Sunghoon’s hand didn’t just hold yours, it shifted gently to the small of your back, guiding you forward with a quiet confidence that made your heart feel strangely light.

At the hostess stand, the woman greeted you both politely.

“Reservation for Park Sunghoon,” Sunghoon said smoothly.

The hostess checked the list for a moment before nodding and gesturing towards the dining area. “Table for two, this way please.”

You followed her lead as she guided you through the restaurant, past softly lit tables and towards a corner seat right beside the glass paneled windows. From there, the view opened up beautifully, the river stretching out wide under the soft glow of the setting sun.

You thanked the hostess as she left, and Sunghoon immediately pulled out your chair for you.

Once you were both seated, your attention drifted almost instantly to the view outside.

The sunset painted the sky in warm shades of orange and gold, reflecting softly over the water and creating a calm, almost dreamlike atmosphere.

“The view’s beautiful,” you murmured softly, your eyes still fixed outside as you took it all in.

“Mm,” Sunghoon hummed in agreement.

But when you finally turned your head to look at him, you realized his gaze wasn’t on the sunset at all.

He was already looking at you.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice softer than before. “It really is.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

The moment lingered just long enough for your heart to skip, but before you could react properly, a waiter arrived at your table and politely handed you the menu.

“Good evening, I am Minho, your waiter for tonight. What can I get you both?” the waiter asked, his gaze shifting between you and Sunghoon while holding a pen and notepad ready.

“I’d like a steak, medium rare, with vegetables on the side and mashed potatoes,” Sunghoon said as he scanned the menu one last time before looking up at you.

“And for the lovely lady?” the waiter added politely, turning his attention to you as he waited for your order.

“Um…” you hesitated, eyes still scanning the menu.

Almost everything on it looked expensive. Why did Sunghoon choose this restaurant for a first date? It was beautiful, yes, but definitely way out of your usual range.

You were so caught up in staring that you didn’t realize how long you had been silent, until Sunghoon called your name gently. “Y/N, still deciding?” he asked softly.

That snapped you back to reality.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I’ll just have the baby back ribs.”

“Alright, and for the sides?” the waiter continued.

“I’ll just have the same as him,” you replied without thinking too much about it.

“Anything else?” the waiter asked again.

“I think I’m already good with mine,” Sunghoon said, then turned to you. “How about you?”

“I’m good too,” you answered.

“Great,” the waiter said with a nod. “How about drinks?” he added while flipping a page on his notepad.

“I’ll have a Coke, please,” Sunghoon answered.

The waiter wrote it down before turning to you. “Ma’am?”

“I’ll have the same,” you said.

“Okay then. Your orders will be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said as he collected the menu from both of you.

Sunghoon thanked him, and the waiter walked away towards the kitchen.

A few moments later, another waiter arrived to place glasses of water on your table along with complimentary snacks, a small bowl of nuts.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Sunghoon beat you to it.

“She’s allergic to nuts,” he said immediately, offering a polite smile. “You can take it back, it's alright.”

The waiter nodded and quickly removed the bowl.

Once he left, you turned to Sunghoon. “Thank you,” you said softly. He only shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

He took a sip of water, while you hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“You know…” you began casually, “I liked you back then too.”

The moment the words left your mouth, Sunghoon choked on his drink.

You stared at him for a second, trying your hardest not to laugh as he quickly patted his chest, recovering.

“I…” he said between coughs. “I didn’t know.”

You let out a soft chuckle.

“I just never told you,” you explained. “It was during our first year working together. I saw how good you were at your job, and how calm you always were even under pressure. I think I started liking you even when you were still a bit cold to me back then.”

That made Sunghoon go completely quiet. For once tonight, he didn’t have a quick reply.

He just sat there staring at you, eyes widened and cheeks slowly turning red.

Then he let out a long breath, almost like he was releasing all the tension he had been carrying for years.

“Do you know how much I overthought confessing to you?” he admitted. “I really thought I didn’t stand a chance. I had no idea you felt the same all this time.”

You smiled at him gently.

“Sorry,” you teased lightly. “I guess I was just good at hiding it.”

That earned a small laugh from him.

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “You really are.”

You leaned back a little, then added casually, “I actually thought you and Nurse Wonyoung were dating at one point.”

Sunghoon immediately frowned in confusion. “Why would you think that?”

“Well…” you mumbled, “I saw you two in the hallway before, and she was really close to you while talking. I just assumed… since you didn’t move away or anything.”

Sunghoon let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry you saw that,” he said honestly. “I zone out a lot, especially when I’m tired. I wasn’t even really paying attention that day. I only realized she was talking to me when she tapped my shoulder.”

“Oh,” you said, nodding slowly as it finally made sense.

Then you quickly added, a bit embarrassed, “Sorry for assuming things like that… and maybe eavesdropping a little.”

He smiled softly. “It’s okay.”

Then his expression softened even more as he reached across the table and gently took your hand.

“And just so you know,” he said quietly, thumb brushing lightly against your skin, “there’s no one else I like. There never really was.”

His eyes stayed on yours as he added, even softer this time, “It was always you.”

Your heart felt like it stopped for a second.

You smiled at him, unable to hide how warm you felt as he looked at you like that, like you were the only person in the room.

But just as the moment between you and Sunghoon started to deepen again, a waiter arrived at your table with a polite smile, carefully setting down the dishes one by one as if nothing important had just been interrupted.

“Steak for you, and ribs for the lady,” he announced calmly while placing the plates in front of you.

He then followed with the drinks, setting them down neatly beside each respective plate.

“And your drinks,” he added with a small nod before stepping back.

“Enjoy your meal.”

The moment he walked away, there was a brief silence between you and Sunghoon.

You both just stared at each other for a second, as if processing what had just happened again, before the tension completely broke.

And then, almost at the same time, you both burst into laughter.

It wasn’t loud at first, just soft chuckles that quickly grew as the absurd timing finally caught up with both of you.

Sunghoon leaned back slightly in his chair, still laughing as he shook his head in disbelief.

“Getting interrupted for the third time,” he said between laughs, wiping at the corner of his eye, still smiling brightly, “damn it.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

As the two of you continued eating, the conversation settled into something more comfortable, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel awkward anymore but instead felt warm.

Sunghoon set his utensils down for a moment and reached for a tissue, wiping his mouth before glancing up at you as if he had been thinking about something for a while.

“By the way,” he said casually, though there was a hint of honesty in his tone, “I used to think you and Jungwon were dating too.”

You paused mid-bite, eyes widening slightly as you slowly set your fork down.

“Why?” you asked, genuinely surprised.

He shrugged, leaning back slightly in his chair.

“You two are really close,” he explained. “And you’re always together at work. I guess… seeing you with him all the time made me a bit jealous.”

The last part came out quieter than the rest, almost like he didn’t fully intend to admit it out loud.

That made you smile immediately, your expression softening as you looked at him.

There was something about seeing him like this, honest and a little vulnerable, that made your chest feel warm.

“Don’t worry,” you said gently. “I never thought of Jungwon that way. He’s like a little brother to me. With me being an only child, I always kind of wanted a younger brother. And I think Jungwon naturally filled that role without even trying.”

Sunghoon nodded slowly, listening to you carefully as he picked up his glass of water again.

Then, almost casually, you added, “I should say, I only ever had my eyes on you since day one.”

That made him freeze for a split second.

His gaze immediately shifted away from you, as if suddenly finding the table extremely interesting, while the tips of his ears turned visibly red.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his reaction. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” you teased lightly.

And that only made things worse.

Sunghoon’s ears turned an even deeper shade of red as he quickly looked back at you, clearly trying to regain his composure while failing miserably at it.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Dinner ended with conversations that seemed to flow endlessly between the two of you, moving from light teasing to stories about your personal lives, with occasional complaints about work slipping in between.

Somewhere along the way, you realized you were seeing a completely different side of Sunghoon tonight. Not the composed doctor everyone admired at the hospital, nor the cold and intimidating co-worker you first met years ago.

This version of him was softer, quieter, and unexpectedly easy to talk to. And the more he smiled at you throughout the night, the more it felt like you were slowly getting to know the real him.

By the time the two of you stepped out of the restaurant, night had already fully settled over the city.

The warm sunset from earlier was long gone, replaced by a dark sky scattered with faint stars above, while the city lights reflected beautifully against the river nearby.

You found yourself smiling to your own thoughts, grateful for how wonderful the night had already been. Honestly, if the date ended there, you would’ve already gone home happy.

So naturally, you expected Sunghoon to lead you towards the parking lot.

But instead, he guided you towards the front side of the restaurant and further down the pathway connected to a nearby marina. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion as you followed him.

Then you saw it.

A small yacht sat docked by the far end of the marina, gently swaying against the water under the city lights.

You immediately turned to Sunghoon with widened eyes. “We’re riding that?” you asked, completely caught off guard.

Sunghoon only smiled at your reaction, clearly pleased that he had surprised you. “Yeah,” he answered simply. “The night’s not over yet.”

Before you could even process it properly, he intertwined his fingers with yours again and gently led you towards the yacht.

A man you assumed was the driver was already waiting nearby. He greeted the two of you politely while Sunghoon returned a small nod before stepping aboard first.

Then he turned back to you and extended his hand carefully. You placed your hand in his, allowing him to help you step inside safely.

“I didn’t know this restaurant lets customers go on yacht rides,” you admitted while glancing around the elegant interior in amazement.

“They don’t,” Sunghoon replied casually.

You looked back at him.

“I rented it.”

Your mouth parted in disbelief. “You did not.”

Sunghoon chuckled softly at your reaction, clearly amused by how shocked you looked. “I wanted tonight to be perfect,” he admitted quietly.

Your chest immediately tightened at his words.

Looking at him standing there under the soft marina lights, you realized just how much thought he had put into every single part of tonight.

“It’s already perfect,” you replied softly while holding his hand tighter. “Because I’m with you.”

For a second, Sunghoon simply stared at you again with that same look he always gave you lately, soft, affectionate, and almost disbelieving that this was real.

Then he smiled.

“Come on,” he said gently before leading you towards the edge of the yacht.

The two of you stood beside the metal railings at the front of the yacht just as the engine finally started beneath your feet.

A few moments later, the yacht slowly began pulling away from the marina, the city lights gradually growing farther behind you.

You rested your hands against the railing while admiring the view around you.

The buildings along the shore glowed beautifully against the dark water, their reflections shimmering with every small movement of the waves.

A cool breeze brushed softly against your skin, causing your dress to sway gently with the wind as you inhaled deeply, letting yourself fully enjoy the moment.

Then you turned your head slightly towards Sunghoon.

He was quietly watching the waves beside you, his expression calmer than you had ever seen it before.

As if sensing your gaze, he looked back at you almost immediately, a soft smile already forming on his lips.

“Thank you, Sunghoon,” you said sincerely. “You really made our first date special.”

Without overthinking it, you leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss against his cheek.

Sunghoon froze for half a second before letting out a shy laugh, the tips of his ears turning red once again.

“You’re welcome,” he replied sheepishly, smiling at you in a way that made your heart race all over again. “Anything for you.”

Just then, a burst of bright color suddenly illuminated the sky beside you, followed by the loud crack of fireworks echoing over the river.

Your eyes widened in surprise as another one exploded shortly after, then another, until the dark night sky was filled with shimmering colors and cascading lights reflected beautifully against the water below.

You turned towards them in awe, the glow from the fireworks dancing across your face as you watched them bloom overhead.

“Did you plan this too?” you asked, glancing at Sunghoon with disbelief still evident in your voice.

Sunghoon shook his head with a small laugh.

“No,” he admitted. “But I did read online that there’s usually a fireworks display by the river every Saturday night.”

You looked at him fondly before smiling to yourself.

“You really are a meticulous person,” you teased softly before turning your attention back to the fireworks.

The colors reflected beautifully in your eyes as you admired the display, completely mesmerized by how close everything felt from the yacht.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

The only sounds surrounding you were the waves beneath the yacht, the distant city noise, and the fireworks continuously bursting above.

Then, quietly, you heard Sunghoon call your name.

“Y/N.”

“Hm?” you hummed softly before turning back to him.

The moment you did, your breath caught slightly.

Sunghoon was already staring at you.

Not at the fireworks.

Not at the view.

Just you.

His eyes slowly moved from yours down to your lips before he swallowed nervously, almost like he was trying to gather courage.

Then, slowly, he stepped closer.

You stayed still as he closed the distance between you, already sensing what he wanted to do from the way his gaze softened.

He stopped only inches away, close enough for you to feel his breath against your skin.

One of his hands gently cupped your cheek while your noses nearly brushed from how little space remained between you.

But even then, he still didn’t kiss you immediately. Instead, Sunghoon looked into your eyes first, almost silently asking for permission, waiting to see if you would pull away.

When he found no hesitation in your expression, only warmth, he finally leaned in as his lips met yours softly.

Your breath hitched at the contact, your entire body freezing for half a second as the reality of the moment sank in. You were kissing Sunghoon.

And somehow, despite everything that had happened between you both, it still felt unreal.

Then slowly, you closed your eyes and kissed him back.

His lips moved gently against yours, warm and careful, fitting perfectly with your own as if this moment had been waiting to happen for a long time now.

His other hand slid carefully to your back, pulling you slightly closer while your fingers instinctively clutched the fabric of his shirt.

The world around you seemed to blur after that.

The fireworks, the river, the city lights, everything faded quietly into the background while the two of you stayed there wrapped in each other’s presence.

For the first time in weeks, nothing interrupted you.

Eventually, Sunghoon pulled away slightly, both of you breathing softly as he rested his forehead against yours.

Then he looked at you again, his eyes filled with something so sincere it made your chest ache.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, still holding you close. “Will you make me the happiest person alive and be my girlfriend?”

The hopeful look in his eyes immediately made you smile.

“Of course, Sunghoon,” you answered softly. “I’d love to.”

The smile that spread across his face afterward was so wide and genuine that you could even see the small sharpness of his fangs appearing as he laughed quietly in relief.

Then, unable to help himself, he leaned in once more.

Beneath the fireworks still bursting across the night sky, reflecting in the water around you, the two of you fell into another kiss, slower this time, softer, like neither of you were in any hurry to let go of the moment.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

After spending a little more time together on the yacht, simply talking while the city lights reflected against the water, Sunghoon eventually drove you home.

The car ride back felt calmer compared to earlier, but in the best way possible.

Your intertwined hands rested quietly between the two of you for most of the drive, and every now and then, you would catch him glancing at you during red lights with the same soft smile he had been wearing the entire night.

Soon, his car slowly pulled over in front of your apartment.

Neither of you moved immediately after the engine stopped. It was almost as if neither of you wanted the night to end just yet.

Eventually, you unbuckled your seatbelt before turning to him with a small smile still lingering on your lips.

“Goodnight, Sunghoon,” you said softly. “And thank you for such a memorable first date.”

Sunghoon smiled back at you instantly as he slowly reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for a brief second against your cheek.

“Goodnight, pretty,” he murmured softly.

That immediately made your cheeks warm again.

You laughed quietly under your breath before finally opening the car door and stepping outside.

The cool night air greeted you once more as you adjusted your purse over your shoulder before turning back to him.

“Drive safely, okay?” you reminded him.

Sunghoon nodded obediently, still smiling at you like he couldn’t quite believe tonight actually happened.

“I will.”

You waved goodbye before walking towards the entrance of your apartment, but just before stepping inside, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Sunghoon was still there.

Still sitting inside the car, watching you carefully as if making sure you got inside safely before he could finally leave.

When he noticed you looking back at him again, a soft smile immediately appeared on his face as he lifted his hand for another small wave.

You smiled back, feeling your chest warm all over again before finally unlocking the front door of your apartment and stepping inside.

Just before the door fully closed behind you, you glanced outside one last time and saw Sunghoon finally driving away, his car disappearing slowly down the quiet street.

You stayed there for a moment, leaning lightly against the door as your heart continued racing from everything that had happened tonight.

Then a smile slowly spreads across your lips.

Because one thing was certain.

There was no way you would ever forget your first date with Park Sunghoon.

──────────────────────────────

The doctors’ lounge was quieter than usual that Monday morning.

Not empty, never empty, but calm in that brief window between rounds where the hospital almost forgot how chaotic it could become a few minutes later.

You were seated on one of the chairs, half-focused on a chart in your hands, though your attention kept drifting away for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with work.

Sunghoon was beside you.

Too close to feel strictly professional. Too calm to feel entirely fair.

He was scrolling through a report on his phone, but his knee was lightly brushing yours under the small table between you, like it had become something so natural neither of you bothered acknowledging it anymore.

You glanced at him from the side, watching him for a moment before finally speaking.

“You’re distracting me,” you said softly, though your eyes were still lowered towards the chart as if you were trying to pretend otherwise.

“I’m not doing anything,” he replied immediately, not even bothering to look up from his phone.

“That’s the problem,” you murmured under your breath, and that was enough to finally make him turn his head to you.

His expression was relaxed, almost effortless, but his eyes softened the moment they landed on you, like they always did now without him even trying.

“You’re in a mood today,” he said.

“You’re in my space,” you corrected immediately.

He hummed thoughtfully, as if actually considering your complaint, then casually reached out to fix your hair that had fallen across your face. His fingers lingered near your head just a second too long before he pulled back.

“You missed a patient earlier,” he said simply.

“I didn’t,” you insisted right away, narrowing your eyes at him in protest.

“You did,” he repeated, entirely unbothered, as if it was the most obvious truth in the world.

You tried to look offended, but the faint curve forming at the corner of your lips completely betrayed you, and Sunghoon noticed it immediately.

He leaned back against the chaur again, looking far too satisfied with himself, though his hand still remained loosely intertwined with yours between you, as if neither of you had thought to let go or found a reason to.

And for a brief moment, everything around you just… settled in a way that felt unfamiliar but not uncomfortable, almost like the world had decided to pause just long enough for you to exist like this without interruption.

Too peaceful.

Too soft.

Too domestic for two people who used to struggle just to exist in the same schedule without missing each other entirely.

“Oh my god.”

Both of you turned at the same time towards the entrance.

Sunoo was standing there holding a folder in one hand, staring at the scene in front of him with an expression so deeply offended that it looked like he had walked in on something he could never unsee.

“I need you both to know,” he said flatly, his tone completely devoid of emotion, “this is disgusting.”

You blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”

Sunghoon didn’t even react much, only glancing at him briefly before returning to his relaxed posture as if nothing about this situation was worth changing.

Sunoo stepped further inside, pointing between the two of you with increasing intensity.

“This,” he continued, voice rising slightly now, “this right here is exactly what I suffered for.”

You frowned. “You suffered?”

He scoffed loudly, like the question itself was insulting. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to watch two emotionally unavailable doctors practically orbit each other for weeks without doing anything about it? I have aged. I am not the same person anymore.”

Sunghoon finally spoke, still calm. “We were not orbiting each other.”

Sunoo stared at him for a long, deliberate second.

“You interrupted your own confession multiple times,” he said flatly.

Silence fell for a beat.

“…Okay,” Sunghoon admitted after a pause, completely unfazed.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh as Sunoo nodded. “Anyway. You’re welcome. I single-handedly improved your love life. I should be rewarded.”

“You should be working,” Sunghoon replied.

“That’s what you choose to say after I changed your love life?” he asked, acting shocked.

Then he turned towards the door dramatically. “Whatever, I’m leaving before I get secondhand diabetes from watching this. It’s honestly offensive.”

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly. “You’re the one who planned all of this.”

“And I regret nothing,” Sunoo said instantly, pausing only to add, “except Jay. I regret doing the plan with Jay.” Then he turned and walked out just as quickly as he had come in.

“Try not to be too in love!” he called over his shoulder. “It’s embarrassing!”

The door closed behind him, and the lounge finally fell into silence again.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything, as if both of you were still processing the sheer chaos that had just walked in and out of the room.

Then you both laughed.

Soft at first, then a little easier, like something that had been stuck in your chest for weeks had finally loosened.

“He’s unbelievable,” you said between breaths.

“He’s going to get worse,” Sunghoon replied calmly.

“i thought that was already his worst,” you countered immediately.

“Nope, he still has more of that,” he said seriously.

That made you laugh again, and when it finally faded, the silence that followed didn’t feel empty anymore, but instead warm and steady in a way that made staying in it feel easy.

Sunghoon’s phone vibrated shortly after.

He checked it, and almost instantly, his expression shifted in that subtle way you were beginning to recognize, his shoulders tightening for just a moment before easing back down again.

You noticed immediately. “Work?”

He nodded once. “Emergency consult.”

There was a brief pause between you that felt heavier than words, though not uncomfortable, just aware.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and stood up slowly, taking his time as if he wasn’t fully in a hurry to leave just yet.

Before you could even say anything, he stepped closer.

One hand lifted to your cheek again, familiar now, like it had always belonged there.

You didn’t get the chance to tease him before he leaned in and kissed you.

It was a soft and sudden one, a kiss that felt like there wasn’t any hesitation anymore, just certainty.

When he pulled away, he stayed close for a moment longer, his forehead almost brushing yours as if he didn’t want to let go yet.

His phone vibrated again, cutting through the quiet between you.

“Duty calls,” he murmured quietly, like it was both an excuse and an apology at the same time.

You watched the way his expression shifted for a second before he straightened fully, as if putting distance back in place with quiet discipline.

His gaze lingered on you for a second, warm but already pulling away.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he murmured quietly.

“I won’t,” you replied immediately, without even thinking.

He let out a quiet laugh, the kind that made it obvious he didn’t believe you for a second, then turned to leave.

But not before glancing back over his shoulder one last time, giving you a quick wink before finally walking out of the lounge.

You stayed seated for a little longer after he left, fingers lightly touching your lips as if your body was trying to memorize the feeling even as your mind replayed it on its own.

And somehow, the hospital still looked the same.

But nothing about you felt the same anymore.

══════════════════════════════

author's note: thank you so much for all the love and support you’ve given this story from part 1 until part 2 🫶

i’m sorry it took me a while to finish part 2. i really wanted the story to flow properly while still keeping the slow burn feel without making everything happen too fast

honestly, i had so much fun writing this fic that i found myself giggling and feeling butterflies while rereading some scenes myself 😭 i really hope you guys felt the same emotions while reading it too

this story became really special to me, especially because i enjoyed writing every interaction, every interruption, and every little moment between Y/N and sunghoon

thank you again for reading until the end and for supporting my writing >< your comments and support are honestly what keeps me motivated to continue writing and improving with every fic i make

☙ taglist:

@kristynaaah @oopshee @satorus-slut @hueningsgirl @h0neylemon @shaiimuraaa @seungpymin @jaeunaria0-0 @livimura @babbatt @infernallyangelic @browni3sh @loveydoveyez @nct-sticker-127 @veemegatron @areikii @ravenslocked @softtorus @dmstoyangyang @mhoonkissed @truelovearmstay @renapersa @peachyaeger @violetteaismyfavourite @melsvqz @ryukumi @subbypuppyij @joohyunrene @sagittmistakes @svtenfate @hannahlovesenhypen @vananas @soymilkenthusiasts @sunnimia @xolinn

[kissued]

UNSCRIPTED ᢉ𐭩 NISHIMURA RIKI

PROMPT ⋮ SHOW YOU OFF #XOXOVALENTINES2026

SYNOPSIS ⋮ when the cameras stop rolling and the lights dim, some things are supposed to fade with them. you’re not supposed to fall in love with your co-star. your co-star isn’t supposed to care about you the way he does. unfortunately, neither of you have ever been very good at following the script.

GENRE ⌗ PAIRING ⋮ fluff. kdrama actor!riki x actress!reader. written + smau

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ SFW. KDRAMA ACTOR!AU. toxic industry, angst, eventual comfort/fluff, riki is a YEARNER, skinship, kissing, fem!reader, reader stars as han seri, nishimura riki as haruto marukami. parallels. miscommunication.

AN ⋮ whew it’s finally here. i didn’t mean for this to be 15k words i’m sorry.. i’m like two weeks late to valentines but i hope this still brings the romance vibe regardless. thank you @dollhoonki for hosting this with me! ur the sweetest ever <3333 also this is BARELY proofread because i was in such a rush to upload this asap, sorry… haha. Enjoy it Anyway Ok?

PLAYING ⋮ in the dark — venturing, bedsheets — illusion hills, about you — the 1975, basically any yearner song you can think of

WC ⋮ 15k

NISHIMURA RIKI was the love of your life. there wasn’t any question to it.

perhaps it took you a little over sixteen episodes to realise this—but when you did, oh—the feeling came full force, tugging, pushing at every heart string until you could no longer remember a single line of yours until he was off set.

the producers always found it odd. director kim thought there was a particularly niche charm behind it: made the chemistry ten times realer, and a hundred times more beautiful. he remembers when riki would stand in the rain, as the scene had called for, and you’d jumble up your words so horribly that they’d need at least six takes. six.

“y/n, dear god, are you sure you even went to hanlim?”

and you’d shrugged it off, as anyone else would.

but by the time episode five had aired, you’d watched yourself back on the premiere and almost peeled your skin off at how utterly lovestruck you looked in 4k resolution.

did you dream up hanlim, or did nishimura riki just have that effect on everyone?

what seemed even more puzzling was the fact that he was so understanding, weirdly kind about it all—telling you that it’s okay if you need twenty takes for a simple hallway-brush-of-fingers scene, or if you take a little too long to remember a line half-way into filming.

“it’s okay, y/n, really. we’re still on schedule, right?”

he’ll pass you a water bottle. wrap your blanket around you a little tighter because the set was, for some reason, planted in the middle of snowy seoul. you’re shivering and nishimura riki’s smiling at you, gentle and fuzzy like he doesn’t know he’s warmed you up more than the sweet coffee the makeup artists offered you earlier in the morning.

and there was those evenings when the cameras rolled a little too far past schedule—the sun bleeding into your hair, golden, soaking your skin in something he can’t quite replicate with a script.

it’s exactly why director kim just tells him to go with his gut. there’s nothing that a script-writer could pen and flesh out that’ll capture the way nishimura riki looks into your eyes—the way his hands reach for the small of your back, pulling you into his faux fur winter coat—dropping his head into your neck, small pecks against your forehead before the scripted goodbye.

“goodnight, seri.”

and though he mutters an entirely different name, production (and literally the entire cast) knows just who he’s referring to.

─────────────────────────

WHEN DO YOU REALISE YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON YOUR CO-STAR?

it’s after episode four.

the restaurant is tiny with the smell of oil and salt clinging to the walls—a hum of conversation buzzes around you, soft enough that it feels like the world has paused or turned it’s volume down.

you’re both exhausted. makeup’s smudged in places you don’t, can’t even care about, and your clothes are sticking to skin from hours under studio lights. the day has been eighteen hours of lights, cameras, endless retakes, and you can feel every second of it pressing down.

especially now.

riki sits across from you, stirring his drink absentmindedly, eyes never leaving your face. he’s looking at the way you desperately slurp your noodles, almost snickering at how you don’t even take a second glance at him once your noodles arrived.

“you like it?”

you’re nothing like what you post on instagram. he knows because he checks it every few days, even if he’s not allowed to follow you.

“fuck, this is amazing,” you mumble between slurps, chopsticks moving at lightning speed as they meet your lips. “you should’ve brought me here sooner!”

riki smiles softly, cheeks turning a light pink—the steam and your pure hunger blinds you to it, though. thankfully.

he leans into the leather seat, the booth suddenly feeling a little too warm for his liking. he’s not sure if it’s just in his head or if it’s all you.

regardless, riki blames it on the way you’re laughing through your noodles—the way his ears automatically pick up on every huff and giggle of yours. it’s making him feel all fuzzy.

nishimura riki needs to be up at seven tomorrow. you do too. so why are you kicking each other’s feet under the table at two in the morning, in some random ramen place?

and then his phone dings—it’s a reminder for 5 hours from now, which is the time he has to be up and ready to go on his morning run.

he continues to watch your hands move, noodles slipping from your grasp, chopsticks wobbling clumsily between your fingers, and he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.

“you’re… fast,” he says quietly, voice soft, almost drowned out by the low hum of the restaurant.

you pause, mid-slurp, finally glancing up. “excuse me?”

your eyebrows raise, questioning, and he tilts his head. “fast eater,” he clarifies, chuckling under his breath. “hungry girl.”

heat crawls up your neck and spreads over your cheeks like spice powder. or maybe you’ve just put too much of it in your broth.

you’re not sure why this feeling in your stomach is specific to nishimura riki. you’ve heard of actors falling in love with each other—it’s what the crazy production schedules and close proximity does to you. the shared ambitions, the romance that they make you imitate on screen… it’s not special.

and yet.

there’s something in the way he says it. something in the soft lift of his lips, the warmth that flickers in his eyes, the patient way he watches you devour your noodles without a hint of judgment. not like the other co-stars, not like the crew, not like anyone who’s ever stared at you expecting a performance.

he sees you.

all of you.

and for the first time that week, maybe even that month, you feel… comfortable. like you could put down that annoyingly tight mask and not fear the world crumbling.

“full?” his eyes flicker momentarily to your emptying bowl, about three quarters done now. he takes another slow sip of his drink, his posture visibly relaxing at the warm liquid that glides down his throat.

“mhm,” you hum and then sigh, peering into your bowl to see a bowl licked clean of any soupy remains and lost noodles. “very.”

the warmth blooming in your chest feels more dizzying than the lack of sleep. your fingers place your chopsticks on your bowl, resting across it’s rim, chest still hammering like it wanted your heart out of it’s bony cage.

riki looks awfully casual, but his eyes never leave you. they glimmer in the warm light above your heads and the quiet focus in his gaze is intoxicating, like he’s taking you all in.

“what?” riki asks, not expecting any answer in particular; it’s more to tell you that he acknowledges the way you’re looking at him right now, and that he thinks it’s cute.

you can’t tell if it’s nerves, exhaustion, or something else entirely—all you know is that you want to keep looking back at him. over and over.

“do you always bring your coworkers out to dinner?”

riki chuckles, the blonde streak in his hair falling over his forehead. his nose scrunches as he laughs at your seemingly hilarious question—you can only stare blankly at him, anyway.

“hey,” you say, half-offended, half-curious. “it’s a valid question.”

riki shakes his head, still smiling. “no,” he says easily. “i don’t.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “so what, i’m special?”

it’s meant to be teasing, but he doesn’t answer immediately. the lag registers even in your extremely exhausted brain.

instead, riki’s just looking at you—strict, sharp eyebrows pinching in a way you’ve become familiar with. he does it when he’s not sure it what he’s going to say should even be said at all.

why is he looking at you like that, anyway?

“i just thought you’d like it,” he says finally, softer, like it doesn’t mean much. “you looked like you needed something real. that shit they were giving during filming had to be poison. even i couldn’t finish it.”

and it’s odd how true yet unequivocally false that reason is. yes, riki saw you visibly grimace at the thought of relying on energy drinks for fuel—and while he was also deathly worried that your heart might spontaneously combust, his reason for bringing you here is actually quite selfish.

he hates the way you act.

no; don’t get him wrong. he thinks you’re a brilliant actor. he’s watched every drama you’ve starred in as preparation for this one—he thinks the emotions you bring, the characters you wear, the words you spill are breathtaking. unmatched by anyone else.

correction: the acting he hates is the face you put on in front of everyone else, even if the cameras stop rolling.

the polite smile, the effortless charm, the perfectly curated instagram posts—he knows it’s a mask. he knows the real you is tucked somewhere under the exhaustion, the stubborn pride, the stress of everyone expecting you to be untouchable.

you falter. sometimes.

it’s in moments like when a shoot finally ends and your posture loosens, and immediately straightens again. or when you fall asleep on that grey couch in the makeup room, or when you think for a minute before declining a sweet treat from a staff member.

“you’re a little too observant for my liking,” you smile—and it’s like the world just stops for the man in front of you at a little flash of teeth.

“what kind of co-star would i be if i wasn’t?”

and maybe it’s the way the warm light hits his face. or it’s the faint scent of his cologne lingering, or the way his eyes crinkle when he actually smiles at you that gets your heart rate all sputtery and jumpy. you don’t really care.

your chest flutters, small and traitorous, and your fingers curl slightly into your palms—your nails sink into the flesh, like the pain is the only thing keeping you from leaning across the table and closing that distance.

“aren’t you scared someone’s gonna see us together?”

riki tilts his head, eyes catching yours with a faint gleam, like he’s intrigued that you’d even ask such a thing. “i know the owner. plus, even if someone did see us—i don’t think that’d be so bad.”

you let a short huff escape your nose, the sound barely registering above the hum of the restaurant, and you feel the heat creeping up your neck and to your ears.

it’s ridiculous. absurd, even. and yet you can’t deny the tiny pulse of thrill that runs through your chest. or maybe it’s just the tiny, demonic voices of your PR team telling you to get the hell out of there.

you glance down at your noodles, pretending to be distracted, but you’re acutely aware of him—the tilt of his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice, the fact that he sees you and doesn’t want to blink. just in case you’ll vanish.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

riki leans back slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and your stomach twists at the way it feels like he’s reading every thought you haven’t dared speak.

“meaaans,” he says slowly, lowering his head as if weighing the right words, “i am really good at handling PR matters. have you seen my insta—“

“riki!”

and then, you’re laughing in this tiny booth with him at two in the morning, acting like you’re anyone but the two people who have a week’s worth of activities crammed into a single day tomorrow—lips curling upwards, cheeks flushed in something unapologetically real.

but now riki’s looking at you with a calm so unfazed it makes you want to stop feeling altogether. the electricity in your veins is too loud, too sharp, and it makes zero sense—this isn’t supposed to happen now. it’s supposed to be that thick collection of paper that makes it romantic; the production. editing. soundtrack. where the hell are the cameras?

still, here he is, just sitting there. watching you like the world has narrowed down to this booth, this laugh, this stolen slice of time that he’s personally dragged you away for.

no slow love song. no slow motions or directed touches. just the two of you.

you can’t move, can’t look away, can’t do anything but feel it all.

has he always looked this good?

─────────────────────────

HE CALLS YOU CUTE IN THIS EPISODE.

seri is once again sacrificing precious hours of sleep to finish a dumb project with her involuntarily chosen partner—it’s two in the morning and he’s slumped over the coffee table, staring straight into her eyes, cheek smushed against his forearm as he counts the stars in her sparkly irises.

“i appreciate it, you know,” riki, or rather haruto, mumbles, and you almost snicker at the way the pen falls from between his fingers, spinning abruptly stopped. you’re not sure if that was part of his lines. “i was falling asleep in that lecture. i’m incredibly blessed to have you as my partner.”

“am i supposed to believe you?”

your pen scratches against the thick notebook paper, your mind scrambling to remember just what happens next—you’re doing great so far, writing everything the script had detailed, neatly, fitting everything into a single row. “anyway, this isn’t free, y’know. just cause you were sleeping, doesn’t mean i have to catch you up on everything.”

riki holds his knee close to his chest, tucked tight as his arm leans against the wood. he props his head up, lazily, like he was going to knock out cold any moment now.

the camera’s are panning towards him, close-ups, focusing on the way his eyes linger on your face. partially obscured by your hair, your irises peek through your locks, jumping around as you read the textbook that’s splayed open between the two of you. some random mathematical theorem nonsense the crew borrowed from a local library.

“oh?”

you know he’s watching. you know that this is what’s supposed to happen. you also know there’s at least thirty people watching you two do this—but that’s never been an issue. this is literally your job. you’ve been paid to do this for years, and so has riki; but it doesn’t make the pounding in your chest subside.

you’re about ten cues away from that damn line. you’re not sure why you’re counting, actually—you just know that it’s not out of your own volition.

you couldn’t help yourself when you saw it: riki’s line, a single, meaningless thing that was printed in thick ink on your scripts.

you had to restart with every run. you’d somehow jumble up all your words once you got to it. it is up to the heavens now that you remember all your lines, all your movements, all your memorised expressions once it happens.

“so, what do i owe you, my dear partner?” riki smiles, wide, easy. like he really means it—like the camera’s aren’t rolling right now, catching every faint glimmer in your eyes as you turn towards him, just as expected. your hair falls away from your face, your face glowing under the warm light cast overhead. “i think that this is enough. my presence is a gift.”

“you’re funny, haruto,” you scoff, and while it was truly humorous—enough for you to burst into a fit of laughter—you weren’t trying to film an entire scene again. your head turns back to your laptop, fingers mashing away, before you remember just what’s about to happen:

“and you’re. . .” he pauses. you wince. “cute. like, you know—”

cut!

the director’s voice slices through the set from behind the camera. he crosses his right leg over his left, a soft smile settling on his weathered face as he lets out a measured sigh.

there are two sides to the coin director kim seems to value so much: on one, the kind of electric chemistry you can’t manufacture between just any two co-leads; on the other, the inevitability that one of you will ruin a take the second the proximity gets too real.

riki bites down on his bottom lip, worrying the skin raw before squeezing his eyes shut, as if that might shield him from the camera crew’s stares—and from the co-stars lingering just beyond the set.

this is bad. humiliating, even.

it’s one line. one stupid line that a fifth grader in a school play could deliver without blinking, and he’s tripping over it like he only decided to become an actor yesterday.

what the hell is wrong with him?

he knows the line. he’s memorized the entire script front to back, could probably recite your dialogue along with his if someone shook him awake at three in the morning. this scene isn’t heavy. it isn’t layered with subtext or grief or some grand emotional crescendo.

“you okay?”

your voice brings him back to this plane of reality embarrassingly fast. he opens his eyes before laughing dryly, scratching at the back of his neck in an attempt to play it off.

“yeah,” he replies, “i’m good.”

your eyebrow lifts, unconvinced, but you don’t press. instead, you turn toward the crew clustered behind the cameras and lighting rigs. the set hums back to life—indistinct chatter, footsteps shuffling across the floor, the click of equipment being adjusted.

“i’m so sorry!” he calls out to the staff, bowing his head slightly. there’s a beat, then a ripple of easy laughter.

it’s your damn face that’s ruining his ability to act. it just brings him back to that night—the one where you had soup on your chin and a feverish hunger in your eyes, when your face was bare from makeup swiping micellar water all over your face after filming.

damn this stupid scene. damn your pretty, bare face that keeps stealing all his focus.

and damn his lack of discipline.

a few quiet minutes pass as everyone resets. light technicians adjust the angles overhead; the cinematographer reviews the last clip in low murmurs. cables are checked, marks retaped, continuity confirmed.

director kim straightens in his foldable chair, posture sharpening with renewed focus. he rubs his chin once, contemplative, then looks back toward the monitor.

riki leans lightly against the couch prop pressing against his back, waiting for the cue. he stares at nothing in particular, jaw strung tight, anything to negate your presence next to him.

he feels like a little kid next to his crush.

a makeup artist steps in to reapply balm to his lips—he’s chewed most of it off without realizing earlier.

“stop biting.” she mutters gently, disposable applicator dabbing away at his lips. her gaze is oddly judgmental, like she knows exactly what’s going on.  is he being that obvious?

he gives her a sheepish nod. you can’t help but snicker at that—smiling at the way his ears flush a pretty peach hue when he realises you’re staring.

“can we test the mics one more time?” the sound engineer calls.

the boom dips. the red indicator light blinks on.

“haruto, give me a line, will you?”

riki swallows. “and you’re. . .” his voice catches for half a breath—his eyes flick up. it’s the wrong move. you’re still watching. “cute.”

it’s barely audible on their end. his mic must have shifted around while filming the previous scenes.

“have i lost my hearing?” the engineer frowns. “someone fix his mic—“

riki swallows, jaw tight, and instinctively fiddles with the collar where it—the mic—should’ve been sitting. it’s true it’s shifted, now upside down and barely clinging to the thin fabric inside his shirt, but he doesn’t exactly do a great job fixing it himself.

and you. being the angel you are, and maybe the devil whispering in his ear, step in.

“hold on,” you murmur, tugging the fabric aside and pressing the wire flat against his collarbone. your fingers brush his bare, warm skin for just a second, and he freezes while you readjust the audio device. “there. don’t move.”

nishimura riki thinks he’ll go into cardiac arrest—and while he is probably one of the best actors in the industry right now, most people on set could argue that there was nothing that could be done to hide the furious blush on his face… and the ways his eyes softened as your fingers grazed his skin.

he swallows trying to pull in a steadying breath, but his chest feels like it’s vibrating with a rhythm that doesn’t belong to his body. riki’s hands twitch at his sides, searching for something to direct his electrifying nerves to; the mic rests against his collarbone, perfectly adjusted thanks to you.

“thanks,” he mumbles when you pull away. you don’t reply, but the curl on the right corner of your lips speaks loud enough.

the crew murmurs while they adjust the lights, cameras, cables. it’s nothing to him, at least in this very moment—nishimura riki doesn’t notice when his name crackles through the earpiece, instead focusing on the odd suspension of time that floats around you: your eyelashes fluttering slowly, your movements that drag just behind everyone else’s.

“rolling!”

the red light flicks on.

it’s especially when the cameras start moving that he finds himself wishing—desperately—that there was a script for something like this.

─────────────────────────

THE MEDIA HAD IT’S FIELD DAY.

as usual.

it started small—harmless, almost predictable. every actor goes through this shit. it’s a promotional instagram story from riki: he always posts something from set. expensive sunglasses that he has no business wearing indoors. a blurry mirror selfie after hair and makeup, peace sign and all with a caption that means absolutely nothing.

you do the same. a quick snap in the dressing room mirror. a close-up of a prop you think is adorable. a behind-the-scenes shot of the couch from the confession scene. nothing incriminating. nothing meaningful.

and then the netizens begin.

they do their thing: zoom. crop. enhance. hell, there’s ship edits where you two aren’t even in the same frame.

it’s nothing you two aren’t used to. it’s never been new in this industry—you’ve lived through it all before, with different co-stars, different dramas, with less substantial “evidence”.

yet, with nishimura riki, you can barely keep it together.

it’s mostly because of the way you’re positioned conveniently in the corner of riki’s 19:6 story frame, half-hidden yet unmistakably you—with those winter boots and that painfully recognisable phonecase.

the way your laugh can be heard faintly in the background of one of his few stories.

the way your name somehow appears under almost every post he makes—tagged, mentioned, or simply standing two feet to his left.

but someone always has to notice the coffee, huh?

screenshots circulate within minutes. it’s two cups on the table. riki’s usual order written with his initials in black marker. and next to it, another cup with yours scribbled along the side.

next, someone replays that clip of him staring at you with a furious blush on his face—stunned, in all his glory, hands clawing at the fur carpet beneath you two like he needs something physical to remind himself this is real. it’s slowed down, zoomed in, sharpened to an almost criminal percentage. ‘so high school’ plays at half-volume over the edit, the chorus swelling right as your fingers brush his collarbone while fixing his mic, and the caption boldly justifies it by saying that co-stars don’t lose their voice over a simple, friendly interaction like that. be serious.

you tell yourself it’s ridiculous.

edits are manipulative by design. anyone can make a moment look bigger than it was.

still, you were there, and even without the slow motion or the corny music—you remember the way his breath hitched, the way nishimura riki’s throat bobbed before he forced out that soft, trembling “cute.”

watching it now, replayed for roughly 1.2 million people, your stomach does that same traitorous flip.

rikilover1234: does he know theres cameras

↳ jakrling127: i dont think he gaf tbh

it’s saturday. the episode aired five hours ago. you’ve been scrolling for two, refreshing your timeline like it personally owes you new information. every reload brings another slowed clip, another zoomed screenshot, another thread dissecting the exact millisecond his composure cracked.

it’s for a moment—just a fleeting, insignificant moment—you wonder if nishimura riki’s doing the same.

the thought lodges itself in your brain like a marble in a tin can, loud and impossible to ignore. is he seeing this? is he watching the same edits? does he know people are counting how many times he looked at you versus literally anythingelse in the room?

your thumb keeps swiping. your own face fills the screen again and again, interview snippets praising your performance, captions about how you “outdid yourself.”

yes! you should be focused on that.

and still, as if the fbi agent in your phone suddenly possessed mind-reading skills, your phone decided that riki’s clips need to keep slipping in between.

fans rambling about how different the atmosphere seemed when he was on set. how there was a glow on his face. how he wouldn’t stop smiling for nine out of ten minutes of the vlog. how he kept leaning toward you like you had your own orbit, and he was the moon.

someone stitches together every moment he laughs at something you say. another overlays heart graphics every time his eyes flick in your direction.

“my god,” you groan, feet kicking into the cushions on your sofa as you sink further in. a glass of wine sits on the edge of your glass table, still full from your distracted doomscroll.

you continue anyway.

scroll, scroll, scroll—and then, there’s something new.

it’s a past interview from when you first started filming together—around eight months ago. he’s wearing one of those expensive hoodies you can never pronounce, dark fabric swallowing his frame, sunglasses folded neatly on the table in front of him. the microphone looks obnoxiously huge against his face, headphones snug over his hair. it’s a radio show you’ve been on countless times before for different promotions.

the edit zooms mostly on him. the two hosts are cropped into smaller frames at the top so everyone stays visible. they bring you up, of course—how it’s like working with such a beloved actress, whether you’re still as kind and shy as you were during your first drama.

you snicker at your screen, cringing at the memory: you had been sweating bullets that day, barely able to form full sentences. absolutely stunned that anyone thought you deserved a talk show invite after one project.

“yeah! i remember she was stammering back then!” one of the hosts laughs, lighthearted.

and yet, riki doesn’t laugh with him.

he straightens instead, adjusts his posture. his hand slides off the table and folds neatly in his lap, like he’s bracing himself to answer something serious. the smile on his face softens—like he’s aware that they’re just teasing, and that he’s proud of the fact that if they saw you now, they’d never do it again.

he’s choosing his words.

“she’s amazing… incredibly talented. never worked with anyone like her,” nishimura riki replies, his voice crisp and clean through the obscenely expensive microphone pushed toward his mouth.

“i forget my words sometimes. everyone does,” he continues, fingers brushing the edge of the table before stilling. he tilts his head slightly, like he’s weighing whether he should say the next part at all.

he says it anyway.

“but when i look at her while filming, it all comes back to me. even if it’s not exactly the correct words, it just feels right.”

one of the hosts lets out a low, impressed hum. the other raises their brows, before looking towards the camera. “oh?”

riki only shrugs in response. like what he said wouldn’t fuel the endless ship edits to come in the months following.

and watching it now, eons later, you feel something shift uneasily in your chest—because at the time, you remember brushing it off, chalking it up to good media training. it’s co-star courtesy and polite admiration that was totally normal between two colleagues.

totally.

so why the hell are you blushing?

your nails clack against your screen as you click on the comments.

ericsohnsdirtysock: my parents… what do you mean it just feels right.?????

↳ xxjamesalphademoncoolxx: he is in love ill die on this y/nriki shaped hill

you laugh nervously, shaking your head. you bundle up into the woven blanket laid across your body, an odd idea considering the heat on your face just refuses to let up—perhaps it’s to hide your embarrassingly flushed face to whoever may be watching.

yes. it’s definitely that. your ancestors are shaking their heads, and you feel it.

your thumb moves almost without thinking. it’s a light tap: a stupidly, absurdly light amount of pressure that you think even an ant could outdo.

fuck.

the heart pops up anyway, and as fast as it does, your stomach plummets thirty floors down. splat, right on the concrete pavement below your complex.

your fingers freeze over your screen. your whole body has gone cold—this is catastrophic. an actress, liking a ship edit of her and her colleague. you might as well sign your contract termination.

oh, your agency is going to kill you.

─────────────────────────

IT’S NEARING MIDNIGHT.

the night is quiet, save for the steady rumble of riki’s car—he’s parked outside, not quite ready to roll into his garage just yet.

the gate to his house is tall in all it’s wooden glory. his house is humongous and dim from the lack of life in it, and he wonders for a moment if his dog is asleep yet, or waiting up for him. again.

still, he sinks further into the plush seat, pulling his phone out from his glovebox, refusing to let himself inside his own home.

the day had worn him out. endless shoots, modelling for brands that his manager insisted on promoting. it was five hours of posing with inconspicuous items that drained most of his energy, if tolerating that snobby photographer wasn’t the main cause.

well, at least the shots were good. nothing less expected from him.

the device feels heavy in his hands. it’s heavy, or perhaps he’s just too exhausted to be doing this. either way, it unlocks with one glance—and he’s opening instagram up. 

his other hand runs through his hair. some of the gel from this morning sticks to his fingers, but all he can do is sigh and scroll, looking for nothing in particular (lie), typing no one’s name into the search bar (lie), and clicking on a very unfamiliar profile (lie).

who is he kidding?

it’s your post from the evening after your last dinner together. you’re holding a cup of coffee, sunlight spilling over your face, eyes crinkled in a laugh at something off-camera. the warmth of it makes his chest tighten, a quiet, familiar ache he’s been trying to ignore.

nishimura riki leans back in the seat, the leather pressing against him, and suddenly the exhaustion of the day feels almost inconsequential—all he can see is you.

the tilt of your head, the subtle way your fingers wrap around the cup, the ease of a laugh that he’s learnt to memorise the pitch of.

and the truth registers then: like the slow turn of a key in a lock, or something he’s been waiting to even think about when he’s not busy smiling for a camera.

riki’s been thinking about you all damn day—between flashes and camera clicks, posing for shots that demanded every ounce of energy he had.

it’s not the exhaustion that weighs on him.

no—it’s you. it’s all fucking you.

why isn’t he switching to his burner account is beyond him. he’s playing with fire as his thumb swipes mindlessly, each meeting of his finger with the screen a silent dare to his image.

he continues through the endless feed, fatigue pressing into his bones, when something sharp catches his eye: a post from one of those gossip pages.

it’s like there really are government agents in his phone. sunghoon will receive a call about this, he notes.

the thumbnail makes him pause. there it is—your name, your face, and the tiny heart you’d left on a fan edit, now blown up for anyone to see. the caption teases, something about “who’s really behind these likes?” and it’s simply ridiculous how he can’t help the rush of warmth that hits his cheeks.

a grown man, smiling at his screen in his car. his elderly neighbour is going to have a stroke.

and then he’s opening the comments, the air leaving his lungs instantaneously: the comments are vicious, casual in their cruelty, dissecting your actions, judging, speculating with what little they had. like usual.

he’s officially lost it.

nishimura riki is worried. for you. his co-star. his colleague.

the comments only get worse the more he scrolls. he knows this pattern like the back of his hand: he’s seen it before with other leads, people who could shrug it off, people who didn’t matter—people who he’s never thought twice about.

riki tenses up again, chest tight, fingers curling around the phone like he can hold onto you through it.

they know nothing about you. nothing about how kind you are when no one’s watching, how your shyness blooms around people who mean well, how your laugh—a little too loud by nature—can melt the tension on set faster than anyone else’s words ever could.

they don’t see how beautiful you are when the only light he can focus on is the soft glow in your eyes, or the warm yellow halo above your head. they don’t see the stubborn streak that keeps you moving forward when everything else tells you to turn back—nor the quiet, meticulous persistence that makes you fix every detail until it’s just right.

oh my god.

when did this even start?

perhaps the sweat on his palms is imaginary. his heart isn’t racing. he’s not biting back a smile while scrolling through your instagram again, and he’s definitely not replaying your highlights from when you were on vacation in japan—eyes zeroed on your adorable face, your laugh booming through the speakers as you fall backward into some random stretch of snow.

your arms are wide, moving up and down enthusiastically, like that was the entire point of the trip.

his jaw tightens.

the weather’s getting colder now. he wonders if you’re bundling up properly. if you remembered the thicker coat you always forget until someone reminds you, or if you’re in bed right now—tangled in too many blankets and sneezing into your sleeves because you refused to dry your hair completely. or maybe you’re by the window with a cup of tea, blowing gently across the rim before taking a careful sip.

nishimura riki shouldn’t want to know these things. shouldn’t think about them, shouldn’t care. shouldn’t even spare a single minute in his already insanely cramped schedule to have you running through his mind.

but he does care, and you do run through his mind. beautifully, might he add. he swears the image of you pops up in his head at least twice a day.

thrice, if he counts staring at your profile picture on his phone.

[NISHIMURA RIKI]: do you wanna get dinner tomorrow? after filming  23:58

[NISHIMURA RIKI]: ramen is good in this weather yknowww  23:59

the message looks deceptively casual, almost careless—like it didn’t take him five full minutes to decide whether or not to add the last sentence. he checks the time twice before sending it, as if the hour could reveal how much he’s been thinking about you.

the answer is all fucking day.

it’s this feeling that has him locked in his own car, clothes clinging to his skin, heart beating at the wrong pace, wrong rhythm.

riki drops his head back against the seat, staring at the dark ceiling of the car. the streetlight outside spills through the windshield in a muted gold, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his throat.

ramen is good in this weather.

is he in middle school? what the fuck kind of excuse is that?

─────────────────────────

RIKI LOVED THIS PLACE.

if the food didn’t do it for him, it was the atmosphere. the air barely shifts when he strolls in—that bell above his head rings, and all he gets is a ‘welcome back’ from the head chef through that tiny window in the kitchen.

some celebrities say their home is the only place they can truly strip themselves of the lies they’ve worn throughout the day; the mask cracks once they’re enveloped by their familiar abode.

for riki, it’s that tiny booth seat at the back of this restaurant that does him in.

the leather is cracked and slightly stained with god knows what—the wooden table is chipped at the edges from years of accidental elbow nudges, and riki swears he sweats a little when he sinks all the way into the corner seat.

it’s ridiculous that he keeps returning here despite it all. his friends dine at michelin, fine-dining restaurants with four figure courses, while he slurps noodles at the back of a hole-in-the-wall that reminds him of his hometown.

and it’s enough that the food is equivalent to a flight back home—but nobody here knows who he is, or knows enough to care. there was once the bartender asked him what he did for work and riki responded with ‘to look pretty’.

it’s an hour to midnight and the snow is unforgiving, thick flakes collecting on the shoulders of your coat before you can even brush them off. you were the one who brought it up—how you were so hungry and needed a proper meal before heading home.

filming had wrapped earlier than expected, and while a few eyebrows were raised at the way both you and riki declined the after-party beers a little too quickly, the part where you slipped away from the group was even quicker.

it’s harmless. just food. together. away from everyone else like it was a secret that needed to be kept.

still, you keep your head down as you walk, scarf pulled higher over your mouth. your breath fogs into the night air and riki’s eyes can’t help but to catch the way you scrunch your nose in the cold—his fingers twitch, involuntarily, when yours rub together.

the city feels quieter under snow, softer, less busy, as if to make room for the both of you.

riki’s a step behind you at first, hands tucked into his coat pockets, matching your pace without saying much. you can feel him there without looking—the familiarity of it settling into your bones in a way that’s become routine.

they’ve started saying ‘welcome back’ to you, too.

“you’re the one who said you were starving,” he says lightly, as you turn the corner. same teasing edge that still gets on your nerves, but never enough to bite back. “i can hear your stomach already.”

“i am,” you reply. “don’t act like you weren’t waiting for me to say it.”

a faint laugh escapes him, warm against the cold. “i didn’t confirm that.”

but he doesn’t deny it, either.

the bell above the restaurant door rings when nishimura riki pushes it open for you, and the warmth hits instantly: humid, fragrant, sesame oil wafting through the air like it was a signature smell. the chef calls out his usual greeting—now smiling at the both of you—and that small, strange feeling begins to swell in your chest. again.

that booth.

no one else has sat there since you two last came. it’s nice to know that this spot has only ever belonged to him, and then to you, and the two of you together.

like it remembers, like it’s been waiting for you just as much as you’ve been waiting for it.

“back again?” someone calls out from the kitchen, and riki only smiles in response before his fingers find yours. he leads you toward the table with an ease that feels practiced, your fingers hooked loosely around his as if they’ve always known where to settle. there’s no hesitation in his grip, no glance over his shoulder to check if you’re still there.

like this is normal.

you can tell yourself that it is. the way you instinctively say ‘hello’, or the way your feet move before your brain does—towards that same booth, seats practically sunken in from the weight of both of you pressing down from frequent late nights.

you can tell yourself that this is like any other place, any other restaurant, any other spot—but the truth lingers in the smallest behaviours: your finger brushing his when he makes you try his bowl, your hearty laugh when riki lets you in on an inside joke between him and the owner, or your eyes softening when he tells you that this is your place as much as it is his.

is it, though?

the thought lodges itself into your chest. it never leaves, not until your boots scrape against the concrete outside and you’re peering back in through the windows. your bowls are still there, uncleared, licked clean. as always.

you’re waiting for a taxi. he’s waiting for yours to pick you up, so he can call his own.

“did you mean to like it?”

you’re counting the slabs on the floor. contemplate about it’s arrangement like it’ll tell you what to say to him.

riki’s scarf is covering most of his face. his face is scrunched up, looking towards the road.

“it’s fucking hilarious,” he mutters. “what they’re saying about us.”

riki’s voice is quiet enough that it almost gets swallowed by the wind. you hear it all, anyway—can’t even pretend not to know what he’s talking about.

the snow crunches faintly beneath your boots as you shift your weight. your taxi hasn’t turned the corner yet. the streetlight casts him in this soft glow, diffused, bright enough to see the worry sown into his face.

“it was just a tap,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. “my thumb. it slips sometimes.”

“your thumb,” he repeats, like he’s testing the logic of it. it’s not like he could disprove it, anyway. “yeah, sure.”

you finally glance at him. he’s standing closer than necessary, hands tucked into his coat pockets again, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. snow gathers in his hair. he doesn’t brush it away.

“if it didn’t mean anything,” riki continues carefully, “you could just say that.”

there’s barely any accusation in the words he chooses—his voice low, calm, everything that you aren’t. you sniffle once, blinking slowly as you reconsider your options carefully:

one, you tell him that it didn’t mean anything, or

two, you don’t respond.

or three, you tell the truth—admit that you watched it through, thought about him, wondered if the algorithm had been cruel enough to place the same video on his feed. confess that you thought of him at all.

“it didn’t.”

the lie leaves too easily.

and it’s odd how quickly you wish you could take it back—the ache blooming in your chest almost instantly, your stomach sinking in a way only regret can trigger. you know exactly why you said it. you know exactly what you’re protecting.

isn’t this cruel?

the last time a rumor attached itself to your name, it took months to untangle. articles dissecting your expressions. fans choosing sides. strangers building narratives out of nothing.

but that’s just it—nishimura riki is far from nothing.

your mind goes back to him. always. and so do your eyes, when your head involuntarily (debatable) turns towards his direction—just for a second.

nishimura riki only stares on. silent as the howl of this cold city, sharp nose peeking over the fabric of his dark scarf. snow settles on his lashes and he blinks once, twice, brushing it away without lifting a hand.

“well,” he mumbles, but his voice is a little muffled from where you’re standing. “i’ll see you tomorrow, won’t i?”

he will.

the low hum of passing motorbikes and cars nearly swallows the faint unsteadiness in his voice. he’s trying to keep it normal, to let you retreat with dignity, to pretend tomorrow will reset whatever just shifted tonight.

“yeah.”

so, when your head ducks and the warmth of this unfamiliar car finally graces you, it feels less like relief and more like retreat.

“goodnight, y/n.”

the door shuts with a muted thud, sealing you off from the cold—and from him. the heater hums to life almost immediately, dry warmth brushing against your cheeks, thawing skin that had gone numb in the snow. you murmur the address to the driver with a voice steady enough, and sink back into the seat as the car pulls away from the curb.

and though you know not to look, you still do.

through the fogging window, you catch him still standing there, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. he hasn’t moved.

the streetlight halos him in something almost cinematic, snow drifting lazily around him as if the world has time has suspended itself around him.

your reflection overlays riki’s figure as the car turns, your face ghosting over his body until he disappears completely from view. for a brief second, the two of you exist in the same frame: superimposed and inseparable before the angle breaks, and he’s gone.

no one is watching. no one has their phone shoved in your face demanding answers you can’t even begin to formulate. no one is zooming in on the space between you and him, slowing it down frame by frame, building a narrative out of a glance.

no one knows about this—whatever this is.

the car glides past intersections glazed in white, streetlights streaking across the window in soft, passing lines. it would be so easy to keep it that way. to let this exist only in late-night restaurants and snow-muted sidewalks, in conversations that never leave the air between the two of you.

the night moves like a silent black and white movie. blurry, choppy, muted as you punch in the code to your door.

you shower, slip into pajamas, sink into bed, and scroll, landing on nishimura riki’s page. again.

his latest post was just two hours ago—uploaded while you were juggling ten million side dishes, chopsticks flying, noodles disappearing faster than you realized. the first photo is his dog, curled up in sunlight, then a few casual shots of his outfits, his breakfast, a cup of coffee steaming in the morning light.

and then, you.

the frame catches you mid-laugh on set, a streak of paint smeared across your cheek, sunlight glinting off your hair. your eyes crinkle at the corners, wide and carefree, probably a little too much so.

even through the chaos of crew members, lights, cameras, and cables, every pixel seems to pause on you. the focus is undeniable. the photographer had his intentions.

and you can almost hear the echo of laughter, the soft scrape of your sneakers against the studio floor, everything.

even the way riki’s heart skips a beat at the shutter click.

─────────────────────────

NISHIMURA RIKI DENIES LIKE HIS LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.

okay—maybe not his life. yours.

it’s mostly because he can already imagine it: the screenshots, the headlines, the instagram posts dissecting your accidental like like it was a signed confession. he can picture the way your smile would tighten along with the way your shoulders would lift defensively, the humiliation of being turned into a trending topic for something you didn’t even mean to do.

and the comments—the endless stream of slightly insane netizens making you seem like you’re delusional, crazy, desperate or all of the above.

riki hates it. he especially hates how he can’t reply to these comments themselves and tell them to run off the nearest cliff.

you see, usually, he’d mind his business. let agencies handle it. the managers can draft statements and spin barely believable narratives that won’t hurt as bad as those nasty comments.

after all, that’s what they’re paid for. he’s paid to act, promote, smile, and go home.

so why does it feel entirely different now?

riki’s sitting beside you in a brightly lit studio, ridiculous knit hat perched on his head because the segment demanded “fun accessories”.

the cameras are rolling, the host is laughing, and you’re holding a fairy wand with a plastic crown on your head. comments are streaming up the monitor like a waterfall of chaos, and he keeps looking at you—far more often than necessary.

you’re nervous. riki can see it even if you do it with your right hand instead of your left, further out of everyone’s sight. your fingers press into your thighs beneath the table, nails digging into fabric like you’re trying not to lose your composure at the 20th are-you-dating-eachother question.

your smile flickers half a second too late between questions. you nod a little too eagerly when the host jokes. you don’t do that thing where you clap or slam the table when something’s truly funny, riki notices, because nothing is truly worth the fake joy right now.

“sooo,” the host says brightly, glancing at the screen, “everyone wants to know—after that viral like—are you two actually together?”

and you grit your teeth because you just know from the way the crew behind set start to stare, just a little harder than before, that this is what it’s all been about.

you and riki received the invite on late-notice.

you should’ve known from the first question that this was another stupid interview that they’ll clip out of context, and soon after editing, be uploaded with an absurd thumbnail: faces cropped inches apart, added blush, a few added sweat effects.

oh, and the bold text in neon: CONFESSION?!

“uh…” riki mutters, eyes flickering towards you for just a moment—and it eats at you. the guilt of dragging him into this, the humiliation of him having to answer it at all; and even if he laughs it off, if he distances himself too clearly, if he makes it obvious this is ridiculous… everyone will see it.

riki straightens.

“no,” he says, firm. leaving no room for anyone to pry. “we’re not together.”

“we’re coworkers. we promote together. that’s it,” smiling politely, riki nods, eyes drifting towards you again. “the like was probably an accident. fans are creative.”

you forget you’re on camera. the fake smile you plaster on lags a little too obviously, and still—no one dares to push.

your nails dig into your thighs again under the table. you nod when the camera turns to you. “yes, it was nothing,” you add on, keeping your voice as even and unemotional as you can manage. “now, um—i just remembered my answer to the fifth question!”

nishimura riki knows when you’re acting, and he knows when you’re not. that’s the problem.

it’s months of standing inches apart under hot lights that trained him to catalogue you instinctively—the hitch in your breath before a line, the way your eyes can never stay on his when you’re lying about how much sleep you got, the way you overcompensate with cheerfulness when you’re getting yelled at by an assistant director.

he’s memorized you in ways scripts could never capture.

it’s all because of those late nights running scenes until sunrise, sharing a blanket when the outdoor shoot felt like a freezer. your fingers are threading through his during that confession scene in episode six and all riki can think about is how he wishes this was real—how he silently begs for everyone else to vanish.

or how he pleads, to no one in particular, that you’d be more than what a contract can outline.

though, right now, that’s all you are.

“oh my god,” riki exhales, a short, incredulous laugh slipping out before he can stop it. it isn’t mocking—it’s almost defensive. like he’s trying to shield you from how transparent this is.

he turns toward the host instead of you.

“she’s really competitive about those questions,” riki says lightly. a deliberate attempt at steering it away that just rubs salt in all your little papercuts. “if she thinks she got one wrong, she’ll think about it all day.”

the crew laughs, the host bites. the conversation swerves and riki never looks at you a second time.

─────────────────────────

IT’S JUST A KISS.

you’ve done it before—different co-stars, different sets, different plots with a different set of eyes glued onto you.

and still, the lights are glaring, the chatter is too loud, and the busy shuffle of shoes across the pavement is making you go crazy.

they’re still adjusting the lighting: warm, diffused, just enough to look real under the streetlamp. this corner of the park’s been closed off for filming, instead swarming with staff and management that have no business looking so stressed on a sunday night. air leaves you in a cold exhale, the vapour of your warm breath condensing in the chill.

riki’s sitting on a bench, sipping slowly from a coffee cup that’s become a signature now. there’s a few people talking to him—probably running through the scene again, due to the fact that he has way more lines than you this time—all while he nods, eyes fixated on the ground, or somewhere distant. you don’t know. you can barely see before makeup pulls at your hair.

you blink fast as you try to recalibrate. your reflection in the portable mirror feels foreign.

tonight, you are seri. you’ve always been seri.

and tonight, riki—or haruto—kisses you.

haruto marukami confesses his feelings to han seri after he breaks her heart.

in the script, he chooses ambition over love. he pushes seri away to protect her from the fallout of his scholarship scandal: coaches frown at missed routines, professors shake their heads at distracted focus, his discipline crumbling under the weight of his own heart.

he denies it when confronted—but everyone sees it.

how he wants you more than he wants that coveted spot in the rankings. how he wants you more than anything he could ever need from anyone and anything else.

it’s true—haruto never needed seri.

it’s just that tonight… when the script places seri’s teary face in front of him, haruto has to say what his heart begs him to.

“action!”

you step into the frame like this is who you are—it’s a little odd how you don’t have to try as hard to get the tears to flow. your boots scrape against the concrete, body moving, hitting every beat like this is choreography you’ve memorised to a T.

the cue comes.

riki steps closer, and even in character, the air between you feels thicker. it’s heavy, hanging with the weight of every emotion that seri and haruto’s shared, and even if none of it is real—your heart races and the tears prick your skin.

light snow falls on top of your heads. they fall on riki’s lashes, melting soon after, and he’s blinking like he’s unsure what this all means.

it’s just a kiss. a fake one. that’s what it means.

it’s his eyes that get you. thoughtful, like he can’t stand seeing you cry—they’re lingering, searching for something you’re not quite sure you can let be seen on camera.

you tilt your chin. your pulse is thudding hard, blood rushing everywhere; cars zoom past and the quiet sound of snow crunching underneath the tires makes none of this easier to avoid. you have nowhere to look except him.

every rustle of the crew behind the cameras fades. the world shrinks to the soft glow of the streetlamp and the space between your bodies.

his hand brushes yours—accidentally, or maybe not—before trailing up, fingers cupping your jaw with a softness that feels impossible on a set like this. riki holds you like you’re fragile porcelain, like any more pressure and you might shatter under his touch.

“pause… three, two.”

your breath catches, the countdown fading behind the rush of awareness, the tight coil of something electric between you.

“now.”

his lips press against yours. warmth blooms instantly, a fuzzy, dangerous sweetness crawling through your chest, sinking low into your stomach. it spreads, slow and intoxicating, like poison that seeps into every muscle until you’ve gone numb.

it’s technical. just a kiss. practiced and controlled like he’d run through it thousands of times before.

and then it isn’t.

there’s a tremor in his body, like his knees have just gone weak—it’s subtle when he shifts closer—he’s bringing your frame closer to his, desperate to hold onto you like this is the only time he, or you, won’t get punished for it.

nishimura riki’s hands move down: looping around your waist, keeping you flush against him—and no matter how much he fights to remember the next line and cue, he can’t seem to care.

your own fingers twitch, searching, remembering the last time you shared a touch that wasn’t under a lens. you’re not sure if this counts.

the director’s voice cuts through faintly in the distance, but it doesn’t reach you. the cameras, the lights, the crew—all of it melts away.

and when you pull slightly apart, the air between you is thick with something unspoken.

riki’s eyes meet yours: raw, slightly red from tears that he fought to keep in. your hands are trembling against his skin, and riki can feel every shaky breath that you try to draw.

“cut. fucking perfect.”

neither of you move.

“what are we doing?” riki whispers, low and hesitant, like any louder and he might lose control and take it all back.

your hands stay frozen against him, pulse hammering. your breath hitches, and you feel a lump in your throat beginning to clog every word you can think of saying.

“i don’t know.” you admit, the words bitter on your tongue, tangling with something raw and unspoken between you.

and you wish—desperately—that you could kiss him again. just for a second. without the cameras. without the crew. without every eye dissecting you like you’re a spectacle to be consumed.

without a care that the world is watching.

it feels insane. every celebrity craves that moment of security, that stolen privacy that never comes. you’ve always told yourself you’re the same—that you can navigate the glare, the gossip, the scrutiny.

and yet, here and now, in the middle of it all—you still want to be his. in front of the lights, the cameras, the industry that would personally strangle you both.

“okay.”

he pulls away—ten seconds too late. everyone behind set stares as if he’s lost his mind. his hands fall to his sides. a few steps back and he turns on his feet completely, muttering to the nearest staff member that he needs to get going. family emergency.

she looks at him like he’s gone crazy.

you’re left standing there, cold, the phantom heat of his body still pressing against yours.

“thank you for the hard work everyone,” director kim exclaims, and a burst of applause quick erupts in this corner of the park. “please rest well tonight!”

your eyes flick back to where riki had run off to. he’s nowhere to be seen: disappeared completely with the image of his back turned on you burned into your retinas, like a cruel joke.

it’s only when you get into your car that you realise his is already gone, and even later when you curl up into bed—waiting for a text that never comes.

─────────────────────────

THE WEEKS THAT PASS ARE BLURRY.

initially, filming was slightly less than torturous—everything remained the same, but the two of you never did. every tiny thing felt like it was nudged off its axis, subtle enough that no one else noticed, but sharp enough that you did.

you told this is how it has always been. that this is the chemistry everyone keeps praising in interviews, the spark directors lean forward for behind their monitors. this is what makes the acting believable.

your throat still tightened every time you saw him.

five weeks later and the lights tonight are dim, warm and yellow, softer than the harsh studio glare you’ve been used to the past few months. they cast you in something forgiving, highlighting the careful brushstrokes of makeup the staff spent an hour perfecting. bookcases line the walls, filled with worn spines and quiet color. the space is small. intimate. almost domestic.

when you walked in, you expected a full production: towering cameras, boom mics suspended overhead, assistants darting around with clipboards. you expected a host with a polished grin and rehearsed questions designed to bait headlines—to measure every word, to survive another week of clipped edits and trending speculation that had nothing meaningful to say.

instead, your shoes meet wooden floorboards. there’s a low table. three chairs. two cups of hot tea already waiting. your weight sinks into the chair, the tension in your spine already undoing itself at the lack of glaring lights and busy shuffle behind the cameras.

it’s like you’re the only people here.

the host greets you gently. her voice is steady, unhurried. her eyes don’t linger on you any longer than they do on riki.

“should we get started, then?”

riki sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. he doesn’t look nervous, god, he never does—but his ears perk at your voice, involuntarily attentive to the shift of your weight and the soft ruffle of your clothes against skin.

“please welcome our guests, everyone.”

the first few questions are easy. favorite scenes. hardest shoots. what you learned about yourselves during filming, and what you wish you could’ve redone.

riki’s leaning back into his chair, toying with a tiny dice between his fingers. he answers everything with ease, voice low and steady, that familiar depth settling into the room and making it feel smaller than it is. you can already picture the comments that will flood in later:

how good he looks tonight.

how much quieter he seems when he’s seated next to you.

how his gaze softens every time you start speaking.

how he looks at you like you’ve strung the constellations into place yourself and decided, just for him, to let the world keep spinning.

you try not to look back at him for too long. the camera may be discreet, the setting intimate—but you’re not naive. angles can be manipulated. expressions can still be slowed down. meaning can still be assigned where you never meant to leave it, or where you never intended to reveal.

so you focus on the tea in your hands instead, on the warmth seeping into your palms, on the steady cadence of nishimura riki’s voice as the host nods along to his answers. but even without turning, you hear it—the soft hitch of his breath when you say his name again, and again, and again.

“so,” she speaks. her voice is crisp and clear in the way all talk show hosts somehow are. “how do you both feel, now that it’s over? haruto and seri got their happy ending, but what about you?”

riki’s leg stops bouncing mindlessly on the floor.

“the media’s been talking a lot about your dynamic,” she says gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. “i’ve seen it for myself. what you two have is truly beautiful. i mean, every scene feels like we’re right there witnessing something real. do you think it’ll be difficult to manage after it’s all said and done?”

her hands settle quietly in her lap, a soft, knowing smile resting on her face as she clarifies what she means—though she doesn’t really need to. you and the man beside you understand perfectly.

it’s hard not to, after all this time.

chemistry is a funny thing. it doesn’t announce itself when it arrives. it doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in. it seeps—into glances that last a second too long, into laughter that feels too easy, into silences that don’t need filling.

and most of all, it bleeds.

bleeds, into rehearsals and interviews and late-night dinners, into the spaces between scripted lines until you can’t quite remember which moments were written and which ones weren’t.

it bleeds into your veins when you touch him—when director kim calls “cut” and neither of you pull away just yet, suspended in that fragile space between performance and something almost instinctual.

it bleeds into the way he says your name off-camera, softer than necessary, like it belongs somewhere closer to his chest than paper. like it belongs on his lips.

and now, under these warm yellow lights, with the host waiting patiently and the microphones catching every hesitant, heavy breath: you wonder if it’s bleeding here too.

your shoulders angle toward him without thinking, and the quiet steadiness in his gaze lingers on his hands just before he turns to look at you before answering. just to make sure you’re okay with this, as if the question isn’t something he’s perfectly capable of responding to alone.

riki shifts slightly beside you, the faint sound of the dice clicking once against the wooden table before going still in his palm. when he finally speaks, his voice is even, hushed.

“well,” riki starts, then stops, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly like he’s reconsidering how honest he’s allowed to be. he looks past the cameras, past the glass and into the eyes of the recording crew. “i think we’ll just have to live with it. it’s been an honour to work with someone like her—and i agree, i don’t think i’ve ever felt such excitement for a project before.”

he breathes. draws in a long, full breath like everything he’s saying costs something. “but most times, it’s never just about the project.”

the room stills.

“i’ve worked on good scripts before. i’ve had great co-stars. but . . .”

your throat tightens.

“she challenges me,” riki says more quietly. “she notices things. cares about details no one else pays attention to—and when you work that closely with someone, and you spend that many hours together, it’s hard not to let that affect you.”

you chew at your cheek as if that’d somehow bring some answers to the questions swirling in your mind.

“it’s been wonderful,” you finally exhale, eyes tracing the suddenly interesting wood patterns on the coffee table in front of you. “anyone who works with him is extremely lucky. it’d be hard for me to forget all the memories.”

the look he gives you is what you’d imagine a hole in the heart would feel like. eyes soft, glistening, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly; refusing to speak up as if he knows that’ll only bury you both six feet deeper.

the rest of the show passes on in a blur of tears that refuse to fall, accompanied by the pounding of your heart in your ears—it’s all you can feel.

it’s when the cameras finally stop rolling and the host’s voice fading into polite chatter that you sit back. your hands are resting limply in your lap, and the realization washes over you that the room feels impossibly still.

riki doesn’t move either; he just watches, quiet, every unspoken word hanging heavy between you. outside, the city carries on, oblivious to what’s happening in this tiny studio—but you know. he knows.

here, in this moment, you know you love nishimura riki.

and he knows he loves you, too.

“thank you for today!”

it’s after the lights finally dim and the ‘on-air’ finally shuts off that riki starts packing his belongings and notes into his bag, folding them with methodical care. he glances up at you without much thought, voice casual as you’re putting your coat back on. “you hungry?”

you hesitate, caught off guard by how ordinary the question feels after everything that’s just passed. even so, the answer slips out before you can stop it.

“i am.”

─────────────────────────

THE RESTAURANT IS QUIETER THAN USUAL.

not empty, but rather muted. the dinner rush has passed, leaving behind the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of ceramic against wood. the windows are fogged slightly from the warmth inside, blurring the city lights into soft halos. your eyes extend past the glass and melted-snow-turned-water-droplets, following the crowd of people that refuse to shop during the day.

your gaze lingers on a couple: their fingers are intertwined, and the woman holds a cup of coffee that looks like it’s made with more milk than anything caffeinated. the man next to her holds her purse. she talks his ears off, and he just smiles, listening.

“you okay?”

nishimura riki’s voice makes you jolt. when your head finally turns in his direction, you realise both of you have barely eaten anything out of your bowls.

he looks good tonight, like he always does—infuriatingly so. his hair falls in soft, deliberate strands against his forehead, those black-rimmed glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose. hoodie hanging loose at the collar, secured with small safety pins that glint faintly under the overhead light, the fabric bunching around his neck.

riki’s collarbone catches the yellow glow in sharp relief, broad shoulders sinking back against the cracked leather booth like he’s always belonged there. like you’ve always been meant to sit across from him, watching.

“yeah.”

it’s automatic.

he studies you for half a second longer than necessary before finally picking up his chopsticks at your reassurance—however unconvincing it sounds.

the restaurant feels altered tonight. like it just knows. there’s no music humming through the speakers, no usual crowd filling the corners with noise—even the kitchen sounds muted, distant. the absence of it all only sharpens everything else: the soft drag of ceramic against wood, the faint rustle of his sleeve when he moves, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

in the same way, you’re certain—certain that he can see the way you refuse to meet his eyes and settle for peeks through your eyelashes.

“how have you been?” riki asks, gentle as ever, the sound of his chopsticks clanging against the bowl being the only thing you hear under his voice.

filming ended weeks ago.

it shouldn’t feel like you’ve crossed timelines just to sit across from him again.

“busy,” you answer, twirling noodles you don’t eat. “interviews, some brand meetings. i flew back for a few days.”

riki exhales softly, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. he remembers seeing it on his timeline—purposeful or accidental, he doesn’t know. “i know.”

your head lifts slightly at the offhand way he says it.

“you posted,” riki clarifies, offering a faint shrug—as though it was only incidental, like he hadn’t noticed the exact time it went up. “i saw.”

a quiet thought settles in before you can brush it aside: is this what the two of you are going to be now?

without shared call times and cramped dressing rooms and the convenience of always existing in the same frame—will it just be this?

nishimura riki, keeping up with you the way everyone else does: through posts, through highlights looping endlessly, through moments edited for millions?

will he have to watch you?

across the table, riki finds his mind unravelling in a similar fashion—because how is he supposed to reduce you to something public, when he’s already known you in private? he’s seen the unguarded pauses between takes, the way your expression shifts when you’re concentrating, the small habits no camera has ever captured.

how does he rewrite all of that?

“right,” you say, the word softer than you intend.

a beat passes. the steam between you thins, curling, fading into the warm air above the table.

“you?” you ask, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his.

he holds your gaze for a fraction longer than necessary before leaning back slightly, fingers tapping once against the side of his bowl.

“same,” he says. “work. meetings. a lot more work.”

you hum, unconvinced. “that’s it?”

riki’s smiling at you like you’ve been caught in a lie. “what were you expecting?”

“i don’t know.” you twirl your chopsticks through broth that’s starting to get cold. “something more specific.”

“like?”

like do you think about me, or do you check my page before bed?

like, do you miss it?

alas—you don’t say any of it. you know it’ll only lead to answers that you can’t stomach.

“are you sleeping well?” you settle on instead.

riki’s brow lifts slightly, fingers feeding a tiny piece of seaweed into his mouth. “i sleep.”

“that’s not what i meant, riki.”

“i know.”

the words eat away at you.

he shifts forward again, forearms resting on the table now. close enough to watch the faint crease of worry in your expression.

“i’ve been fine,” riki continues, voice a little more firm if only for the sake of reassuring you—still, there’s something restrained about it. “just adjusting.”

you sigh, finally accepting his answer, though your curiosity doesn’t fail to peek through. “to?”

“not seeing you every day,” riki mumbles, gaze fixed somewhere between the table and your untouched bowl. “i miss it.”

the words don’t echo, but they might as well.

the restaurant is almost empty now. it’s strange—barely midnight, and yet the place feels like it’s already folding in on itself. chairs scrape softly against the floor in the distance. dishes rattle faintly in the kitchen, out of sight, detached from whatever is happening in this booth.

for a split second, you wish you were one of them.

a plate. a bowl. a cup. something ceramic and uncomplicated and non-sentient, able to exist in the same space as him without having to interpret the weight of his voice.

or a tree outside the window—rooted, steady, immune to the way your pulse keeps climbing higher with every passing second. just missing a pulse at all.

or, maybe, that couple from earlier.

you’d be clinging to riki’s arm, laughing because the heels you insisted on wearing don’t quite fit right. you’d stumble, and he’d steady you without thinking. it would be easy. instinctive. unquestioned, missing a million different cameras behind you.

“i miss it too.”

i miss you, you think.

─────────────────────────

THE BILL COMES. neither of you reach for it at the same time this time—there’s an absence of playful bickering and forced normalcy. after a long meal, you both managed to finish up your food, though under much quieter circumstances.

the restaurant door swings open and the cold greets you instantly, sharper than you expected. your breath fogs in front of you. the pavement is still damp from melted snow, reflecting the streetlights in fractured gold streaks—nishimura riki’s fingers twitch as he walks next to you, your pinky brushing against his as you make way for the passerby’s walking in the opposite direction.

it’s a short walk to where your taxi pick-up location is set. your boots scrape against the wet concrete, the dull clunk of its heel the only thing you hear, accompanied by the soft, steady thud of riki’s shoes just behind you.

it’s still snowing. fine flakes drift in the air and disappear the moment they touch the ground.

it’s been a few weeks since you were last here. back then, you ran—or drove away, to be more specific. you remember it all, though it serves no real purpose, because it’s all in the past and nothing can be done now; not when production has wrapped and there’s no real reason to mend, sew, or stitch things back up.

your feet stop at the pick-up point. a bright red pin signals that the driver is ten minutes away.

ten minutes.

you half-expect nishimura to turn on his heel and make his own way home. it would be much easier, cleaner—it would be an unspoken understanding that this was just dinner, and that this is where the night, or you, end.

but you know him, don’t you?

always known him to stay, that is.

the ice-cold air of tonight freezes your lungs—or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s standing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, silent in a way that feels heavier than anything he’s said all evening.

unbeknownst to you, riki is fighting every instinct in him to reach for your hand: to lace his fingers through yours in front of the handful of strangers passing by, to stop pretending this is something casual and temporary. he wants everyone to see that this is how he feels, and god, it can’t change. no matter how much he’s tried.

“ten minutes?” riki asks, glancing over at your screen. his hands stay tucked into the pockets of his brown coat, scarf pulled high enough to cover half his face.

you nod.

ever since the last episode aired, his followers have almost doubled. the numbers climb in ways neither of you can really control anymore. the scarf does its job for you too—hiding, shielding—but it only adds to the distance.

you can’t help but wonder what he looks like right now.

is he biting the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s thinking too hard?

are his lips pursed into that smile you’ve started to forget?

“you should be heading home too,” you mumble, fingers gripping tighter at your cell. anything to anchor yourself to this moment. “it’s getting late.”

your gaze drifts across the street as the last word slips off your tongue.

two high school students cut through the crowd. the boy looks uncannily like nishimura—dark hair, tall frame, that same absentminded way of walking like the world will move around him. the girl trails half a step behind, fingers hooked into the strap of his bag as they navigate the pavement together.

she trips over a half-hidden tree branch, and he turns immediately.

nishimura riki definitely has his ways of bleeding into your life—even in the form of parallels and what-if’s and should’ve, could’ve, would’ves that won’t leave you alone.

“i really did miss you,” riki says, voice laced with exhaustion—like he’s been carrying the sentence around for weeks, weighing it, rehearsing it, nearly swallowing it down a dozen times before deciding he’d hate himself if he didn’t let it out. “y/n.”

if this is the last time, he can’t let you go like this.

you bite your bottom lip hard enough that the skin breaks before you draw a breath. “i really missed you too.”

cars honk. life moves past you like it’s in a sped-up timelapse, and nishimura and you are the only ones moving in slow motion. the lights are blaring and you can’t help but squint at the vehicles that pass by you two. the soft crunch of ice under the wheels pull you out of it, if only for a moment.

snow gathers briefly on his lashes before melting away. riki exhales slowly, like he’s about to say something reckless—in which he is. very, very reckless.

“remember that time someone asked us if we’d ever date each other?” riki breathes, voice as gentle as the day you met him. he used to bow so low just upon seeing your face.

but now, he just smiles.

your heart stumbles. you remember: the press junket, the flashing cameras, the way you’d both laughed it off like it was the most absurd thing in the world—and to be fairly honest, it was.

“we said no,” you murmur.

“we said it’d ruin the dynamic,” he adds. a faint, self-aware huff leaves him. “that we were just friends. that it’d be unprofessional.”

snow lands on the edge of his scarf. he doesn’t notice, and even if he does, riki only stares on—into the road, at the passing cars that have no idea what his heart is spilling.

“i answered it like it was hypothetical,” he continues, eyes steady on yours. “like it wasn’t something i’d already thought about.”

“but, y/n,” riki pauses before turning to look at you. you don’t realise that you’ve been staring at him, all this time—from the faint glimmer in his eyes and the reflection of seoul’s lights in them, to the sharp bridge of his nose. “i thought about it. i’ve thought about it so much that it’s driven me fucking crazy.”

you swallow. “riki—“

“i wonder if you’re doing okay when i can’t see you,” his voice shakes. “i know i’m being selfish.”

nishimura riki is not exactly sure when he’d fallen so hard. episode one, episode four, episode ten or sixteen—god, it doesn’t matter anymore—he just knows that he can’t crawl back from this, from you, from all the feelings you’ve dug up and run away from.

he’s spent majority of his life under these lights, in this world that’s been so cruel and utterly exhausting to move through—it’s only when you walk in, with bright eyes and hair so perfect it makes him stop breathing—that he finally understands that this normalcy is what he’s been chasing.

and for the very first time in years, what nishimura riki wants isn’t big, or shiny, or polished to perfection with his name inscribed in it.

it’s this.

standing in the cold, waiting for a taxi, worrying about whether you’re warm enough, or anticipating your order because you never stray from what you’re familiar with.

it’s walking someone home. it’s slowing his pace so they don’t stumble, and it’s memorising the way they take their coffee—it’s making sure they’re eating well. it’s making sure they’re sleeping.

it’s you.

“fuck,” he curses, muffled through the woven red fabric. “even now, i don’t care if someone sees us. i don’t care about it at all.”

“ki.” your brows pull together, and this time you don’t miss it—the unmistakable shine at his waterline, the way his lashes clump slightly from the cold and something heavier than snow. “why are you crying?”

and it’s almost instinctual—the way you turn fully toward him, closing the distance without hesitation. your hands come up to his face like they remember the shape of it on their own. your thumb brushes over the small mole beneath his left eye.

his cheeks are warm despite the cold around you.

“tell me you’ll run away again,” his voice breaks under your touch, and your thumb wipes away a tear that slides down his cheek. “tell me that this was just dinner, and i’m just your co-star. tell me that you can’t—“

the weight of your hands resting against his scarf make the fabric sink down. it falls under his chin, tucked under the sharp turn of his jawline, his full face now illuminated by the dim saturday moon.

his breath shudders against your wrist, turning to vapour in the cold—thin, fractured clouds that disappear almost as quickly as they form. he leans into your touch without thinking, like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the wet ground.

“i can’t do this again.”

it took you a little over sixteen episodes to get you here.

sixteen episodes of scripted longing and controlled proximity. sixteen episodes of pretending that the way your heart reacted to nishimura riki was temporary—occupational hazard, emotional bleed-through, something that would dissolve once the cameras stopped.

it did not dissolve.

if anything, it rooted deeper.

you can’t move on from him. not in the clean, professional way you told yourself you would.

and judging by the way he’s trembling under your hands, neither can he.

it’s cold. it’s so, so cold, and your feet hurt from standing so long in these ridiculously expensive yet uncomfortable boots. your scarf itches against your skin, you think, but it’s only an excuse for you to pull it downwards.

the wind brushes against your lips.

“i love you, ki.”

the world seems quieter. it always seems that way when you’re this close to him, noses touching, leaning in to feel your lips press together—and it has yet to sink in that anyone and everyone could snap a picture, and it’d be a media disaster.

it’s unfortunate that you don’t care anymore.

nishimura riki’s hands find your waist without much thought. you’re rising to your tiptoes, chest flush against his as he pulls you in to fill space that doesn’t exist; desperate, like he’s finally found his salvation.

you fit perfectly against him, he notices. it’s not something he wanted to ponder on, in case he sent himself into some crazy, delusional chain of thought that encouraged his already lovesick brain.

but god—you’re made for him.

your height against his chest. your hands fisted into his coat. the way your breath syncs with his after only a few seconds. a little bit like inevitability.

“say it again,” he mumbles between kisses, breath warm and uneven against your lips. his voice is hoarse now, stripped of all composure. his fingers tighten at your waist the longer you hesitate, desperate to hear it one more time. “please.”

you almost laugh through the tears still clinging to your lashes.

“i love you.”

your phone vibrates in the back pocket of your jeans. you forgot when you even shoved it in there, but you don’t bother to reach for it—he could appear in two seconds for all you care. you’d still choose this.

“i love you, too,” riki whispers back.

you’re not sure when you fell this hard.

his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing faintly as the snow continues to fall around you. riki’s grip loosens only slightly, enough to trace his thumb along your side like he’s memorising the shape of you there. as if he doesn’t already know it just by breathing this close to you.

you’re not sure when you fell this hard.

maybe it was gradual. it was definitely inevitable.

or perhaps, it was the first time he turned back to make sure you were okay.

but it’s after a little confrontation and a lot of running—sixteen episodes and five weeks later that you know this for certain:

you love ramen.

you hate itchy scarves.

you love nishimura riki.

nishimura riki loves you.

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

[sailorsoons]

Overtake | Part One (c.sc)

PAIRING:  Mercedes!Driver Seungcheol x f. reader Summary: Seungcheol and your brother Joshua battle over everything - pole positions, championships, the title of Mercedes’ best driver. The one thing they were never supposed to fight over was you.  WC: 22,853 GENRE: Exes to Lovers, Best Friends to Lovers, Brother's BFF AU: Smut, Angst RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: Lost of tension and angst, reader sacrifices what she wants constantly for Joshua (her brother) and feels like she is responsible for him, mentions of a parent's death, petty drama, non-linear storytelling, Joshua and Seungcheol are both unfair and stupid in a lot of parts of this, two car crash scenes, both mildly traumatic for reader, arguments/never-ending competitiveness, explicit language, Wonwoo is a little bit of a motherfucker, feelings of betrayal/sneaking around, recreational drinking, sexually explicit content including oral (f. and m. receiving), vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, cum eating, a single slap on the ass. A/N: This fic is for the amazing Lights Out Collab hosted by @camandemstudios! It was originally only supposed to be one part, but I've decided to try something new with non-linear storytelling which has made it so much longer than I originally planned. Part two will be out soon :) THIS FIC HAS NOT BEEN BETA READ I'M SORRY FOR ANY ERRORS. A/N 2: Shot out to everyone in the C&E server for this collab - so many people (including myself) are new to F1, and this was so much fun to write. You do NOT have to know anything about F1 to enjoy this fic! There are some terms and race tracks you won't understand, but the main focus is the building tension between the characters. Honestly, there are a lot of parts of this that are not realistic and probably would not work this way in the F1 world on the business side, but WHATEVER!!! This entire fic was inspired by the drama that is Brocedes with Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg lmfao.

MASTERLIST | ASK | LIGHTS OUT COLLAB | PART TWO

BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025 DAY BEFORE PRESEASON TESTING  5.412KM | 57 LAPS

-

THE BAHRAIN SUN IS MERCILESS. You suppose it's fitting for the day. The paddock is filled with dry heat and tension, the sweat dripping down your spine as you stride across black pavement. Your polo sticks to your skin, making you irritable as everyone else who is buzzing with the energy of preseason testing. 

Five years of this hasn’t made you any less nervous. Five years of flights, jet lag, highs and lows, and watching Joshua both fail and win at Bahrain hasn’t made any part of the next few days easier. You try not to think about the list of media needs, the sponsorship requirements, the sheer amount of things Joshua is beholden to. 

It’s worth it, though. 

Jogging up the steps of the Pit Building, you nod to the dozens of other people that make things for the Mercedes team work. The dozens of people here pale in comparison to the hundreds involved in making sure Joshua’s car can start, much less make it over the finish line. 

You spot Wonwoo coming out of a media room and you quicken your pace. Wonwoo only oversees a single driver and you have no desire to see your brother’s teammate right now. You take the stairs to the second floor at a near sprint, hearing the familiar rumble of laughter behind you, chasing you around the corner to the hospitality suite where you find your brother.

Joshua is slumped in a seat, cap tugged low on his head. He fidgets with a water bottle between his hands, jaw locked tight. He senses you as you approach, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sits up a little straighter while you take the seat across from him.

“Don’t look so nervous,” you tease, trying to break the ice. He huffs and rolls his eyes as you pull a tablet from your satchel. “Not going to lie, it’s a pretty full afternoon.” 

“Great.”

“Lighten up. You’re getting paid to do it.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” 

Joshua leans back in his chair, tapping the corner of the bottle against his knee. He doesn’t say anything else, so you scroll through your notes and start reading aloud. Today, he’s got sponsor check-ins, media hits, content requests, track walk and team dinner. You know he’ll smile and charm his way through all of it, but it’ll drain him to do it. 

You’ve both been at this long enough to know the rhythm. Even when you were kids, you were always his manager, bossing him around, telling him when he needed to go to practice, reminding him to finish his homework. You’ve carried that role into adulthood, but above all, you're his sister first, and being his sister means choosing him over everything else.

Everyone else. 

You shove away the thought before it can distract you from the task at hand. Joshua leans back in his chair, glancing around the room before his gaze settles back on you. “What?” 

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “What what?”

“Say what you want to say. I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“Feels like it’s going to be a bad year.”

You frown. “You haven’t even run the car and you’re throwing in the towel?”

“No, I just have a vibe.” He pauses. “Feels like they’ve put more faith in him.”

You don’t have to ask who him is. Joshua only says him like that when he means Seungcheol. 

“They won’t do it out right,” Joshua continues, twisting the bottle cap. The plastic cracks and you have to resist the urge to snatch it out of his hands to get him to stop fidgeting. “But it’s pretty obvious.” 

You watch him quietly. You know he isn’t wrong. The press has already started sharpening the narrative between the Mercedes teammates ahead of the racing season. Seungcheol, the driver with the bite and the edge that can take Mercedes to another championship. Joshua, the reliable one who knows how to be a team player. 

The memory of Singapore looms in the back of your mind. When you look at Joshua, you know he remembers it too, the taste of the memory more bitter than others. Sharper and more painful, too. 

“We won’t let them,” you reply, shrugging. 

“Simple as that?”

“Simple as that. You’re their driver too. If we need to fucking remind them, we will.”

His mouth twitches. “I’d be fucked without you.”

“Definitely.” 

Joshua’s smile fades as he leans his head back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling. When he speaks again, it’s softer. “Remember when we thought driving together would be the dream? Feels like the worst fucking thing we could’ve done.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have an answer, because Joshua is right. Five years ago, Seungcheol and Joshua joining team Mercedes together was the dream. It was what all the money, hope, sweat and tears of your childhoods had been poured into. Countless hours of practicing, of racing, of being dragged around to watch him. To cheer him on. To give him advice. 

You’d been that for Seungcheol, too. Until Singapore. 

Sighing, you lean over and squeeze Joshua’s knee. “Let’s go. You have to do some TikToks, buddy.”

Outside, the sun hasn’t gotten any better. It’s an unrelenting, brutal reminder of the pressure cooker that is media day. The paddock buzzes with frenetic energy, full of reporters jostling for soundbites, cameras clicking, cameras in Joshua’s face, phones recording. You’re glued to Joshua’s side, tablet in hand, helping him navigate a relentless schedule of sponsor obligations, interviews, and content shoots. 

Joshua’s smile is as polished as ever. He’s always been the media’s darling, a handsome and charming racer who is polite and warm, even when he loses. His answers are rehearsed and perfect, but you catch the strain in his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the hem of his polo. 

Breaking up a media scrum, you navigate him toward a meet-and-greet tent for sponsors. He shakes hands and poses for photos with executives decked out in team gear - some with tags still on it. Afterward, you drag him to another interview with a motorsport outlet where he dodges un-approved questions about team dynamics with a practiced laugh. 

“That’ll be all,” you cut in, your smile sharp. “Thanks for your time today.”

The reporter falters, opening his mouth to ask another question but Joshua is already moving, twisting the cap on his water bottle back and forth. “Thanks,” he mutters as you head out of the room. “This is why I drive cars. I hate this.” 

“If you want to drive cars-”

“I know,” he sighs, quoting your father. “You have to do the work.” 

The content team is waiting for you when you head back to the Pit Building. A sense of dread drops like a stone in your stomach, sinking into the very pit of you when you see the shape of Seungcheol. His back is to you, broad shoulders pulled tight in his team polo as he leans to see something on the social media manager's phone. Wonwoo is a few feet away on the phone, nodding with the device pressed to one ear, his finger pressed into the other. 

When Seungcheol turns, your chest tightens. He looks the same as he always does, though his hair has gotten longer. His dark brown hair is wavy today, a little damp with sweat. He bites his bottom lip as he listens to the instructions being given to him by the social media team, arms crossed over his chest.

You’re forced to look the other way. The ache there hasn’t dulled even after a year, and though you’ve prepared all offseason to deal with the frustration of seeing Joshua’s teammate, it still doesn’t prepare you for the stab between the ribs when he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s dark eyes go from inquisitive to guarded. You see the shift happen as you and Joshua approach. You feel yourself stiffen, the tension rippling from Joshua to you and onward. The social media girls notice the sudden silence and turn to see you, both of them grinning and greeting you to try and dispel any awkwardness.

It works in the professional sense. Joshua tilts his head to Sungcheol politely before turning to listen to what the girls are asking him to do. You don’t look at Seungcheol at all, drifting away and pulling out your tablet to stare at schedules and emails and documents. 

“You look sour.” You look up at the voice as Wonwoo pockets his phone. “The iPad do something to you?"

“No. Must have been the smell of your cologne.” 

He laughs. “Good to see you too.”

You hum but don’t reply. You don’t dislike Wonwoo. On the contrary, you think he’s an extraordinary manager with a lot of connections in Formula 1. But Wonwoo is team Seungcheol and Team Seungcheol is often anti Team Joshua, so Wonwoo gets your distaste by default. 

“How was your offseason?”

“Do you care?” You ask him while deleting spam emails.

“No, but it’s the polite thing to ask.”

“Spare me. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He laughs again. “I like you. Shame we can’t be friends.”

“Mhmm.” 

You and Wonwoo watch from afar as the social media team leads Joshua and Seungcheol through a series of content pieces. Watching them interact is strange. Joshua keeps his cap low, mouth twitching when he’s asked to stand closer to Sungcheol. The two of them shift, shoulders brushing just once before Joshua steps to the side. 

“They’ve gotten worse at this,” Wonwoo sighs, folding his arms. 

“Or better at making it awkward.”

“Good for the media, though.”

You glance up sharply at that. It’s always a game with Seungcheol’s camp, how the narrative bends and who gets painted in what light. Joshua has always been painted as the second, the fallback plan, the team player who is prioritized no matter how hard he tries. Bitter. Charming, but salty. 

“They’re supposed to be teammates, not headlines.”

“Naieve,” Wonwoo shoots back. Not rude, just matter of fact. “You know better than that. It’s never just about the race.”

The social media team wraps up and Joshua offers a clipped thank-you to the staff before heading toward you. He glances at Wonwoo and says nothing, brushing past you without stopping. His hand flicks your elbow as if to say let’s get the fuck out of here but you’re rooted to your spot when Seungcheol looks up. 

It’s fleeting, no more than a split second, but it feels like the Bahrain sun is scorching through you again. His expression doesn’t shift, still the cool, unreadable driver, but you know him. Know the twitch in his mouth is a tell, know that the flex in his jaw is him gritting his teeth. Angry. 

Wonwoo notices. “Still radioactive between you two, huh?”

Instead of answering, you pivot on your heel, following Joshua. He waits for you near the door. This is how it always is - Joshua goes. You follow. He waits. Your entire life has been the same pattern over and over again, but if you didn’t choose your brother, no one else would. 

It’s a burden you have no problem bearing. 

“You holding up?” You ask as you both jog down the steps into the heat of the late afternoon. 

“Barely. Just have to get through strategy.” 

You nod, checking the time. “I’ve got some sponsor calls while you’re in strategy. Team meeting after. You should have time to shower and get ready.” 

Joshua gives you a grateful look, the kind that reminds you why you do this, why you’ve always done this. He’s your brother, your responsibility, your constant. Even when both of your worlds have tipped over and over again. 

“You’ll be okay without me for a bit?”

You smirk. “I’ve been managing you for years. I think I can handle a couple of hours.” 

He lifts a hand to his head and gives you a two finger salute. You mimic the action, a little sign off you’ve had since you were kids. He heads to meet with the team for a strategy session as you head for his trailer, the sun baking the top of your head as you squint and hurry, desperate for air conditioning. 

Inside Joshua’s trailer, you sit on the couch and get to work. You have about a hundred emails worth of media inquiries, sponsorship questions, news articles and appointment requests, but you’re barely able to focus on any of them. Seungcheol’s gaze haunts you, even hidden away out of sight from the rest of the paddock. 

Five years ago it seemed like the culmination of a dream when Joshua and Seungcheol stepped into their Mercedes seats. It was something they’d wanted as kids when they were karting together. You’d been there by default, watching their races under flickering lights, falling asleep in the car on late-night drives to the next place, the three of you dead tired. 

You’d been a trio. Joshua, the steady river, the one who kept focus and calculated his moves. Seungcheol, the furious storm, all instinct and ego. And you, some sort of combination of the two of them, the one who tried - and failed - to keep them on track. 

Wonwoo was right. Press was always about more than the race. The media had loved the story of childhood best friends turned teammates, an illustrious fairy tale for an illustrious sport. You’d loved it too, watching two of your favorite people get to do what they’d worked so fucking hard for. 

Those dreams were for nothing. It had only taken five years to realize that. 

The weight of those years settle over you. You’ve spent half a decade managing Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that demands everything. You’ve watched him battle self-doubt, media scrutiny, and the shadow of a teammate who seems to thrive on chaos. 

You turn off the tablet, rubbing your temples. Tomorrow, practice begins. It’s the first bout of the fight, the first taste of what the season is going to be like. Knowing that Joshua already feels like the scales are tipped in Seungcheol’s favor gives you anxiety. There’s only two years left in Joshua’s Mercedes contract. 

He needs to win. 

Tomorrow, you hope he will. 

-

BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025 DAY 1 PRESEASON TESTING  5.412KM | 57 LAPS

The morning is sweltering. You can barely breathe in the air thick with heat. The low hum of engines warming up makes your teeth vibrate as you stand in the Mercedes garage, headset snug over your ears and very much out of the way as people in uniforms run around making final checks. 

Joshua’s radio crackles in your headset as he confirms comms with the pit wall. Your tablet is tucked under your arm, your focus entirely on the screens above that display telemetry data and live footage from the track. You don’t handle strategy - that’s for people far more equipped than you - but you’ve been watching Joshua race for years. 

The paddock is alive with the shouting of mechanics and engineers, media buzzing around the garages. You’re hyper-aware of your surroundings, trying to keep out of the way but also trying to avoid him. Seungcheol’s presence is a constant undercurrent in the garage, buzzing along your awareness like static. 

You spot him across the garage, conferring with his race engineer. His dark hair is still damp with sweat and your stomach twists. You force your eyes back up to the screens, trying to focus as your brother readies to run the car for practice.

Seungcheol’s first practice session of the team was perfect. You’re unsurprised. Mercedes has always had reliable cars, and Seungcheol is more than a reliable driver. He’s got an instinct rarely found in drivers his age and he’s competitive. Vicious, even. 

Practice starts and you tune out Seungcheol’s existence, entirely focused on Joshua’s car and the crackle of comms between him and the Pit Wall. Today isn’t a day for nerves exactly, but you feel them anyway, a mix of excitement and worry that the car won’t be ready mixing to make your stomach flip. 

Joshua completes his first few laps, the car looking sharp as he pushes through the corners. The telemetry shows a decent pace and you feel yourself relax. Joshua sounds relaxed, too. “Car feels solid so far. Bit of understeer in Turn Eight, but nothing major. 

One of the media managers walks by and gives you a tap hello. You smile at her - genuine - before turning back to the screen as Joshua paces ahead of his practice group. 

Just as he starts his seventh lap, Joshua’s voice comes through, frustrated. “Losing power. Engine’s cutting out.” 

You chew the inside of your cheek. The engineer’s voice is calm, but urgent, instructing Joshua to retire the car immediately and to get into the pit if it can. You squeeze your fists, sighing deeply as you watch him struggle toward the pitlane, trying to retire the car. 

This isn’t how you want to start the day. 

As Joshua’s car rolls into the garage, mechanics swarm him like a hive of bees, tools in hand. You stay back, letting them work as you pull the headset down. Joshua climbs out of the car, yanking off his helmet. His face is flushed, eyes dark with anger as he exchanges clipped words with the engineers. You catch his eye, offering a small nod of support, but he just shakes his head and heads toward his dressing room.

You let him. You know him well enough to feel when he needs support and when he needs to blow off steam. The last thing he wants right now is your empathy, so you linger among the whir of engines and the smell of burnt tires. 

“Hey.” You look up in surprise to see Seungcheol coming your way. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you directly in months. 

You cross your arms. “What do you need?”

“Just checking in. Tough break on the car.”

“Yeah. Tough break. Happens to him a lot.”

Seungcheol’s borrow furrows. He’s so beautiful up close. You hate that about him. It makes standing this close to him all the more vexing. No man - especially a rival - deserves silky long eyelashes and a perfectly rosey mouth. 

“I don’t control what happens to his car. You do know that right?”

“I know how cars work, Seungcheol.”

“Then why does it feel like you think it's my fault?”

You meet his gaze, your eyes hard. “Was there something you wanted, Seungcheol? I’m busy.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flash with something raw - hurt, maybe - but it’s gone so fast you think you might have imagined it. Seungcheol takes a step back, stiffening. He crosses his arms over his chest, closing himself off from you.

“Busy,” he echoes. He laughs without mirth. “Right. Always busy.” 

You say nothing. Seungcheol turns away, making a beeline for his own dressing room away from the eyes and away from you. Wonwoo crosses the garage and raises his brows as he follows Seungcheol’s stormy form down the hall. You watch them go, watching as Seungcheol rakes his hands through his hair, frustrated. 

It isn’t until they’re gone that you realize your heart is hammering. It's infuriating how easily Seungcheol throws you off, how he still manages to affect you with a single, clipped conversation. You’d hope not speaking to him over the last few months would dull the edge of his presence, but it seems like a stupid dream now. 

Stupid like all the other dreams you’ve had together. 

The voices of the mechanics pull you back to the present. They chatter about engine diagnostics, leaning over Joshua’s car. You sigh and turn on your heel, going in search of your brother. There’s work to do - there’s always work to do - and you need the work. Need the distraction. 

Need to think of anything but Seungcheol. 

The dressing room is tucked in the back of the garage down a narrow hall. You try not to think about the fact that Seungcheol’s is directly across the hall, ignoring the low pitch of his voice as you slip into Joshua’s room. The room is small and utilitarian, kept incredibly clean and orderly by the man sitting on the couch inside of it. 

Joshua’s still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and bunched around his waist. His helmet rests on the couch next to him, discarded like an afterthought. He leans back against the couch, hair sweaty and pushed off his head. He refuses to meet your gaze, knee bouncing up and down as he stairs at the TV in the corner instead where the practice run continues.

You sit in an armchair. “There’s still more practice days. It’s why we do this.”

“I know.”

“If you know then why are you pent up like a tiger in a cage?”

“Feels like I’m already playing catch up.”

The fluorescent light overhead buzzes faintly. You sigh and lean back in the chair, watching him. The light casts harsh shadows across his face, deepening the worry etched into the lines around his mouth. It’s the same look he’s had since you were kids, when a bad race would eat at him for hours. Back then, you’d drag him out for ice cream or make him laugh with a stupid joke. 

Now, the stakes are higher and you work for him. You’re his sister first, but sometimes being his manager is more important than being the kid he dragged around the karting track. 

“You’re not playing catchup,” you tell him firmly. “It’s day one, Josh. One bad session means fuck all. You cannot start the season thinking you’re already losing or I’m going to make you attend more therapy sessions.”

He huffs, but he nods. He finally looks at you and you see a little bit of the tension melt from him. “I know. Just feels like there’s always something new, you know?”

“Yes. One practice session isn’t going to change the fact that there’s always something. It’s not the first time your car has gone to shit. It won’t be the last.”

“Encouraging.” He smiles, but this time it’s real. “What would I do without you?”

“Suffer. Have shitty sponsorships. Do more weird ass TikToks, I don’t know.” He laughs and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I mean it, Josh. You can’t let the little things like this set you back. You’re way tougher than that.”

“You sound like dad.”

“Good. He was a smart dude.” You stand, gesturing at him. “Shower. You smell awful.”

Joshua laughs, a real one this time. “Yes, boss,” he jokes, mimicking your two-finger salute from earlier.

You step out of Joshua’s dressing room, the door clicking shut behind you. The muffled hum of the garage filters through the walls, the roar of cars going down the pitlane reaching you from here. You pause for a moment, leaning against the wall, the cool metal grounding you as you take a deep breath. The air smells like oil and rubber, familiar.

Keeping Joshua in the right headspace is hard. You’re his sister, his manager, his cheerleader, often his strategist, and sometimes, it feels like you’re stepping into the void left by your father. 

Your father would have known exactly what to say. He always had a way of cutting through the noise, of making Joshua believe he could outdrive anyone, even on his worst day. You try to channel that now, to summon the same conviction, but it’s hard. You’re not your dad. You’re not a larger-than-life figure who could command a room with a single look. You’re just you, juggling holes that don’t always fit together seamlessly.

It’s a strange kind of loneliness, the responsibility of knowing when to shift between sister, manager, pseudo-parent, friend. You’ve spent years building Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that chews up talent and spits it back out without a second thought.

Standing through him through every high and low hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it. You’d do it again every time, you’d choose Joshua every time. You’ve chosen him even when it meant not choosing yourself because if not you, then who was going to do it? 

You push off the wall, straightening your shoulders as you head back toward the garage. There’s no time to dwell on it all - not today. Not with more work to be done, media to answer to, and a team meeting to get through. But not for the first time, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like just to be you - no roles, no responsibilities, just… you.

You file away the thought in the same folder as all those silly dreams of you, Seungcheol and Joshua taking on the world together.

-

ALBERT PARK CIRCUIT | 2022 SEASON OPENER  5.278KM | 58 LAPS

Albert Park Circuit is nothing but noise. The grandstands are packed with over a hundred thousand fans waving flags and chanting under the Australian sun, but it’s barely audible over the roar of engines and the hum of machinery and drills as cars pit before spilling back out into the lane to get back to the race.

The Mercedes garage hums with tension. Your eyes are fixed on the monitors above you, arms crossed as you watch the race. Lap times flash in green on one screen, and on the other, Joshua is closing in on Seungcheol in front of him, getting into an overtake position. 

“Push here,” the engineer tells Joshua, voice crackling over the radio.

“Heard.” 

It’s been a grueling race. Seungcheol and Joshua both started in the midfield after bad qualifying rounds the day before, but the two of them have managed to climb their way to first and second position, turning the race from a battle with other teams to a fight between teammates.

You hate this part. Joshua and Seungcheol have been competitive since you were kids, but the stakes have changed the game. Your palms begin to sweat as Joshua takes a turn fast and perfect, closing the gap between him and the race leader. 

“Clear to overtake,” the engineer says.

Joshua’s car shoots forward on the monitor. You hold your breath as he squeezes into the DRS zone, the nose of his car edging alongside Seungcheol’s as they tear down the straight. The garage holds its breath along with you, everyone going rigid as they dive into turn three, neither driver yielding. For a moment, it looks like Joshua has the overtake - but Seungcheol brakes late, tires spitting sparks as he defends the line and forces Joshua life.

You groan. You can’t help it as your head rolls back, watching Joshua lose his momentum. Unfortunately, you have to commend Seungcheol on his driving. He is nothing less than perfect as he holds Joshua off, defending his position until the checkered flag waves and they cross the line in a one-two punch, a double podium

The garage erupts in cheers but you don’t join them. Someone slaps your back and you smile, nodding and giving a thumbs up. You are happy - P2 is great. A double podium is even better. But you know Joshua wanted P1, and starting off in the wake of Seungcheol’s success for the second season in a row is hard. 

On the monitors, you watch Seungcheol climb from the cockpit of his car, yanking his helmet off. His smile is bright enough to put the afternoon sun to shame. Joshua parks just behind, slower to climb out, helmet still on.

Sighing, you pull the headset off and follow the PR team into the pit lane, swept in the tide of black uniforms and noise. Fans scream from the grandstands, flags whipping against the sky. Joshua offers Seuncheol a clap on the back as you approach, but when he pulls his helmet off, the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Not the way it used to.

And then it happens.

Seungcheol spots you through the chaos. Still buzzing with adrenaline, he pushes past a cameraman and pulls you into his arm and lifts you, spinning you as he screams in delight. It’s instinctive, you realize. Dizzying. Elating.

He smells like sweat and fuel, his heartbeat slamming against your cheek where it’s pressed to his chest. For the smallest fraction of a second, you let him hold you there, arms caught halfway between pushing him off and holding on. Because his win is your win - it’s been like that for years. 

You push him away, giving him a look. He grins at you before jogging back over to Joshua’s side, waving to the fans while your world erupts into chaos of cameras, questioning glances and cleared throats. You ignore them in favor of getting back to your job, ducking to talk to the PR team for Joshua’s upcoming post-race media. 

Thankfully, you get through the podium ceremony without incident. You’re back to normal, refusing to think about the way Seungcheol stares at you from the podium or the way Joshua very specifically sprays Seungcheol in the face with champagne. Rivals first. Best friends second. 

By the time the ceremony is over and done with and you’re sitting in the hospitality suite doomscrolling on Twitter, wincing at every new post. 

Seungcheol wins P1 but tell me why he’s hugging his teammate’s SISTER  before anyone else  💀

Mercedes double podium ✅ Seungcheol + Joshua bromance ✅ Hug with Joshua’s sister ??? ✅ ???? 

Joshua finally back on the podium and all ppl can talk about is his teammate and his sister LMAO

Nahhh Seungcheol celebrating w his teammate’s sister is CRAZZZZYYY 😭

Joshua drops in the seat next to you. You flinch, dropping your phone and losing sight of all the insane things people are talking about online. You look at him and offer a forced, nervous smile. He raises his brow, leaning forward to pick up your phone. He glances at the screen as he does, frowning. 

“Seungcheol didn’t even hug Joshua first,” he reads out loud. “Straight to his sister? Be serious crying face emoji, crying face emoji, crying face emoji. Is this what you read online? 

“No!”

“I just know Joshua is losing his mind frrrr. What’s frrr?”

You snatch the phone back and look at it. “That says ‘f-r’ dumbass, not furrr. It means for real.”

“Well you for real, made things weird today, so who's the bigger dumbass?”

You deflate and slide down in your seat. “Me. P1 in the Dumbass Grand Prix.”

“Why is the internet more interested in you two than the fact Mercedes got a double podium?”

You shove your phone in your bag. “Because the internet is a dark and evil place. Plus, he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Joshua snorts. “Give me a break.”

Across the suite, Seungcheol is laughing with a group of engineers, champagne glass in hand, his eyes flicking toward you every so often like a thread you can’t untangle. You ignore it, despite the fact that every time you feel his eyes on you, your heart starts to race all over again.

The double podium feels a bit hollow. For Joshua, the headlines will sting. P2 is an excellent way to start the season - but it means Seungcheol already has an edge on him. Joshua hates when Seungcheol has the edge. For Seungcheol, it’s an immediate mark in the win column - something that he just expects. 

For you, it’s another fault line in an already damaged structure.

-

SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025 RACE DAY 307.47KM | 53 LAPS

Purple clouds swell in the distance, hanging low and angry over the Ise Bay. You eye them as you walk toward the media pen. The air tastes heavy with rain, wind pulling at strands of your hair. You quicken your steps, checking the time as you near the buzz of reporters and other media outlets. The hum of the crowd from the grandstands vibrates through you, the ruckus from the team garages carried on the wind. 

Your chest tightens as you enter the media pit. The air promises rain and rain changes everything. It reminds you of Singapore last year, and you want to do anything but think of Singapore last year, when the dam between Joshua and Seungcheol - and you and Seungcheol - had finally broken. 

Joshua breaks from his assigned media person and drifts toward you. He’s stoic as always on race day, giving you a nod and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re both in business mode and you lead him to his scheduled media slots, cameras flashing and voices shouting. You steady him with a tap to the elbow before drifting to the side to observe. 

“Joshua,” the representative for Sky Sports starts, “We’re just three races into the season and it seems like Mercedes has taken to using you defensively. How do you feel about being asked to hold other teams back to protect your teammates' lead?”

For a moment, you think Joshua is going to bristle. He hates questions like this. But he smiles, polished and polite like he’s been practicing as he answers the question. “I don’t see it that way. Every driver protects position. That’s racing. If I’m in the lead, I expect Seungcheol to protect his position, which in turn protects mine.” 

The words are sharper than they sound. No one else seems to notice, but you do. The press laughs and moves on to the next question, but you see the edge in your brother's jaw, the tension set in his shoulders. 

It continues like that for a few more interviews. You can taste the static of distant storms in the air alongside a tension you can’t rid yourself of. You don’t like rainy races and Suzuka is a difficult track to race. Joshua is going to need his full focus to get through all of the fast corners, and he’s not going to be able to hesitate when driving today. He’s going to need to be equal parts confident and patient, but he needs to commit. 

Joshua is not as good at committing as Seungcheol is.

When the media scrum disperses, Joshua appears at your side. You walk side-by-side back outside, the sky darkening. You see him look at the impeding clouds swollen, with rain, see the tension tighten the corners of his mouth. He turns straight ahead, ignoring the storm, determined to not let it bother him. So you do the same, pushing ahead in silence, the thrum of pre-race energy shivering over the entire circuit. 

You part ways when you reach the garage. This is Joshua’s ritual now. You give him a hug and your standard two finger salute, and he returns it, giving you a smile that’s more confident than you feel before he vanishes for a physical therapy session ahead of climbing into his car. 

Instead of going into the garage, you head for the main building, needing the steady rhythm of work to distract you from the nerves. You spot Seungcheol walking toward you on his way to the garage and a tingle goes up your spine as his eyes meet yours. He slows his steps, waiting for you to do the same but you don’t, averting your eyes to charge ahead. 

“Really?”

You say nothing, ignoring the weight of his eyes on your back. You feel your hands shake but you can’t think about Seungcheol right now. There is no room for him on race day - any day, really - but you cannot let his constant attempts to speak to you disrupt your routine. Your rhythm. 

Having a steady cadence to race day is as important for you as it is your brother. While you’re not superstitious, there is a comfort in doing the same thing over and over on race days. And if you occasionally switch something up when Joshua’s race goes poorly - well. That’s between you and whatever higher power is watching. 

You exhale when you’re in the hospitality suite again. You find an unoccupied office space and get to work. When you’ve carved through most of your emails, several phone calls and a single brief virtual meeting, you pull out the stats and the logistics from Joshua’s qualifier yesterday.

He’s starting P3 today with Seungcheol at P1. You like his odds. As you flip through the paper, you try not to think about the potential for rain. It isn’t supposed to start until perhaps mid race, but you don’t want rain at all. It makes a race that much harder and when bad enough, suspends the race entirely. 

By race time, you’re back where you belong in the garage, headphones on and craning your neck to look up at the monitors. Wonwoo is standing next to you, his silence welcome. Neither of you speak today, the tension too high for a game of wit or to play frenemies. 

The race begins dry. You feel a sense of relief as the cars tear down the figure-eight layout. You watch as the driver in front of Joshua takes turn eight too wide and flies into the gravel, giving him an immediate advantage to keep on Seungcheol who is still in P1. 

“It’s going to start to rain,” the team engineer radios to Joshua. “Box for new tires.”

“Heard.”

Your nerves spike with every radio call. You watch as Joshua pits for a tire change, the team effortlessly getting him back out before losing too much ground. He easily retakes P2, catching back up to Seungcheol with newer tires, flying through the turns as they near Turn 1 again. 

“Push,” the engineer calls. “Overatke in Turn 1.” 

Your heart pounds for a few seconds and you hold your breath. As the two Mercedes come around Turn 1, Joshua overtakes, his newer tires giving him the advantage. You clap your hands together, bursting at the seams as the garage goes nuts at Joshua’s flawless maneuver. Seungcheol is still close, but he needs new tires. 

And then the rain starts on lap thirty-two. 

By lap forty the tarmac is wet and the cars are slipping. Mist sprays up from the tires as the cars slip along the turns. It’s not a full deluge, but already the track is ten times more dangerous. There’s only thirteen laps left though, and Joshua is pushing to win. 

“Fuck,” Joshua says over the radio. “Visibility is shit but I’m good.” 

“Copy. Stay out. Choi is on new tires and pushing hard - gap is 1.2 seconds. He’s fending off Kwon. Stay focused.”

“Heard.”

The rain intensifies, turning the track into chaos. Someone loses control and goes into the gravel at the back of the race, but there’s no debris and no safety car. You watch as water sheets off the asphalt, Joshua’s tires hydroplaning that send spray arching into the air. You grip your table, fingers trembling as he holds on to P1 - but it’s precarious. 

Every corner is a potential disaster, every straight a battle against the elements. The garage is like a pressure cooker, engineers barking updates from the pitwall through your headphones and the pitcrew leaning forward as Seungcheol fights for an overtake position as the laps wind down. 

You glance at Wonwoo beside you. His face is a mask of calculated calm, but his eyes are locked on the telemetry data, fingers drumming against his thigh. Seungcheol’s car is a predator now, slicing through the rain with fresh tires that give him the edge in grip. Joshua’s are older, degrading faster in the wet, rough track of Suzuka. 

He defends like a fortress. He brakes late into turns, blocking every line Seungcheol probes. You suck in a breath when Joshua weaves into Turn 1, his car twitching as he fights for traction. Seungcheol dives inside, but Joshuaq shuts the door, forcing his teammate wide. You exhale sharply, but it’s short lived.

“Let Choi through,” Joshua’s engineer says. “He’s on fresher tires - better chance to hold off Kwon.” 

Your stomach drops. The garage goes deathly quiet, all eyes flicking between the screens and the pit wall. Joshua’s response is immediate. “Fuck that. There’s four laps left.” 

“Hong, confirm. Team orders to swap positions.”

“No. He can fight for it.” 

Singapore comes back to you. It’s the same nightmare scenario, battle between teammates in the rain, a refusal to comply with team orders. You feel sick, chewing the inside of your cheek so hard that you taste blood as you watch Joshua defy orders.

“Stubborn idiot,” Wonwoo mutters, shaking his head. 

“Fuck off,” you snap. “It’s a bullshit ask.”

Wonwoo says nothing. Suzuka is a river of water as Joshua and Seungcheol start the final lap. Seungcheol is aggressive, positioning himself for the kill as they enter Turn 1 again. Joshua holds him off but you see how hard the fight is. All the while, Kwon Soonyoung keeps behind them in an orange McLaren, waiting for them to crash into one another and seize the opportunity. 

Seungcheol goes for it again Turn 3, feinting to the outside. Joshua blocks him out, but Seungcheol doesn’t back off. You can barely breath, your heart pounding as your world narrows to focus only on the monitors in front of you. Seungcheol goes for it again at Turn 8, shoving the nose of his car inside, wheels locking as he brakes late.

Time slows. You see it unfold in microseconds as Seungcheol’s car clips Hoshua’s rear wing, a spark of contact that sends Joshua spinning. His Mercedes aquaplanes across the track, slamming into the barriers with an explosion of carbon fiber and metal. Debris shoots outward on impact and the other cars on the field scatter to avoid impact. 

Terror claws up your throat as the garage turns into chaos. Your hands fly to your mouth as you watch, chest heaving. Mechanics are all standing on their feet and you hear Joshua’s engineer call for him over the radio. For a second, he doesn’t answer, just static. 

“I’m okay,” Joshua says. His voice is deadly calm. “Getting out of the car.” 

The cameras cut to Joshua as a team rushes to help him. His helmet is still on and he staggers when he gets out of the car. He’s upright, gesturing wildly with his hands. Even through the rain, you can see the fury on him as he stalks off down the track to head back to the garage. 

Seungcheol crosses the line under a red flag, claiming P1 by default. You don’t care. His victory tastes sour in your mouth. You tear off your headset, tossing it onto the seat behind you. You exit the garage, immediately drenched in rain as you jog toward the beacon of light that is the medical center. 

Joshua is the only patient inside, sitting on a cot and swinging his legs. His helmet is still dripping on the table behind him, his race suit soaked with rain and sweat. He looks up when he hears you, eyes burning and hands trembling as he grips the edge of the cot he’s sitting on. 

“Fucking shit head-”

“You’re okay, yeah?” He nods. A medical attendant comes over to run him through a short series of concussion protocol. When he’s cleared, you squeeze his arm. “It’s more important that you’re okay.” 

“Barley.” He looks at you, his anger morphing from anger to something raw. “It’s Singapore all over again. He could have fucking killed me.”

You don’t answer him because you don’t know what to say. He’s right. The team will be angry at the both, but ultimately it was drivers being drivers. It’s competitive. They’re stubborn. Joshua was ordered to let him overtake and he didn’t - Seungcheol wanted to win. 

Seungcheol would never intentionally hurt Joshua. You both know that. It doesn’t make the sting of the crash hurt any less, knowing that either of them will do what it takes to win. Once upon a time, they had that in common, fighting side-by-side. Now they’ve turned that ferocity on one another, the need to beat the other strong enough to make them clash like this over and over again. 

By the time you both leave the medical center, the podium ceremony is over. Seungcheol has collected his points and Joshua is finishing without any, dropping him in the standings behind Soonyoung for Team McLaren. 

Back in the garage, the air is electric. Joshua storms in and spots Seungcheol by his car, his race suit unzipped and tied around the waist. You don’t stop him, swallowing past the tension in your throat, fighting your instinct to play buffer, to keep them from fighting.

That isn’t your job anymore. 

“What the fuck was that?” Joshua yells, startling the entire garage. “You pushed me right off the fucking track.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “You didn’t leave room! You always leave-”

“Fuck that, you know you’re in the wrong.”

“You were told to let me overtake-”

“I’m not your lapdog. You locked up, lost control, and took me out.” 

“Enough!” You flinch at the sound of Elias König shouting. The team principal for Mercedes rarely raises his voice, but he’s livid now, stalking toward the arguing men. He points to them both. “My office. Now.”

Both men scowl but comply. The garage is silent as they watch them go, steam practically coming off the both of them. Elias turns around to look at the garage, his gaze deadly enough to kill. Everyone jumps into action, going back to post-race duties before Elias stalks off after his drivers.

You like Elias, for the most part. A former high-powered corporate strategist from Frankfurt, he never dreamed of being involved in the world of motorsports. He’s made his reputation restructuring underperforming companies with surgical precision, and he’s done the same for Mercedes. 

Elias has always been polished and calm. He’s a deliberate man who leads with logic and discretion, empathetic but ruthless when he needs to be. The last time you heard him raise his voice was in Singapore. 

It’s hard to shake the memory of that race. 

“Your boy is going to be in trouble.” You look up at Wonwoo who sighs, tired. “He can’t keep ignoring strategy.”

“Fresher tires don't give Seungcheol a free pass to do what he wants,” you snap. “It was a bad strategy. There was no reason for them to ask for a position swap.”

“Long term strategy requires sacrifice.”

“Shut up, Wonwoo. Don’t talk to me like I don’t know anything. I’ve been in this world since I was five.”

Joshua and Seungcheol emerge from Elias’s office, faces dark like thunder. Neither speaks. Joshua brushes past you with a curt nod and you follow. You glance at Seungcheol a single time to see him looking at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. 

The silence is louder than any shouting, heavy with everything unsaid. 

-

SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025 POST RACE 307.47KM | 53 LAPS

Rain falls against the hotel windows. You stare out through the misty glass, unseeing. The hotel is one of those luxury hotels that focuses on the little details - rich carpets that are soft underfoot, careful designs in the tiled floors, exquisite art in the hallway. 

You can’t appreciate any of it right now. Japan always feels like a favorite in your long season of racing. You have memories here over the years: noodles at a tucked-away spot that Joshua insists on revisiting, walk throughs on the lantern-lit streets near the track, late nights spent drinking after a podium win. Japan feels less magical without Seungcheol, though, and neither one of you dared to mention it all evening.

Seungcheol. 

Even thinking his name makes something sour rise in your chest, equal parts fury and something else you try to ignore. You can still hear the crunch of the carbon fiber, see the sparks from the barrier as Joshua’s car slammed into it. For one terrible second, there had been that split second of silence on the comms and you thought - this is it. This is when it happens.

It’s always been your worst nightmare. Joshua does a dangerous job. He crashes all the time. But the memory of last year’s crash looms in your mind like an angry spirit you can’t get rid of, following you even to the most remote places. 

And now here you are again. Same rain. Same pit in your stomach. Same fight as last year in Singapore. 

Anger propels you out of your room and across the hushed corridor. You take the elevator up two floors. You know where his room is - Joshua had been complaining about it all weekend, annoyed at how close he was. Always too close - Elias’s doing, probably. 

Joshua isn’t in his room now, though. He’s downstairs with Soonyoung and Jeonghan, who despite being on different teams, have a positive relationship with your brother. 

Unlike the man on the other side of the door you pound your fist against. 

It opens quicker than you expect. Seungcheol fills the frame, shirtless and hair damp, sweat still cooling on his chest. He has sweats swung low on his hips, and a feminine voice drifts from the room. His eyes flick back before he slips into the hallway, shutting the door almost closed behind him. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand, voice harsh. “You could have killed him.”

His jaw tightens, but he’s maddeningly calm. “That’s a bit much. We crash all the time.”

“You didn’t have to overtake-”

“He refused orders. He wanted to race, and so did I. You have to leave room-”

“Fucking leaving room!” Your voice spikes, echoing down the corridor. You take a deep breath, trying to steady the rage coursing through you. His gaze pins you in place and you hate that the heat rises in your chest, the way it feels like shame and anger and something you refuse to name. “You didn’t have to. You know you didn’t have to. It was your ego.”

“Ego? You’re one to talk. You’ve been icing me out since Singapore.”

“This isn’t about Singapore.”

“It’s always about Singapore!” He shouts, finally raising his voice. He steps closer, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the air thick between you. “It always comes back to fucking Singapore.” 

Your hands are shaking, but you don’t back away. “He’s all I have left” you hiss. “And with the way you fucking treat him, it’s like you’re trying to take him away from me. Like winning is all that matters.”

The words land like a slap. He flinches, mouth opening and closing. Something falters in his expression and he softens for a second before he turns to stone again. That familiar, old ache blooms beneath your anger, heavy and relentless, the grief of what you once were to Seungcheol pressing into the cracks of his fight with Joshua.

It’s always like this. Seungcheol and Joshua fighting as the primary, your pain and struggle with Seungcheol secondary. 

You ignore it like you always do. “Joshua is all I have left,” you whisper, tired.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “You made sure of that, huh?”

Anger and hurt twists into something raw and ugly inside of you. You step back, shaking your head. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

He glares, but his voice is quieter. “You never do.” 

“Go back to whatever you were doing. We’re done here.”

“At least she looks at me.” 

The words hollow you out. They’re meant to hurt and they do, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You turn, your steps too loud in the muffled carpeted corridor. Outside, the rain still hammers the windows, mimicking the storm inside of you as the elevator takes you back down to your floor. 

At least she looks at me. 

You don’t know how to tell him that if you do look at him, you won’t be able to stop. You’ll give in and let him win. 

Just like he always does.

-

ZANDVOORT CIRCUIT | 2020 POST-QUALIFYING 162.097KM | 37 LAPS

The hotel room smells faintly of takeout and a hint of motor oil, a reminder of the long day at the track. Joshua and Seungcheol - you by default, maybe - permanently smell like fuel and leather, a scent you know by instinct. You sit cross-legged on the floor, balancing styrofoam cartons of noodles and dumplings between you, Joshua and Seungcheol. 

Seungcheol is mid-story, animated as his hands fly through the air. “So then I looped the kart around the corner, hit the hale bale, and somehow ended up sliding into the marshmallow pit.”

“I remember that!” You laugh, clutching your stomach, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “Your mom was so pissed - you’d just gotten over a concussion!” 

For a fleeting moment, the world feels small and safe, like it did when the three of you were kids sneaking past curfews and running around hotels until your legs ached. You’re older now, still going from hotel to hotel as Seungcheol and Joshua chase pennants in Formula 2, but that gold halo of childhood seems far away from the hotel room floor in Zandvoort. 

Joshua nearly chokes on his noodles, his laughter erupting somewhere between a cough and wheeze. “Oh my god, that’s when she threatened to pull you out of karting!”

Seungcheol grins, unabashed. His eyes crinkle in a way that makes your heart flip. “Worth it. I still won the next race.”

He leans back on his hands, the movement pulling his T-shirt tight across his shoulder. You force your gaze back to the dumplings before he catches you staring, terrified that if he does, he’ll immediately start making fun of you for it.

For a moment, the world shrinks to the three of you on the floor, passing cartons and reflecting on your childhood. It doesn’t feel like you’re hopping from country to country, shoving online courses between races so you can keep up with Joshua and your dad. 

Your dad wanted you to attend university in earnest. You insisted that you belonged by his side. With him managing both Joshua and Seungcheol, someone needed to take care of him. Even now as the three of you share food, you know your dad is out on the phone with sponsors or strategizing something, leaving the three of  you to your own devices. 

It’s rare, these moments without his watchful eye. You savor the ease of it and the way you can just be yourself with Joshua and Seungcheol. No pressure. No expectations. 

You reach for a dumpling, chopsticks clumsy from laughing, and catch Joshua sneaking a sip from a can of an energy drink tucked behind his knee. Your eyes narrow. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be drinking those anymore!”

He freezes. “It’s just one!”

Seungcheol’s head snaps up and he grins. “Oh you’re done for.”

You lunch across the circle, snatching the can before Joshua can react. He yells and tries to snatch it back, but you press your hand to his forehead, pushing him away while Seungcheol chants, “Manager! Manager!” 

Joshua makes a dramatic dive for the can but Seungcheol tackles him back, both of them collapsing in a heap. “Traitor!” Joshua wails, flopping onto the floor with an exaggerated groan. “My own sister and my best friend, stabbing me in the back!”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll thank us when you don’t sleep all fucking night and start tweaking through Turn 1 tomorrow.”

All of you settle back onto the floor, the can hidden behind you. Seungcheol looks at you and his grin softens. He nudges your knee with his, a sideways smirk on his face. “Teamwork, huh?”

Seungcheol’s voice is light, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your stomach twist. You shrug, trying to play it cool, but you feel the heat creeping up your neck. 

You’ve had a crush on Seungcheol for what feels like forever - since the days he let you ride on the back of his kart, you think. You know he doesn’t feel the same - you’re just his best friend's kid sister who runs around the paddock behind them - and it makes it all the worse.

“Teamwork,” you agree. “Pass me the noodles.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and passes you the carton. The three of you settle into a comfortable quiet, the TV flickering behind you, casting you in a halo of blue light. Tomorrow’s race looms, but for now, it’s just you, Joshua and Seungcheol, the three of you united in your joint dream of getting them to Formula 1.

-

BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025 POST-RACE 5.412KM | 57 LAPS

Even without the sun, the Bahrain International Circuit is choked with heat. The air is still thick with the electric buzz of the race that sets your nerves on edge. The roar of the grandstands lingers, a feverish pulse that hasn’t died down since the checkered flag waves. Mercedes has wrapped with another double podium, but this time it’s Joshua stepping onto the first place podium, Seungcheol right next to him in second. 

It’s a riot of celebration around the stage. Mechanics clap one another on the back and everyone gives you a congratulatory hug as they pass you where you stand watching. Joshua’s smile is bright as he lifts a bottle of champagne and starts to spray it. Seungcheol does his part well enough, dousing Joshua in champagne and clapping him on the back. But you know him well enough - you see the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. 

P2 is good, but for Seungcheol, it’s never enough. Not when Joshua is standing on the top step next to him, doing better in the same car.

You make your way to the pit lane, weaving through the post-race chaos. The media swarm, cameras flashing, fans scream. Joshua’s already surrounded, answering questions with his easy charm, but you keep your distance, checking schedules and murmuring quietly with the PR team. You’re in manager mode, but your focus shifts when you feel him before you see him.

Seungcheol strides toward you, awareness prickling at the back of your neck as you turn to glance at him. His race suit is unzipped to his waist, hair still damp with sweat and champagne. He hesitates only for a second before he asks, “Can we talk?”

Your stomach twists, the memory of your fight in Suzuka still painful. “I’m busy,” you grit out, turning away.

“Wait, just-” He reaches out, not touching you but close enough to make you pause. “Can we please clear the air?” 

“This is not the place.”

Your voice is colder than you mean, but you’re right. There are too many cameras and wandering eyes here, and the press and fans alike love inventing theories about you and Seungcheol. They have your entire career. So you pivot, heaving toward the hospitality suite, your heart hammering.

He doesn’t follow, but you feel his eyes on your back. You push through the crowd, dodging reporters, your tablet a shield against the world. By the time you reach the suit, your hands are trembling. You hate how easily he unravels you, how one word from him can drag you back to all the places you’ve been, both good and bad. 

Joshua finds you waiting for him in the suite. He’s glowing, the win radiating off of him. His eyes narrow when he sees you, picking up on the tension you’re trying to hide behind a false smile. He sits down and slings an arm around your shoulders, squeezing.

“What’s with the face?” He teases. “I just won and you look like you’re going to fire someone.”

“Maybe I should.” He rolls his eyes. “Just a lot to do. You know how it is. But I’m glad you’re back on top.”

“Feels good, honestly. Don’t let him ruin the fun, yeah?” You start to protest and Joshua gives you a look. “Come on. It’s time to celebrate.” 

You laugh and let him pull you to your feet. “You’re insufferable when you win.”

“Honestly, so are you. Let’s go. I’m starving and I want more champagne.” 

You follow him, the weight of Seungcheol’s gaze fading with each step. You’ll think about it another time. 

Like you always do.

-

CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2021 POST-PRACTICE 260.286KM | 78 LAPS

Sea salt clings to your skin, the scent of bougainvillea drifting in the air. The hum of the circuit still lingers in your ears as you follow Seungcheol up a narrow, cobbled street. Practice day is utter chaos - yachts gleaming in the harbor, paparazzi swarming, the glitz of Monte Carlo pressing in from every angle. You’re exhausted, but Seungcheol is moving with purpose, his hands brushing yours. So you follow. 

“Found this place last year,” he says as you walk. He gives you a grin that makes your heart stutter. “You’re going to love it.”

Seungcheol leads you to a cafe tucked between weathered stone buildings, its faded awning and tiny wooden chairs a world apart from the polished chrome of the paddock. You squeeze into a corner table, knees brushing under the cramped space. The proximity is stifling, sending a quiet thrill through you. 

Seungcheol’s dressed down, hair messy. He looks softer here, away from the track, his usual intensity tempered by the distance between the two of you and the world that keeps threatening to break you under pressure. It’s his first year in Formula 1, and you swear you’re ready to let this world break you already. 

“You look like you’re about to bolt,” Seungcheol teases, nudging your foot with his. 

“I’m fine,” you argue, unwilling to let him know how nervous he makes you. 

Even after all this time, he makes you nervous. It’s only gotten worse with age as he’s grown from a semi-lanky teenager into a broad-shoulder man. The weight of adulthood has changed things, and you swear his eyes linger on you longer than they used to. Perhaps it's your own silly dreaming.

The waiter sets down two small espressos on the table. Seungcheol leans back and sips his coffee, wincing at the bitterness. You laugh. “Not your thing?”

“Not when it tastes like motor oil.”

“Everything probably tastes like motor oil to you.”

When Seungcheol smiles, his eyes crinkle in that way that makes it hard to breathe. You feel like you’re tiptoeing around something, a secret neither one of you want to mention for fear of making it real. You’d think you were imagining it, but when his knee brushes yours and neither of you pulls away, you start to realize maybe it isn’t just you. 

“So,” Seungcheol says, stretching. “What happens when Joshua retires one day? Like, what would you do? I know you’re finishing school right now but are you going to work for your dad or what?”

You snort. “Joshua? Retire? He’d rather crash into every barrier. You know he’ll drive for as long as any team will sign him.” You swirl your espresso, not meeting his face as you think about his question. “I don’t know, though. I guess I’ve never thought about it. This is my life - him, dad - you. What else is there?”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment. His fingers tap on the table and you watch them. He has pretty hands. It’s a fact about him that you catalogue with all the other facts about Seungcheol, like the way you know his favorite flavor of soda is cherry, or the way he likes to listen to a specific playlist on race day, or the way he has a scar on the back of his neck from a crash as kids. 

“There’s more than this, you know.” He looks at you, eyes serious. “You could travel for fun. Study something that’s not online. Go be a big corporate baddie. What do you want?”

The question catches you off guard, his tone gentle but probing. You want to brush it off and make a joke, but the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible. Your chest tightens and you realize you don’t know the answer. Not really. You’ve spent so long being Joshua’s shadow, his support, that the idea of wanting something for yourself feels foreign.

“I…” You shake your head. “I guess I’d figure it out. Maybe I’d just follow you instead, huh?”

His lips twitch, a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Careful. I’d hold you to it.” 

Your breath hitches at the way he says it. His eyes are serious as they stare at you, something flickering there. The cafe feels smaller, the air heavier. You fight the urge to lean into it, to close the distance between you, but you don’t. Can’t. 

The waiter passes by and breaks the spell. You lean back in your seat as Seungcheol clears his throat, looking out at the street where tourists wander around. Finally he says, “You’d be good at anything. You’re smart as shit.” 

You roll your eyes but your cheeks burn. “I’ll make sure to put tough as shit on a resume.”

He laughs, loud and bright and the tension between you eases. It’s not entirely gone, still simmering under every glance. But you manage to finish your coffees, the conversation shifting to safer ground. 

Later, when you lie awake in your hotel room, you think back on his question: what do you want? You think of his knee against yours, the warmth of his smile and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. You think of the way he laughs and how he’s always so sure of himself. 

It occurs to you that the only thing you’ve ever wanted for yourself - truly, entirely wanted - is Seungcheol. And you have no idea what to do with that.

-

JEDDAH CORNICHE CIRCUIT | 2025 RACE DAY  308.45KM | 50 LAPS

Something about night races makes the world come alive. The Saudi Arabian night is sharp with the scent of fuel and asphalt, the grandstands pulsing with energy. Fans chant wildly as cars scream down the straights, their engines echoing off the concrete barriers as they race under the floodlights. 

You chew on your thumbnail, eyes fixed to the monitors. Joshua is chasing down Red Bull ahead, his pace relentless despite the punishing heat of the track. The race is halfway through, Joshua currently the only member of Mercedes in pole position as Seungcheol fights his way through the midfield from a bad starting position. 

Out of habit, you watch Seungcheol’s car. His speed starts to drop down on a straight and the garage groans, mechanics throwing their hands up in the air. It seems the engine trouble he had yesterday in qualifying has returned, his car crawling toward the pit lane as he’s instructed to retire the car. 

Your stomach sinks as you glance across the garage where Seungcheol’s crew is already scrambling. His car limps to the garage, mechanics swarming him like a beehive. He climbs out, yanking off his helmet with a scowl that could curdle milk. He exchanges clipped words with his engineer before stalking to the pitwall to talk to Elias. You turn back to the race, crossing your arms as you track Joshua’s movements. 

Seungcheol returns, his suit tied around his waist. You assume he’s going to his dressing room, but instead he drifts toward you. You stiffen when he stops beside you, sipping his water bottle. He doesn’t look at you, his hair sweaty and finger-raked back of his forehead. You haven’t spoken since brushing him off in Bahrain, but his presence is a steady weight.

Neither one of you says anything. Instead, you watch the race in silence, both of you with your arms crossed as you glance back and forth between telemetry data and the actual race. You focus on Joshua’s lap times, momentarily distracted when Seungcheol reaches for the headset someone brings him. His arm brushes yours as he leans to take it, the contact sending a jolt through you. You want to move, to put space between you, but you’re frozen to the spot until the contact breaks.

Seungcheol puts the headset on, watching Joshua’s race. Your arm is still buzzing where he brushed against you, so out of it that you nearly miss when he notes, “He’s pushing too hard in Turn 22.” You glance at him, but his eyes are on the screen. “He’s losing time in the exit. Needs to brake later.”

You hesitate. Your instinct is to snap at him, but the nostalgia kicks in, making you swallow past a riposte. “He’s managing the wear,” you say instead, voice hoarse. “Late breaking there risks locking up.”

Seungcheol huffs, but it’s not dismissive. It’s more like he’s thinking it over. “Maybe. But Lee has better traction off the corners. Josh has to match him there or his ass is grass.”

It’s weird. You used to have this kind of back-and-forth all the time. You nod though, adjusting your headset. “He just needs to close that gap for DRS.”

“Hope so.” 

You don’t talk a lot. You only make comments here and there, both of you falling into laser-like focus as Joshua closes the gap between him and Red Bull and gets the clear for DRS. He flies on the straight, jerking around Lee Chan, your entire garage clapping as Joshua pulls ahead. 

Seungcheol doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Standing next to him like this feels familiar. It’s the most you’ve spoken in months - not that you’ve given him the opportunity. You don’t know why you do now, other than you’re a sucker for nostalgia. You miss this - miss him - and the realization twists in your gut, sharp and unwelcome. 

You catch yourself stealing glances at him, at the way his jaw clenches when Joshua nails a corner, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh. He’s still Seungcheol - intense and competitive. You hate how much you still notice.

Joshua holds off P1, fending off both McLaren and Red Bull as the checkered flag waves. You clap excitedly, a thrill going through you as the garage erupts into a mixture of relief and pride. You pull off your headset, glancing at Seungcheol. 

He pulls his headset off, eyeing you. “You still have an eye for strategy.”

“I’ll stick to management.”

He hums. Seungcheol turns to leave and hesitates. He lowers his voice, voice so soft you can barely hear him in the roar of the garage and the noise of the paddock. “I miss this. Talking to you. You.” His eyes are steady and your chest tightens, the ache of the past flaring up again. “I wish you’d let me be your friend again.”

Friend. 

It doesn’t feel like the right word. You and Seungcheol had been friends for years. Joshua had brought Seungcheol home with him after the first day of karting to find you playing video games and it had sealed your fate with the three of you. You’d been a unit ever since, three moons circling the same gravity: the dream that they’d be big someday. 

But you and Seungcheol had transcended that. Friends feels like where you started, but not where you ended. You don’t know what to call where you ended, friends but something more. Something almost. You remember the thrill of it, the longing you’d felt for years taking shape into something real and tangible.

And then Seungcheol had ruined it in Singapore. 

The ache of the memory makes you shut down again. It feels as raw now as it did almost a year ago and you pull your headphones off, tossing them onto a seat. Seungcheol watches you put the wall back up, the cool indifference sliding back into place where you’re safe from the memories of being friends - of being something more. 

You glance at the screen where Joshua is climbing out of his car. “I have to go.”

Seungcheol doesn’t stop you. The look on his face is resigned, as if to say I know. You pivot and head out. He doesn’t follow you, but you feel his gaze, heavy as ever until you’re out of sight. Your heart hammers, torn between the pull of what was and the pain of what is.

You hate how much you wish it could be again. 

-

SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT | 2022 POST-PRACTICE SIMULATION 306.198KM | 52 LAPS

It’s quiet at the factory. It feels strange to be here in season - usually being at headquarters only happens ahead of the season for events, business, branding shoots and meetings. Now, the hum of machinery and the faint glow of computer screens are the only signs of life. 

The simulation room is tucked away in a corner of the Mercedes facility, a high-tech cocoon where Joshua likes to chase perfection in a virtual world. He’s got a set up in his apartment too, but with the home team advantage for the race weekend he’s begged you to come with him to run simulations of the race again.

As if he doesn’t have this one memorized down to every groove in the track. 

It’s well past midnight as you trudged through the building, tablet heavy under your arm. Joshua is practically a zombie in front of you, chugging down water and trekking blearily to the exit. Tomorrow’s grand prix is looming, but he’s been pushing himself harder, desperate to keep up with his teammate in their second year with Mercedes. 

The very teammate that you catch in a separate simulation room. You glance through the glass window to see Seungcheol is still there, strapped in and hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s fighting for pole position. The screen in front of him flashes with the familiar curves of the Silverstone Circuit, the same curves and straights you and Joshua have been talking about all night. 

Joshua laughs. “He’s going to keep at it for hours. Maniac.”

You hum, noncommittal. Your feet slow until you stop at the door. Seungcheol’s focus is unrelenting, his posture rigid. “Go ahead,” you tell Joshua. “I’ll catch up. Someone needs to pull him out.”

Joshua raises a brow, but he’s too tired to argue. He gives you a two finger salute. “Don’t stay too long. If he won’t leave, just head out. You need sleep too.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Joshua leaves you standing near the glass. You stare at Seungcheol for a moment, watching the way each twitch of his hands is controlled. Deliberate. When the screen in front of him finishes his current session, you knock on the glass. 

Seungcheol’s head jerks up and he pauses the simulation. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. He looks at you, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but he gives you a tired smile and waves you in. He relaxes in the seat as you slip in and walk over.

“Didn’t expect you here this late,” he says, voice rough. “Josh here?”

“Just left. Begged me to come with him. Says he likes my strategy more than your own team.”

Seungcheol’s mouth turns. “You are pretty good.”

“Chasing lap times?”

“Always.”

“Maniac.”

“Says you. You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“Mmm.” You cross your arms over your chest, drinking in his features. Seungcheol is handsome as ever, even when the signs of exhaustion are all there. Dark circles under his eyes, dry lips, red eyes. “You’re pushing too hard, Cheol. You’re going to burn out.”

“You sound like your dad.”

“Rude.” You perch on the edge of a table in the room, swinging your legs.  “Hows it going, then?”

“Elias has been on me about consistency. I’m struggling with it. Plus, your brother sets the bar so fucking high. His lap times are almost perfect. Always.”

It’s true. Joshua’s lap times are scary consistent, proof of years worth of refined practice and talking over his drives time and time again. Joshua isn’t just perfect - he’s clinical. Logical. Refined. Not like Seungcheol who wins often, but is just as likely to face disaster or have to climb his way out of a bad qualifying position. 

“You’re doing fine,” you tell him softly. “P4 in quali today was solid. You’re not out of the race.”

He looks at you, his expression unreadable. There’s a flicker of something that makes your gut tighten and your breath quicken. “Doesn’t always feel like it. Feels like no matter how fast I go, it’s not good enough unless I finish first.” 

“Not good enough for who?”

“Anyone.”

The silence stretches between you. You watch as he takes a sip of water, Adam’s apple bobbing. You want to comfort him. You want to get up and cross the room, to run your fingers through his hair and tell him he’s doing fine - more than fine.

But you don’t. He’s your brother’s best friend and biggest rival, the single person in the world who understands what it’s like for both you and Joshua. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Seungcheol says eventually. He sighs and leans against the seat, slumping slightly. “It just feels… heavy, sometimes.”

“I know. I feel it sometimes. Different, but you know how it is. Joshua, too. I’m in your corner though, if it counts for anything.”

His eyes meet yours and for a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air feels charged and full of something - promise, maybe. His gaze flickers down to your mouth so fast you think you imagine it. 

“It counts,” he says, voice soft. “It counts more than you know.”

-

MIAM INTERNATIONAL AUTODROME | 2025 POST-QUALIFYING 308.326KM | 57 LAPS

I wish you’d let me be your friend again.

The words play over and over in your head, looping like the cars around the circuit. You haven’t spoken to Seungcheol since - not that there’s been a chance - but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it had been in Saudi Arabia. How many times in your life had you sat next to him and ranted about strategy? Arguing positioning? Quipped back and forth? 

For a moment, it felt like your Formula 2 days again, pressed closed together while watching the cars that Seungcheol would inevitably end up in, both of you arguing about teams and strategy and just… being you. 

It haunts you. It always does. Most days you find yourself opening your mouth to say something to him before remembering it’s not like that anymore. That you’d cut him out of your life and slammed the door shut on any sort of a relationship. Sometimes, you walk into a hotel room, scrubbing your hair with a towel only to stop and swear you can smell his cologne again, lingering just beyond in a place you cannot reach.

Everyone talks about the death of relationships. But no one talks about the death of a what if. 

Once again, you shove down the thought. You have no time for mourning the past tonight, especially with the piss poor interview Seungcheol gave after securing P2 in qualifying. The memory of it is hot as the Miami pavement as you cross the neon-drenched street. Palm trees sway lazily against a cotton-candy sky, the last of the sun dying soaking the sky in color. 

Rows of waterfront venues line the street, each one of the high-end restaurants and beach clubs dotting the Miami River. Heat simmers in the air, the humidity sticking to your skin, balmy and irritating. You try not to let it irritate you, deciding that you want to enjoy Miami while you’re here. 

CASA NEOS thrums with lowkey energy as you enter. Fairy lights are draped over open-air cabanas, the water in the distance lapping gently against docks where you can see shiny speed boats and MasterCrafts bobbing alongside orange buoys. 

Servers carrying fresh seafood towers and grilled wagyu sliders rush by you as you duck into the private dining room where the buzz of voices draws you to Team Mercedes. The private dining room and then some is roped off for team dinner, your coworkers and everyone who makes anything tick in the garage spread out and enjoys a night of mingling before the race tomorrow. 

Team dinners out are rare. Usually formal team dinners happen in the hospitality suite, but Miami is one of the cities where Elias likes to make a show of it, bringing everyone together and rewarding them - within reason - for the season so far. 

Joshua raises his hand when he sees you. You nod and dart over to him, pausing to accept a sweating glass of margarita with a cute little umbrella in it as you go. You take a sip and make a face, forgetting how strong the drinks are in Miami. 

Honestly, you need a strong drink. A single look at your brother tells you he’s still just as angry as he was two hours ago, and the single beer he’s allowed himself to have hasn’t eased the frustration from hearing Seungcheol’s interview.

It was stupid. Even the PR team hadn’t liked his answer much, but Seungcheol has never been as polished in Joshua with the media. Seungcheol giving an interview about the push and pull between him and Joshua had been fine - every team deals with it. But Seungcheol calling it personal had awakened the online media circus again, reigniting the conspiracy theorists to work out what happened in team Mercedes that broke the friendship between two teammates. 

Like every other time fans online caught the tension between Joshua and Seungcheol, you were dragged into the thick of it. You’ve never been able to escape it fully - not since Joshua’s elevation to Formula 1 and your rise to the role of his manager after your dad’s passing. Mercedes die-hards have been calling you the atom bomb of Mercedes for years - the Yoko Ono of Mercedes. 

Joshua stabs his salad as you sit down next to him. “What did watercress ever do to you?”

He glares. “You know why I’m pissed.”

You nod. What should be a happy mood to be bonding with the team has been poisoned yet again. You sigh, reaching across the table to pluck a salad plate from the middle. Down the table, you see Seungcheol enjoying himself just fine, laughing at something one of the engineers says. He’s dressed in a casual linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tan arms, the buttons at the top of his shirt undone. 

When Seungcheol glances at you, you avert your eyes, turning your attention to one of the strategists next to you to engage her in conversation. She’s a few drinks in but nice, and you decide she’s better company than Joshua who is now nursing water with melting ice and a small cup of gelato that is melting faster than he can eat it. 

Halfway through dessert, your phone starts to ring. You sigh, realizing it’s a sponsor you owe a sign-off on a post to. Scooting your chair back, you dismiss yourself outside the venue. It’s night now, lights reflecting gloomily off the rippling black surface of the river, a mix of tropical music, drums and voices drifting from each restaurant on the dock.

You hold the phone to your ear, apologizing as you walk down one of the empty docks. In the distance, you can see the Jose Marti Park across the river. The hum of the city backtracks your conversation as you finish up your phone call, hanging up and pressing your finger to the bridge of your nose as though it could relieve the tension there from the long day.

Footsteps behind you draw your attention. You turn, expecting people returning to their boats. Instead, you find Seungcheol. He’s silhouetted in shadow, a soft glow to his face from the lights on the side of the boat. Your heart immediately lurches at the sight of him, followed instantly by anger. 

“Uh oh,” he says, stopping a few feet away. “You’ve got your mad face on.”

“Yeah I’ve got my fucking mad face on.”

The humor vanishes from his face. “What now?”

“What now? Your horrible media training is what.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you seriously mad about the interview? I said nothing wrong. It’s no secret we’re competitive.”

“Whatever.” You move to walk past him but he steps in front of you. “Seungcheol, not now.”

“Not now. I’m busy. Not the right time. That’s all it ever is with you. I thought maybe we made a bit of progress in Saudi Arabia. I thought we were working on this-”

“There’s no this, Seungcheol. What is so confusing to you?” 

You stare at him, the words hanging in the humid air between you. The dock creeks softly under your feet, the gentle lap of the river against the pilings the only sound cutting through the sound from the restaurants.

All you can focus on is Seungcheol, standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets, his linen shirt rumpled and dark hair tousled by the breeze off the river. He’s too close - always too close. You can smell his cologne, woody and warm. It hits you like a punch to the gut, remembering the way the scent used to cling to your clothes after stolen moments in hotel rooms and quiet corners of the paddock. 

Before Singapore. 

Your heart twists as a familiar ache blooms in your chest. You miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, you miss the way he’d lean in close after long nights of travel, you miss his shoulder brushing yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You miss his late night talks in Formula 2, you miss dreaming big under fluorescent garage lights.

Missing him changes nothing. Not after the blowout from last year, not after the way Seungcheol’s ambition has rotted his friendship with your brother. Not after the way he dragged it being personal into the mix again, pulling you back into the chaos. 

You’re mad at him for stirring it all up again, for not letting the past stay buried. Mad at yourself for the way your pulse quickens looking at him, for the part of you that wants to throw caution to the wind and cross the dock and take what you want. 

But you can’t. You won’t. Joshua is your brother, and protecting him means keeping this door shut, no matter how much it kills you. 

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens like he sees right through you. Maybe he does. “What’s confusing,” he grits out. “Is that you’ve been shutting me out for months even though I’ve been trying. I’ve tried apologizing, reaching out - fucking begging you to talk about Singapore and you won’t let me.”

You cross your arms over your chest as the wind picks up. You feel a chill, both from his words and the wind. The sound of voices carry down the dock, but it’s just the two of you out here, night snapping with tension. 

“Because I don’t want you to, Seungcheol.” It’s a lie and you know it, but you continue, “I don’t want the apologies. I don't want to talk about it. Singapore happened. You and Joshua blew up. End of story.”

He steps closer, the dock’s wooden planks groaning under his weight. The soft glow from the boat light cast shadows over his face that sharpen his features, his full lips pressed into a thin line. “My friendship with your brother is separate from my relationship with you.”

“No. It isn’t. You told me to choose because you were incapable of separating me from your drama with him. So I did.”

“Oh yeah? So you’re over me, then? Just like that? You suddenly feel nothing anymore because me and your brother don’t have a friendship anymore? Bullshit.”

The words sting. You feel your throat constrict painfully, trying to swallow past a denial of your feelings but they get stuck. It isn’t nearly as simple as being over him. As if you haven’t spent nights staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment spent with him, every whispered conversion in the dim light of a Monaco hotel room. As if you didn’t ache for the what if life that Seungcheol always asked you about. 

You’re furious at him for pushing, for not letting you grieve the loss of him in silence - the silence that he forced when he tried to make you choose between him and family. But beneath the anger is the raw, unrelenting fucking want. The want for his touch, his voice, the way he made the chaos of your world feel steady. 

You shake your head. “Yes. I’m over you. Happy now?”

The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, and from the way his eyes darken, he knows it’s a lie. For a moment, the air between you stills. The sound of the lapping waves and the distant music fades, the world narrowing to just you and him on the dock.

Then he moves, closing the distance in a single stride. Seungcheol’s hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulls you in. His lips crash against yours, not gentle but desperate. Demanding. Like he’s been holding back for months and the dam has finally broken.

The kiss tastes like the whiskey he’d had at dinner. You gasp into his mouth, melting into the familiarity of it immediately. His free hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing through you. 

Everything tilts. You hear the pounding of your own heart as his mouth slides against yours, the rush of blood in your ears. The woody smell of him wraps around you, intoxicating. You clutch at his shirt, fingers twisting in the linen, though you don’t know if it’s to pull him closer or push him away.

Seungcheol pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. His eyes search yours, dark and stormy. “Tell me you don’t feel anything. Say it again. If you mean it, I’ll stop trying.”

You swallow, the words sticking. Your mouth tingles from the kiss and your heart screams in your chest. “I don’t feel anything.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “I said to mean it, liar.”

He kisses you again, slower and deeper this time. His lips move gently against yours, teeth pulling at your bottom lip softly until you open up for him. He groans, his tongue sweeping in to taste the faint lime on your tongue from your margarita. 

Seungcheol is intoxicating. You remember the first time he kissed you, dizzying and hypnotic. It feels that way now as his hands roam, one hand pressing up your back to pull you closer, the other tracing the curve of your hip. 

When you break apart again, both of you are breathing hard. He lifts a hand to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Please let me apologize to you. Properly.” 

The neon lights from the waterfront are a smear of watercolor across the oil-slick surface of the river. His eyes are dark and searching, holding yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“Please,” he says again. “I’ve been trying for months. Singapore was a mess, I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should have never told you to choose between Josh and I.”

It hurts. You’re torn between the longing to let him back in and the fear of what it would mean. You miss him so much it's a physical ache, a hollow space that gnaws at you in quiet moments. But letting him apologize feels like stepping into quicksand, something you won’t be able to escape from. 

“I don’t know how,” you admit. Seungcheol’s face falls, the hope in his eyes dimming. He steps closer but you step back, breaking his hold. The dock feels unsteady beneath you. “I can’t. Not now.”

His hands fall to his sides, his shoulders drawing in slightly. The glow of the lights catch the tension in his jaw, hurt flashing in his eyes. He doesn’t push further, though. He just watches you, silent as ever as you turn, your heart hammering so loud it feels like the entire city can hear it. 

Your steps are near frantic as you hurry back toward CASA NEOAS, the lights and open-air cabanas a blur through the tears you refuse to let fall. The buzz of voices wash over you, drowning you as the sounds of laughter and your smiling coworkers greet you, completely at odds with the storm you’ve just escaped.

Inside, Joshua is still at the table, his interest in the dinner no better. His gaze flicks up to you when you reenter, eyebrows raising slily. You just shake your head and slide into your seat, reaching for a glass of water to chug it down. The glass is slick with condensation, the coolness of the water doing nothing to undo the heat of the dock moments ago.

You think nothing will. 

-

MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024 POST-QUALIFYING  306.143KM | 62 LAPS

Marina Bay Sands glows like a become, the Supertree Grove a distant silhouette against the night. It’s humid outside, the air clinging to your skin and making your clothes feel heavy. Seungcheol is standing outside on the sidewalk, focused on the phone in his hand. He’s dressed down, less like a Formula 1 superstar and more like the kid who used to steal your skittles. 

Stomach fluttering, you walk toward him, adjusting your shirt as it ruffles in the breeze. Seungcheol senses your presence, looking up from his phone. His eyes soften when he sees you, the smile he gives you threatening to do you in right there. No one else smiles at you the way Seungcheol does, which is why you’ve agreed to wander down here at his request.

“Dinner?” He asks, voice low. “Just us?”

You nod, heart kicking up a notch. “Lead the way.”

Seungcheol knows this place better than you do. It’s one of his favorite places to visit even when it’s not racing season. He takes you to a quiet restaurant tucked along the Singapore River, a place with open-air seating and lanterns strung across. The water reflects the lights in shimmering streaks of gold and red, the air heavy with chili crab and pandan leaves from nearby vendors. 

You settle into a corner table, letting Seungcheol order a spread of Hainanese chicken rice, satay skewers and tiger prawns. You sip a beer, tilting back in your seat to look at him. He looks tired but relaxed, leaning back in his chair to glance out at the river, eyes soft. 

“I could have done better today,” he says eventually, turning to you. “A little frustrating. Josh must be happy with pole position.”

You nod, treading carefully. The growing tension between them has you on edge, hating the way something dangerous has been simmering around the three of you all season. “You were half a second behind. That's nothing here. You’ll make it up tomorrow.”

He shrugs, but he doesn’t let it go. “Yeah. Hopefully tomorrow my own teammate doesn’t box me out again.”

“Cheol…”

“It’s frustrating. I don’t know how we went from living our dream together to barely being able to be in the same room.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air. You feel the familiar tug-of-war to stay loyal to Joshua but offer comfort to Seungcheol. It’s starting to feel like you can’t bridge the gap between them, but every piece of advice you offer them feels like a betrayal one way or the other.

“Maybe talk to him,” you offer. “The two of you are so fucking stubborn. Just talk.”

His eyes darken. “We’ve tried. You know how it goes.”

You want to tell him Joshua’s just protecting himself, that he’s scared of losing what he’s worked so hard for, that he’s carrying the weight of your dad’s legacy too. But saying that feels like crossing a line, like choosing Seungcheol over your brother.

Instead, you reach across the table, your fingers brushing his. “He’ll come around.”

Seungcheol’s hand turns, capturing yours, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. The touch sends a shiver up your arm, a reminder of how easily he unravels you. “Whatever. Let’s talk about something else.”

The dinner stretches on, the food growing cold as you talk—about dreams, about fears, about the what-ifs that feel too big to name. But the frustration lingers, a quiet undercurrent. You want to fix things for him and Joshua, to be the sister and the whatever you are to Seungcheol. But every solution feels like a compromise, and you hate it, the way you’re caught between two people you love, the way you can’t fully give yourself to either without betraying the other.

When you leave the restaurant, the Singapore night wraps around you, the air heavy with heat and the distant pulse of music from Clarke Quay. Seungcheol walks you back to the hotel, his hand brushing yours until he finally laces your fingers together. You smile, squeezing his hand back, feeling every callus and rough patch from years of driving. 

At the hotel entrance, he stops, turning you to face him. The neon glow from a nearby sign casts his face in shades of blue and pink, his eyes searching yours.

“I don’t care about the rest,” he murmurs. “Josh, the team - it’s secondary. I like this, though. Whatever this is. I like this with you.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, kissing you soft and sure, his lips warm and tasting faintly of the beer you shared. It’s slow and deliberate, his hands framing your face. The world falls away, the hum of Singapore fading until it’s just the two of you kissing in the shadow of the hotel. 

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the humid air. “See you tomorrow?” 

You nod and sneak a soft kiss to his lips again. He groans and tries to steal another but you dart away from him, your laughter trilling and manic as you skip back inside. You leave him standing there smiling at you, the crinkle of his eyes genuine. Real.

It’s not much longer until the season is over. You’ll wait until then to make it real, to fix the bullshit between your brother and Seungcheol. It’s what your father would do. 

You vow to do it too. 

-

MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024 RACE DAY 306.143KM | 62 LAPS

Heavy rain lashes the ground. You watch the screens with your arms crossed over your chest, heart hammering. The tepid air makes your team polo stick to you, turning the air in the garage heavy with tension and moisture. 

You don’t know why they haven’t called off the race. The rain makes the night race all the more difficult, the team radios crackling with barking orders as Joshua tries to maintain his position at the head of the race, Seungcheol right behind him. Seungcheol has fresher tires though, trying to fend off both McLaren’s as they round the last few laps of the race.

A single glance at the pitwall tells you how tense it is. You see Elias arguing with strategists, the engineers debating on how to keep both McLaren’s from passing on fresh tires and better grip. You’ve been here before, and you feel the sense of dread as Seungcheol closes in closer on Joshua just before the call comes through.

“Let Choi overtake. He’s on fresher tires. He has a better chance to hold the lead.”

Your fists clench at your sides, fury bubbling up hot and fast. The garage feels too small, the air too thick, as you stare at the monitors showing Joshua's car slicing through the deluge. He's been the team player, swallowing his pride, and now this?

“The fuck do you mean let him overtake? I fucking protected his lead the last two races guys. Get the fuck out of here with that.”

The garage falls quiet. Your heart races, a mix of pride and dread twisting in your gut. His race engineer asks him to let Seungcheol overtake again, but Joshua refuses, battling the slick road and the shit visibility while Seungcheol rides his ass, two orange McLarens not far behind. 

Seungcheol is a shadow in Joshua’s spray. You watch on the screens, breath held as Seungcheol dives for the inside at Turn 10, a risky move when it’s dry and near suicidal when it’s wet. His front wing clips Joshua’s rear tire and it’s all that needs to happen to send Joshua into the barrier.

Time slows. Joshua’s car hits the barrier in a spray of sparks and debris. Everyone in the garage shoots to their feet, hands on their head. You feel a cold tingle sweep over you, your entire body going numb with fear as you watch as red flags appear while your brother’s car goes up in flames, the rain doing nothing to put it out. 

Voices on the radio call his name as crews rush to get to him. The other cars on the track stop, the session halted amid the downpour and the disaster that is Joshua’s car. Your world narrows to a single point, hands pressing the headphones closer to your ears as your heart pounds, waiting for Joshua to answer. 

The pit wall feels like it’s closing in, the hum of rain on the roof and the wet tires screaming through the track melding into a single, unbearable pulse in your chest. Your stomach is in knots, fingers trembling as you grip your headphones. You can barely breathe, and every instinct in you screams at the impossibility of what just happened. 

Joshua’s car is mangled against the wall. You stare and stare and stare until finally, you see him helped out of the wrecked car. The visor on his helmet is cracked and he has to be helped to stay steady as he walks. You press a palm to your mouth, watching as tears sting your eyes in relief, anger, terror. You don’t even know. 

The race is called finished. Seungcheol wins by default, but it feels hollow. Drivers carefully start to return to the pit with winners instructed to the air near the podium. You wait in the garage alone, watching the team file out into the rain for a podium as Joshua is escorted to the medical tent. 

You don’t move. Can’t move. Everyone leaves you alone, staring at the screen and the replay of the destruction. Each time you see Seungcheol’s front wing clip Joshua’s car, you flinch. 

Joshua has been in tons of accidents. It comes with the territory. But you’ve never seen one like that, helmet cracked, care in flames. Worst of all, it had been an overtake attempt by his teammate. His best friend. 

Something sour twists in your stomach as you wait for your brother to come back from the medical bay. You finally peel the headphones from your ears, the sound of the rain hammering on the metal roof your only company. The garage seems eerily quiet with half the people out celebrating Seungcheol’s win with the other half waiting for pieces of Joshua’s car to be brought back. 

Anger buzzes beneath the surface. Seungcheol is competitive, but the reality of how dangerous he’s willing to play it sinks into you like a knife between the ribs. He was willing to risk a terrible overtake for something like that. You look at the pitwall where you see Elias already talking to an FIA representative. You’d be shocked if Seungcheol wasn’t given a penalty.

Joshua is trembling when he enters the garage. He’s alone, his helmet tucked under his arm. You see the fault line in it, heart flipping. You shoot to your feet and dart over to him, hesitating to make sure he’s okay before he nods and you hug him. 

“Fucking christ,” you mutter. “Are you alright?”

“Feels like every bone in my fucking body is broken. Surprisingly, it’s not. I’m under concussion protocol.” 

Relief floods you, sharp and fleeting, chased by rage. “Let’s go-”

“No.” You step back, wide eyed. “I want to see him when he comes back.”

“Josh-”

“No.”

The silence in the garage is heavy. You stand next to Joshua, trying not to fidget. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the entrance as he waits for the team to filter back in after the podium and media. You want to say something, to ease the tension coiling in the air, but words feel useless. Joshua’s trembling has stopped, replaced by a quiet, dangerous stillness that has you on edge.

You glance at the monitors. The podium ceremony is in muted colors under the rain. Seungcheol’s face flashes on screen but he doesn’t smile. It’s an awkward ceremony, no champagne sprays and dulled by the dramatic ending. 

Joshua watches too, his knuckles white around the helmet tucked under his arm. You know he’s replaying the crash too. 

Members of team Mercedes start to filter back in. You watch them with an impending sense of doom, several people stopping dead in their tracks when they see the look on Joshua’s face. No one says anything - not to you, not to him. This is something only the team principal can handle, and Elias is nowhere to be found yet. 

When Seungcheol enters, it’s like a bomb goes off. One second Joshua is next to you, the next he’s halfway across the garage, voice raced. “What the fuck was that, Choi?”

Choi. Not Seungcheol. Like they haven’t been on a first name basis with one another since they were in their teens. Joshua launches his helmet at the wall and the entire garage flinches as it cracks loudly against the metal. 

Seungcheol’s face hardens and he stops walking as Joshua approaches him. “I didn’t mean to hit you. It-”

“Fuck you!”

The garage feels smaller, the air electric with rage. Seungcheol throws his helmet onto a nearby table, the clatter echoing. “You think I wanted this? I was fighting for the win, same as you! You could’ve let me by like the team said-”

“Fuck the team!” Joshua shouts, stepping closer, his fists balled. “I’ve been playing your wingman for two races, Cheol. Two. I gave up my shot to protect you, and this is how you repay me? By putting me into the fucking wall?”

The argument explodes, their voices overlapping, each word a spark in a powder keg. You feel your pulse hammering, your hands shaking as you watch your brother and his best friend tear into each other. The other mechanics and engineers in the garage freeze, eyes darting between the two drivers.

You step forward just as Elias appears, shouting, “Enough! Both of you in my office now!”

“Fuck that,” Joshua spits.

You grab his arm, pulling lightly. “Josh-”

“Don’t,” Joshua warns, his voice low but sharp, his eyes flicking to you for a moment before returning to Seungcheol. “This is between us.”

Seungcheol’s gaze shifts to you, and something in his expression darkens. His voice drops, cold and deliberate. “No, it’s not just between us. She inserts herself every time. So choose, right now. Me or him?”

Your heart nearly stops. Your palms are slick with sweat, everyone silent. “I- what?”

“Choose,” he seethes. “You can’t play peacekeeper anymore. Choose.”

The garage is deathly silent, the weight of his words suffocating. “Seungcheol, there is no choosing, I’m not a -”

“So you choose Joshua. You always do. That’s fine. The two of you can make me the bad guy, but I’m done with your fucking family.”

The words slice through you, sharp and cruel. Your vision blurs with tears, but the rage surges forward, unstoppable. “What is wrong with you? Is that how bad you want to fucking win?”

“The two of you always make me the bad guy. It’s my fault Joshua refused team orders, it’s my fault he didn’t win, it’s my fault he’s mad, I should say sorry, I should be more reasonable. You two are birds of a fucking feather.”

It feels like you’ve been slapped. You take a step back from him, staring. It feels like he’s a total stranger. Seungcheol has never spoken this way to you before, never voiced that he felt like you were ganging up on him. You immediately feel defensive because Seungcheol is often the aggressor in arguments, he is the one who goes for the throat. 

And yet you say nothing. You stare and stare and stare at the man who just the night before, was telling you all of the nonsense didn’t matter. That you were important. That he wanted to make sure he kept you around. And how he’s telling you to choose as though its some sort of fucking powerplay and he can overtake Joshua again by taking his sister.

You turn away from Seungcheol, avoiding your brother's gaze but stepping toward him for protection like when you were kids, seeking his comfort. Seungcheol swears, scoffing, but he doesn’t say another word. 

Joshua grabs your arm, his grip tight but grounding. “Let’s go. He’s not worth our time.”

The cold air hits your face as you step into the downpour, but it does nothing to cool the anger burning in your chest. Joshua’s hand stays on your arm, a silent anchor, as you both head toward out, leaving Seungcheol behind. 

-

CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025 THREE DAYS UNTIL QUALIFYING. 260.286KM | 78 LAPS

Sunlight bends off the pastel shutters and brass balconies of Monte Carlo. The faint tang of the Mediterranean lifts on the breeze, carrying the sweet scent of bouganvillea. You’ve been in Monaco all week, using the excuse of early meetings and sponsor prep to linger here longer.

The truth is simpler: you’ve needed the quiet. Needed the soft press of books and paper in your favorite little shop on the hill, tucked away from the glossy yachts and the press swarms that will start in a few days. 

A bell tinkles above the door to the bookshop you’re in. You don’t even look up as you trace the spines of novels both familiar and unfamiliar to you. A group of tourists next to you whisper over postcards and rare first editions, their excitement making your lips twitch in an almost smile. 

“Of course you’re here.”

Your spine goes rigid at Seungcheol’s voice. You turn to see him. He’s dressed in a slouchy hoodie, baseball cap pulled low on his head. He leans against a shelf, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He looks good but tired, like the nights between now and Miami have been keeping him up too.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper. 

He takes a step closer, a little hesitant. “Can we talk?”

You should say no like you always do. You should walk out, push past him and drown yourself in work until race day swallows you whole. It’s how you’ve managed up until now - until that kiss in Miami alongside the river. Against your better judgement, you nod.

It surprises him. He gives you a fleeting smile before gesturing you to follow. The two of you move through aisles of books, silent for a few minutes. His hand skims the spine of a poetry collection, his fingers reverent. You fight a shiver looking at them. 

“I need to explain,” he starts, voice rough. “Whath happened in Singapore. When I made you choose. It’s been gnawing at me and you…”

“I haven’t let you.”

He snorts. “Yeah.”

“I’m letting you now.”

“I thought I’d lost you already,” he admits. He chews his lip, not meeting your eyes as you walk. “The moment I clipped him, I felt like it was over. Knew I fucked it up. It felt like I was always compromising for Joshua with so many things, like I was holding back. Even with you - especially with you. So I thought if I just made you choose, I could make you reject me then instead of sometime later when it would hurt more.

“Seungcheol.” Your voice comes out sharp, but it wavers. Your pulse thrums in your throat. The bookstore suddenly feels too small, too close, the air heavy with all the words you never said. “You can’t just do that. You can’t put me between you and him.”

“I know.” His jaw tightens. His voice drops lower, hoarse. “But I wasn’t thinking about him. I was thinking about you. About every moment I’ve bitten my tongue or stepped back because it was easier than pushing against Joshua. That night I wanted - just once - for you to choose what you wanted.”

You close your eyes for a second, but it doesn’t help. You still see the flames licking Joshua’s wreck, the spray of rain, the red flag waving. You still feel the taste of Seungcheol’s mouth in Miami, the way you folded into him like it was inevitable.

The silence between shelves is thick, the kind that makes you hyper-aware of every breath, every shuffle of his sneakers against old wood. He waits for you to say something - anything - but your throat is tight, your chest hot. Finally, you find your voice, though it shakes with the weight of it.

“Do you know what that felt like?” you whisper, your hand pressing against the spine of a book just to feel something real. Grounded. “Standing there, watching Joshua’s car go up in flames like that. For a few minutes, I thought he might be dead.”

You bite down hard, but the words push their way out, jagged and ugly. “It felt like you wanted to win more than you wanted your best friend safe. Like the race mattered more than him. And then you told me to choose like it was more important for you to win me than it was for me to choose for myself.”

The words hang in the air, and for once, he doesn’t have a quick answer. His face twists, like each syllable slices straight through him. He opens his mouth, closes it again, fists curling at his sides.

“That’s not what I meant, but I understand.” He kicks a stray piece of dust on a carpet runner. “I was just scared of always being second to Joshua. I thought if you didn’t choose me then, you’d never do it later.”

“You keep using the word choose like it’s a game of choices. It’s not. I don’t have to choose anyone.”

He flinches. You see it, even if he tries to mask it by ducking his head, dragging a hand over his face. For the first time since he walked in, he looks small in front of you. Not a champion. Not Joshua’s best friend. Just Seungcheol, raw and stripped down to the bone, staring at you like you’ve gutted him.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “I just… wanted you. And I went about it in the worst way.”

Your fingers tremble as you press a book back into place, needing something to do with your hands, anything to stop the way your chest aches. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

The bookstore feels impossibly small, the air dense with everything you’ve just said. Seungcheol doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, staring down at the faded rug between you like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are glassy, raw.

“You’re right,” he sighs. “I did want to win that night. And I did want you. But neither of those things matter. I was selfish and afraid, and I let it twist together with my struggle with Joshua and that wasn’t fair to you. You’re different people.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’re not used to him being vulnerable like this. He hasn’t been since… well, since before Singapore. But you see him trying now, see him genuinely letting you see him. He takes a step closer, not crowding you, but close enough to bridge the gap.

“I hate how I handled it. I hate that I made you feel like you were trapped. That’s not who I want to be to you.”

“Who do you want me to be to you?”

He hesitates. “Anything you’ll give me. Just… not your enemy. Anything but that.”

The silence stretches. It’s fragile and tentative. It makes your heart beat faster, the urge to immediately answer yes warring with the instinct to say no. You’ve been saying no for months now, and it seems to have gotten you nowhere. Which begs the question - who are you protecting?

“Neutral ground,” you say at last, the words steadier than you expect. “We’re not friends. We’re not enemies. Just… neutral.”

Something loosens in his expression, relief washing over him even as his shoulders stay tense, like he’s afraid one wrong move will undo it all. He nods. “Neutral.”

For the first time since the 2024 Singapore Grand Prix, you feel like you can breathe again.

-

CIRCUIT GILLES-VILLENEUVE 2024 PRACTICE 305.27KM | 70 LAPS

Rain opens up in the sky in seconds. One moment, practice is underway with engines roaring down Circuit Gilles Villeneuve and the next, the clouds are cracking open and dumping sheets of rain across the track. Marshals immediately wave everyone in as mechanics scramble to cover equipment and move out of the rain. 

You sit tucked beneath one of the flapping canopies of a tent, arms wrapped around yourself against the sudden chill. Around you, voices rise and fall. Joshua is joking with a mechanic as he pulls his helmet off as someone passes around towels. 

Seungcheol appears, jogging in the rain. He’s drenched, hair plastered dark against his forehead. His racing suit clings to him and he doesn’t bother shaking himself off, just drops down into the seat next to you with a groan. 

“You look like a wet dog,” you tease.

That gets a shake out of him and you scream as water droplets fly from him to you. You shield yourself against him, laughing as rain mists against your legs. He tilts his head toward you, grinning. “Tell me a story. Something to pass the time until they let us back out.”

You blind at him. “A story?”

“Yeah. You’re good at them. Better than just sitting here listening to Joshua argue about tires.”

So you try. You reach back to a memory - not something funny or something from the time that Seungcheol entered your life, but something a bit farther. A memory that Seungcheol wouldn’t have with you. 

“When Joshua and I were little,” you start. “My mom used to let us help in the kitchen on Sundays. She’d drag chairs to the counter so we could reach, even though we made a mess of everything. I used to spill flour everywhere and Joshua would try so hard to be serious and organize, but I always ended up convincing him to steal chocolate chips for me.”

You laugh softly, surprising yourself. “She never told him off for it. She just…pretended not to see. And the three of us would end up sitting on the floor, eating half-burned cookies before they cooled.”

The words taper off into the drum of the rain. Seungcheol shifts a little closer, smiling. His head tips toward you, shyly resting on your shoulder. You glance around to see if anyone is watching, but the sheets of rain hide you in your little corner of the world, everyone else faraway and distracted. 

“Keep talking,” he murmurs. “I like the sound of your voice.”

So you do. At first, you think he’s faking the heaviness of his head on your shoulder. But then his breathing evens, warm against your arm, and you realize he’s drifted off to sleep, letting your voice lull him into some soft dream. 

You hope it doesn’t stop raining.

-

CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025 POST RACE 260.286KM | 78 LAPS

It smells faintly of roses and expensive perfume in the lobby of the hotel, the marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of chandeliers. Monaco at night hums beyond the glass doors, laughter spilling in from the harbor, engine purring along the winding streets. 

You press the button of the elevator, heels dangling from your hand, bare feet cool against the marble. The celebration of Joshua’s podium stretched late, and you’d slipped out just before the crowd turned rowdy. A part of you is thankful he’s distracted by the friends who had flown in for his birthday - you are far too tired to go into the early morning hours tonight. 

Someone clears their throat behind you. You turn to see Seungcheol. You make a surprised sound as you look him up and down. His black dress shirt is rolled at the sleeves, collar open to reveal the line of his throat. His jacket hangs carelessly over his arm, his hair mussed from the humid night air. His eyes catch yours, dark and bright at the same time. 

“Hi,” you breathe. 

“Hi.” 

Seungcheol gestures for you to enter the elevator first when it arrives. You step in, a little light-headed and breathless. He follows you in, leaning against the wall as you hit a number. You glance at him and he grins, telling you top floor. You roll your eyes. 

“Congrats on the win, by the way,” you manage after a beat. 

His mouth twitches. “Thank you.”

The elevator hums softly as it begins to climb, and for a moment all you hear is the thrum of machinery and the faint echo of music drifting up from the harbor. The air feels thick, charged, almost stifling in the small box of metal and glass.

He’s leaning back against the mirrored wall next to you, head tilted, eyes fixed on you in that deliberate way that makes you squirm. His chest rises and falls slowly, the low light of the elevator catching on the necklace hidden beneath his shirt. The distance between you feels unbearably narrow, the silence deafening.

“You look good,” he notes. 

You stare. “Thanks. You do too.”

Seconds tick by. Then he tilts his head, eyes darkening. “Stop me if you want to.”

Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. “Stop you from what?”

He leans forward, slow and sure, the kind of movement that leaves you with an out. His breath is warm against your cheek, his hand braced against the railing just beside your hip. You smell his woody cologne, your eyelashes fluttering as it mixes with the softest buzz of the champagne you’d had earlier.

You could turn your head. You could laugh. You could stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss collides between you, soft for only a second before the dam breaks. His mouth is urgent, desperate, all the words neither of you have said spilling out in the way his lips part against yours, in the rough drag of his thumb along your jaw. You match him with equal force, the weeks of tension snapping like overstretched wire.

By the time the elevator dings at your floor, you’re pressed back against the wall, your shoes long forgotten on the floor of the elevator, his hand tangled in your hair. Both of you are breathless, tasting champagne and salt, your mouth aching with the force of his kiss.

Neither of you moves when the doors open. He breaks the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Then, without a word, he catches your hand in his and pulls you with him. Down the hall, past gleaming sconces and thick carpets muffling your footsteps, until you’re inside his room with your back pressed against the door, his mouth on you again.

He breaks away, peppering your jaw with kisses as your fingers tangle in his hair. His teeth drag against your pulse point and you make a breathy sound, hips coming off the door to buck forward into his. He makes a wrecked sound, sucking at the spot beneath your ear. 

“You should have stopped me,” he groans. “Tell me to stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Fuck.”

You pull his mouth to yours again. The kiss is hungrier this time, edged with something almost desperate, like both of you know this is reckless but can’t bring yourselves to care. His hands bracket your waist, pulling you flush against him, and heat skitters through your whole body at the press of his chest, the solid warmth of him surrounding you.

When his lips trail down your jaw to your throat again, tongue swiping over the sensitive skin, you shiver. His tongue traces the curve of your pulse, slow and deliberate, and your knees nearly give. 

“Cheol,” you whisper, voice breaking on his name. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and rough. His hand slides down, finding the edge of your dress, skimming the bare skin of your thigh. “Let me show you.”

You nod. "Show me." 

That's all it takes for the last thread of restraint to snap.

Seungcheol's hands are everywhere at once, mapping the curves of your body like he's been starving for the chance. He tugs at the zipper of your dress with a roughness that borders on frantic, the fabric pooling at your feet. His finger traces the lace of your panties, teasing, before he hooks them under and drags them down your legs. 

"God, you're beautiful," he breathes, voice ragged, like the sight of you is undoing him.

And maybe it is.

He drops to his knees before you, right there against the door, his broad shoulders filling the space between your thighs. The carpet is plush under your bare feet, but you barely notice as he parts your legs with gentle insistence, his breath hot against your core.

"I've thought about this so many times," he confesses, lips brushing your inner thigh, sending sparks racing up your spine. "Tasting you. Making you come undone for me. I never got the chance.”

His tongue traces a path up your thigh, teasing the sensitive skin until you're trembling. When he finally presses his mouth to you, it's with a groan that vibrates through your entire body. Your breathing turns ragged as Seungcheol licks into you, slowly at first, like he’s savoring you. The sensation is overwhelming, the wet heat of his tongue in your cunt making you buck forward. 

He holds you steady with one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to spread you open further, exposing you completely to his mouth. He hums, sucking your clit gently. You see sparks, dropping your head back against the door hard enough for it to thunk. He laughs, looking up at you through his dark lashes as his tongue slides through your folds. 

“Taste so good,” he tells you, voice desperate. He dips his tone back in, teasing your entrance. “Could do this all night.”

"Cheol," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair, tugging as he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue.

He moans against you, the sound filthy and desperate, like he's the one being pleasured. You feel the press of his fingers against your thighs, the way his lips seal around you, sucking gently before diving back in with renewed fervor.

He doesn't rush, drawing it out until you're a mess above him, legs shaking, breaths coming in short, needy pants. The first orgasm crashes over you unexpectedly, a wave of heat that leaves you arching against the door, gasping his name.

He doesn't stop, tongue circling your throbbing clit, prolonging your high until it's almost too much. Only then does he pull back, lips glistening, eyes wild as he looks up at you. “Can you give me another?”

You nod and before you can catch a breath, he's back, this time slipping two fingers inside you while his mouth works your clit. The stretch is perfect, his fingers curling just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Seungceol drives you insane. Always has. But this is something different, your eyes fluttering at the slick slide of his tongue over your cunt, the rhythmic pump of his fingers, the way he hums in approval when you clench around his dingers. You feel the coil in your gut tighten again, faster this time as he devours you.

The second climax hits harder, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. You pull his hair harder, grinding against his face, and he takes it all, fingers thrusting deeper until you're spent, collapsing against the door. He rises then, mouth crashing onto yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands slide up his chest and you push him toward the bed. “My turn.” 

Seungcheol watches you, gaze fucked out and lids heavy as you press him toward the bed until he’s falling backward. He props himself up with two hands, watching you with his mouth parted and glistening in your cum as you sink to the ground.

You press Seungcheol’s knees open, dragging your nails up his thighs. He shivers, head falling back slightly, eyes half closed. You pull the zipper down, making sure your fingers press into his hardening cock, teasing. He groans and you grin as you free him from his pants.

His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip, turned on by just getting to taste you. It makes your desire for him spike. You’ve never wanted anyone this much in your life, and even though you know you’re not supposed to, you do want him. More than anything. Like a covetous, greedy little creature. 

You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his head fall back with a groan. You take him into your mouth without warning, lips stretching around him as you swirl your tongue over the head. He tastes salty, musky, and you hum in satisfaction, taking him deeper.

His hand fists in your hair, not guiding but holding on as you set a rhythm. It’s slow at first, teasing the underside of his cock with your tongue, then faster, hollowing your cheeks. The sounds he makes are obscene, low curses and your name tangled together, his hips twitching forward involuntarily.

"Fuck, just like that," he grits out, eyes locked on yours. 

The intensity in his gaze is searing, like he's memorizing every second. You feel powerful like this, on your knees but in control, drawing out his pleasure until his thighs tremble. The tip of his cock presses the back of your throat and you gag but you don’t care, letting the spit leak down the sides of your mouth onto his shaft. He swears, a shiver rippling through him. 

He pulls you off suddenly, breathing ragged. "I don’t want to come in your mouth."

With his help, he hauls you onto the bed. You pull at his shirt, the buttons popping as you tear it open. The hard planes of his chest gleam in the low light coming in through the windows. You lean down, nipping at his collarbone while he kicks off his pants, jostling you. 

You help him get rid of his shirt and the world tilts as he rolls you over, pressing you into the sheets. They’re crisp and cool against your overheated skin, the weight of Seungcheol pressing you down grounding you. His fingers slip between your thighs again and your breath catches as he presses them in. 

"So wet for me," he murmurs, thumb circling your clit.

“Please don’t tease me.”

He grins and withdraws his fingers, smearing your arousal down his shaft. You open your legs wider as he grasps his cock, pumping. You watch him, feeling delirious. There are a million reasons you shouldn’t be doing this right now, but for the first time in your life it feels like you’re doing what you want. 

And you want Seungcheol.

Seungcheol presses his cock to your entrance and you both moan. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and you both gasp at the fullness. He's big, stretching you perfectly, and the sensation is exquisite. It’s a tight fit and overwhelming, but you don’t care. He slides all the way in, pressing his forehead to yours, breath mingling. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel incredible.” 

The first thrust is slow, letting you adjust, but soon the pace quickens, driven by the desperation that's consumed you both. He moves with purpose, hips snapping forward, each stroke hitting deep. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, nails digging into his back.

It is maddening, having him like this. His movements jostle you up the bed but you don’t care. Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the muscle flex under your fingertips as he fucks into you with a desperation that is echoed by the way you whine his name. 

Seungcheol slows suddenly, pulling out. You start to complain and he laughs, huffing, “Turn over.”

You comply rolling over with your knees propping you up as you lay down on the bed, ass up. He positions himself behind you, palming your ass briefly, fingers squeezing. You laugh and wiggle your hips, earning a groan and a soft crack of his hand across your right cheek. 

His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging in as he slides back in. The angle is deeper and he sets a punishing rhythm. Each thrust sends shockwaves through you, his cock dragging against that spot inside that makes you see white.

"Harder," you plead, pushing back against him as your fists tangle the sheets. 

He obliges, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch you further. The other hand reaches around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. You go nearly catatonic in his hands, feeling the static build as he works you toward another orgasm. You have no thoughts, no worries, no anything. It’s just his breaths against your temple as he bends down, pressing his mouth to the crown of your head softly. 

It undoes you. You clench around him suddenly, pulling him in deeper. He slows as you squeeze around him, your breath coming out in broken sounds. Your sounds must do him in, because he shivers and comes shortly after, fucking you through it until he can’t stand it anymore. 

Seungcheol pulls out and gently rolls you over. You stare up at him, dizzy and so drunk on him that you barely register a brief kiss to your lips before he sinks back down, mouth trailing lazily down your stomach.

“One more,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs. “Can’t help myself.”

“Fuuuck,” you rasp, feeling his tongue press to your aching cunt. 

He’s gentler this time, lapping at your oversensitive folds, cleaning you up while building you back up. You look down to see him looking up at you. His eyes are dark and heavy with want, but there’s a softness there too. 

The room feels like it’s spinning, the air thick with the quiet sounds of your shared breaths. Your moans are soft, broken, each one pulled from you by the careful swipe of his tongue, the gentle press of his lips. His lips close around your clit again, and this time he sucks, so softly it’s barely there, but it’s enough to make your back arch off the bed, a ragged sound tearing from your throat. He releases you almost immediately, soothing the sensitivity with a slow, broad lick that has you shaking. 

“You’re going to kill me,” you pant, hand tangling in his hair.

“I’m making up for lost time,” he mumbles, mouth smearing against your pussy. “You’ll forgive me.”

When your breathing starts to hitch, your moans turning into desperate little gasps, he finally takes pity on you. His tongue flattens against your clit, pressing just a little harder, and he hums softly, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you. You cry out, your body tensing as he licks you through the last of your orgasm. 

You go boneless. He presses wet kisses to your thighs, smearing spit and cum. You don’t care. You don’t care about anything but the fact that you want him back pressed close to you, that you just want to be near him again. 

Seungcheol’s hands stroke your thighs, soothing the tremors, and he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft and chaste, before crawling back up your body. His lips find yours and you let him kiss you, not caring about the mix of fluids as his tongue tangles with yours. 

Somewhere in the room, your phone rings. It pulls you from your thoughts and you break the kiss, lifting your head. Your phone is lighting up by the door, a beacon where it lays on the floor near your dressed. You can’t see the screen, but you know the ringtone.

And the reality of what you’ve just done overtakes everything else. 

MASTERLIST | ASK | LIGHTS OUT COLLAB | PART TWO

[studioeisa]

perfect strangers 🩵 mingyu x reader.

for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and… a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his ‘partner’, mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.

🩵 pairing. formula one driver!kim mingyu x influencer!reader. 🩵 word count. 21.k. 🩵 genres/includes. romance, fluff, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: formula one. mentions of food, alcohol consumption; profanity. the alex albon-ification of mingyu, down bad/yearner!mingyu, 97z adjacent to 2019 rookies, williams slander (soz). 🩵 notes. this is part of cam&em studio’s lights out collaboration. i had somehow deluded myself that this would not be that long, but combine my two special interests and.. bam 😦 always so humbled to be among caratblr greats. ty for hosting, @camandemstudios!!! let’s go racing!!! ᯓ★

Mingyu likes to think he’s calm. Composed. The kind of driver who takes Monza in stride, doesn’t let the history or the speed or the ridiculous number of Ferrari fans turn his knees into jelly.

That’s the version of himself he would like to believe. The truth is, Monza is the track that raised him. He was fifteen the first time he snuck into the stands with a handful of friends, listening to engines scream like they could shake the sky apart. Now, he’s back as a Williams driver, pretending he’s not vibrating with the same teenage excitement. Pretending the goosebumps under his race suit are just from the morning chill.

“Still staring at the track like it’s your first crush?” Seokmin’s voice drifts over, amused and much too loud for Mingyu’s pride.

He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.

Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”

“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”

Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.

“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”

“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”

Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”

Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”

Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.

And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.

Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”

“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.

Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”

Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.

“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”

Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.

Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”

Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.

Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.

Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.

Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.

Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.

Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.

On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.

But still. No podium. Not yet.

He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.

Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.

Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.

Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13. 

Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately. 

Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”

Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”

Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”

“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”

That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”

Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”

“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”

“Maybe buy it dinner first.” 

They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”

Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”

“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense. 

But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption. 

Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.

“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”

Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.

Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.

Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.

He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.

Your name.

It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing. 

The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.

Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”

And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.

Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.

The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. 

Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps. 

Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.

He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.

Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.

Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.

The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio. 

There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”

He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.

“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”

“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”

He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.

He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.

The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”

He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”

It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish. 

The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.

The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”

Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”

“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”

“…Thanks, gu—my what?”

The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.” 

He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.

Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.

Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.

But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.

Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.

“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”

He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”

A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)

Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”

“What about it?” 

“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”

Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”

Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.

It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.

His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.

Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.

The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.

Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum. 

But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.

Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.

Partner. As in…? 

He doesn’t even know you.

He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.

Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”

Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.

The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.

God, Mingyu thinks, unfair. 

Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.

“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”

You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”

Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”

PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”

Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”

“And you’re certain?” PR presses.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”

“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”

PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.

The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.

He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.

What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”

James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”

“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”

The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. 

Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.

There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. 

The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.

Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.

Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at. 

Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.

The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.

The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.” 

Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.

Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.

A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.

He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.

“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.

“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”

Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”

“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”

The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.

Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.

By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.

Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.

Until the morning of qualifying, that is.

Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.

Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.

He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.

Deletes.

Types again. Wow!!!

Deletes harder.

What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.

With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—

He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.

He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.

But his thumb betrays him a second time.

Sent.

A beat.

Delivered changes to Seen. 

Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.

Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.

Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.

|   yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though. 

Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply. 

|   min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you. 

There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears. 

|   yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.

He grins despite himself, typing fast.

|   min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.

|   yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨

Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.

|   min6yu_k: Guilty

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.

This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.

|   yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything 

|   yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’

Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:

|   min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.

Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.

|   yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u

|   min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍

The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:

|   yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock 

|   yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀

The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.

He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.

Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.

“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.

Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”

“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”

He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”

“Negative, keep pushing.”

He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.

The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”

His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”

Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”

There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.

Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.

The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.

Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.

Of course. Of course.

You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”

Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.

“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”

Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”

You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.

Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.

Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.

By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.

He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again. 

Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.

Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.

Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile. 

Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.

Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.

The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.

“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”

“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”

“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.

The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.

Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.

Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.

Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?

But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished. 

Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.

Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.

It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.

He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.

In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.

He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.

The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.

“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.

“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”

“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.

Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”

“Am not.”

Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”

Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.

On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.

For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you. 

No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.

Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”

Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”

Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.

By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”

Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”

“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.

“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”

“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.

“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.

The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.

One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.

“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”

Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”

You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.

The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.

Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.

You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer  before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”

You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”

Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”

“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”

The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?

You sigh, breaking the stalemate. 

“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”

That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”

The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.

He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.

But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.

Mingyu pretends not to care. 

He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.

Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder. 

Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.

Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.

Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.

Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”

Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”

Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”

For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.

Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”

“Too?” Joshua finally glances over, eyebrows raised. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”

Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”

Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.

Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.

He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”

The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.

You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.

“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”

Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”

“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”

You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.

“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”

Mingyu stares. 

You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.

“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”

“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”

Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”

Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.

That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.

Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.

A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.

The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.

Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.

He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.

A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck. 

Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.

For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”

Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.

“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “

Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”

The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.

And then it rains.

Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”

“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”

His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.

The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”

Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”

The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.

“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”

The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out. 

He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”

Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.

When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.

The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.

“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”

Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.” 

He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.

By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.

The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.

When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”

And then he sees.

It’s you.

You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.

His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”

You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.

Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”

Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?” 

He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy. 

You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”

He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”

That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’

He  stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”

“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”

“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”

You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”

He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”

“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”

“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”

The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.

For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all. 

Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.

“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”

You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”

Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.

Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.

You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”

You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.

“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.

For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.

It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?

The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.

He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.

“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”

There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.

Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4. 

The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.

Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”

The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.

He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”

The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his. 

His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.

It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.

Your story.

It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.

Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.

Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵

Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.

The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.

Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)

They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.

Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”

“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.

“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”

Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.

Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”

Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.

He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other. 

The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.

Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.

He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.

Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.

The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”

“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”

You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”

“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”

Your brows lift. “What happened?”

Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”

You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”

“You’re doing it very poorly.”

“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”

He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”

“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.

Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.

“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”

You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”

“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”

You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.

He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”

“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.

Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”

You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.

At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.

Like an actual couple.

The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.

It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:

|   min6yu_k: Hey

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive. 

|   min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore

|   min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺

It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise. 

Except three dots appear. Then a reply.

|   yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :) 

Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer. 

At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.

When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption: 

|   min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.

You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering. 

|   yourusername: sardinia? how original

|   yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️

He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager. 

Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.

And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.

But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.

This is where it gets him: 

Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.

|   yourusername: help me pick? 

It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.

Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.

By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.

Your reply comes minutes later. 

|   yourusername: perfect

|   yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️

Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too? 

That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.

But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has? 

He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance. 

Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.

Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.

|   yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well

|   yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮‍💨 is that stupid?) 

His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.

“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.

Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days. 

|   min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????

|   min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then 

|   min6yu_k: Because I miss you too 

The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.

He calls anyway.

The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”

“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”

“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”

There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.

Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”

He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”

You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”

Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”

Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself. 

The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.

Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.

He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.

Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.

“Uh,” he starts, already regretting it, “you look… very… event appropriate.”

A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.

You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”

That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”

You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”

Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.

Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.

He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”

You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”

The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.

He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.

He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.

He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”

“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”

“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”

You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”

“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”

You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”

“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”

“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”

The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.

At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.

You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”

Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.

You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say. 

He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching. 

The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.

Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.

Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.

There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.

“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”

Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.

And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.

No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.

Just open track.

Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”

“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”

P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015. 

Now it’s him. Now it’s real.

The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams. 

“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”

Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”

He keeps driving.

For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race. 

Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.

“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.

“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”

Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.

But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”

He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.

And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.

The world resumes its natural order.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.

He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.

When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”

Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.

Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.

And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.

You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”

As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.

Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”

You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.

“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”

Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.

Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

“You have to break up with her.”

That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.

Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”

“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”

“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”

“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”

Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.

Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”

His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”

Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.

The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.

He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.

“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”

Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”

The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up. 

You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.

He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.

You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”

You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.

It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.

He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.

It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”

“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”

“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”

“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”

“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”

Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”

He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.

Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.

Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.

The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”

“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.

You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”

For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”

“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”

Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”

You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”

That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.

He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.

So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”

The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.

Your brows knit. “No?”

Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.

“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”

You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse. 

“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”

The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.

Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”

It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—

“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”

Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”

You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”

He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”

Oh.

Oh. 

His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”

Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.

His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.

You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.

When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”

Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.

Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him. 

He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.

Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.” 

The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.

They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.

But then—then—he sees you.

You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.

“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”

Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”

Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.

He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.

You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.

“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”

You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”

Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.

“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”

“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”

Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack. 

Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday. 

For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.

The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.” 

His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.

He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise. 

The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no. 

James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed. 

Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.

And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. 

He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.

He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.

Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl. 

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.

He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.

And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.

Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.

He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.

He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya. 

Eight laps. 

Six. 

His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”

Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in. 

The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his. 

Four laps. 

He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady. 

Three laps. Two. 

Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.

Final lap. 

The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight. 

The checkered flag waves.

Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.

The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.

Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”

Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.

That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you. 

“Did you see, baby?” Mingyu chokes, voice cracked and breaking. “Are you proud of me?”

[wonubug]

I WANNA BE YOURS ⭑

PAIRING: F1 driver!Jay x Redbull athlete!reader

WORD COUNT: 5.4k

SUMMARY: Park Jongseong is in his third year with Oracle Red Bull Racing, sitting fourth in the championship. He’s always been consistent, reliable, and always just shy of his first win. Behind the scenes, the two of you have built something just as fragile, careful, hidden, and managed. It was never meant to be public while both of your careers are at their peak. You understand the pressure, and you’ve always understood it. But when an answer to a single interview stings a little harder than it should, it forces you to confront what has been aching this entire time.

DISCLAIMERS: NON idol au! formula 1 au actually. red bull driver jay HEYYYY, pro athlete reader , secret relationship / pr restrictions , ANGST… I GUESS… there’s layers ok? miscommunication but both sides are valid but also the man is always wrong so JAY FUCK YOU , insecure-ish reader (SQUINT.) , set in silverstone because i said so! i think that’s it.

It only took a single glance around your hotel room to know something was off. The silence stood out immediately, but it didn’t settle in any comforting way. Instead, it sat heavy in the space, still and tense, clinging to the corners and pressing in from every side.

Outside and in the distance, Silverstone still carried the remnants of race weekend buzz, constant, restless and fast pace, with the occasional burst of sound cutting through the air before fading again.

You sat on your side of the bed, a book resting open in your lap as you tried to distract yourself from everything else sitting in your head.

It wasn’t working.

You could feel it in the way your focus kept slipping, the same lines catching your attention for a second before your mind drifted somewhere else entirely. You hadn’t made it past the same page in minutes.

Something was bothering you, and no matter how many times you told yourself it shouldn’t, it still was. If anything, you kept telling yourself to get over it. At the end of the day, you are the one person who understood where he was coming from in the first place.

Eventually, Jay emerged out of the bathroom, the quiet shift of the door beside you pulling at your attention without fully taking it. You didn’t look up, but you could feel it in the way his presence settled into the room, that his attention kept drifting back to you every few seconds. You might’ve tried to mask it, but he knew you too well for that.

You’d been way too quiet all evening, but most especially for an evening like this.

Today, he had probably just set one of his best qualifying laps yet, and with it, he was starting on pole tomorrow. Everything he’d been working toward since his rookie season was right there, finally within reach.

So why weren’t you celebrating?

“Hey.” His voice came out softer than it had been all day, stripped of the controlled ease he carried through interviews and media. It was familiar in a way that made your chest tighten before you could stop it.

“Hi,” You answered, just as quietly, eyes still on your book.

There was a pause after that, long enough for the silence to be even more piercing than before. You could picture him without turning, the way he’d stop somewhere near the edge of his side of the bed, the slight tilt of his head as he watched you.

“What are you reading?” He asked.

“Just something Lily recommended.” You replied softly, referring to your good friend, Lily Muni He, a fellow athlete and renowned girlfriend of Alex Albon.

You heard the faint shift of his weight, the mattress dipping slightly a second later as he sat down. The space between you wasn’t large, but it was noticeable.

Another few seconds passed.

“You’ve been quiet,” He said.

“Have I?” You replied, finally letting your gaze drop from the page, though you still didn’t fully look at him.

“Yeah,” You could feel him nodding. “You have.”

You faintly nodded in return, thumb brushing along the edge of a page before you closed the book, and rested it against your lap. “Long day.”

“Mm.” Jay hummed. The conversation didn’t go anywhere else after that.

Silence swallowed the two of you once more, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “Y/N, what’s wrong?” He asked after a moment.

“Nothing.” The answer came out automatically, and at this rate, you weren’t even trying to be subtle anymore. You tended to be a little petty.

He didn’t respond right away, and that kinda made it feel worse. You could sense his attention settle more directly on you now and he was clearly trying to figure out how to approach it without pushing too hard.

“Can you at least look at me when you say that?”

You exhaled slowly, finally turning your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Nothing.” You forced a smile. “There.”

“Longer than two seconds maybe…?”

There wasn’t any bite in it yet, but there was something firmer underneath, and you knew he wasn’t going to drop it now. You glanced back up and held his gaze for a second longer this time. You exhaled before setting your book down beside you.

“Do you even hear yourself sometimes?” You asked.

His brows pulled together slightly. “What?”

You shook your head once. “Nevermind.”

“Don’t do that.”

You shrug. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You are,” He said, more directly now, but a softness to his voice was still present. “You’ve been like this since I got back from the track.”

You let out a small breath, something caught between a sigh and a laugh, but without any real humor in it. “Or maybe since your interview.”

You saw the shift immediately in the way his posture straightened just enough to give himself away. Jay goes through about twenty-five interviews a day, yet, it seemed like he knew exactly which interview and what moment you were talking about.

“You saw it?”

You place your book on the night stand, sitting up straighter. A sigh of slight disbelief escapes through your lips. “Of course I did.”

Jay turned completely toward you now. “You know I didn’t mean it like that though, right..?”

And that alone had to make you choose your next words carefully. You just didn’t know how to explain that it didn’t make it feel any different.

The memory came back before you could stop it, the way you’d been sitting in the hospitality suite earlier, half-watching the post-qualifying interviews while everything around you blurred into background noise. It had just been another interview at first, another round of the same questions he’d been answering all day.

Up until the moment it wasn’t.

The interviewer had smiled like they always did when they thought they were being clever, leaning just slightly too far into something that wasn’t their place to ask.

“Big day for you to start on pole tomorrow! — Any plans to celebrate? There’s been a lot of talk about you and another certain athlete recently… will she be joining you?”

You remembered the way your attention had snapped into place at that, your focus sharpening before you even realized it. You’d expected him to brush it off. Redirect it, maybe or keep it neutral, because that was the logical thing to do right?

That question was inappropriate.

But to your own dismay — He had laughed, instead.

“Nah,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Come on, those are just rumors!”

There was a small shrug, and he clearly wasn’t done yet.

“Maybe some of the team and I’ll go out, see what happens,” Jay added, half-joking, like he was playing into it. He let out another breath, already moving on.

“Don’t believe everything you see in the media. It’s been me, and only me.”

You blinked once, pulling yourself back into the room, your gaze settling on him again. “You didn’t even hesitate,” You said quiet and steady. “It was so straight forward.”

Jay’s expression softened as he looked at you, something more careful settling into it. “What else was I supposed to do?” He asked, his tone genuine, not defensive. “It caught me off guard. It wasn’t even an appropriate question, and we both know our teams made it clear we can’t make anything public right now.”

You held his gaze for a second longer, searching his face for something — but whatever you were looking for didn’t land the way you needed it to.

“I know that,” You said, quieter now, your voice steady but not quite as firm as before. “I’m not saying you had to stand there and explain anything.” Your fingers shifted slightly against the fabric of the blanket beneath you, grounding yourself in something small so you didn’t lose your train of thought.

“I just don’t understand why couldn’t have just shut it down,” You continued. “You could’ve said no comment, or told them to move on, or literally anything that didn’t..” You stopped yourself, exhaling softly before finishing, “.. Sound like that.”

Jay’s expression softened, your words landing in a way he didn’t know how to respond to. “I did shut it down,” He said. “I didn’t give them anything real to work with.”

He’s kidding, right??

You scoff, shaking your head once. “You quite literally did.” There was a brief pause, either of you waiting for the other to push it further. “Jay, you said you ‘might go out and see what happens’,” You added, your eyes flicking up to meet his again. “Do you know how that sounds?”

His expression shifted again, more subtle this time, but you caught his hesitation almost immediately. You knew him too well.

“We both know that was a joke.” He swallowed, unsure of how to go about this now.

For fucks sake.

“A tasteless joke.” You replied. “But that’s still not the point.” You took another slow breath. “Today, you made it sound like you were… available,” You spoke carefully. “As if there’s nothing tying you to anything. Or anyone.”

He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair, the movement sharper now, less controlled. “You know that’s not how I meant it though..”

“Do I?” You shot back, the sarcasm slipping out before you could stop it. “God — of course I know what you meant.” You looked down for a second, your gaze settling on your hands before lifting back to him. “I, of all people, should understand what you meant. But that still doesn’t change how it makes me feel.” You fell quiet for a moment. “I’m not asking you to make it public,” You continued after a moment. “As much as I long for the day that can be our reality, I have never once pushed it. I’ve been okay with this and with how we’re doing it. I have always understood.” Your voice wavered just slightly before you steadied it again.

“But hearing you say something like that… it just makes it feel like there’s nothing here to protect in the first place.” That was the first time something in his expression really broke through. “You’re so quick to dismiss it even if you’re lying out of your ass.”

“But you know that’s not true,” He frowned, and there was weight to it now, something more grounded than anything he’d said before. “I do this because I love you. I’m not trying to erase you—”

“But you do, Jay.” The words came out sharper than you meant, but you didn’t take them back. “You literally do.”

He went quiet, exhaling slowly through his nose as he scratched the back of his neck. When he looked back at you, his gaze was softer.

“You know I’d love nothing more than to just be yours in front of everyone,” He said. “I wouldn’t even think twice about it. But this—” He gestured vaguely, “—it’s temporary. It won’t always have to be like this.”

You held his gaze, something in your chest tightening.

You knew what had happened the last time his relationship became public, how quickly it spiraled into something ugly and how people who claimed to support him tore someone apart over things that had nothing to do with them. You were hyperaware of how careful he had to be now and how much of his career still felt like it was balancing on something fragile.

And it wasn’t just him. You weren’t untouched by this concept either. Your last relationship had nearly cost you everything you’d built, the fallout dragging your name into conversations you had no control over, people dissecting your life like it was theirs to judge.

You understood all of this and that was what made it so much harder. Because even knowing all of that, it still didn’t stop you from hurting.

You nodded faintly, feeling repetitive. “I know.” Another exhale escaped through your nose. “I just didn’t expect it to hurt like this every single time.”

He didn’t answer right away, and for a second, you thought he might not at all. He looked at you like he was trying to find a way to fix this, but the damage had already been done.

And you didn’t have it in you to wait for that.

“Look—” You said quietly, already pulling back. “It’s getting late. And tomorrow is an important race for you.”

“No, don’t do that. Let’s just—“ He stopped himself, exhaling. “Please let’s finish this.”

You shook your head with certainty. “There’s nothing to finish.”

His brows pulled together. “But there is, I hurt you and I hate when I do that.”

You glanced at him, then away again, your fingers absently smoothing over the blanket like you needed something to focus on.

“We’re not fixing anything right now,” You said. “You’re going to keep explaining, I’m going to keep hearing it the same way, and we’re both just going to get more frustrated.”

“That’s not—”

“But it is, Jay.” You sighed, cutting in gently this time, not looking at him. “And I don’t want to do that tonight.”

Your words slowed him down and for a second, he didn’t say anything. “I didn’t even want this to turn into a whole thing,” You added, quieter now. “It just… stung more than it should have today.”

He studied your expression like he was trying to decide if you were shutting him out or just… done for now.

“I’m not saying it doesn’t matter,” You continued, finally looking at him again. “I’m just saying we’re not going to get anywhere with it right now.”

He exhaled through his nose again, looking away briefly, his hand dragging back through his hair in a slower, more controlled motion.

“…I hate leaving it like this,” He muttered.

“Yeah. Me too,” You said quietly.

You shifted back slightly, reaching for the lamp beside you, your fingers hovering over the switch for a second before pressing it down. The room dimmed, shadows settling in where the light had been.

“Goodnight.” He said softly.

You sighed. “Goodnight.”

The following morning, everything came back to you slowly. It was gradual, and your awareness of what has happened in the last 24 hours settled in before your eyes even opened.

When you finally forced yourself awake, the first thing you noticed was the empty space beside you.

It didn’t surprise you. It never really did. This was how it always worked, whether it be race weekends, or your tournaments, just any time one of you was visiting the other — the two of you left separately, which of course meant arriving separately.

The two of you avoided shared exits, shared entrances, anything that could be turned into something more than it was supposed to be.

But still, your eyes lingered on the soft remnants of his dent that was left behind. He had probably been gone for a while. Long enough that whatever warmth had been there had already faded.

You pushed yourself up slowly, your attention drifting across the room. You reached for your phone without thinking, and unlocked it out of habit. The screen lit up with a handful of notifications, but nothing from him. No message or quick check-ins and no attempt to smooth over anything from the night before.

Your thumb hovered over his name for a second. You could text him… Something simple, maybe? A meaningful, “good luck” or “you’ve got this!”

But you just didn’t.

Instead, you locked your phone and set it back down, dragging a hand through your hair before retreating to the bathroom.

Getting ready took longer than usual as your attention refused to stay where it needed to be. You caught yourself pausing more than once, standing in front of the mirror with your thoughts somewhere else entirely before forcing yourself back into it.

You moved through everything automatically, from outfit, hair, makeup, small adjustments that didn’t require much thought — but the same thing kept circling back whether you wanted it to or not.

You told yourself, again, that you understood!!! Yet, it didn’t make it sit any better.

By the time you finished, you grabbed your bag and stepped out, the hallway cooler than the room had been.

Your PR team had already arranged everything, so the minute you stepped outside, the car was waiting exactly where it was supposed to be, engine running, driver already out and opening the door for you before you even reached it.

It was routine at this point — so all you had to do was follow through, slip into the backseat, and let the day carry you where it needed to. Show up where you were expected, move through the spaces you were meant to be seen in, smile when necessary, and keep everything else tucked neatly beneath the surface, even when your chest felt tighter than it should.

Silverstone had always been one of your favorite circuits, though it hadn’t started that way. You hadn’t grown up fond of the idea of motorsports, and you hadn’t followed it closely until your own career began pulling you into overlapping spaces, with shared sponsors or events.. it was the kind of environments where different worlds brushed up against each other more often than you’d expect.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like something you were just around and started becoming something you genuinely cared about. The British Grand Prix had been the first race you ever attended, and it hadn’t taken much for it to stay with you, it grew to be one of your favorite race tracks.

Race day today felt more chaotic than usual. It wasn’t just the crowd or the noise or the way the energy built itself — it was just the meaning of what this race could be.

Jay had already established himself as one of the most beloved and respected drivers on the grid, and starting on pole, sitting on the edge of what could be his first win, shifted everything into something incredibly significant.

Everyone had been waiting for this.

Three years of consistent podiums, battling his own teammate Max Verstappen and other competitors on the grid — he was always shy of first place.

Today , that could all change.

Whether you liked it or not, you were right there in the middle of it, watching it unfold in real time, carrying both the weight of it and the quiet, complicated distance you forced yourself to keep.

The paddock was already moving at full pace. People walked with purpose, conversations clipped short as they passed from one place to the next. Cameras were everywhere, catching moments before they fully happened, following drivers, teams, anyone who might be worth something later.

You greeted people as you passed, small smiles, quick exchanges that didn’t slow you down for long. A few familiar faces from Red Bull acknowledged you as you stepped into the garage, and you returned it just as naturally. Your presence here wasn’t unusual at all, and it wasn’t something that needed explaining considering you had every right to be here.

You stayed toward the back, where you usually stood — after all, you were just another Redbull athlete to the naked eye, constantly invited out to race weekends.

Nobody, besides parasocial fans at least, assumed you were in the garage for anything else.. or anyone else.. for that matter. This was just work! Unmistakably, and strictly your job!!!! To some extent.

There were about thirty minutes left before he had to get in the car.

You heard his voice before you saw him, somewhere across the garage, beneath the constant movement around you. You didn’t mean to look because you told yourself you wouldn’t — but your eyes found him anyway.

He stood with his engineers, already fully suited, his helmet resting within reach. Everything about him was composed — his posture, the way he listened, the way he spoke in short, focused responses that didn’t leave room for anything unnecessary. It was a version of him you’d seen countless times before.

You watched him for a moment before he turned slightly, his gaze shifting across the garage and landing on you. It was brief. Just long enough for something as small as quiet recognition and a soft smile that didn’t linger long enough for anyone else to notice.

Truthfully, you could’ve walked over.

You had many excuse to do so. A quick good luck, something light enough to pass as casual, or something so normal that no one would question it.

If anything, the Red Bull media team (completely different from your own media team) would’ve encouraged it — they’d always been quick to capture those moments, the easy interactions between one of their all star athletes and rising star driver, polished and posted without a second thought, even with everything else being kept carefully out of frame.

And for a second, you almost did walk up to him. You shifted slightly, like your body had already made the decision for you and all it would take was a few steps, but you stopped yourself. Just as easily as it had formed, you let it go, allowing the distance to remain exactly where it was.

He needed to be present, fully. Completely focused and untouched by anything that didn’t belong to the race in front of him. And whatever was sitting between you from last night—it could wait until this was all over.

You’d already made your peace with it, at least enough to get through today.

Was he stupid sometimes? Yes.

Did he say things without thinking? Also yes.

Were you tired of pretending it didn’t hurt you? Absolutely.

But none of that changed the part that mattered most. You loved him. And right now, that meant letting him go do what he came here to do.

By the time the cars rolled onto the grid, the entire garage had shifted into something sharper.

Your arms rested loosely across your chest as your attention stayed fixed on the monitors in front of you.

The broadcast moved through each stage of the buildup, lingering first on mechanics making their final adjustments on the grid, then cutting to close-ups of drivers already strapped in, helmets on, hands steady on their wheels.

A few minutes later, the feed shifted again, overhead shots following the cars as they rolled through their formation lap, weaving slightly as they brought heat into the tires.

Time passed in those small transitions, each sequence carrying the race a step closer. And yet, your focus kept returning to the same place.

His car.

It still didn’t feel entirely real seeing him there, lined up ahead of everyone else, the car sitting perfectly still while everything around it moved in controlled urgency.

The camera cut briefly to his onboard, and your heart skipped a beat. The angle of his Redbull with nobody else in front of him — it was so surreal.

And before you knew it, the familiar lights came on.

One… Then another… And another.

You didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing until your chest tightened.

The five lights glowed before its pause stretched just a little too long.

Then — they went out.

The launch happened all at once, the roar of the engines bleeding through even the insulated walls of the garage as the cars surged forward.

Right away, something was off. It was small. Just a fraction slower than it needed to be, but you saw it before the timing even updated.

“Fucks sake—” Someone muttered under their breath.

Piastri overtook into Turn 1. Jay had bottled his start, and he was now in second place.

Fuck.

Your stomach dropped. The timing tower confirmed it a second later, the positions shifting as they funneled through the first sequence of corners, and the tension inside the garage snapped tighter instead of breaking.

No one reacted right away, at least not in any loud or obvious way, but the voices that came through the headsets stayed controlled.

You didn’t move from where you stood, your arms still loosely folded as your attention followed the two cars through the first sector, the gap between them small enough to keep everything within reach.

He stayed close, and that was the first thing that mattered. He didn’t let Piastri build any real distance, keeping himself tucked just behind him as they pushed through the early corners.

Every time it looked like the gap might stretch, he pulled it back again, matching him through the faster sections, staying just within reach, which was incredibly impressive considering they were racing on a track like Silverstone.

The broadcast lingered on them more as the laps went on, the cameras catching how little separated first and second. The gap shifted by tenths, sometimes closing enough that it felt like something might happen, only for it to open again just slightly.

Another lap followed, then another, each one carrying the same tension. You could feel it in your body now, the way your focus refused to drift. Someone nearby mentioned the gap over the radio, another voice responded, but none of it really registered.

All you could see was how close he was, how consistently he stayed within range, waiting.

When it finally shifted, it didn’t happen dramatically. Piastri went just a fraction too deep into a corner, the front of his car locking up for a split second as he tried to slow down, the tires losing grip for just long enough to matter.

It was a small mistake, the kind that might not have meant anything earlier in the race, but not here, not with how close things had been.

And Jay was already there.

He reacted instantly, moving into the space before it could close again, slipping past him cleanly and taking the position without hesitation. The timing updated almost immediately, confirming what you had already seen, and the energy in the garage broke all at once.

Voices rose, hands hit shoulders, a surge of relief and excitement cutting through the tension that had been building for laps.

But you didn’t let yourself react fully, not yet. There were still laps left, and with how the race had been going, nothing felt secure enough to trust..

And he didn’t make a single mistake.

Lap after lap, he held the lead, keeping the car clean and controlled even as Piastri stayed close enough to keep the pressure on. The gap never grew comfortably large, but it didn’t disappear either.

By the time the final lap came around, the entire garage had gone quiet again, everyone was waiting for it to be over.

You watched every single second of it, your chest tight as Jay raced through the last sector without issue.

When he came out of the final corner and onto the main straight, there was nothing left to take it away from him.

He crossed the line first, the chequered flag waving.

Park Jongseong has won the British Grand Prix.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your lips together as the noise around you surged, crew members already pulling each other out of the garage to celebrate. You forced yourself to move with them, letting the wave of navy uniforms and Red Bull branding carry you forward, your heart still racing faster than it should.

By the time you stepped out, the pit lane was all over the place.

Cameras lined the barriers, flashes already going off, team members crowding forward as the cars began to come in, and you slipped into the edge of it, just close enough to see clearly without drawing attention to yourself.

His car rolled in and stopped in front of the P1 board before the engine cut. You watched him pull himself free of the cockpit, movements quick, almost disbelieving, like his body hadn’t fully caught up yet. The helmet came off a second later, and the look on his face hit you harder than anything else had.

It wasn’t just excitement. But it was also relief, disbelief, and something softer underneath that made your throat tighten before you could stop.

He reached his team first as they lifted him in the air the moment he jumped into the crowd without a second thought.

Hands on his shoulders, voices overlapping, people pulling him into it, congratulating him all at once. He laughed, breathless, nodding, saying something you couldn’t hear as he got pulled from one person to the next.

You stayed where you were, admiring your boyfriend’s smile with deep adoration. But then, he spotted you and his eyes found yours almost immediately.

There was no quick glance, and he wasn’t being careful with the way he acknowledged you. It was direct and immediate as if the rest of the world had disappeared for a second.

You felt it in the way your breath caught. Jay broke away from his crew without thinking twice, slipping out of the cluster of engineers and staff, a few hands still reaching for him as he moved past, but he didn’t slow down.

His focus stayed locked on you, and the distance between you closed faster than you expected.

You froze for half a second as he stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could see every detail — the flush across his face, the way his hair was slightly damp and out of place, the brightness in his eyes that you’d never seen this clearly before.

“What are you—” You started, your voice catching before you could finish.

“I don’t care,” He cut in immediately, breath still uneven, his hands already coming up to your face. “You’re my girl. And I’m celebrating this with you.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Jay — there are cameras—” You tried again, the words coming out quieter now, less certain.

“I know,” He said, not even glancing away. “I don’t care.”

And everything around you vanished the moment he kissed you.

There was no pause or hesitation. He didn’t second guess it either. His grip on you was firm and certain as he pulled you into him like this was the only place he wanted to be after everything that had just happened.

The kiss was careful, but it was also everything that screamed passionate. You felt it immediately, the adrenaline still running through him, the way his hands held you steady as if he needed something real to ground himself after everything.

Your hands came up to him just as quickly, gripping onto his suit, pulling yourself closer as you kissed him back, any remaining hesitation falling away under the weight of the moment. The noise around you surged, voices cheering him on and cameras flashing, but it all felt distant with the way he was holding you.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t by much.

His forehead hovered close to yours, his breath still uneven as he let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.

“I just won,” He said, clearly still processing it, like if saying it out loud might make it realer.

You let out a breath that almost felt like a laugh, your hands still holding onto him. “You just won,” You repeated softly.

His gaze didn’t leave yours. “And you’re here,” He added, quieter now.

Your chest tightened. “Where else would I be?” You murmured.

Something in his expression softened at that, his hands still resting against your face, like he hadn’t quite convinced himself to let go yet.

In that moment, with the weight of the world still on his shoulders but with a trophy waiting for him, you knew that you were exactly where you and him were supposed to be.

And this was just the beginning.

💌 mika’s message! bye. so much of a whole lotta nothing i had to get this shit over with and without realizing i made this so formula 1 heavy #Soz if u didn’t undedansd. ANYWAYS JUST. if u hated this pls keep it to urself Cuz im highkey irritated abt this Ok Bye thanks love u

ok nvm i proofread it and i don hate it that much anymore , Ok bye

sexy people on my tag list: @u2jwon @wdcsvt @endoll @chccnne @bitterballad @pedriache @k-4ttiee @jj0ngieluvr @alienslostinworld @seobsongz @clearlyhoonie @zoespeonies

[joshujin]

build this dream together masterlist

🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab 🏎️💨 Part of the Race Weekend universe

F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC pairing: f1 driver!joshua x race engineer!reader status: complete word count: 93.9k genre: strangers to coworkers to lovers, romcom

As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.

Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.

content warnings: fem!reader, flashbacks, reader faces the typical misogyny you would expect in a male-dominated sport, descriptions of a crash during a race but no one gets hurt, nauseating levels of girl power, side characters portrayed by other idols (katseye, le sserafim, twice, and bts)

chapters

✦ teaser ✦ part one - 31.5k words ✦ part two - 16.3k words ✦ part three - 17.7k words ✦ part four/epilogue - 28.4k words

♫ nothing's gonna stop us now starship ⟡ hope ur ok olivia rodrigo ⟡ don't dream it's over crowded house ⟡ shoong! taeyang feat. lisa ⟡ run BTS BTS ⟡ airplane pt. 2 BTS ⟡ you are in love taylor swift ⟡ we can't be friends ariana grande ⟡ still into you paramore ⟡ team lorde ⟡ mantra jennie ⟡ shut up and drive rihanna ⟡ strategy twice feat. megan thee stallion ⟡ chasing that feeling TXT ⟡ your love jisoo ⟡ heat waves glass animals ⟡ without you david guetta feat. usher ⟡ love me like you do ellie goulding ⟡ thunder seventeen

credits: photos - pinterest (ctto); banner/dividers/edits - me

← back to svt masterlist • PERMANENT TAG LIST

[jongst4r]

practice makes perfect — park jongseong

in which jay gives you lessons on how to get (and fuck) jake sim.

synopsis: when your crush on jake sim turns into full-blown panic about your complete lack of experience, your best friend suggests the one person on campus who can help: jay park — the dangerously attractive, notoriously skilled senior with a reputation for being an incredible teacher.

what starts as innocent lessons in flirting, kissing, and confidence quickly spirals into something much hotter… and much more complicated. because the more jay teaches you how to drive jake crazy, the more you realize you only want him touching you.

pairing: jay x fem!reader (x jake)

wc: 34.6k

warnings: smut! light fluff and angst

cw: college au, love triangle, mutual pining, slow burn. themes of virginity, virginity loss, sexual inexperience, anxiety about intimacy. mentions of alcohol. explicit sexual content (kissing, making out, dry humping, handjob, blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex.) heavy flirting and sexual tension, playful teasing, use of petnames, strong language.

a/n: even though today is my birthday, i wanted to be the one giving you a gift. so... yeah, here you go, the longest fic i've ever written. i hope you enjoy it as much as i did while writing! <3

the bass hums low through the crowded living room, a warm pulse that vibrates under your skin as you lean against the kitchen counter, half-hidden behind a cluster of red plastic cups.

the party is the usual saturday chaos — too many people crammed into this frat house off campus, bodies swaying and bumping into each other under the dim string lights someone messily hung on the ceiling. laughter spills over the music, loud, while the faint smell of cheap beer, cheap vodka, and even cheaper perfume hangs thick in the air, mixing with the occasional scent of cigarette smoke drifting in from the backyard. red cups litter every surface, and the floor already feels sticky under your sneakers from whatever got spilled earlier.

but your eyes stay fixed across the room, unable to look anywhere else, like some invisible string keeps pulling your gaze back no matter how much you tell yourself to stop.

jake sim stands near the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard, where the night air probably feels cooler and less suffocating than in here.

one hand is casually tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans, the fabric hugging his legs just right, while the other gestures animatedly as he talks to a girl you vaguely recognize from your literature class — maybe her name is karina or something close. she’s laughing at something he said, head tilted back in that carefree way, exposing the line of her throat, her fingers brushing his arm every few seconds like she can’t help touching him. the way she leans into his space screams interest, flirtiness, and he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he seems to welcome it, that charm radiating off him.

and jake — good god, jake looks perfect. the kind of perfect that makes your chest ache with a sharp, longing twist.

he’s wearing a simple black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those toned forearms that flex subtly every time he moves his hand for emphasis. his hair falls softly over his forehead in that effortless, slightly tousled way, like he ran his fingers through it once and left it alone, knowing it would look devastating. the dim lighting catches on the sharp line of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes, and when he smiles at her, it’s the same warm, dimpled smile he’s given you a dozen times in the hallway or during group project meetings. the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making his whole face light up.

he leans in closer to hear her better over the music, nodding along with genuine interest, his full attention on her like she’s the only person in this entire crowded house.

that’s the thing about jake. when he focuses on someone, it feels like the rest of the world fades into background noise — no distractions, no half-measures. just him, fully present, making you feel seen in a way that’s dangerously addictive.

you swallow hard, fingers tightening around your barely-touched drink until the plastic creaks under your grip. the soda has gone warm and gass-less, but you don’t care. you haven’t taken more than a sip in the last twenty minutes anyway, too busy nursing this quiet ache while pretending to scroll on your phone every few seconds so no one notices you staring.

you’ve been crushing on him for four months now.

four long, torturous months of stolen glances across lecture halls, light flirting in the library where his knee would accidentally brush yours under the table, and random texts about class notes that somehow turned into conversations about favorite movies and late-night snacks and that one time he admitted he secretly loves cheesy romance dramas even though his friends would tease him endlessly for it.

and, the thing is, everybody knows jake doesn’t flirt casually. if he gives a girl that kind of attention — the lingering eye contact, the playful teasing texts at midnight, the way he remembers small details like how you take your coffee — it means he’s interested in something real. dating, commitment, the whole boyfriend package with hand-holding walks across campus and good morning messages that make your heart race.

he’s had two serious girlfriends in the past three years, one lasting several months where you’d see them together looking so effortlessly in sync, the other stretching a whole year where rumors said they were practically inseparable until things eventually ended on good terms. each one looking blissfully happy in his presence, glowing like they’d unlocked some secret level of connection and pleasure that you can only imagine.

and that’s exactly why your stomach twists into tight, anxious knots right now.

you’re a virgin. painfully, embarrassingly inexperienced.

you’ve kissed a couple guys before, sure — awkward fumbling in the dark during high school parties, all sloppy lips and unsure hands that never quite knew where to go or how to make it feel good. but nothing more. no one has ever touched you the way you know jake has touched his exes. you’ve overheard enough whispered conversations in the girls’ bathroom or seen the way those exes still look at him sometimes with fond, satisfied smiles.

jake is the type who probably knows exactly what he’s doing — patient, attentive, skilled in ways that leave girls breathless and glowing, satisfied down to their bones. the kind of guy who takes his time, learns what makes someone moan and shiver, who makes sex feel like an art form instead of a clumsy rush. and the thought of him finding out how clueless you are makes your cheeks burn even in the middle of this loud, overheated party, a flush creeping up your neck that has nothing to do with the alcohol you’re barely drinking.

what if you freeze up when things finally get intimate? what if your hands shake too much to touch him the right way, or you don’t know how to kiss him properly with that slow, deep confidence he probably expects? what if you can’t make him feel good, can’t match the energy of his past girlfriends who clearly knew how to please him back? what if he realizes you’re not on the same level — not experienced, not sexy, not adventurous enough — and the interest in his eyes dims? the flirting would stop. the texts would fade. he’d move on to someone who doesn’t need to google basic techniques in secret or lie awake at night worrying about being a disappointment in bed.

you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste the faint metallic taste, forcing your gaze away just as the girl leans up to whisper something in jake’s ear. her lips brush close, too close, and he laughs softly — that low, charming sound carrying across the room like a sweet melody cut through the bass. it’s warm and genuine, the kind that makes butterflies erupt in your stomach even from this distance.

you turn toward the counter instead, pretending to refill your cup from the half-empty punch bowl, the liquid sloshing messily as your hand trembles slightly. the ice cubes clink loudly in your cup, a small distraction from the way your heart pounds against your ribs.

around you, the party pulses on without pause. someone bumps your shoulder accidentally, muttering a quick sorry before disappearing back into the crowd. a group of girls nearby bursts into giggles over some inside joke, their voices high and tipsy. the music shifts to a slower track, something with heavy bass and breathy vocals that only makes the atmosphere feel more charged, more intimate despite the chaos. you glance back once more, unable to resist, and catch jake’s eyes flicking in your direction for the briefest second. does he see you? does that dimpled smile flicker with recognition? your breath catches, but then he’s turning back to the girl, saying something that makes her touch his arm again, and the moment slips away like smoke.

you set the cup down untouched, wiping your damp palms on the sides of your jeans. the insecurity sits heavy in your chest, a constant whisper reminding you that jake sim deserves someone who can keep up. someone confident. someone who knows how to flirt without second-guessing every word, how to touch without hesitation, how to make a guy like him lose control in the best ways.

and right now, that someone feels impossibly far from who you are — standing here in the corner, heart racing over nothing more than a smile across a crowded room.

the party swirls around you, alive and indifferent, but your mind stays trapped in that loop of what-ifs and quiet longing, the bass still humming low like a reminder that time is moving forward whether you’re ready or not.

“you’re doing that thing again,” a familiar voice says beside you.

yunjin appears like magic, sliding an arm around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. her long hair tickles your neck, smelling like coconut shampoo and the strawberry lip gloss she always wears. she’s been your best friend since freshman orientation — loud where you’re quiet, confident where you overthink everything.

“what thing?” you mumble, even though you already know.

“the ‘staring at jake like he hung the moon but also might destroy my entire soul’ thing.” she steals a sip from your cup and grimaces. “ugh, you’re drinking the watered-down shit again. come on, let’s get you something stronger.”

you let her drag you toward the other end of the kitchen, but your mind stays stuck on jake. even through the hazy, crowded warmth of the party, your eyes keep drifting back to where he’s laughing with some guys from the club soccer team. yunjin notices, of course. she always does, her grip tightening on your arm in a silent show of support while she pours something sweet and dangerously strong into a fresh red cup for you.

later that night, after the party finally winds down and the bass stops rattling your teeth, you’re both back in your shared off-campus apartment. the contrast is jarring, the heavy silence of the night settling over everything. the real conversation happens when the rest of the world is asleep. you’re sprawled on your bed in oversized pajamas, hair still slightly damp and curling from a quick shower, while yunjin sits cross-legged on the floor painting her nails a deep, glossy burgundy. the lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, amber glow across the room, and the distant city hums faintly outside the window.

“okay, spill,” she says without looking up, carefully dragging the tiny brush over her thumbnail. “you’ve been weird about jake for weeks. what’s the hold-up? he literally flirted with you for twenty minutes last tuesday in the café. he doesn’t do that unless he’s serious. he was giving you that puppy-dog look the whole time.”

you pull your knees tightly to your chest, hugging them until your knuckles turn white. the weight of the secret has been crushing you for days, and the words finally tumble out before you can stop them.

“i’m scared, yunjin. really scared.”

she glances up instantly, the brush hovering inches above her index finger. the playful tease drops from her face. “scared of what? jake’s a sweetheart. he’s not some asshole who’s going to play games with you.”

“it’s not him. it’s… me.” your voice drops to a pathetic whisper, your cheeks instantly heating up with a fierce, burning blush. you bury your chin in your knees. “i’m a virgin. completely. i’ve barely even done anything beyond clumsy high school kissing. and jake’s had actual girlfriends. serious ones. he knows what he’s doing, yunjin. what if i’m bad at it? what if i disappoint him? he’ll realize i’m not… enough. not experienced enough. not sexy enough. not whatever his exes were.”

yunjin sets the nail polish bottle down on a stray magazine slowly, giving you her full, undivided attention. her expression softens, the fierce protectiveness she always has for you melting into something tender, though there’s still a sharp spark of determination in her eyes.

“babe… first of all, that’s so normal. lots of people are virgins in college, even if they don't advertise it. second, if jake likes you — and he clearly does — he’s not going to expect you to be some kind of porn star on day one. he'd probably think it was sweet, honestly.” she pauses, watching your miserable expression. “but i get it. you want to feel confident. you don't want to be overthinking every single touch when you're finally alone with him. you want to blow his mind when it happens.”

you nod miserably, burying your face completely in your knees for a second, your voice muffled. “i just want to feel like I know what I'm doing. just a little bit.”

yunjin taps her freshly painted fingers on the carpet, her mind visibly whirring. then she smiles — that mischievous, slightly dangerous, scheming smile you know all too well. it’s the smile that usually precedes a terrible, brilliant idea.

“if you really want to impress him… there’s someone who can help.”

you peek at her over the tops of your knees, skeptical. “what do you mean? like a book? a podcast?”

“sunghoon’s friend. jay. jay park.” she says it like the name should mean something immediately, dropping it into the quiet room like a bombshell. “he’s discreet as hell. experienced — like, really experienced. girls talk about him in hushed tones in the sorority houses, trust me. apparently he’s an incredible teacher. no strings attached, just pure skill-building. he’s actually done this before for a couple of people who were in your exact shoes. helps them get confident, learn what they need to know. everything from flirting, body language, touching, all the way down to… you know.”

your eyes widen to the size of saucers. “you’re joking. you want me to ask a random guy to tutor me in sex?”

“dead serious. he’s not a fuckboy in the messy, heartbroken-trail way. more like… selective. efficient.” yunjin leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her tone shifting into something more serious. “and look, here's the thing. jay is known for fucking the girls he hangs out with, yeah. he has that reputation for a reason. but… you don't have to do that. he's not some caveman. jay is actually the best one on this entire campus to go to for advice, even if you never lay a finger on him.”

she waves a hand to emphasize her point, careful not to smudge her polish. “he might make an exception for you. you can literally just have the option of not sleeping with him. you can just go to him, tell him the situation, and let him give you advice. he knows how guys think, he knows what jake’s vibe is since they run in similar circles, and he can literally just talk you through it. teach you how to read the room, how to touch without being awkward. but if you do decide you want hands-on practice? he's the guy. if you approach him the right way and you’re honest, he’ll probably say yes to whatever level you’re comfortable with. he’s good at keeping secrets too. sunghoon swears he's the most trustworthy guy he knows.”

you stare at her, your heart hammering a rapid rhythm against your ribs. jay. you’ve seen him around campus, of course. everyone has. he’s impossible to miss — tall, with that sharp jawline, dark hair usually styled flawlessly, always dressed like he just stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine. he has this quiet, heavy confidence mixed with a sharp, teasing look that makes people nervous to look him in the eye for too long. the mere idea of walking up to him and asking him for… lessons felt completely insane. humiliating. but beneath the embarrassment, a tiny, buried part of you felt a thrill that was absolutely terrifying.

“i couldn’t,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly. “yunjin, that’s crazy. 'hey jay, can you teach me how to be good in bed so i can go sleep with your acquaintance?' he’ll laugh in my face.”

“is it crazier than stressing yourself sick over whether you’ll be good enough for jake? you're practically giving yourself an ulcer over a guy who hasn't even kissed you yet.” yunjin raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “look, you deserve to feel prepared. empowered. jay’s the guy for that, whether he's just talking to you over a drink or showing you what to do. no emotions, no drama, just practice and advice. think about it. just promise me you'll think about it.”

the conversation lingers long after yunjin finally packs up her nail polish and leaves your room, kissing your forehead goodnight and telling you to text her if you need to spiral more. you lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the name jay repeating in your head like a dare.

you lie there in the dark, the harsh blue glow of your phone illuminating your face in the otherwise pitch-black room. your thumb hovers precariously over the message bar, trembling slightly.

you had found jay’s contact info through a mutual friend's group chat earlier that night, your heart racing so fast you could hear it in your ears the entire time you were saving his number. now, at exactly 2:17 a.m., the sheer absurdity of the hour matches the sheer absurdity of what you're about to do. you type a sentence, delete it. type another, delete that too. you rewrite the message five times, your palms sweating against the glass screen, before you finally force your thumb to stay still and craft something that sounds at least semi-coherent.

you: hi… this is awkward but um. yunjin mentioned you might be able to help with some… lessons? about confidence and stuff. with guys. i’m really new to all of it and there’s this guy i like and i don’t want to mess it up. if you’re not interested that’s totally fine, sorry for bothering you this late.

you hit send.

the instant the little outgoing chime sounds, a wave of pure, instant regret crashes over you. you toss the phone away like it’s physically burning you, letting it land somewhere in the tangled blankets at the foot of your bed. you cover your face with both hands, groaning softly into the quiet room. this is ridiculous. it's humiliating. who even asks for something like this? jay park is going to think you're an absolute freak, or worse, he's going to screenshot it and show sunghoon.

a minute passes. then two. the silence in your room feels heavy, suffocating. you're just about to reach down and turn the phone completely off to save yourself further agony when the mattress vibrates.

buzz.

your heart leaps into your throat. you scramble through the covers, fishing for the device and unlocking it with shaking fingers.

jay: well this is a new way to get my attention. lessons, huh? for a specific guy? bold.

before you can even process the dry, teasing tone of his text, another message bubbles up right underneath it.

jay: meet me tomorrow at the café near the east library. 4pm. we can talk details. don’t overthink it too much, newbie.

your stomach flips hard, dropping into a dizzying freefall. he said yes. kind of. it’s incredibly teasing, dripping with the exact kind of effortless confidence that usually intimidates you, but it’s still a yes. he didn't laugh you off. he didn't tell you to lose his number.

you roll onto your back, dropping the phone onto your chest and staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you. the shadows from the blades cut rhythmic patterns across the ceiling, but they do nothing to soothe your mind, which is currently racing at a thousand miles an hour.

what the hell are you actually doing?

asking jay park — the campus mystery, the guy who walks through hallways like he owns them, the one with that intense, piercing stare that makes people look away first — to teach you how to flirt, how to touch, how to… god, how to do everything. and you're doing it all just so you can feel like you're enough for jake sim. the contrast between the two boys couldn't be wider: jake, with his warm, sweet, golden-retriever energy and easy smiles, and jay, who feels like a sharp knife, dark leather jackets, and expensive cologne.

but underneath the suffocating layers of panic and embarrassment, a tiny, unfamiliar spark begins to take hold. it’s a spark of excitement. of real hope. yunjin was right; you've been putting yourself through misery over your lack of experience. maybe this is exactly what you need to break out of your own head. maybe jay really can turn you into someone confident, someone desirable — someone who won’t freeze up or panic when jake finally makes a real move.

you pull the heavy blanket higher up over your shoulders, curling onto your side as your phone screen finally times out and dims, plunging the room back into total darkness.

tomorrow at 4 p.m. there's no backing out now. you're really doing this.

and as exhaustion finally starts to get to you, a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh escapes your lips into the quiet apartment.

what have you gotten yourself into?

-------

the next afternoon, 4:00 p.m. arrives far too quickly.

the café near the east library is tucked away in a quieter corner of the campus, mostly populated by grad students typing furiously on laptops and the heavy smell of roasted coffee beans. you change your outfit three times before leaving the apartment, finally settling on something casual but not too casual, your hands sweating the entire walk over.

when you push the glass door open, the little bell chiming above you feels like a death threat. you look around the dimly lit space, and there he is.

jay is sitting at a small corner table near the back window, looking entirely too calm and entirely too hot for a thursday afternoon. he’s wearing a simple black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, and his dark hair is perfectly styled, just like always. he has a half-empty iced americano in front of him, his thumb casually scrolling through his phone. there’s a quiet, effortless aura of arrogance around him, but as he catches movement and looks up, his sharp features soften into a playful, lazy smirk.

“you’re exactly on time,” he says, his voice a low, smooth rumble that instantly makes your stomach do a flip. he slides the empty chair opposite him out with his foot. “sit. you look like you’re about to faint.”

you sink into the chair, gripping your tote bag tightly against your chest like a shield. “hi. thank you for coming.”

“relax, newbie. i don’t bite,” he teases, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. he studies your burning, red face for a second before a soft chuckle escapes him. “you know, you could have just told me the whole story in the text. saved yourself some typing.”

you blink, confused. “what do you mean?”

jay leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a dangerous amount of amusement. “yunjin told sunghoon. sunghoon told me. so, i already know the full context.” his smirk widens, making him look devastatingly handsome. “so you want to learn how to fuck properly for jake sim? bold.”

your entire face explodes in a fierce, blinding heat. you literally feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, and for a terrifying, very long second, you consider hiding under the table or running away as fast as you can. you bury your face in your hands, your voice muffled and laced with pure mortification. “oh my god. i am going to kill yunjin. i am actually going to murder her.”

jay lets out a genuine, low laugh at your reaction, the sound rich and surprisingly warm. “don’t kill her yet. she’s just looking out for you. and honestly? it’s refreshing. most girls try a lot harder to play it cool around me.”

you slowly drop your hands, your cheeks still burning a bright pink. “i don't even know what i'm doing here. this is insane.”

“it’s only insane if you make it insane,” jay says calmly, his playful tone softening just a fraction into something a bit more business-like. he pushes a clean napkin and a pen toward you, though he keeps his eyes on your face. “let’s treat this like an introduction. an assessment. before we can fix anything, i need to know what we’re working with. list all the things you think you’re bad at. everything you're worried about. so i know what to focus on.”

you stare at the blank napkin, swallowing hard. the vulnerability of it feels immense, but you’re already here, and you’re already completely humiliated. you take a deep breath and start listing them off, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper so the barista won’t hear.

“flirting,” you start, counting on your fingers instead of writing it down. “i freeze up. and… kissing. i’ve only ever done clumsy high school kissing, nothing serious. touching… like, knowing where to put my hands without being awkward. sex, obviously, since i’ve never done it. and… just confidence in general. i overthink everything until i ruin the mood.”

jay listens quietly, his sharp eyes tracking the movement of your fingers. he doesn't laugh, and he doesn't tease you this time. he just nods slowly, absorbing the information.

“okay. that’s a solid list,” he says. then, his gaze drops to how tightly you’re still clutching your bag, your knuckles white, your shoulders tense and pulled high. his eyes lift back to yours, perceptive and sharp. “you’re terrified i’m going to try to jump you, aren’t you?”

your breath hitches. you open your mouth to deny it, but the words catch in your throat. you are skeptical about getting physical with him. the idea of practicing on jay park feels like playing with fire, and you’re fully aware you might get burned.

jay sighs softly, leaning back again, his posture completely relaxed to contrast your tension. “look at me.”

you look up, meeting his intense stare.

“yunjin told you i have a reputation, and she’s right. i’m not going to sit here and pretend i’m a saint,” jay says, his tone completely direct, peer-to-peer, without a shred of judgment. “but i don’t do anything without absolute consent. i can see you’re stressed out of your mind right now. so, let’s take the pressure off. we are not getting physical. the ‘lessons’ will be entirely theoretical. just talking, advice, breaking down how guys think, and giving you the blueprint. unless you explicitly ask to change that later down the line, we keep our hands to ourselves. deal?”

the relief that washes over you is so sudden and heavy that your shoulders visibly drop. “deal. thank you. seriously.”

“don’t thank me yet, newbie. you’re still going to have to work on that confidence,” jay says, that familiar, teasing grin creeping back onto his face. he stands up, grabbing his iced coffee and sliding his phone into his pocket. “we’re done for today. meet me at my dorm tomorrow afternoon. third floor of the west quad, room 314. we’ll start the actual work then.”

he gives you one last, lingering look — a mix of amusement and something else you can’t quite read — before turning and walking out of the café, leaving you alone at the table with a racing heart and the sudden realization that you’re actually going through with this.

-------

the next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside room 314 in the west quad, your heart doing gymnastics against your ribs. you take three deep, stabilizing breaths before finally raising a shaking hand to knock.

the door swings open almost immediately, and jay stands there looking effortlessly put-together in a gray hoodie and sweatpants. his hair is slightly messy today, falling over his forehead, which somehow makes him look even more intimidatingly handsome.

“you’re on time again. i like that,” he says, stepping back to let you in.

his dorm is surprisingly clean and smells faintly of sandalwood and expensive laundry detergent. there’s a vinyl player in the corner, a desk stacked with textbooks, and a neatly made bed. jay walks over to his desk chair, spins it around to face the bed, and motions for you to sit on the mattress.

“alright, newbie. welcome to lesson one,” jay says, his tone shifting into something surprisingly focused. he sits down, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “today is all about the fundamentals. eye contact, body language, and light teasing. if you can't master the tension before you even touch a guy, everything else falls flat. so, we start here.”

you nod, swallowing hard, trying to look like a good student. “okay. what do i do?”

“first thing: eye contact,” jay says, leaning forward slightly. his dark eyes lock onto yours, intense and unblinking. “when you’re talking to jake, you have a habit of looking down at your shoes or glancing away every three seconds. it makes you look like you’re guilty of a crime. i want you to hold my gaze. don’t look away until i do.”

you brace yourself and look straight into his eyes. one second passes. then two. the sheer intensity of his stare feels like a physical weight in the room. by second four, your heart is pounding, your throat feels dry, and your eyes instinctively dart toward the window.

jay lets out a soft, amused scoff. “four seconds. tragic. again.”

you lock eyes with him again, biting the inside of your cheek. this time, you manage to hold it, but you can feel your face flushing a bright, furious pink.

jay watches the blush spread across your cheeks, a slow, lazy half-smile spreading across his face. he’s clearly enjoying how easily he can fluster you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “you’re cute when you’re panicking, you know that? but you need to relax your shoulders. you look like a statue.”

“it’s hard,” you complain, your voice a little high. “you’re staring at me like a hawk.”

“jake is going to stare at you too, newbie. you need to get used to it,” jay teases, leaning back in his chair with a playful grin. “alright, let’s move on to flirting and light teasing. pretend i’m jake. we’re at a party, i just walked up to you, and i say, ‘hey, i like your outfit.’ how do you respond?”

you clear your throat, trying to channel every romantic comedy you’ve ever watched. you try to mimic the slow, confident smirk jay always uses, but your lips twitch awkwardly.

“oh, this old thing?” you say, your voice dripping with a completely unnatural, overly dramatic theatricality. you even throw in a bizarre little hair flip that feels entirely forced. “thanks. i guess you don’t look too bad yourself.”

the room goes completely silent.

jay just stares at you for three long seconds, his expression an unbelievable mix of utter disbelief and pure, unadulterated amusement. then, he buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him.

“oh my god,” jay groans, looking up at you with tears of laughter in his eyes. “that was… easily the worst thing i have ever heard in my entire life.”

“hey!” you yell, grabbing a stray pillow from his bed and throwing it at his chest. your face is practically purple with embarrassment. “i told you i was bad at this!”

jay catches the pillow effortlessly, still laughing. “bad? newbie, that wasn’t just bad. that was completely goofy. you sounded like a cartoon villain trying to seduce a detective. and what was that hair flip? did you have a muscle spasm?”

“stop laughing at me!” you hide your face in your hands, completely mortified. “this was a mistake. i’m leaving.”

“no, stay, sit down,” jay says, his laughter finally dying down into a wide, bright grin. he tosses the pillow back onto the bed and leans in closer, his voice dropping into a softer, playful murmur. “i'm sorry, i shouldn't laugh. it was honestly kind of endearing. but we definitely have our work cut out for us.”

you peek through your fingers at him, pouty and defensive. “fine. how am i supposed to say it, mr. expert?”

jay shifts in his chair, his entire demeanor changing in a split second. the laughter vanishes, replaced by a smooth, magnetic confidence that makes your breath hitch. he looks at you, his eyes dropping to your lips for a microsecond before rising back to your eyes. a small, knowing grin plays at the corner of his mouth.

“if i say ‘i like your outfit,’ you don’t act like a theater kid,” jay says softly, his voice a low, teasing purr that makes goosebumps break out on your arms. “you look him right in the eye, hold it for a second, smile just a little bit, and say… ‘thanks. i wore it hoping you’d notice.’”

you stare at him, your mouth slightly open, completely paralyzed by how smoothly he delivered the line. the air in the dorm suddenly feels incredibly thick, the playful atmosphere from a second ago completely evaporating into something heavy and charged.

jay holds your gaze for a beat longer, making sure the lesson lands, before breaking the tension with a quiet chuckle. he taps his fingers against his knee, leaning back in his chair. “see the difference? subtle. playful. now, let’s try it again. and this time, keep your hair exactly where it is.”

you swallow the lump in your throat, trying desperately to shake off the weird shiver that just ran down your spine. he’s just demonstrating, you remind yourself. he does this for fun.

“okay,” you mutter, pulling your knees up to your chest on his bed and trying to center yourself. “subtle. no theater-kid energy. got it.”

“alright. take two,” jay says, his expression shifting back into that smooth, predatory calm. he locks his eyes onto yours. “hey. i like your outfit.”

you force yourself not to look away. you look at his dark eyes, then let your gaze drop slightly to his lips — just like he did — before looking back up. you attempt a small, knowing smile, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“thanks,” you say, your voice a little softer than usual, a little more genuine. “i wore it hoping you’d notice.”

jay doesn't laugh this time. he stays perfectly still, his eyes tracking the slight tremor in your bottom lip. for a second, his grin falters, replaced by a sharp, intense curiosity that makes your stomach do a violent flip. then, the lazy crooked smile creeps back onto his face, and he nods approvingly.

“better,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “way better. see? you don’t need to put on a performance. guys like jake — and guys like me — we can tell when a girl is trying too hard. authenticity is hotter than any script you could write. you just have to let yourself feel the tension instead of running away from it.”

the rest of the hour goes by in a blur of intense eye contact and brutal, playful critiques. jay puts you through a dozen different scenarios. he teaches you how to respond to a compliment without deflecting it, how to use a quiet pause in conversation to your advantage, and how a simple change in posture can make you look completely magnetic.

he doesn't miss a single chance to tease you, though. every time you stumble over your words or give a goofy response, he boops your nose with his pen or groans dramatically into his hands. but by the time the alarm on his phone buzzes to signal the end of the hour, you realize something shocking: you aren’t so uncomfortable anymore. you’re actually laughing with him.

“alright, session one complete,” jay says, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, pulling his hoodie up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his toned stomach. you quickly look away, your face heating up again. he catches you, of course, and just smirks. “homework for tonight: practice looking people in the eye. the cashier at the dining hall, your professors, yunjin. don’t look down.”

“fine, professor park,” you roll your eyes, sliding off his bed and grabbing your bag. “thanks. for not totally giving up on me.”

“i don't give up on my projects, newbie,” he says, walking you to the door. he opens it, leaning against the frame and looking down at you with a soft, surprisingly warm expression. “see you in two days. don't overthink it.”

“i'll try,” you murmur, giving him a small wave before turning and walking down the hallway.

the walk back to your apartment is a long one, and the cool evening air does nothing to calm the frantic state of your brain. you wrap your cardigan tighter around yourself, your sneakers clicking rhythmically against the pavement as you re-read every single moment of the last hour in your head.

your mind is a chaotic mess of conflicting thoughts.

first of all, jay was right. the theoretical approach did help. just understanding the mechanics of how to hold a gaze and how to drop your voice made you feel like a secret weapon was being built inside you. you find yourself imagining using those exact tricks on jake next tuesday at the café. you imagine looking jake in the eye, holding his gaze, and saying something subtle and confident. the thought makes your stomach flutter with a nervous, happy anticipation. it’s exactly what you wanted.

but as you cross the street near the campus green, another thought creeps in, unbidden and entirely unwelcome.

jay.

you pull a breath into your lungs, a strange, tight feeling in your chest. you had gone into that room completely terrified of him, expecting a cold, arrogant guy who would judge your total lack of experience. instead, he had been… patient. incredibly observant. and so frustratingly attractive that it felt like a safety hazard.

when he had delivered that line — i wore it hoping you’d notice — the look in his eyes hadn't felt like a lesson at all. it had felt entirely too real. the way his voice had dropped, the way he had effortlessly controlled the energy in the room… it was terrifying how easily he could manipulate your feelings with just a shift in his posture.

he’s a professional, you remind yourself sternly, walking up the steps to your apartment building. he has a reputation for a reason. he’s doing this to help you with jake. do not confuse the lines.

yet, as you unlock your front door and hear yunjin yelling something from the kitchen, you can’t shake the memory of jay’s lazy, knowing smirk from your mind. you had spent weeks stressing yourself sick over jake sim, but as you step into your apartment, you realize with a sudden wave of panic that learning how to play the game with jay park might be a hundred times more dangerous.

-------

two days later, you find yourself back outside room 314. you don't even need to take three deep breaths this time — only two.

when jay opens the door, he’s wearing a faded vintage band tee and dark jeans, looking like he just rolled out of bed but somehow still managed to look effortlessly attractive. he takes one look at your face, steps back to let you in, and closes the door with a quiet click.

“welcome back, newbie,” he says, a lazy grin already spreading across his face. “did you do your homework? did you look the dining hall lady in the eye, or did you stare at your tater tots again?”

“i looked her straight in the eye,” you say proudly, tossing your tote bag onto his desk chair. “she looked confused, but i didn’t look down once.”

“proud of you,” jay chuckles, walking over to his mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. he takes a sip before turning his full attention to you, his eyes sweeping over your outfit before locking onto yours. “alright, today is lesson two. we’re graduating from eye contact. today is all about compliments, voice tone, and what i like to call ‘innocent’ touching. leaning in, brushing an arm, breaking the physical barrier without making it a big deal. ready?”

you nod, though your stomach does a familiar little nervous flip. “ready.”

“good. sit on the bed,” jay commands smoothly, pulling his desk chair over so he’s sitting directly across from you again, only this time, he hitches the chair closer. his knees are barely a few inches from yours. the proximity alone makes the air feel instantly thick. “let’s start with compliments and tone. a lot of girls think giving a compliment means squealing and saying ‘oh my god your hair looks so good today!’ that’s friend-zone energy. jake doesn't need another cheerleader. he needs to know you see him as a man. understand?”

“yeah,” you murmur, swallowing hard.

“so, voice tone is everything. drop your volume. speak from your chest, not your throat. make him lean in to hear you,” jay instructs, his own voice dropping into that low, gravelly pitch that makes your ears tingle. “let’s try it. i walk up to you. i’m jake. i’m wearing a nice cologne. compliment me.”

you take a second to clear your throat, trying to channel your inner siren. you lean forward slightly, look him in the eye, and speak in what you think is a sultry whisper. “wow, jay. you smell really… nice. like a tree.”

jay blinks. the room is dead silent for three seconds.

then, he lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, burying his face in his hands. “like a tree? like a tree? oh my god, newbie, please tell me you’re joking.”

“it’s sandalwood!” you protest, your face instantly turning a furious shade of crimson as you grab his pillow again, though this time he anticipates it and firmly plants a hand on it before you can throw it. “you literally smell like sandalwood and cedar! that’s a tree!”

“you sound like a park ranger,” jay groans, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he pulls the pillow out of your hands. “and your voice went all breathy and weird at the end, like you were running out of oxygen. i said drop your pitch, not sound like you have asthma.”

“i told you i’m bad at this!” you whine, burying your burning face in your hands. “this is why i’m a virgin, jay. i have negative game.”

“hey, look at me,” jay says, his voice softening, though the vibrant amusement is still dancing in his dark eyes. he gently reaches out and taps your wrist until you drop your hands from your face. “it’s fine. that’s why you’re here. let’s try it again, but don’t think about the specific words. don’t describe the scent. just focus on how it makes you feel. and keep the voice steady. smooth. try it.”

you take a deep breath, looking into his eyes. you wait a beat, letting the silence stretch just like he taught you in lesson one. then, keeping your voice low and stable, you say, “you smell really good today. it’s distracting.”

jay pauses. his smirk falters for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening just a tiny bit as he processes the delivery. a slow, appreciative smile replaces his laughter. “there we go. that’s the tone. smooth, grounded, a little bit dangerous. jake would literally lose his mind if you said that to him.”

a rush of pride swells in your chest. you actually did it.

“alright, now let’s add the physical element,” jay says, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “innocent touching is all about making it look accidental. it has to look accidental, but feel intentional. a brush of the shoulder when you laugh, a lingering touch on the arm when you’re emphasizing a point. it makes the moments stick, you know? let’s combine them. give me that same compliment, but this time, i want you to break the physical barrier.”

your heart restarts its frantic rhythm. touching him wasn’t part of the original plan, but this is entirely safe — just an arm, just a shoulder. theoretical practice in action.

“okay,” you whisper.

you look at him. you focus on your breathing, trying to get rid of the tension in your shoulders. you lean in slightly, your eyes dropping to his lips before rising back to his eyes. you reach your hand out, your fingers trembling just a fraction, and gently brush your fingertips against his forearm, letting them linger on the soft fabric of his sleeve.

“you smell really good today,” you say softly, your voice perfectly steady this time. “it’s distracting.”

you expect jay to pull back, or to laugh, or to give you another critique. instead, jay doesn't even flinch. he doesn't get nervous at all; if anything, the touch seems to ground him. his eyes track your hand on his arm, and then slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head, a devastatingly handsome, wicked grin pulling at his lips.

he doesn't break your touch. instead, he leans forward, bringing his face so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

“is it?” jay murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, completely turning the tables on you. “if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie… you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.”

your breath hitches completely. your heart thumps so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. he’s completely unbothered, completely in control, flirting back with an effortless grace that leaves you completely breathless.

“you… you cheated,” you squeak out, frantically pulling your hand back and sitting straight up, your face hot enough to fry an egg. “you’re not supposed to flirt back! you’re supposed to be jake!”

jay lets out a low, rich chuckle, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, looking immensely pleased with himself. “jake is going to flirt back, newbie. if a girl touched him like that and gave him that compliment, he wouldn't just sit there like a log. he’s going to lean in. you need to learn how to handle the counter-attack.”

you pout, crossing your arms defensively. “you’re just showing off.”

“maybe a little,” he admits, his eyes crinkling with that playful, arrogant charm. “but you did great. seriously. the touch was perfect — light, lingering, just enough to make a guy notice. let’s try another one. this time, let’s practice the ‘laugh and lean.’ when i say something funny, you lean in, laugh naturally, and let your shoulder brush mine. let’s see if you can handle it without panicking.”

for the next hour, the room feels like a battlefield of tension and laughter. you practice over and over again. you try leaning in to whisper something “secretive” in his ear, your breath brushing against his neck, which makes jay’s jaw tighten for a brief second before he recovers with a smooth, teasing remark. you practice brushing a stray piece of lint off his shoulder, letting your fingers drag slowly down his chest.

every time you do it well, jay praises you, his voice warm and encouraging, but he never lets you get too comfortable. he always pushes back — catching your wrist gently, leaning into your space, or dropping a low, dangerous compliment right back to test your boundaries. he doesn't get flustered, but you notice that as the lesson goes on, his jokes get a little quieter, his smirks a little softer, and his dark eyes stay locked onto yours with an intensity that makes it harder and harder to remember that this is just a game.

“alright,” jay finally says, his voice a bit rough as he checks his phone. “that’s enough torturing you for one day.”

you sink back against his pillows, completely exhausted but tingling with a weird, electric energy. “i think i actually did okay today.”

“you did better than okay,” jay says, standing up and looking down at you. he reaches out, and for a second, you think he’s going to tease you again, but instead, he gently runs his thumb over the side of your cheek, a surprisingly tender gesture that makes your heart stop. “you’re a quick learner, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”

he pulls his hand back smoothly, leaving your skin tingling where his thumb had just been. he walks to the door, opening it with that signature, lazy smirk.

“go home, get some rest. next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics. try not to lose sleep over it.”

you scramble off the bed, grabbing your bag and practically running past him into the hallway, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm as his quiet laughter follows you down the corridor.

the next monday, you’re sitting in the back row of your lecture hall, pretending to take notes on a PowerPoint about microeconomics. in reality, you’ve just been drawing mindless spirals in the margin of your notebook, your brain completely occupied by the memory of jay’s thumb brushing against your cheek.

“next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics.”

the memory of his low, rough voice echoes in your head, making you shiver despite the aggressive air conditioning in the auditorium.

suddenly, a sharp elbow digs into your ribs.

“you’re doing a new thing,” yunjin whispers loudly, leaning over the shared desk. she has her laptop open, but instead of notes, she has a blank word document filled with a massive, stylized question mark. “the ‘staring into the abyss like you’re trying to decode the matrix’ thing. spill. now.”

“shh,” you hiss, keeping your eyes glued to the professor. “we’re in the middle of class.”

“the professor is seventy-five and doesn’t have his hearing aids turned up, babe. talk,” yunjin demands, sliding her chair a microscopic inch closer to yours. her eyes narrow, her strawberry lip gloss catching the fluorescent lights as she tilts her head. “it’s been days. you’ve been acting weirdly quiet, you didn’t spiral once this weekend, and you’ve been practicing weirdly intense eye contact with the barista at the campus cafe. which means… the lessons started. how is jay park?”

your face immediately flares up, the heat rising rapidly from your neck to your cheeks. you grab your highlighter and aggressively color over a random definition on your paper. “it’s fine. it’s going fine.”

“‘it’s fine’ does not make a girl turn the color of a fire hydrant,” yunjin points out, a massive, predatory grin spreading across her face. she leans in so close her coconut-scented hair brushes your shoulder. “oh my god. did you guys do it? did he break his rule? did you break the no-fucking clause already? details, give me details!”

“no! oh my god, no!” you whisper-yell, frantically looking around to see if any of the athletes in the row ahead of you heard. luckily, they’re all asleep. you drop your voice to a desperate, tiny whisper. “we didn’t do anything. i told you, it’s completely theoretical. he promised.”

“okay, okay, keeping it professional. i respect it,” yunjin says, waving a dismissive hand, though her eyes are still dancing with intense curiosity. “so what exactly happens in a ‘theoretical’ sex lesson with jay park? does he use a whiteboard? powerpoint slides?”

“no,” you mumble, hiding the lower half of your face behind your hand. “he… we just sit in his dorm. he makes me practice scenarios. the first lesson was just eye contact and light teasing. he basically told me i have the flirting skills of a cartoon villain.”

yunjin bursts out into a short, choked laugh, quickly covering her mouth with her sleeve when the professor coughs. “i mean, he’s not wrong, babe. remember freshman year when you tried to wink at that guy on the club team and looked like you were having a neurological event?”

“i’m better now!” you defend yourself, your voice tight. “jay fixed it. well, he’s fixing it. we had lesson two a couple days ago.”

yunjin leans in even closer, her notebook completely forgotten. “and? what was lesson two?”

“compliments. voice tone. and… innocent touching,” you whisper, your chest tightening just thinking about it. “like, leaning in and brushing his arm. or laughing and letting our shoulders touch.”

yunjin’s jaw literally drops. she stares at you, her eyes wide. “wait. you touched jay park? the guy who usually looks like he’ll have you legally removed from his presence if you breathe his oxygen? how did he react? did he flinch?”

“no, that’s the thing,” you groan, burying your face in your notebook for a second before looking back at her miserably. “he didn't flinch at all. yunjin, he’s completely immune to me. when i gave him the compliment and touched his arm, i thought i did a really good job. i dropped my voice, i held his gaze, all of it. but then he just… he didn't even blink. he just leaned all the way into my face and flirted back. he said something like, ‘if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie, you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.’”

yunjin lets out a low, silent gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “oh my god. newbie? he calls you newbie? that is so disgustingly hot, i think i’m going to throw up.”

“it’s not hot, it’s terrifying!” you whined, chewing on the cap of your pen. “he is so effortlessly in control of the room. every time i think i’m getting the hang of it, he just raises the stakes to test if i’ll panic. he spent the whole hour praising me when i did it right, but then he'd immediately counter-attack to show me how a guy would react. by the end of it, my heart was beating so hard i thought i was going to pass out.”

yunjin studies your face, her playful demeanor shifting into something a bit more analytical, a small, knowing grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “and what about jake? are you thinking about jake when you’re doing all this?”

the question catches you completely off guard. you pause, your pen hovering over the paper.

“i… yeah,” you say, though the answer feels a little delayed, a little less certain than it should be. “of course i am. the whole point of this is so i don’t ruin things with jake. i keep imagining using the tricks on him.”

“right. of course,” yunjin says softly, though the look she gives you is incredibly perceptive. she taps her chin. “so, what’s next on the syllabus, student of the year?”

you swallow hard, the bell suddenly ringing to signal the end of the lecture. you pack your laptop into your bag with slightly trembling hands, refusing to look yunjin in the eye as you mutter the final detail.

“kissing mechanics. we’re doing kissing next.”

yunjin pauses mid-stride as you both walk out into the crowded hallway, a massive, thrilled grin spreading across her face. “oh, babe. you are playing with actual fireworks. good luck surviving that one.”

-------

the next afternoon, you find yourself walking back up the stairs of the west quad. your nerves are completely fried, mostly because yunjin’s warning about "playing with fireworks" has been looping in your brain for the last twenty-four hours. kissing mechanics. the words alone make your pulse skyrocket.

when jay opens the door to room 314, he’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and charcoal grey cargo pants. he looks you up and down, a faint, amused smile lingering on his lips. "come on in, newbie."

you step into the familiar, sandalwood-scented space and immediately drop your bag by his desk, hopping onto the edge of his bed. before he can even sit down in his usual chair, the words start spilling out of your mouth in an anxious rush.

"okay, so something happened," you blurts out, waving your hands around. "jake came up to me yesterday at the student union. he was wearing his soccer jersey and he literally leaned against my locker and told me my hair looked pretty."

jay pauses, capping his water bottle and looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "and? did you use the eye contact?"

"yes! i held his gaze for like, five whole seconds," you say proudly, leaning forward. "and then i tried to do the subtle, playful voice thing you taught me. i looked at his jersey and said, 'thanks, you don't look too bad yourself.' but jay, the second the words left my mouth, i panicked. i got so incredibly awkward. i think my shoulders went up to my ears, and i literally backed into the locker door so hard it made a loud clanging sound."

jay stares at you for a beat, and then he breaks. he covers his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him. "you backed into a locker? newbie, please tell me you didn't."

"i did!" you groan, burying your face in his pillows. "it was terrible. but… the weird part is, it might not have ruined everything? he’s been texting me literally all day today. look."

you scramble to pull out your phone, unlocking it and flashing the screen at him. there’s a string of text messages from jake, filled with emojis and casual questions about your week.

jay steps closer, leaning down slightly to look at the screen. his eyes scan the notifications, and a low, thoughtful hum hums in his throat. he straightens back up, crossing his arms over his chest, his playful smirk turning into a highly analytical expression.

"okay, first of all, the text volume is good. he's definitely hooked," jay says, tilting his head. "but based on your little locker incident, i'm officially changing the syllabus for today."

you peek up from the pillow. "wait, what? aren't we doing kissing mechanics today?"

"absolutely not," jay says smoothly, a wicked, completely teasing grin spreading across his sharp features. "no offense, newbie, but if you're still crashing into structural steel because a guy complimented your hair, you are legally not ready for the kissing lesson. you'd probably faint on him."

"hey!" you protest, sitting straight up and kicking your legs out, though you can't help the blush spreading across your face. "i was just caught off guard!"

"exactly. which is why we need to build your confidence up through texts and pictures first," jay says, walking over to his closet and leaning his shoulder against the frame. "given how much he's texting you right now, it’s the perfect opportunity. so, lesson three: how to dress sexier, body language upkeep, and sending suggestive texts and photos."

your jaw drops. "photos? like… selfies?"

"relax, i don't mean nudes," jay scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes. "i mean the kind of photos that make a guy stare at his phone for ten minutes straight. subtle hints. showing off your collarbone, an arched back, a casual half-smile. the kind of stuff that says 'i'm not trying,' even though you absolutely are."

he walks over to your bag and picks it up, tossing it onto the bed next to you. "dump it out. let’s see what clothes you brought today, and then we're going to fix your text game."

for the next hour, jay takes his role entirely too seriously. he makes you stand up to practice your posture — forcing your shoulders down, teaching you how to subtly arch your back when you're sitting so your silhouette looks sharper, and showing you how to cross your legs to elongate your frame.

then comes the text interrogation. he sits right next to you on the bed, his shoulder pressing against yours, looking over your screen as you type.

"no, delete that exclamation point. it makes you sound too eager," jay commands, his thumb reaching over to tap your screen. "type this instead: 'busy right now, but i might have time for you later.' it creates mystery. it makes him want to compete for your attention."

"isn't that a little mean?" you ask, looking up at him.

"it's not mean, it's a hook," jay murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on yours from mere inches away. "trust me. watch how fast he replies."

you hit send. less than thirty seconds later, jake replies: 'what are you up to? let me know when you're free x'.

you stare at the screen in absolute shock. "oh my god. you're a wizard."

"i'm a guy. i know how our brains work," jay smirks, entirely pleased with himself. "now, let's seal the deal. we're sending a photo. stand up."

you get up, your heart doing a nervous dance as jay picks up your phone. he walks you over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of his door, positioning you just right where the warm afternoon light hits your face.

"your sweater is too high. pull it slightly off one shoulder," jay instructs, his voice dropping into that focused, professional tone.

you hesitantly tug the knit fabric down, exposing your collarbone. jay steps behind you, looking at your reflection in the mirror. he frowns slightly, stepping closer until his chest is almost pressed against your back. he reaches out, his warm, large hands gently gripping your waist to adjust your posture, tilting your hips just a fraction.

"don't look directly at the camera like a deer in headlights," jay murmurs near your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "look slightly down, tilt your chin up. think about something that makes you feel good."

your whole body feels like it's on fire from his touch. your reflection in the mirror shows your cheeks flushed a deep pink, your eyes dark and wide. jay raises your phone, snapping a few photos. he pulls away smoothly, scrolling through the gallery before handing the phone back to you.

you look at the screen and literally gasp. the photo doesn't even look like you. it looks incredibly soft, effortless, and undeniably sexy. your collarbone stands out, your lips are slightly parted, and the flush on your cheeks looks intentional.

"send him that one," jay says, leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms, watching your reaction with an intensely satisfied smirk. "and don't add a caption. just let him suffer."

you hit send, your hands shaking. almost instantly, the typing bubbles appear from jake's contact.

they bounce up and down, then disappear, then start up again. jake is clearly panicking on the other end, deleting and rewriting his response just like you had done nights ago.

jay steps closer, leaning over your shoulder to look down at the screen. his chest gently brushes your back, the warm, clean scent of his sandalwood cologne enveloping you completely. “look at that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble right next to your ear. “he’s losing his mind. i told you.”

finally, the text comes through.

jake: oh wow. you look really pretty. where are you?

you automatically start typing a reply, your fingers flying across the keyboard. i’m just hanging out at a friend’s dorm.

“stop, stop, stop,” jay says, his hand suddenly coming down over yours to physically halt your thumbs. his palms are warm and broad, completely wrapping around your hands. a jolt of electricity zaps straight up your arms. he doesn't pull away immediately; instead, he slowly guides your hands down, forcing you to lower the phone. “what did i say about theater-kid energy? you’re giving away too much information, newbie. you’re killing the mystery.”

“but he asked where i am!” you protest, looking up at him over your shoulder. your faces are incredibly close, so close you can count the dark lashes framing his piercing eyes.

jay just smiles, that slow, devastatingly confident grin that makes him look entirely too in control. he reaches out and smoothly takes the phone right out of your fingers. “he doesn’t get to know where you are. he didn't earn that yet. right now, he’s sitting in his room staring at a photo of your bare shoulder. we need to lean into that.”

he taps the screen, typing out a message with one hand while keeping his eyes locked on yours. “if he asks where you are, you don’t give him a location. you give him a tease.”

he turns the phone around to show you what he wrote.

you: somewhere you’re not. 😉

your jaw drops. “jay! that is so forward! i can't say that!”

“you didn't say it, i did. now watch,” he says, tapping send before you can grab the device back.

you watch the screen in an agony of suspense. the response from jake is almost instantaneous this time.

jake: that’s not fair. maybe i want to be there.

your breath hitches. jake has never talked to you like this before. usually, his texts are sweet, casual, and safe. jay’s little formula is completely shifting the dynamic, turning a simple crush into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.

“see?” jay says, his tone dripping with playful smugness as he slides the phone back into your hands. he leans his hip against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms and looking down at you. “he’s chasing now. when a guy says ‘maybe i want to be there,’ he’s testing the waters. he wants to see if the door is open. so, what do you do?”

“i… i tell him he can come over?” you guess, completely out of your depth.

jay groans, tossing his head back dramatically. “no! god, newbie, you’re trying to speed-run this. if you invite him over now, you’re giving up all your power. you have to make him work for it. keep him on his toes.”

he steps back into your personal space, the playful arrogance in his eyes shifting into something focused and instructional. he grabs your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up so you’re forced to look directly into his dark eyes.

“this is the suggestive texting masterclass,” jay explains softly, his thumb lightly brushing the sensitive skin of your jawline. “you always want to imply a double meaning. you want him to read your texts and wonder if you’re being totally innocent or incredibly dirty. it keeps his mind completely occupied with thoughts of you.”

he lets go of your chin, but the ghost of his touch leaves a burning trail on your skin. he points at your phone. “type this: ‘i don’t know, jake. i’m kind of a handful. not sure you could handle it.’”

your fingers are practically sweating as you type out the words exactly as he dictated. you hit send.

the typing bubbles appear immediately.

jake: try me. i’m pretty good at handling things.

you let out a soft, choked gasp, completely floored by the sheer boldness of jake's reply. your face is burning hot, your heart hammering against your ribs. you look up at jay, wide-eyed and completely breathless. “oh my god. it worked. it actually worked.”

jay doesn't look surprised at all. if anything, he’s studying your reaction with an intense, quiet curiosity. his eyes drop to your flushed cheeks, then down to your parted lips, before slowly rising back to meet your gaze. the playful, teasing smirk slowly fades from his face, replaced by a heavy, unreadable expression.

“of course it worked,” jay murmurs, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. he steps a fraction closer, completely erasing the distance between you until your clothes are almost brushing. “you’re a beautiful girl, newbie. when you actually give a guy a green light, he’s going to run straight through it.”

the air in the dorm room becomes completely stagnant, thick with a sudden, suffocating wave of tension. jay is looking at you with an intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his gaze feels heavy, physical, like a hand tracing the curve of your neck. for a terrifying, thrilling second, you forget all about your phone, all about jake’s texts, and all about the rules of these lessons.

you stare up at him, your heart in your throat, completely paralyzed by how easily he can shift the gravity in the room.

jay holds your gaze for one more lingering, breathless second. then, just as quickly as it appeared, the heavy tension snaps. a lazy, familiar smirk creeps back onto his sharp features, and he steps back, breaking the spell.

“alright, lock your phone,” jay says, tapping the top of your head playfully. “that’s enough digital damage for today. leave him on read for a few hours. let him stew in his own thoughts while he waits for you to reply.”

you quickly lock your screen, nodding dumbly as you try to force your lungs to remember how to breathe normally.

“lesson three concluded,” jay says, walking over to the door and swinging it open, looking entirely unbothered by the emotional hurricane he just caused in your chest. he gives you a sharp, teasing wink. “next time, newbie… we’re finally doing kissing mechanics. don’t forget to practice your posture before then.”

-------

four days pass, and your life feels like it has been completely split into two entirely different realities.

on one side of the screen, there’s the jake sim reality. and to your absolute shock, jay’s blueprint is working flawlessly. jake has been pursuing you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. when you see him on campus now, he doesn't just give you a sweet, friendly wave from across the quad. he actively detours to walk with you to class. when you talk, his eyes don't wander; they stay locked onto your face, and he looks at you with this intense, focused hunger that makes your stomach do backflips.

last night, he texted you out of nowhere at 11:00 p.m. just to say he saw a sweater in a store window that reminded him of the photo you sent, adding a little tongue-in-cheek comment about how he's still waiting to find out where "somewhere you're not" is.

it's everything you wanted. you're finally getting the boy you’ve been pining over since freshman orientation. you should be ecstatic. you should be texting yunjin in a flurry of capital letters and celebratory emojis.

but instead, you find yourself staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dead of night, feeling completely untethered.

the truth is a terrifying, heavy weight in your chest, and admitting it to yourself feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. because every time jake texts you, a tiny, dark voice in the back of your mind whispers that it isn’t actually your game he’s falling for. it’s jay’s. you’re just the actress reciting lines written by a boy who understands the mechanics of desire like the back of his hand.

and then there's the next lesson.

kissing mechanics.

your stomach drops into a cold abyss every time you think about it. you’re terrified. actual, physical kissing is a universe away from just holding eye contact or letting your shoulders brush during a laugh. it means jay’s hands on you. it means his face inches from yours, his lips touching yours, his sharp jawline, his heavy, low breathing. even if it’s entirely "theoretical" — even if he's just using his fingers to map out where to press or demonstrating the pacing on a pillow or explaining the biology of how a guy reacts — the mere thought of being that close to him makes your chest tighten until it hurts.

but beneath the suffocating layers of panic, there is an even darker, more humiliating truth that you barely have the courage to acknowledge in the privacy of your own head.

you were disappointed.

when you walked into room 314 a few days ago, fully braced for the kissing lesson, your heart had been pounding because you thought you were finally going to cross that terrifying physical threshold with him. and when jay had laughed, called you a newbie, and casually pushed the lesson back because you "weren't ready," a sudden, sharp pang of rejection had sliced right through you.

you had spent the rest of that afternoon acting annoyed and pouty, but deep down, your skin had been practically begging for the exact thing you claimed to be afraid of. you had wanted him to look at you and decide you were ready. you had wanted to know what his lips felt like, even if it was just a clinical demonstration.

it's a dangerous, toxic thought. jay is your tutor. he’s sunghoon’s best friend, a guy known for his selective, zero-strings-attached reputation, and he is actively helping you construct a trap to catch jake. confusing your feelings now would be absolute social suicide. it would ruin everything.

you roll onto your side, pulling your blanket tightly around your shoulders as you look at your phone. tomorrow afternoon is the day. there are no more text modules left to practice. no more posture corrections or wardrobe updates.

tomorrow, you have to look jay park in the eye and let him teach you how to kiss.

and as you close your eyes, trying to force yourself to sleep, you realize with a jolt of pure panic that you aren't sure which reality you're more afraid of anymore: the one where you finally kiss jake sim, or the one where you have to watch jay pull away from you when the lesson is over.

-------

the rain is drumming a steady rhythm against the glass of room 314 when you walk in. the afternoon light is weak, casting the dorm in a hazy, intimate shadow that immediately makes your throat feel dry. jay is sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs spread, hands loosely clasped between his knees. he’s wearing a soft, oversized gray crewneck sweater, looking entirely relaxed, while your nerves are stretched so tight they’re practically screaming.

“welcome back, newbie,” jay says, his voice softer than usual, matching the quiet hum of the rain. he tracks your movement as you set your bag down, his eyes lingering on your tense shoulders. “you look like you’re walking to the gallows.”

“i’m just… anticipating,” you mumble, sitting on the opposite end of the bed, pulling your knees to your chest.

jay watches you for a beat, a faint, understanding smile touching his lips. “right. lesson four. kissing mechanics.” he shifts, leaning back against his headboard, his expression turning professional, though his dark eyes retain that sharp, observant glint. “before we start, a reminder of the rules. we agreed on a strict blueprint. entirely theoretical. no physical interaction. i’m here to give you the breakdown so you can take it to jake. clear?”

“clear,” you say. you try to sound relieved. you try to make your voice bright and cooperative. but a small, involuntary drop in your tone betrays you, a tiny hesitation that doesn’t escape his notice. a sudden, heavy wave of disappointment washes through you, sharp and humiliating, and you hate yourself for feeling it. you should be grateful for the boundary, but your skin feels suddenly cold.

jay’s eyes narrow slightly, analyzing the split-second change in your expression, but he doesn't comment on it. instead, he clears his throat and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“alright. let’s break down the mechanics,” jay begins, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always makes your pulse spike. “kissing isn’t just about the lips, newbie. if you just dive in, it’s clumsy. it starts with the pacing. when jake leans in, you don’t rush to meet him halfway. you let him do the work. you tilt your chin up, keep your lips slightly parted — just a fraction — and breathe out softly. it signals invitation.”

you nod, trying to memorize the words, but your brain is panicking because jay is demonstrating the head tilt himself, his sharp jawline defining itself in the dim amber light of his desk lamp.

“when the actual contact happens, you start slow,” jay continues, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. “it’s a gentle pressure. one lip tucked between his. you hold it for a beat, let the warmth build, and then you shift. it’s a rhythm. you use your hands — remember lesson two? — you let your fingers rest right on the side of his neck, just below the jaw. your thumb rests on his cheekstone. it stabilizes the movement, and it drives a guy absolutely crazy because it feels grounding.”

as he speaks, jay mimics the hand placement in the air, his long, elegant fingers moving with a slow grace that makes you track them like a hawk. the air in the room is growing increasingly thick, the space between you on the mattress suddenly feeling incredibly small.

“now,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “let’s practice the approach. the build-up of tension right before the lips touch is fifty percent of the kiss. if you panic there, the whole thing is ruined.”

he slides down the mattress, closing the distance between you until he’s sitting cross-legged directly in front of you. your knees are practically brushing.

“i’m going to act as if i’m going to kiss you,” jay instructs softly, his playful arrogance completely gone, replaced by a quiet, suffocating gravity. “i’m going to get close. your job is to hold eye contact, keep your breathing steady, and do not pull away. understand?”

“yes,” you whisper, your heart hammering so loudly against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it.

“look at me,” he commands gently.

you look up. jay leans in slowly.

the world outside the window completely ceases to exist. his movements are deliberate, agonizingly drawn out, giving your brain time to register every single detail. you see the dark depth of his eyes, the slight curve of his nose, the perfect, soft shape of his lips. he tilts his head to the side, a fraction of an inch, mapping out the angle perfectly.

closer. you can smell the rich, intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne mixed with the clean scent of his skin.

closer. his chest is almost touching yours, the warmth radiating off his body enveloping you in a heat wave. your breath catches in your throat, your lips parting automatically, exactly the way he taught you. your eyes flutter, desperately wanting to close, but you force them to stay open, locked onto his.

he stops.

his lips are barely half an inch from yours. you can feel the literal heat of his breath brushing against your skin, hovering right over your mouth. the tension in the microscopic space between you is a physical, electric current, pulling at you, begging you to lean forward just a millimeter to erase the agony of the distance. your heart is in your throat. you are completely paralyzed, drowning in the proximity of him.

jay stays perfectly still for three agonizing, breathless seconds, his gaze raking over your eyes, your nose, your trembling mouth. his jaw tightens, a sudden, fierce flash of hunger crossing his features before he forces it down.

slowly, deliberately, jay pulls back. the sudden rush of cool air between you feels like a physical shock. he sits straight up, clearing his throat, though his breathing is visibly shallower than it was five minutes ago.

“just like that,” jay says, his voice a little rough, a little strained. “you held the gaze. you didn't panic. do that with jake, and he’ll—”

the mention of jake’s name feels like a bucket of ice water, snapping something inside you. you look at jay — at his parted lips, his flushed neck, the sheer, unbothered control he’s trying to fake — and a sudden, reckless wave of desperation overrides every single rule, every single boundary, and every shred of your common sense.

and then something you would've never expected comes out of your mouth:

“jay, can you give me a practical example?”

the words hang in the air. jay freezes, his usual smirk vanishing. and for the first time since you walked into room 314, jay park looks completely caught off guard. his dark eyes widen just a fraction, his posture locking up as he stares at you in absolute silence. he stares at your face like he’s waiting for you to say you’re joking. the only sound in the room is the sound of the rain against the windowpane.

“what?” he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he tilts his head, blinking down at you like he’s entirely convinced his ears are playing tricks on him. “what did you just say, newbie?”

the sudden realization of what just tumbled out of your mouth hits you like a physical blow. your stomach plummets, and a fierce, blinding heat instantly erupts across your cheeks, burning all the way down to your neck. you instinctively try to pull your knees tighter to your chest, wanting nothing more than to shrink into a microscopic atom and disappear into the mattress.

“i… um,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to a mortified, breathless whisper. you look down at your hands, your fingers frantically twisting the fabric of your pajama pants. “i said… can you give me a practical example? like… a real one.”

jay doesn't move. he just stays cross-legged in front of you, absorbing your words. then, slowly, the shock on his face melts away. a brilliant, wicked, and entirely amused grin spreads across his sharp features. he lets out a low, rich chuckle that vibrates deep in his chest, leaning back slightly on his hands as he studies your purple face.

“wow,” jay murmurs, his tone dripping with pure, unadulterated amusement. “the quiet girl strikes again. you really are full of surprises, aren't you?”

“stop laughing at me!” you whine, hiding your face in your hands. your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your teeth. “i’m being serious! i’m trying to be logical about this!”

“logical?” jay teases, his voice filled with a quiet, shaking laughter. he reaches out and gently, but firmly, tugs your wrists away from your face so you’re forced to look at him. he doesn't let go of your hands, keeping his fingers loosely looped around your wrists. “okay, professor. please, explain the logic to me. i’m dying to hear this.”

you swallow hard, your eyes darting everywhere but his lips. you try to summon every ounce of justification your panicked brain can manufacture.

“well… because!” you stammer, your voice incredibly shy, filled with an embarrassed pitch. “you said it yourself! you said kissing is all about the rhythm and the pacing. and— and you said if i panic during the approach, the whole thing is ruined! how am i supposed to know if i’m going to panic with jake if i haven't actually practiced the real thing? what if my timing is completely off? what if i accidentally bump teeth with him, jay? that would be traumatizing!”

jay listens to your anxious, stuttering speech, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. he looks incredibly smug, entirely enjoying how completely flustered you are.

“so,” jay says slowly, a lazy, teasing purr in his voice as he lightly squeezes your wrists. “let me get this straight. purely for educational purposes… for my duties as your instructor… you think we should break the non-physical clause. for the sake of science.”

“yes!” you whisper-yell, your face burning hotter, if that was even physically possible. “it’s just… a hands-on lab! like chemistry class! it makes perfect sense!”

“chemistry, huh?” jay echoes, his voice dropping an octave, the vibrant laughter in his eyes shifting into something much darker, much more intense.

he slowly releases your wrists, but he doesn't move back. instead, he slides even closer on the mattress, completely invading your personal space until the heat radiating from his body wraps around you like a blanket. the playful, mocking expression of his face softens into something dangerous.

“you’re a terrible liar, newbie,” jay murmurs, his eyes dropping to your parted lips, staring at them for a long, unhurried second before rising back to yours. “you’re not thinking about jake sim’s teeth right now. and you’re definitely not thinking about science.”

your breath hitches completely, your voice trapped in your throat.

“but…” jay whispers, his hand slowly rising to cup the side of your face, his broad palm warm against your burning cheek, his thumb gently resting right on your cheekbone — exactly where he had just described a minute ago. “if you’re really that worried about failing your practical exam… i guess your teacher is just going to have to show you how it’s done.”

jay doesn't give you a chance to think, to backtrack, or to let the embarrassment completely swallow you whole.

his fingers anchor themselves gently behind your neck, his thumb still resting right on your cheekbone, stabilizing you exactly the way he had mapped out verbally just moments before. he leans in, but there is no hesitation this time. the agonizing half-inch of space between your lips vanishes in a split second.

when his lips first touch yours, a gasp catches in your throat, and jay uses that exact fraction of a second to deepen the pressure. his lips are incredibly soft but firm, moving against yours with a practiced, devastating slow rhythm. a full-body shiver ripples through you, your hands automatically reaching out to clutch at the fabric of his soft gray sweater just to keep yourself grounded.

“breathe, newbie,” jay whispers against your mouth, his voice a low, rough vibration that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. “don't hold your breath. follow me, don't overthink it.”

he pulls back just a millimeter, letting the cool air hit your wet lips before tilting his head to a slightly different angle and sliding right back in. it's a gentle, heavy pressure. he tucks your lower lip between his, sucking on it so softly it makes a quiet, embarrassing sound echo in the quiet dorm room. you try to copy the movement, your lips parting a little more as you attempt to match his pace.

“there you go,” jay murmurs, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he praises you mid-kiss. his hand slides from your neck down to your shoulder, his broad palm squeezing gently through your clothes. “keep your hands right there. stay relaxed. you’re doing perfect.”

he leads you flawlessly, controlling the entire gravity of the moment. every time you feel like you're about to lose your mind from the sheer intensity of it, jay slows things down, lingering in a soft, pressing rhythm that lets you catch up. your eyes have completely fluttered shut now, the darkness making the sensation of his lips, his warm hands, and the intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne a thousand times more overwhelming. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the heat of his mouth, forgetting about the rain outside, forgetting about the syllabus, forgetting about everything.

when jay finally draws back, he does it slowly, his lips brushing against yours one last time before he fully breaks the contact.

the sudden loss of warmth leaves you feeling completely dazed. you slowly blink your eyes open, your chest heaving as you try to force air back into your lungs. jay is still hovering inches away from your face. his dark hair is slightly messy, his own breathing is visibly shallower, and his usually perfectly composed lips are a dark, flushed red. he’s staring down at you with a heavy, unreadable gaze that is entirely devoid of his usual playful arrogance.

for three long seconds, neither of you says a word.

then, reality comes crashing back down on you with the force of a tidal wave.

oh my god. you just kissed jay park. you practically begged him to do it. you used a fake excuse about "science" and "chemistry class" just to get him to put his hands on you.

a massive, blinding wave of mortification slaps you across the face. your cheeks explode into a furious, bright purple flush. you instantly let go of his sweater as if it had turned into white-hot iron, scrambling backward on the mattress until your back hits his headboard. you pull your knees all the way to your chest, burying your face completely in your arms, a small, choked groan escaping your throat.

“hey,” jay’s smooth voice breaks the silence, a soft, familiar chuckle bubbling up in his chest. you hear the mattress shift as he slides closer to you. “what are you hiding for? you’re the one who demanded a practical exam, professor.”

“please don’t look at me,” you whine into your knees, your voice incredibly muffled and strained with pure embarrassment. “i am going to jump out of that window. i am actually going to die right here on your bed.”

“don’t die yet, we still have to grade you,” jay teases, his tone dropping into that lazy, effortless purr. you feel his long fingers gently tap the top of your head. “come on, look up. i promise i won’t tease you too bad.”

you slowly, hesitantly lift your chin just enough to peek at him through the gap in your arms. jay is sitting right there, leaning his elbow on his knee with his chin resting in his palm, watching you with an incredibly amused, knowing grin.

“so,” jay murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto your wide, panicked ones. “how was the lesson? did it help clarify the mechanics for you?”

“i… yes,” you squeak out, your face still burning hot.

you pull your arms tighter around your legs, your heart still hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs. you are completely, thoroughly embarrassed — more humiliated than you have ever been in your entire life. but beneath the suffocating layers of shyness, as you look at jay's slightly curved lips, you feel a terrifyingly honest truth settling deep in your chest.

you liked it. you liked it a lot. in fact, you liked it so much that the mere thought of taking these newly learned "mechanics" and using them on jake sim suddenly felt entirely, completely impossible.

-------

you keep your mouth shut. you don’t tell yunjin. in fact, you don’t tell a single living soul.

when you get back to your shared apartment that evening, yunjin is sitting on the kitchen counter eating dry cereal straight from the box, her eyes instantly narrowing into little laser beams the second the front door clicks shut. you quickly mutter something about having a massive headache from the library lights, sprint into your bedroom, and lock the door behind you. if you open your mouth, even just to breathe, you’re terrified the taste of jay’s strawberry-and-mint lip balm will somehow manifest in the air and give you away.

you spend the next two days in a state of absolute, localized hysteria.

the embarrassment is a physical weight, pressing down on your chest until you feel lightheaded. you can't stop replaying the feeling of his broad palm cradling your jaw, the specific, gravelly pitch of his voice when he whispered “breathe, newbie,” and the agonizingly soft, rhythmic pull of his lips against yours. you had loved it. you had loved it so much that just thinking about it while sitting in a Tuesday morning lecture makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip.

and that’s not even the worst part. the worst part — the thing that is currently keeping you awake at 3:00 a.m. staring at your ceiling fan — is how the lesson had actually ended.

right before you had practically bolted out of his dorm room, your face still a catastrophic shade of purple, jay had stood by the door with his hands shoved casually into his cargo pants. he had looked down at you, that slow, devastatingly handsome smirk firmly back in place, and murmured: “since you passed your practical exam with such high marks, newbie… i’ll let you call the shots for lesson five. it can be anything you want. think about it.”

anything you want.

how are you supposed to walk back into room 314 on thursday afternoon, look jay park in his incredibly symmetrical, aristocratic face, and say: 'oh, yeah, hi, remember how i said i wanted to learn for science? well, the science was great, can we please just make out for another hour?'

you can’t. you literally cannot do that. it would destroy the flimsy, pathetic shield of "educational purposes" you’ve been hiding behind. it would mean admitting that you aren't a student trying to impress jake sim anymore; it would mean admitting that jay has completely, effortlessly rewired your brain in the span of three weeks.

speaking of jake, his reality is becoming increasingly harder to navigate. he texts you a picture of a coffee cup on Wednesday morning: 'at the café near the library. wish you were somewhere i am today.'

you stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. a week ago, a text like that would have made you scream into your pillow. it’s exactly what you wanted. it’s a direct reference to the tease jay helped you send him. but now, looking at the letters, all you can think about is jay’s chest pressed against your back, his warm hands adjusting your waist in front of the mirror, and his low voice telling you to let him suffer.

when you reply with a simple, sweet 'awkward timing, i'm stuck in a study group! next time x', it feels like you’re writing a script for a play you’ve completely lost interest in starring in.

by thursday afternoon, your anxiety has reached a fever pitch. you change your sweater twice, eventually settling on a high-necked, oversized crewneck that offers absolutely zero skin-to-air vulnerability. you walk up the stairs of the west quad like a prisoner marching to the electric chair, your knees feeling strangely hollow.

when you reach room 314, you stand outside the heavy wooden door for a full sixty seconds, your hand raised to knock, your heart hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs.

just be normal, you tell yourself, closing your eyes tightly. ask him to practice advanced flirting. ask him to break down how to read body language across a crowded room. do not look at his mouth. do not think about his hands.

you take one final, deep breath, brace your shoulders, and knock.

the door swings open, and jay is standing there looking entirely too comfortable in a soft cream-colored knit sweater and dark trousers. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, his gaze dropping to your high-necked crewneck before rising back to your face with a slow, knowing amusement.

“well, look who it is,” jay says, stepping back to let you into the room. the door closes behind you with a quiet, solid click that feels incredibly final. “come on in, newbie. i was starting to think you’d skipped town.”

“i wouldn’t skip town,” you mumble, keeping your eyes trained firmly on his desk as you walk past him. you sit on the very edge of his bed, your posture rigid and stiff, your hands tightly clasped in your lap.

jay doesn't sit in his desk chair this time. instead, he walks over and leans his hip against the edge of the mattress, just a couple of feet away from you. he crosses his arms, tilting his head as his sharp, observant eyes trace the tense line of your shoulders, the frantic way your fingers are twitching, and the obvious blush already coloring your cheeks.

“alright,” jay murmurs, his voice low and conversational. “lesson five. you’re calling the shots today. what’s on the agenda, professor? more chemistry labs, or are we pivoting?”

you clear your throat aggressively, trying to sound as clinical and professional as possible. “i think… i think we should practice advanced flirting. like, body language across a crowded room, or how to subtly command attention in a group conversation. i think that’s a really logical next step for jake.”

jay doesn't say anything for a long, agonizing beat. he just stands there, watching you stumble over your words. then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips, his eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated mischief. he knows you're lying. he can see right through your pathetic little shield, and he is clearly planning on playing dirty.

“advanced flirting in a crowd,” jay repeats smoothly, nodding his head as if he’s taking you completely seriously. “okay. sure. let’s practice that. but you know, advanced flirting isn’t just about looking across a room, newbie. it’s about what you do when you finally get close to someone in a crowded, loud space. when the music is too loud and you have to make them listen to only you.”

before you can even process his words, jay moves.

he slides onto the bed, shifting his weight until he is sitting directly beside you. his thigh presses flush against yours, the heavy, intoxicating warmth of his body immediately enveloping you. your breath hitches, your entire body going completely rigid as you stare straight ahead, terrified to look at him.

“let’s set the scene,” jay whispers, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through the mattress. he leans in closer, his chest brushing against your arm. “we’re at a busy bar. the music is throwing heavy bass. jake is standing right next to you, but there are people everywhere, pushing into your space. if you just talk normally, he won't hear you. you have to close the distance.”

he leans over, his face entering your peripheral vision. you bite your lip, staring straight ahead at his closet door, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs it feels painful.

then, jay eliminates the space entirely.

he leans over your shoulder, his chest pressing firmly against your back. he tilts his head, burying his face right in the crook of your neck, just an inch away from your sensitive skin. his hot, heavy breath fans out across your jawline and the side of your neck, sending a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine. you let out a soft, helpless gasp, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric of your own sweater.

“if you want him to notice you,” jay murmurs, his lips brushing against the tiny hairs on your neck as he speaks, his voice a devastatingly hot, quiet rumble right against your ear, “you don’t shout over the noise. you lean in. right here. where it’s quiet.”

you can feel the warmth of his lips moving, the heat of his skin radiating into yours. the air in the room is completely gone, replaced by the suffocating, heavy scent of his sandalwood cologne. your mind is a chaotic, blurred mess; you can’t think about jake, you can’t think about advanced flirting, you can’t think about anything other than the agonizing friction of jay’s body pressed against yours.

“and then,” jay continues softly, his hand slowly rising to rest on the curve of your waist, his large palm squeezing gently through your thick sweater, anchoring you to him, “you tell him something confidential. something that makes him forget the entire room exists.”

he lingers there for an agonizing, breathless three seconds, his breath hot against your ear, letting the agonizing tension build until you’re practically trembling under his touch. you’re completely paralyzed, your lips parted, waiting, secretly begging for him to just turn your face and kiss you again.

instead, jay slowly draws his head back just a fraction. he doesn't move his body away, keeping his chest pressed to your back and his hand firmly on your waist, but he tilts his head so he can look at the side of your face. his eyes are dark, intense.

“but we aren't at a crowded bar, newbie,” jay whispers, his voice dropping even lower, turning into something raw and fiercely honest. his thumb rubs a slow circle into your waist. “it’s just you and me in a quiet room. and your shoulders are up to your ears because you’re lying to me.”

you swallow hard, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

jay leans in just a millimeter closer, his lips almost brushing your earlobe. “so stop playing games with me. look at me and tell me what you really want to do for lesson five.”

you swallow hard, the feel of his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles through the fabric of your sweater making it completely impossible to form a coherent thought. your gaze is frozen on the wrinkled blankets of his bed, your pulse hammering a rapid rhythm in your ears. jay doesn't move. he stays right there, his chest warm against your back, his breath a steady, intoxicating heat against the side of your neck, patiently waiting you out.

"i'm waiting, newbie," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr that completely undoes the last shred of your resolve.

"i... i want to practice kissing again," you blurts out, the words rushing out of you in a desperate, breathless squeak.

the hand on your waist pauses for a fraction of a second. jay doesn't immediately pull back, but you can feel the slight shift in his posture, the way his jaw tightens against your hair. you quickly scramble to cover your track, the sheer embarrassment forcing your brain into overdrive as you try to construct a pathetic safety net of logic.

"because— because of the mechanics!" you stammer quickly, your voice dropping to a mortified whisper as you twist your fingers together. "the last time... i was entirely caught off guard, jay. and i felt like i was completely awful at it. i didn't know where to put my hands, and my timing was definitely off, and... and if i'm going to be ready for jake, i need to actually make sure i can do the rhythm properly without freezing up. it’s just for the lesson. for practice."

the silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife. for three agonizing seconds, you’re entirely convinced you’ve gone too far, that he’s going to laugh at your transparent excuse and tell you the lesson is over.

then, slowly, jay draws back.

you force yourself to turn your head, your cheeks burning a bright, furious pink as you look at him. jay is studying your face, his dark eyes incredibly heavy and focused. the playful, arrogant smirk you expected isn't there; instead, his lips are parted slightly, his gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your eyes with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"for practice," he echoes, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates straight to your core.

"yes," you whisper.

"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into something thick and serious. he slides closer, crossing his legs so he’s sitting directly in front of you, completely erasing the distance. "if we’re going to fix your rhythm, we need to do it right. look at me."

you lift your chin, your eyes locking onto his. jay doesn't hesitate this time. his large, warm hand rises, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring right on your jawline to tilt your face up. he leans in, and before your brain can even register the proximity, his lips are pressing firmly against yours.

the contact is an immediate shock of heat. unlike the brief practical exam from days ago, jay doesn't start with a gentle question. he slides his lips over yours with a slow, heavy confidence, guiding your mouth to open slightly with a soft, persistent pressure.

"put your hands on my shoulders," jay whispers directly against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he pulls back just a millimeter to give the instruction. "don't just let them hang there. hold onto me."

your hands shake as you lift them, your fingers clutching tightly at the soft cream fabric of his knit sweater. the moment your palms make contact with his broad shoulders, jay lets out a low, approving hum deep in his throat. he tilts his head to the opposite angle, his lips sealing over yours again, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate pace.

he teaches you through the movement itself. when your movements get too rushed or frantic from the sheer panic of how good it feels, jay uses the firm grip on the back of your neck to slow you down, lingering in a heavy, pressing rhythm that forces you to match his breath. his tongue lightly brushes against your bottom lip, a subtle, electrifying hint that makes a quiet, helpless sound escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your jawline, pulling you closer until your chest is completely pressed against his.

the "practice kiss" begins to stretch, the boundaries of the lesson blurring until the air in the dorm room feels thick and heavy with a sudden, suffocating wave of genuine friction. it isn't just a clinical demonstration anymore. his lips are moving against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his breathing turning shallow and rough against your cheek. your fingers tangle deeper into the knit of his sweater, your body leaning entirely into his warmth, completely lost in the intoxicating taste of him. it’s a full-on makeout, a lingering, breathless collision that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim.

suddenly, as if realizing exactly how far the line has been crossed, jay stiffens.

he pulls away, his hand sliding out of your hair as he abruptly breaks the contact.

the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you gasping for air, your lips tingling and flushed a deep red. you scramble back a few inches, your heart thumping violently against your ribs as reality comes crashing down on you like ice water.

the silence in the room is deafening, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. jay is sitting right in front of you, his dark hair completely messy from your fingers, his chest heaving under his sweater. he looks completely ungrounded, his eyes staring down at his own hands for a long, heavy beat before he finally forces himself to look up at you.

the atmosphere is thick with a sharp, suffocating awkwardness. both of you are completely aware that that wasn't on the syllabus.

jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying desperately to summon his usual composed, unbothered demeanor.

“that was… good,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and completely lacking its usual playful smugness. he avoids looking directly at your lips, his dark eyes focusing on your forehead instead as he slides off the bed and stands up. “your timing is… it’s fine. we’ll work on it.”

the minute those words leave jay’s mouth, the spell breaks entirely. you don't even wait for him to officially dismiss you. you practically scramble off the edge of his bed, your sneakers skidding slightly on the hardwood floor of his dorm as you snatch your tote bag from his desk chair with trembling hands.

“i— i have to go,” you stammer, your voice a high, frantic squeak that you barely recognize. you can't even look him in the eye; your gaze is glued to the door handle as you sprint toward it. “i have… a study group. and a paper. thank you for the lesson!”

you yank the door open and fling yourself out into the hallway, slamming it shut behind you before jay can even utter a response.

the walk — or rather, the hyperventilating run — back to your apartment is a blur of pure, unadulterated panic. your chest feels incredibly tight, your lungs burning as the cool evening air hits your face, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging fire still burning on your lips. your lips are tingling, slightly swollen, and heavy with the undeniable taste of him.

it’s for jake, you tell yourself, your fingers gripping the straps of your tote bag so tightly your knuckles turn a stark, ghostly white. it’s entirely for jake.

you turn the corner past the campus library, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you mentally repeat the words like a sacred mantra. the only reason i asked him to do that is because jake is going to kiss me soon. yunjin said jay is the best teacher. i just needed hands-on experience so i don’t humiliate myself when jake finally makes a move. it’s an educational baseline. that’s all it is.

but the anxious pacing of your thoughts only gets faster, louder, and more desperate.

if i didn't practice with jay, i would have frozen up with jake. jay was just correcting my rhythm. he said my timing was fine. so now, when jake kisses me, it’s going to be perfect. i’m doing this to save my future with jake. jay is just an instrument. a tutor. a textbook.

you push open the heavy glass door to your apartment building, practically taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator feels too slow, too claustrophobic for the storm currently raging inside your head.

it doesn't matter that my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. it doesn't matter that i forgot how to breathe. it doesn't matter that i wanted him to keep going. you reach your front door, fumbling blindly with your keys, your hands shaking so violently that the metal clicks loudly against the lock. it’s for jake. it’s all for jake sim. it has to be.

you unlock the door and burst inside, instantly slamming it behind you and leaning your back against the wood, letting out a long, shaky exhale. the apartment is dark and quiet — yunjin isn't home yet — which is a blessing, because if she took one look at your wild eyes and bitten lips, she would know instantly that you didn't just practice advanced flirting.

you drop your bag on the floor and walk straight into the bathroom, flicking on the harsh overhead light. you lean over the sink and stare at your reflection in the mirror.

your cheeks are still flushed a deep, telltale crimson. your hair is slightly unruly where jay's fingers had tangled into it, and your lips are undeniably darker, stung red from the heavy, lingering pressure of his mouth. you look completely undone. you look like a girl who just got thoroughly made out with by jay park.

your phone suddenly buzzes in your pocket, the sharp vibration making you jump.

with a racing heart, you pull it out. a notification blocks the screen.

jake: hey! just finished soccer practice. totally random, but are you free to grab dinner tomorrow night? just the two of us? 😊

you stare at the glowing text, the emojis, the sweet, easy invitation from the boy you’ve been dreaming about for months. it’s the exact moment you’ve been working toward. the ultimate goal. the reason you embarrassed yourself, the reason you sent the photos, the reason you walked into room 314 in the first place.

you lift your eyes back to your reflection in the mirror, your thumb hovering over the screen to type out a reply.

see? you think, your mind screaming at you to believe the lie as a cold sweat breaks out across your palms. it worked. the lessons worked. everything i did today… it was all just so i could be ready for tomorrow night. with jake.

but as you finally press your thumb to the glass to type 'i'd love to', your eyes automatically drift down to your own lips, and the phantom sensation of jay's heavy, rough breathing against your skin returns with a fierce, suffocating intensity that leaves you completely breathless.

-------

the afternoon sun is hitting the windows of room 314 when you walk in, casting long, warm bars of light across the hardwood floor. it’s a sharp contrast to the stormy darkness of your last lesson, but the familiar scent of sandalwood and clean laundry still hits you the second the door opens.

jay is sitting at his desk, casually typing something on his laptop, but he looks up the moment you step inside. his dark eyes immediately track your movement as you set your tote bag down by the door. he looks entirely composed, the previous lesson's awkwardness seemingly evaporated from his demeanor, replaced by his usual calm, lazy aura.

“welcome back, newbie,” jay says smoothly, closing his laptop with a quiet click. he stands up, stretching his arms slightly before walking over to his mini-fridge. “how was the big date?”

you sit down on the edge of his mattress, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. just the mention of yesterday makes a strange swirl of emotions tighten in your stomach.

“it was… really nice,” you say softly, staring down at the pattern of his blanket. “jake was amazing. he took me to that little Italian place downtown, the one with the string lights. he paid for everything, even when i tried to argue with him. and he was just so sweet, jay. he listened to me talk about my classes, he laughed at my jokes, and he walked me all the way back to my apartment building.”

jay leans against the edge of his desk, taking a sip of water, his eyes locked onto your face. “sounds like a textbook perfect date. so why do you look like someone just kicked your puppy?”

you swallow the lump in your throat, your voice dropping to a shy, embarrassed whisper. “because… he didn't kiss me.”

jay pauses, his water bottle halfway down from his lips. a sudden, sharp curiosity flashes in his eyes. “he didn't?”

“no,” you groan, burying your face in your knees for a second before looking back up at him, completely miserable. “we stood on the porch of my building for like three whole minutes. i did the eye contact. i did the posture thing you taught me. i held his gaze, my lips were parted, i did everything right! but he just… he smiled, ruffled my hair, told me he had an amazing time, and said goodnight. i don’t get it. did i do something wrong? did he see right through me?”

jay stares at you for a beat, and then, a slow, incredibly wicked smirk begins to crawl onto his face. the intense seriousness from the end of your last lesson is gone, replaced by a wave of pure, triumphant amusement. he sets his water bottle down on the desk and steps closer to the bed.

“newbie, you didn't do anything wrong,” jay says, his voice a low, deeply satisfied rumble. “you’re just dealing with jake sim. the guy is a traditionalist. he’s old-school. he’s not going to lunges at a girl on the very first dinner date, especially not a girl he actually respects and likes as much as he clearly likes you.”

he hitches his usual desk chair over, spinning it around to sit directly in front of you, his knees inches from yours. “honestly? this is perfect for us. it means we’re officially two steps ahead of him.”

you blink, confused. “two steps ahead? what do you mean?”

“i mean,” jay says, leaning forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a suffocating amount of focus, “by the time he finally gets the nerve to make a real move on you, you’re not just going to know how to handle a basic kiss. you’re going to be a master. which brings us to today's actual syllabus.”

he rests his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that instantly sets your pulse racing. “today, we’re moving past the initial contact. we’re talking about a full-on makeout. the pacing, the breathing, how to build the physical escalation without getting overwhelmed. how to take control of the rhythm so he’s the one losing his mind, not you.”

your breath hitches completely. the memory of how your last "practice kiss" had spiraled into a lingering, breathless fog flashes through your brain, making your lips tingle instantly.

jay studies the sudden, bright pink flush spreading across your cheeks. his smile softens just a fraction, a quiet, intense gravity taking over his features. he leans in a microscopic inch closer, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to yours.

“so,” jay murmurs, his voice a heavy, dangerous purr. “do you want today's lesson to be purely theoretical… or do you want a practical example, newbie?”

your heart is thumping so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. you know you should say theoretical. you know you should protect your sanity, preserve the lie that this is all just an educational game for jake. but as you look at jay — at his sharp jawline, his messy dark hair, his perfect, parted lips — the desperation from days ago takes over completely.

you don’t say a word. you just look him straight in the eye and nod your head, a tiny, submissive gesture.

“good girl,” jay whispers, the words vibrating straight down your spine.

he doesn't waste a single second. jay slides out of the chair and onto the mattress, crossing his legs right in front of you. his large, warm hand rises instantly, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring firmly against your jawline to tilt your face up.

“remember the pacing,” jay murmurs right before his lips touch yours. “let me lead first.”

the instant his mouth seals over yours, the entire world outside room 314 completely vanishes. his lips are incredibly soft but heavy with a firm, demanding pressure that immediately makes a soft, helpless sigh escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin of your jaw, guiding your mouth to open just a fraction more.

“breathe through your nose, newbie,” he whispers against your lips, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he shifts the angle of his head, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. “don’t rush it. follow my pace.”

you lift your hands, your fingers shaking as you clutch tightly at the soft fabric of his knit sweater, pulling yourself closer until your chest is flush against his. jay lets out a low, rough hum of approval deep in his throat at the touch, his grip on the back of your neck tightening just enough to anchor you completely.

the kiss quickly deepens, the boundaries of a simple "lesson" shattering instantly into a heavy, intoxicating fog. jay shows you how to escalate the tension; his lips move against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his tongue lightly tracing your bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth in a soft, agonizing tug that leaves you completely breathless.

“when the energy shifts,” jay murmurs, his voice raspy as he briefly parts from your lips to trace a line of burning kisses along your jawline, his lips hovering right over the sensitive skin beneath your ear, “you use your hands to change the dynamic. don’t just hold my sweater. slide your hands up. touch his neck.”

as if under a spell, you follow his whispered instructions. you let your hands slide up his broad chest, your fingers wrapping around the warm skin of his neck, your thumbs resting just below his sharp jawline. the physical contact makes jay let out a sharp, ragged exhale against your skin.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes clouded with a fierce, heavy intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his chest is heaving under his sweater, his lips dark and swollen.

“just like that,” jay whispers, his large hand sliding down from your neck to firmly grip your waist, pulling your hips a fraction closer to his on the mattress. “you control the distance. if he gets too frantic, you hold him right there. if you want more… you pull him back in.”

he doesn't wait for you to pull him. jay leans back down, his mouth crashing back onto yours with a sudden, overwhelming wave of passion that makes your head spin. it’s a full-on, breathless makeout, his lips parting yours completely, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle into your waist through your shirt. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the intoxicating taste of him, your fingers tangling into his dark hair as you match his pace, completely forgetting who this lesson was supposed to be for.

when jay finally draws back, it is agonizingly slow, his lips lingering against yours in three short, pressing kisses before he completely breaks the contact.

the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you shivering, your chest heaving as you desperately try to force air back into your lungs. jay stays hovering inches away, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a brief, breathless second before he slowly straightens up. his breathing is completely ungrounded, his eyes dark as he stares down at your thoroughly kissed, flushed face.

the silence in the room is suffocating, heavy with the weight of what just happened.

jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts back on the mattress, trying to force his usual lazy, unbothered smirk back onto his face — though his trembling fingers completely give him away.

“that was… the baseline,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and entirely devoid of his usual arrogance. he looks away from your lips, his gaze tracking a stray shadow on the wall instead. “we’ll… we’ll stop there for today. your pacing is fine, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”

he stands up quickly, walking over to the door to open it for you, but as you scramble off the bed with a racing heart, you realize with a sudden wave of absolute panic that you don't care about jake sim's reaction at all anymore.

-------

you would be lying to yourself if you had said you hadn't been eager for more after that. you were. in fact, you started meeting jay almost every day so you could "practice" making out.

it became an unspoken, addictive routine. you didn't even wait for a scheduled thursday afternoon anymore. a quick, vague text from jay — ‘my room’s free if you want to study’ — and you would find yourself walking toward room 314 with your heart already doing double-flips inside your chest. you didn't even bring your notebooks anymore. what was the point of pretending?

with every single day that passed, the lessons started escalating little by little, the boundaries of "basic mechanics" crumbling into dust.

one afternoon, the air in his dorm room felt so suffocatingly hot that your hands grew bold. jay was guiding you through a deeper rhythm, his lips heavy and possessive against yours, when your fingers strayed from the hem of his sweater and slid up, slipping underneath the fabric. your bare palms pressed flat against the warm, solid skin of his lower back. you remember the exact way his entire body had rigidified for a split second, a low, ragged growl catching in his throat before he completely lost his composure, his lips turning frantic against yours.

another day, the lesson wasn't about the mouth at all. jay had backed you up against his closed closet door, his large hands anchoring your wrists gently against the wood above your head. “advanced escalation,” he had whispered against your skin, his voice a dangerous, gravelly rasp right before he buried his face in your neck. he had kissed his way down your jawline, his lips warm and demanding as he sucked softly on the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, leaving a faint, stinging heat that made your knees turn to literal water.

but the most shocking shift — the one that still makes your face burn a furious purple when you think about it during lectures — happened just two days ago.

jay had been sitting in the middle of his unmade bed, watching you pace around his room as you anxiously rambled on about your nerves. without a word, he had reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down. before your brain could even process the movement, jay's hands were on your waist, lifting you up and guiding you until you were completely straddling his lap, your knees resting on either side of his thighs.

your whole body had gone into a state of absolute shock, your face inches from his. but jay hadn't teased you. he had just looked up at you with those dark, fiercely intense eyes, his thumbs rubbing slow, heavy circles into your hips. “this is how you handle the proximity,” he had murmured. and then he had pulled you down by your neck.

you had kissed for a whole hour. a full, breathless, uninterrupted sixty minutes where your hands were tangled in his hair, his broad chest was crushed against yours, and his mouth was relentlessly teaching you a rhythm that made your entire soul ache. your body had fit perfectly against his, the heat between you completely consuming the small room. and you had enjoyed every single, agonizing second of it.

still, despite the bare skin, the bruised lips, and the sheer intimacy of sitting on his lap, you kept trying to convince yourself it was all because of jake.

every night, when you lay awake in your own bed staring at the ceiling, you forced yourself to repeat the old script. it’s not because of jay. jay park has absolutely nothing to do with it. he’s just an instructor. he’s just incredibly good at what he does because he’s experienced, and i am just a good student taking advantage of a resource.

you told yourself that the violent butterflies in your stomach, the way your hands shook whenever you touched his skin, and the desperate hunger you felt every time he leaned in were all just a biological reaction. you were just enjoying the physical sensation of making out because, in the back of your mind, you were projecting. you were simply thinking about doing all of these things with jake sim. jay was just the proxy, the placeholder, the mannequin you were using to perfect your technique so that when the time finally came, you would drive jake absolutely crazy.

or at least… that’s what you said to yourself.

-------

you keep your mouth shut, maintaining the absolute lockdown on your secret. whenever yunjin asks how the lessons are going, you look her straight in the eye and lie through your teeth, insisting it’s all strictly theoretical. you tell her jay is just drawing diagrams and explaining body language, all while your lips are still practically stinging from being thoroughly devoured by him just an hour prior.

in the meantime, you keep hanging out with jake. he takes you to get ice cream, he walks you to class, and he remains the perfect, sweet gentleman. but whenever he holds your hand or leans in to give you a polite, fleeting peck on the cheek, a bizarre, hollow sensation settles in your chest. you keep expecting the earth to move, expecting to feel that white-hot, electric current that roars through your veins every time you walk into room 314. but it never comes. you’re just building up to it, you tell yourself desperately. the real spark will happen later. jay is just priming you.

and then comes today's lesson.

the afternoon sun is completely blocked out by the heavy curtains jay drew across his window, plunging the dorm room into a dark, suffocatingly intimate haze. you’re sitting directly on his lap, your legs straddling his thighs. the friction between your bodies is a living, breathing thing. you've grown bold over the past week; your hands are slipped entirely beneath his oversized tee, your palms pressed flat against the hot, defined muscles of his chest. your hips shift instinctively, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the friction, your mouth moving against his in a deep, wet rhythm that leaves you both completely breathledd.

jay lets out a sharp, ragged groan directly into your mouth. his hands, which had been anchoring your hips, suddenly tighten with a bruising force. he abruptly pulls his head back, his breathing incredibly shallow and heavy as he forces you to stop moving.

his dark hair is completely unruly, his lips a dark, swollen crimson. he looks up at you, his eyes clouded with a raw, fierce hunger that makes your stomach do a violent flip.

“jesus, newbie,” jay rasps, his chest heaving under his shirt as his hands steady your trembling waist. he takes a long, ragged breath, his voice dropping into an incredibly low, gravelly register. “hold on. stop moving for a second.”

you blink down at him, dazed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “what? did i… did i do it wrong?”

jay lets out a low, breathless chuckle, though his jaw remains incredibly tight. “no. you didn't do it wrong. that’s the problem. the way you move…” he pauses, his intense gaze raking over your flushed face, tracking the absolute innocence in your wide eyes. a sudden, heavy curiosity settles over his features. “have you actually ever done anything sexual before this? like, at all?”

the question hits you like a bucket of ice water. a fierce, blinding wave of mortification instantly erupts across your cheeks. you instinctively try to shift off his lap, but his grip on your waist tightens, keeping you anchored right there against his heat.

“no,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to an incredibly shy, embarrassed whisper. you look down at his collarbone, unable to hold his gaze. “i haven't. i’ve never… i’ve never done anything. i told you, i'm a total newbie.”

jay stares at you, a complex flash of emotion crossing his face — surprise, a sudden wave of protectiveness, and a trace of possessiveness that he quickly tries to mask. he clears his throat, his thumb rubbing a slow, grounding circle into your hip.

“right,” jay murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “okay. well. you’re doing great for a beginner.”

you swallow hard, the frantic script in your head screaming at you to take control, to justify why you're enjoying this so much, why you’re pushing the boundaries. you look at his perfectly parted lips, then back up to his dark eyes, and a reckless, desperate thought tumbles right out of your mouth.

“jay… can you teach me about the rest of it?”

jay freezes, his hand instantly stopping its movement on your hip. “the rest of it?”

“yes,” you stammer, your voice incredibly small but filled with a panicked, stubborn determination. you force the lie out, hiding behind your golden shield. “i mean… for jake! what if things escalate on our next date? what if he wants to go further? i don’t want to be completely clueless. i want to know how to make him feel good. i need to learn how sex works. the mechanics.”

jay studies your face for a long, agonizingly silent beat. the air in the room feels impossibly thick. you can feel the sudden, intense heat radiating from his lap, a physical reminder of exactly what your grinding had done to him. but jay is a professional, and more than that, he refuses to pressure you or take advantage of the ridiculous web of lies you've spun.

slowly, deliberately, jay lifts his hands and gently guides you off his lap. the sudden loss of his warmth makes you shiver. he sits back against his headboard, pulling one knee up to his chest, his expression shifting into something clinical, serious, and entirely focused.

“alright, newbie,” jay says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that commands your absolute attention. “if you want to talk about how to make a guy feel good, we’re keeping this strictly theoretical. understand? no hands-on for this part.”

you nod quickly, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, your hands tightly clasped in your lap as your face burns hot.

“good. then let’s start with manual stimulation. handjobs,” jay begins, his tone conversational but his words dripping with a raw, explicit honesty that makes your jaw drop. “it’s not just about gripping and sliding. the anatomy is sensitive. a guy's nerves are concentrated right at the head, especially underneath, on the frenulum. if you just pull the skin up and down dry, it’s uncomfortable. you need friction control. you use lubrication, or even just saliva, and you start with a firm but gentle grip at the base.”

you feel your eyes widening, your brain frantically trying to take mental notes as he speaks. jay doesn't break eye contact; he looks straight at you, using clinical but undeniably dirty language that makes your heart thump in your throat.

“the rhythm is everything,” jay continues smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a heavy, suffocating purr. “you match his breathing. a slow, steady stroke all the way from the base to the top, and when you reach the head, you twist your thumb gently over the top. it builds the pressure. you don’t speed up until his breath catches. you pay attention to his sounds.”

“o-oh,” you squeak, your hands twisting together. “i… okay. slow rhythm. twist at the top.”

“exactly,” jay says, a faint, amused half-smile touching his lips at your absolute mortification, though his eyes remain heavy and intense. “now, if things go further… oral. blowjobs. this is where most girls panic because they think about their teeth. your teeth should never touch his skin, newbie. you keep your lips curled completely over them. like an anchor.”

you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust. your cheeks are a catastrophic shade of purple, but you are hanging on every single syllable.

“the technique isn’t just about depth,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “it’s about suction and warmth. you use the roof of your mouth and your tongue to create a vacuum. you start slow, swirling your tongue around the head before taking him in. and the most important part? the pacing. you don’t just stay at the top; you move down to the base, using one hand to stroke the shaft while your mouth handles the rest. dual stimulation.”

he pauses, leaning forward just a fraction, his voice dropping into a whisper that sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.

“and you never, ever break eye contact,” jay whispers, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying amount of gravity. “when you’re down there, you look up at him. through your lashes. you let him see exactly what you’re doing to him. it drives a guy absolutely insane, newbie. it completely breaks his control.”

you sit there, completely paralyzed, your chest heaving as you absorb the intense, explicit breakdown. you are utterly mortified, entirely overwhelmed, and your brain is screaming at you that you are supposed to be picturing jake sim during this entire lecture.

but as you look at jay — at the way his jaw tightens, the way his low, gravelly voice sounds saying those explicit words, and the dark, possessive heat hidden deep in his eyes — you realize with a sudden wave of pure terror that jake’s face hasn't crossed your mind even once.

you sit there at the foot of his bed, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you can hear it in your ears. the explicit details of his words are still hanging heavy in the dim, warm air of the dorm room. your hands are knotted tightly in the fabric of your sweater, your palms slick with a nervous sweat.

you look down at his lap, then back up to his dark, unhurried eyes. the golden shield of your excuse — the lie that this is all a clinical preparation for a future with jake sim — feels incredibly heavy, but it’s the only armor you have left.

"jay," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. you swallow hard, your face burning a catastrophic shade of crimson as you force the words out. "if... if the rhythm and the grip are that specific... what if i mess it up? what if i'm too rough, or too loose? can you... can you give me another practical example?"

jay’s entire body tenses. the casual, leaning posture against his headboard locks up instantly. his eyes widen just a fraction, his gaze dropping to your trembling hands before snapping back up to look at your face. the heavy, silent tension in room 314 returns with the force of a physical blow.

"newbie," jay rasps, his voice rougher and deeper than before. he clears his throat, his knuckles whitening as his hands grip the mattress. "we said strictly theoretical for this. i'm not trying to rush you into anything."

"i'm not rushed," you lie desperately, leaning forward just a fraction, your heart in your throat. "i just... i need to know if i'm doing it right. for the baseline. please, jay."

jay stares at you for three agonizing, breathless seconds. his jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle tick under his sharp skin. he lets out a long, slow, ragged exhale through his teeth, the restraint he’s been maintaining for weeks visibly fracturing.

"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. "come here."

you move on your knees, sliding across the mattress until you're sitting right beside his thigh. your knees are trembling. jay reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of his dark trousers, and with a low rustle of fabric, he frees himself.

your breath catches completely. he is already thick, fully erect, and a dark, heavy flush is painting his skin. the pure, raw reality of it makes your mind go entirely blank.

"don't look away," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably steady despite the shallow rise and fall of his chest. "wrap your fingers like this."

he reaches out, his broad, warm hand wrapping around yours to guide it. he positions your fingers at the very base of his shaft, curling them in a firm, even cylinder. his skin feels smooth, white-hot, and pulsing beneath your touch.

"now, look at me," jay whispers, his face inches from yours. "stroke up. slow. all the way to the top."

you slowly move your hand upward, the physical friction sending a jolt of pure electricity straight up your arm. your heart is beating in an erratic rhythm against your ribs.

"good. just like that, newbie," jay praises you, a low, breathy rumble in his throat. his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, a soft, encouraging look melting his usual sharp features. "now, when you hit the head... slower at the top. twist your thumb over the frenulum. exactly like i explained."

you follow his instructions perfectly, slowing the motion, your thumb dragging gently over the ultra-sensitive rim.

"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sudden, ragged groan, his eyes instantly fluttering shut as his head thumps back against the headboard. the sound is deep, unvarnished, and completely intoxicating. "yes. right there. that's perfect, sweetheart. keep that exact pace."

hearing the pet name slip past his lips makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you keep going, your movements becoming smoother, more confident as you fall into the heavy, dragging rhythm. you watch his face, completely fascinated by the raw power you suddenly hold over him.

but as the seconds tick by, the clinical baseline completely disintegrates. the touch is too hot, the friction too intense, and jay’s carefully constructed control begins to dangerously slip.

his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his shirt. his sharp, dark brows furrow in a look that almost resembles pain. he lets out another heavy, broken groan, a sudden, involuntary jerk rippling through his lower half as his hips instinctively thrust upward against the firm pressure of your hand.

"jay," you whisper, completely captivated by the sight of him losing his mind beneath your touch.

"keep going... shit, don't stop," he swears under his breath, his voice rough and completely ungrounded. his hand flies to your wrist, not to pull you away, but to physically lock your hand in place, his fingers squeezing tightly as he takes over the pace, forcing your hand to move faster, harder against him. another ragged, breathy moan escapes his lips, his jaw clenching so tightly his veins stand out against his neck. "you're too good at this... fuck, newbie..."

the sheer, overwhelming heat of the moment fills the quiet room, the sound of his ragged breathing and the soft, slick friction of your hand filling the space between you. you are utterly drowning in him, your thumb tracing the wetness at the tip, your own breathing turning heavy as you lean into his space.

you look up through your lashes, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with a fierce, possessive hunger. and that’s when the old, desperate script in your head panics, trying one last time to pull you back to safety.

"is this… how i should do it for jake?" you whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

jay freezes.

the pleasure on his face vanishes instantly. his hand snaps down, gripping your wrist hard enough to still you completely. his eyes open, sharp and raw.

jay stares down at you, his chest heaving, his lips parted as he absorbs the name. for a second, something painful flashes across his face — hurt, anger, and something deeper. he exhales shakily, then gently but firmly removes your hand from him. the silence that crashes into the room is suffocating.

he reaches down, gently but firmly removing your hand from his skin, and quietly covers himself back up, shifting his weight to sit back against the wall.

the sudden loss of contact leaves your hand feeling cold, your fingers tingling. the blinding wave of embarrassment returns, your cheeks exploding into a furious red flush as you realize what you just said.

“newbie…” he says quietly, voice rough. “don’t do that.”

you feel sick with embarrassment. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—”

but jay doesn't lash out. he doesn't tease you, and he doesn't bring up the name. instead, he just looks down at your flustered, wide-eyed face, a soft, incredibly gentle expression taking over his sharp features.

"hey," jay murmurs, his voice still low and beautifully rough from the aftereffects of the pleasure. he reaches out, his large, warm hand gently patting the top of your head, his fingers lightly smoothing down your messy hair. "don't look at me like that. you didn't do anything wrong."

you look up at him through your bangs, your heart still thumping softly. "i'm sorry. i shouldn't have..."

"it's fine," jay interrupts softly, a faint, tired but genuinely warm smile touching his lips. his hand slides down from your head to rest gently on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "you're a fast learner, newbie. really fast. you passed the lesson."

he sits there, his hand warm and heavy on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your shirt. it’s a soft, lingering moment of aftercare that feels entirely too domestic, entirely too real for a simple tutoring session. and as you look at his gentle smile, your hand still warm from his skin, the lie about jake feels smaller and more pathetic than it ever has before.

-------

when thursday afternoon rolls around, the tension inside your chest is so thick you can barely swallow. the walk to the west quad feels different today; the golden armor of your excuses is getting heavier, cracking, but the raw curiosity burning in your veins is too loud to ignore.

when you knock on the door to room 314, jay opens it almost instantly. he’s wearing a loose, dark gray t-shirt and light gray sweatpants, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, a quiet, intense gravity in his gaze that lets you know he hasn't forgotten a single second of tuesday's handjob lesson either.

"come in, newbie," jay murmurs, stepping aside.

you walk in and immediately sit cross-legged in the center of his unmade bed, your hands tucked between your knees to hide how much they’re shaking. jay closes the door, the heavy click sealing the two of you in the quiet, sandalwood-scented dimness of his room.

he doesn't sit in his desk chair. he walks straight to the edge of the mattress, standing right in front of you, looking down with his hands shoved casually into his sweatpants pockets. "alright. lesson seven. what are we breaking down today?"

you look up at him, your cheeks instantly exploding into a fierce, burning crimson. you swallow hard, your fingers twisting together as you force the words out. "i... i want to learn how to give a blowjob. you explained the theory on tuesday, but... i’ve always been curious about how the actual tongue work and depth feel. i want the practical example, jay."

jay’s entire posture locks up. his eyes darken significantly, a sudden, heavy wave of heat rolling off his body as he stares down at your flushed, determined face. he takes a slow, ragged breath through his nose, his jaw clenching tightly.

"newbie," jay rasps, his voice incredibly deep and rough. "are you absolutely sure about this? once we cross this line, there’s no turning back."

"i'm sure," you whisper, looking him straight in the eye.

jay doesn't say another word. he slowly pulls his hands out of his pockets and sits down on the edge of the bed, right in front of you. with a low, deliberate rustle of fabric, he pushes his sweatpants down, freeing his thick, fully erect length. he is already pulsing, a heavy, dark flush painting his white-hot skin.

"get down on your knees between my legs," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably patient, completely ridden of his usual mocking tone

you slide off the mattress, sinking onto your knees on the hardwood floor right between his thighs. your face is level with his lap, the raw heat of his arousal radiating against your cheeks.

"now, look at me," jay whispers, his large, warm hand rising to gently cup the back of your head, his long fingers tangling into your hair to steady you. "remember what i said. keep your lips curled completely over your teeth. let me feel your tongue first. swirl it right around the head."

you lean in, your hands hesitantly resting on the top of his firm thighs for balance. you slowly extend your tongue, dragging the wet, warm tip in a slow circle around the sensitive rim of his crown.

"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sharp, ragged gasp, his head immediately tossing back, his eyes fluttering shut as a deep shiver ripples through his lower half. his fingers tighten gently in your hair. "yes. just like that, baby. you're so warm, you feel so good."

"now, open up a little more," jay murmurs, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with an intense, suffocating pleasure. "take the top half in. use the roof of your mouth to create a gentle suction. don't rush the depth yet."

you part your lips, curling them firmly over your teeth as he instructed, and slowly slide your mouth over the thick, smooth head of his shaft. the sudden warmth and tightness of your mouth makes jay let out a low, broken moan deep in his chest. you pull back slightly, then slide forward again, your tongue swirling against him with every movement.

"you're doing so good, newbie," jay praises you, his voice a low, breathy rumble right above your head. his hand in your hair is incredibly sweet, gently guiding your rhythm, pacing your movements so you don’t choke. "you're so pretty looking up at me like that. god, you're perfect."

hearing him call you pretty makes a violent, hot flash of adrenaline surge through you. you grow bolder, sliding your mouth a little further down, letting your throat adapt to the thickness. you manage your breathing, taking steady, short inhales through your nose as your mouth works rhythmically against him.

the clinical nature of the lesson completely shatters. jay’s control begins to dangerously fracture under the wet, tight heat of your mouth. his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as his hips instinctively lift, thrusting a fraction deeper into your mouth with a heavy, unvarnished desperation.

"shit, look at you," jay groans out, a ragged, completely ungrounded swear escaping his lips as his grip on your hair tightens just enough to hold you in place. his eyes are locked onto yours, blazing with a raw, possessive hunger as you look up at him through your lashes. "look at you, sucking me off so good... fuck, sweetheart, you're driving me insane."

the explicit praise sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. you wrap your right hand around the base of his shaft, sliding it up and down in sync with the heavy suction of your mouth, creating a flawless, dual stimulation that completely breaks his remaining restraint.

jay let out a deep, guttural cry, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck, his hips moving faster, more rapidly against your mouth as he inches closer and closer to the edge.

"hold on— hold on, baby, stop," jay suddenly rasps, his breathing completely shattered. he gently but firmly pulls your head back by your hair, his chest heaving as he draws a long, shaky breath.

you blink up at him, your lips wet and flushed a deep red, your heart thumping violently. jay stares down at your face, his eyes incredibly heavy, full of a fierce, protective softness that completely melts his sharp features.

slowly, he reaches down, his thumb gently wiping away a drop of moisture from the corner of your mouth. a faint, breathless, and incredibly tender smile on his lips.

"you're a genius, newbie," jay whispers, his voice beautifully rough as he lightly taps your cheek. "lesson concluded. you're officially too good for this campus."

-------

when you arrive for the next lesson, the atmospheric pressure inside room 314 feels entirely different. the standard conversational buffer — the casual banter about classes, the lingering ghost of a mention of jake — is completely gone. when jay opens the door, he doesn’t say his usual witty greeting. he just looks at you, his dark eyes heavy and remarkably soft, and reaches down to gently take your bag from your hand, setting it by the desk.

"hey," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly timbre that instantly makes your pulse flutter.

"hey," you whisper back.

he closes the door with a quiet, deliberate click, locking it before turning back to you. he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, and his hair is a little messy, falling perfectly over his forehead. he doesn't wait for you to sit on the edge of the mattress; instead, he takes your hand, his long, warm fingers sliding effortlessly between yours, and guides you to the middle of the bed.

"we've spent a lot of time breaking down what makes a guy lose his mind," jay says softly, sitting down right in front of you, his knees brushing against your thighs. his free hand reaches up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your face up so you're forced to look directly into his eyes. "but that's only half the mechanics, newbie. you need to know what feels good for you, too. you need to know how your body reacts when someone is completely focused on you."

your breath catches, a fierce, sudden heat blooming across your chest. "jay..."

"i'm going to go slow, okay?" he interrupts gently, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners with a reassuring, incredibly tender smile. "no rushing. i'm going to teach you exactly how you're supposed to be touched."

he leans forward, his lips pressing softly against your forehead, then your temple, before trailing down to the sensitive column of your neck. a violent, delicious shiver ripples through your entire body as he kisses his way back up to your jawline, his lips warm and unhurried.

"lay down for me, sweetheart," jay whispers against your skin, his hands moving to your waist to gently guide you back onto the pillows.

you slide down, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as jay shifts, hovering over you, supported by his elbows on either side of your head. his gaze rakes over your flushed face, his expression so fiercely loving and sweet it makes your chest ache. he reaches down, his large, warm hand sliding under the hem of your top, his palm resting flat against the bare skin of your stomach. you let out a soft, sharp inhale at the sudden friction.

"just breathe," jay praises you, his voice a soft, comforting rumble as his fingers trail lower, gently nudging the waistband of your shorts. "let me do the work."

slowly, deliberately, he eases your clothes down, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs to the dim, warm air of the room. you instinctively try to pull your knees together, a sudden wave of shyness hitting you, but jay gently presses them apart, sliding his body between your legs to anchor you. he doesn't look away; his eyes stay locked onto yours as his fingers softly brush against the inner skin of your thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow, light strokes.

"you are so beautiful, newbie," he murmurs, leaning down to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, tasting you fully before trailing his mouth down to your collarbone. "so pretty for me."

when his hand finally reaches the center of your heat, you let out a breathless, broken gasp, your fingers instantly clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt. his fingers are warm, incredibly gentle as they find the small, sensitive bundle of nerves. he starts with light, circular motions, his thumb sliding over the slick skin with a practiced, effortless rhythm.

"there you go," jay whispers against your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he tracks the sudden, erratic hitch in your breathing. "feel that? that's the baseline. you just stay relaxed, let the heat build."

he introduces a single finger, sliding it slowly into your tight, wet heat. a soft, helpless moan escapes your throat, your hips instinctively lifting against his hand. jay lets out a low, rough hum of absolute approval deep in his chest, his finger moving in a slow, curling motion that targets a deep, heavy ache you didn't even know was there.

"look at me, sweetheart," he commands softly. you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of it, to find him staring down at you with an unvarnished, consuming intensity. "you're doing so good. you're so wet for me."

he continues the rhythm, his fingers moving inside you with a steady, heavy pace while his thumb keeps a relentless, agonizingly perfect pressure on your core. you feel the tension building rapidly, a hot, tight knot coiling tightly in your lower stomach. your hands tangle deep into his dark hair, pulling him closer as your breathing turns shallow and desperate.

"jay... jay," you whimpered, completely ungrounded by the overwhelming sensation.

"i've got you," he murmurs sweetly, kissing away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. he pulls his hand away for just a fraction of a second, making you let out a needy whine, before he shifts his body lower on the mattress.

he presses your knees open wider, his hands firmly gripping the undersides of your thighs to steady you. you look down through your lashes, your face burning a furious purple as jay leans his head down, his mouth replacing his fingers.

the first touch of his wet, warm tongue against your sensitive core makes your entire body arch off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room. jay's hands tighten on your thighs, anchoring you completely as his tongue sweeps upward in long, firm strokes, applying a heavy, steady suction that sends a violent, electric current straight down your spine.

"oh my god," you sob out, your fingers desperately clutching at the bedsheets as the coiling tension inside you completely snaps.

jay doesn't stop. he works through your release, his tongue moving in a relentless, beautifully deep rhythm, drinking you in as your body trembles and shakes beneath him. he holds you steady through the intense waves, his mouth warm and unbelievably patient against your sensitive skin until the final tremors slowly begin to fade.

when he finally slides back up the mattress, his face is flushed, his dark eyes shining with a deep, triumphant softness. he pulls the blankets up over your shivering shoulders, immediately wrapping his broad arms around you and pulling your back flush against his chest in a tight, protective embrace.

he leans down, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your warm neck.

"you did so perfect, newbie," jay whispers into your hair, his voice rough and beautifully thick as his large hand rests over your heart, feeling it hammer a frantic pace against his palm. "absolutely perfect."

the cool night air hits your face the moment you step out of the west quad, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging, white-hot fire burning beneath your skin. your limbs feel heavy, almost liquid, and every step you take on the concrete sidewalk feels strangely disconnected from reality.

the guilt catches up to you by the time you reach the campus quad. it settles into your stomach like a block of lead, heavy and suffocating.

you just had sex with jay park.

well, not full intercourse, but it was sexual. it was intimate. he touched you, he put his mouth on you, he held you through the most intense physical release of your life, and he wrapped his arms around you like you belonged to him. the raw, unvarnished memory of his wet tongue, his whispers of "sweetheart," and the protective warmth of his chest pressed against your back makes a violent shudder get to your core.

it's for jake, your brain screams, a frantic, high-pitched panic echoing in your head as you grip the straps of your tote bag until your knuckles turn white. the reason why you're doing this is for improving for jake. you're a newbie. you needed to know what a release felt like so you don't panic or freeze up when jake finally takes you to his bed. jay is just the instructor. he's a textbook. he has nothing to do with this.

but deep inside, in a dark, quiet corner of your soul that you are desperately trying to block out, you know it's a lie. you know text modules and posture corrections don't involve a guy worshiping your body until you're sobbing his name into his pillows.

still, you really try to convince yourself. you force the golden shield back into place, cementing the lie with sheer, stubborn willpower as you unlock the door to your apartment. yunjin's bedroom door is closed, the apartment blissfully dark. you tip-toe straight into your room, lock the door behind you, and collapse onto your bed without even changing out of your clothes.

the bed feels too big, too cold, and your skin is still tingling, practically begging for the touch that was just stripped away from it.

fine, you think desperately, staring up at the shadows on your ceiling. if it's for jake, prove it. fantasize about him.

your hands shake as you slide them down the denim of your shorts, slipping past the waistband to touch the lingering, hypersensitive heat between your thighs. you close your eyes tightly, forcing jake's face into your mind's eye. you picture the sweet way he ruffles your hair, the little Italian restaurant with the string lights, the gentle way he holds your hand across the table.

you start to move your fingers, replicating the exact circular rhythm jay had used on you just an hour ago. a soft, needy gasp escapes your lips into the quiet room. the heat builds rapidly, your body already primed and ready to boil over.

it's jake, you tell yourself, your breathing turning hurried as you pick up the pace. imagine jake doing this to you. imagine jake hovering over you in the dark.

you lean into the fantasy, letting the tight, coiling knot in your stomach take over. you bite your lip hard, letting your brain go insane — imagining the pretty sounds he’d make, mouth open in a slight “o” as his brows furrow, hair falling down, almost reaching that pretty nose adorned with the scar you love to feel between your—

wait.

jake doesn’t have a nose scar.

that’s jay.

your fingers freeze.

the world inside your bedroom completely grinds to a halt. you stare blankly at the dark ceiling, your hand slipping out from your shorts as if your skin had suddenly turned to ice. your heart is hammering, but it’s not from the pleasure anymore; it’s from pure, unadulterated terror.

you just pictured jay.

you were touching yourself, trying to build a future with the boy you’ve liked for months, and your brain completely bypassed him to conjure the exact, devastating image of jay park’s sharp jaw, his furrowed brows, and that tiny, pale scar cutting right across the bridge of his aristocratic nose.

a suffocating wave of reality hits you. it isn't jake. it has never been jake. not since you walked into room 314.

the next morning, the guilt is a physical sickness in your throat. you can’t look at your phone. when jake texts you a picture of a golden retriever he saw on his walk, you reply with a short, polite emoji, your stomach twisting into knots. you are entirely, completely compromised.

by monday afternoon, you know what you have to do. you can't keep going to room 314. if you walk back into that room, if you let him put his hands on your waist one more time, you will never be able to look jake sim in the eye again. you will lose the entire script.

with shaking thumbs, you open your chat with jay.

you: hey jay. i think we should stop the lessons. i think i have everything i need now. thank you for everything.

you hit send and immediately flip your phone face-down on your duvet, burying your face in your hands. you expect him to reply with his usual lazy, arrogant ‘sure thing, newbie’. you expect him to be relieved that his tutoring duties are officially over.

but three minutes later, your phone buzzes. then it buzzes again. and again.

jay: what do you mean? jay: did something happen? jay: newbie answer your phone. if i did something on thursday to make you uncomfortable you need to tell me. i told you we could go at your pace. did i pressure you?

the sheer, frantic panic in his messages makes your throat tighten. the cool, unbothered, perfectly composed jay park is completely gone, replaced by someone who sounds genuinely, deeply terrified that he hurt you.

you bite your lip, a stray tear slipping down your cheek as you type back.

you: no! no, jay, you didn't do anything wrong at all. you were perfect. it's just... things are getting serious with jake. he asked me out again this weekend. and since jake was the original purpose of the whole thing... i need to focus on him now. i have to be fair to him.

you watch the screen. the three little typing dots appear almost instantly. then they disappear. then they appear again. the silence stretching between your apartments feels agonizing.

finally, the phone buzzes one last time.

jay: right. the original purpose. jay: i get it. good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.

the text is so clinical, so brief, it feels like a physical slap. he doesn't fight it. he doesn't tease you. he just steps back into the box of the "instructor," closing the lid firmly behind him.

-------

the rest of the week passes in a gray, heavy blur. you don't go to the west quad. you take the long way around the library just so you don't have to risk seeing his tall silhouette walking past the glass windows.

friday night arrives, and you're sitting at the vanity in your bedroom, curling your hair for your second official date with jake. yunjin is leaning against your doorframe, watching you with a slight, curious frown.

"you're quiet today," yunjin notes, crossing her arms. "usually before a jake date you're bouncing off the walls. didn't your theoretical lessons with jay give you a confidence boost?"

"they did," you lie softly, your eyes fixed on your reflection. "i'm just... focused."

"well, jay's been acting weird too," yunjin shrugs, turning back toward the living room. "saw him at the student union yesterday. he looked like he hadn't slept in four days. completely tuned out."

your grip on the curling iron tightens so hard your palm aches. he's fine, you tell yourself desperately. he's jay park. he's glad to have his bed back to himself.

an hour later, you're sitting across from jake at a trendy, low-lit taco place downtown. the restaurant is loud, music bouncing off the brick walls. jake is looking at you with that sweet, boyish grin, talking animatedly about his soccer coach's ridiculous training schedule.

he's perfect. he's everything you wanted.

but as the noise of the restaurant swells, jake leans across the small wooden table, his face closing the distance to say something over the music. your brain immediately fires a memory — the heavy weight of jay's chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his low voice whispering 'we're in a quiet room, stop playing games with me.'

"hey," jake says, his hand reaching out to lightly tap your wrist. "you there? you looked like you were a million miles away."

"i'm here," you say, forcing a bright, sweet smile onto your face. "sorry, just listening."

when the date ends, jake walks you all the way back to your apartment building. the air on the porch is cool, the dim amber light of the streetlamp casting long shadows over the brick steps. it's the exact setup from a week ago. the final act.

jake stands close, his dark eyes looking down at you with a soft, undeniable affection. he reaches out, his fingers gently tucking a stray curl behind your ear. his hand is nice. it's sweet.

"i had a really great time tonight," jake whispers, leaning in slowly.

your heart spikes, your body automatically going rigid as you realize it’s happening. this is it. the practical application. jake tilts his head, his eyes dropping to your mouth before closing as he bridges the final inch.

his lips press against yours.

it is a perfectly nice kiss. it's gentle, polite, and safe. but as jake's mouth moves against yours, your brain does absolutely nothing. there is no white-hot rush of electricity. there is no heavy, suffocating gravity pulling at your soul. your hands stay flat against your sides, entirely lacking the desperate urge to slide beneath his shirt, to grip his broad shoulders, to tangle into his hair.

jake pulls back after a few seconds, a sweet, satisfied smile on his face. "goodnight," he murmurs, ruffling your hair gently before turning to walk down the steps.

you stand on the porch in the quiet night air, staring at his retreating back. your lips feel completely cold. your skin feels entirely empty. and as you turn the key in your apartment lock, a crushing, definitive truth finally breaks through the last of your defenses.

the lessons didn't prepare you for jake sim. they ruined you for anyone who isn't jay park.

-------

you keep trying.

you really, truly do. you go on a third date with jake to an indie movie theater, and a fourth date where he cooks dinner for you at his apartment. he is everything a boyfriend should be — attentive, sweet, incredibly handsome, and completely respectful. but every time he holds your hand, your fingers feel numb. every time he leans down to kiss you goodnight on your porch, your mind is a completely flat, silent room.

there are no shivers. there is no gravelly voice whispering “breathe, newbie” against your skin. there is no heavy, intoxicating scent of sandalwood.

you are physically with jake sim, but you are entirely haunted by jay park.

you miss him. you miss him so much it feels like a physical ache in the center of your chest. you miss the arrogant, lazy smirks that you eventually learned how to kiss right off his face. you miss the way his large, warm hands felt sliding underneath your sweater. you miss the breathless, quiet aftercare where he would just stroke your hair and tell you you did perfect.

you haven't received a single text from him in two weeks. your chat history sits at the bottom of your messages, a cold, clinical reminder of "the original purpose."

then comes tuesday afternoon.

you’re sitting on the living room rug of your apartment, your knees pulled to your chest as you stare blankly at a textbook you haven't actually read a page of in thirty minutes. yunjin is sitting on the couch right behind you, painting her toenails a vibrant shade of cherry red.

the apartment is completely quiet except for the rhythmic swipe, swipe of her nail brush.

"hey," yunjin speaks up suddenly, not looking up from her pinky toe. "so, i ran into jake at the gym earlier today."

your shoulders instantly tighten. "oh. yeah?"

"yeah. he was glowing, honestly," yunjin says, finally capping the nail polish and leaning back against the cushions. she looks down at the top of your head, her sharp eyes narrowing in a familiar, hyper-observant squint. "he said things are going amazingly with you. he literally told me you're the most perfect, sweet girl he’s ever met."

you let out a tiny, hollow sound that is supposed to be a laugh, but it sounds incredibly sad. "that's... nice."

"so..." yunjin trails off, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. her voice drops into a lighter, teasing tone. "come on. spill. how are the advanced lessons going? did jay's theoretical tutoring actually work? did he give you the magic playbook or what?"

at the mention of his name, something inside you completely snaps.

the two weeks of suffocating guilt, the crushing weight of the lies, the phantom feeling of jay's mouth on yours, and the sheer, exhausting misery of pretending to be happy with jake all come crashing down at once. your eyes suddenly sting with hot, angry tears, and a shaky, broken sob escapes your throat before you can even think to mask it.

yunjin freezes. her jaw practically drops to the floor as she watches your shoulders violently shake, your face burying themselves into your knees.

"wait— oh my god, hey," yunjin stammers, instantly sliding off the couch and dropping to the rug beside you. she wraps a panicked arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "what's wrong? did jake do something? did he hurt you? i will literally fight him right now—"

"no!" you sob out, your voice muffled and thick with tears as you shake your head against your knees. "no, jake didn't do anything! jake is perfect! he's so sweet!"

"then why are you crying like someone died?" yunjin asks, completely bewildered, her hand rubbing your back in a comforting motion. "if jake is perfect, what's wrong?"

you lift your head, your face a catastrophic, tear-stained shade of purple, your chest heaving as you look at your best friend.

"it's jay," you choke out, the truth finally tearing its way out of your chest.

yunjin blinks, her eyebrows furrowing in deep confusion. "jay? jay park? what does he have to do with you crying about jake?"

"the lessons," you whisper, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "they... they weren't theoretical, yunjin. i lied to you. i lied to everyone."

yunjin’s entire body goes completely still. her grip on your shoulder tightens as she stares at you, the dots in her highly perceptive brain suddenly trying to connect a picture she never expected to see. "what do you mean they weren't theoretical?"

"we... we did a practical lesson, a lot of them, actually," you confess, your voice cracking with pure, unadulterated embarrassment, but the relief of finally saying it out loud is a physical weight lifting off your lungs. "the first few weeks were just talking, but then... when he was telling me how to kiss someone correctly, i panicked because i thought i'd be bad at kissing jake. so i asked jay for a real example. and he kissed me."

yunjin’s eyes widen to the size of literal dinner saucers. "jay kissed you?"

"yes," you whine, covering your face with your hands. "and then it happened again. and again. and then we started meeting almost every single day. we weren't even studying anymore, yunjin. i would sit on his lap for a whole hour and we just made out on and on. and then last week... we... we did some more things, and he showed me what felt good for me, too. with his hands, and his— his mouth."

yunjin lets out a sharp, breathless gasp, her hand flying over her mouth. she looks completely, utterly flabbergasted, her jaw practically unhinged. "oh my god. oh my god. you and jay... you guys were sleeping together?"

"not all the way! but yes!" you cry out, pulling your hands away from your face, looking at her desperately. "and the whole time, i kept telling myself it was for jake. i kept saying 'oh, i'm just a newbie getting hands-on experience so i can be good for jake'. i even tried to touch myself thinking about jake afterwards, but yunjin... when i closed my eyes, all i could see was jay. i saw his face, and his hair, and his nose scar."

yunjin is staring at you like you’ve just spoken to her in a foreign language. she is completely speechless, processing the absolute bombshell you just dropped into her living room.

"so... so i stopped the lessons, everything," you whisper, your voice dropping to a broken, miserable murmur as you look down at your lap. "i texted him and told him i had to focus on jake. and he just said okay. and now i'm going on these dates with jake, and he's so nice, yunjin, he really is... but i… don't feel anything. when jake kisses me, it's just... cold. i don't want jake to touch me. i just want jay. i miss him so much it hurts, and i'm a horrible person because i used him as a textbook and now i've completely ruined everything."

you bury your face back in your hands, your shoulders shaking as you let the final wave of tears take over, waiting for yunjin to lecture you, to tell you how reckless you were, or to tell you how completely messy this entire situation is.

instead, yunjin lets out a long, slow, and incredibly deep exhale. she reaches out, gently pulling your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at her. the initial shock on her face has melted away, replaced by a look of sheer, unbelievable realization.

"my love," yunjin says slowly, her voice completely serious. "are you actually an idiot?"

you blink through your tears, sniffing. "what?"

"you think you used jay park?" yunjin asks, letting out a wild, disbelieving laugh. "are we talking about the same jay park? the guy who has half the girls on the humanities campus begging for a text back? the guy who doesn't let anyone into his personal space, let alone his dorm room?"

you wipe your eyes with the back of your sleeve, confused. "but... it was a casual thing. he was just being a good instructor..."

"oh my god, you are a literal child," yunjin groans, throwing her hands up in the air. "listen to me. jay fucking park did not give you a 'practical lesson' because he cares about your future with jake sim. he did not spend an hour letting you straddle his lap and eat his face because he’s a dedicated tutor. he did those things because he is completely, utterly obsessed with you, you absolute moron!"

the conversation with yunjin stays ringing in your ears for the rest of the week, a loud, echoing truth that makes your chest feel completely hollow. he is completely, utterly obsessed with you. you want to believe it. god, you want to believe it so bad, but the memory of his final text — ‘good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.’ — stands like a massive brick wall between you and room 314.

and then, jake texts you.

it’s not a casual, low-effort ‘grab coffee?’ or a late-night invite to watch him play soccer. he sends a long, beautifully constructed message, asking you on a proper, official date to a high-end jazz lounge downtown that requires a reservation weeks in advance. he tells you he’s been noticing your new confidence lately — the way you hold yourself, the lingering eye contact, the ease in your posture — and that he likes you. a lot. he wants to make things official.

a month ago, a text like that would have made you collapse onto your bedroom floor in pure, unadulterated ecstasy. it was the ultimate finish line. the exact gold medal you had been sweating and crying for under jay's brutal, meticulous guidance.

so, you say yes. you force yourself to put on your prettiest dress, you spend an hour doing your makeup, and you walk down the steps of your building to meet jake’s car.

the jazz lounge is beautiful. the dim, amber lighting reflects off the polished mahogany tables, the music is soft and smooth, and jake looks incredibly handsome in a dark blazer. he handles the evening perfectly. he pulls out your chair, he orders the best wine on the menu, and he looks at you with a heavy, sweet admiration that makes your cheeks warm.

"you look absolutely stunning tonight," jake murmurs, reaching across the white tablecloth to gently squeeze your fingers. "honestly, i feel like a different girl walked down the steps today. you've always been gorgeous, but lately... there's just something about you. you're so captivating."

you force a soft smile, nodding your head. "thank you, jake. that's... really sweet."

but as his fingers linger on yours, the crushing reality of the evening finally settles over you.

it’s nice. it’s objectively perfect. but it feels completely, utterly empty.

you sit there, listening to the saxophone player on the stage, and you find yourself looking at the way jake laughs. it’s a nice laugh, but it doesn't make your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you look at his hands, and you realize you don't have the slightest urge to slip your fingers beneath his cuffs. you look at his lips, and the thought of his mouth on yours doesn't make your breath catch.

and in that exact, agonizing moment, the grand illusion you've been clinging to for weeks finally shatters into a million jagged pieces.

you aren't projecting. you aren't using jay as a proxy.

you are deeply, completely, and irrevocably in love with park jay.

the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, making your breath leave your lungs in a sharp, silent gasp. it isn't just about the mechanics or the white-hot heat of his mattress. it’s the way his dark eyes soften into a fierce, protective warmth whenever you look up at him through your lashes. it’s the patient, steady way he guides you when you panic, never pushing, always making sure you feel safe. it’s the quiet, breathless aftercare where he brushes the hair from your forehead, calling you sweetheart in a voice so thick and honest it makes your soul ache. it’s the easy, effortless way you laugh together between the heavy tension, the real, undeniable connection that you built brick by brick in that small, sandalwood-scented dorm room.

jay didn't teach you how to love jake sim. jay taught you how to love him.

"hey," jake's voice breaks through your thoughts, his brow furrowing with genuine concern as he leans in closer. "are you okay? you're really pale suddenly."

you look at jake — at his kind, sweet face — and you realize that staying here, pretending to be the girl he wants, is the cruelest thing you could possibly do to him. you can't live a lie anymore. the script is over.

"jake," you whisper, your voice trembling as you gently pull your hand back from his grip. "i'm... i'm so sorry. i can't do this."

jake blinks, completely caught off guard. "what? did i say something wrong?"

"no, you're perfect," you say, a tear finally spilling over your lashes as you grab your purse from the back of the chair. "you are absolutely wonderful, jake, i swear. but... my heart is somewhere else. it’s been somewhere else for a long time, and it’s not fair to keep dragging you into it. i’m so, so sorry."

before he can even process the words, you stand up from the table and walk — almost run — straight out of the jazz lounge, leaving the music behind you.

the moment you hit the cool night air of the sidewalk, you don't call a cab. you don't go back to your apartment to cry to yunjin. you sprint.

your heels click loudly against the concrete as you rush toward the west quad, your lungs burning, your heart hammering a desperate, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. the wind completely ruins your curled hair, and your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, but you don't care. the only thing that matters is the distance between you and room 314, and you need to eliminate it right now.

you burst through the heavy glass doors of his building, practically flying up the stairs three at a time because the elevator is too slow, too claustrophobic for the sudden, desperate panic roaring through your veins.

you reach the third floor, your chest heaving as you run down the carpeted hallway until you're standing directly in front of his heavy wooden door.

you don't wait to compose yourself. you don't brace your shoulders or try to be normal. you lift your shaking hand and knock against the wood, loudly, your whole body trembling in the quiet corridor.

the heavy wooden door swings open almost immediately, the sudden movement revealing jay standing in the entryway. he’s wearing an oversized black hoodie and matching sweatpants, his dark hair messy as if he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly.

the second his dark eyes lock onto you, he freezes. his gaze sweeps over your ruined curls, the formal dress you’re wearing, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and the fresh tears spilling over your cheeks.

"newbie?" jay rasps, his voice completely stripping of its usual calm, unbothered composure. he steps forward, his hands instantly coming up to hover near your shoulders, completely shocked. "what— what are you doing here? why are you crying? did something happen with jake? did he hurt you? i swear to god i'll kill—"

"i'm in love with you," you blurts out, the words tearing out of your throat in a shaky, breathless sob before he can even finish his sentence.

jay stops dead in his tracks. his hands freeze in mid-air, his jaw dropping open just a fraction as his entire body goes completely rigid. the quiet corridor feels extremely silent, the heavy weight of your words hanging in the space between you.

"i'm in love with you," you repeat, a fresh wave of hot tears blurring your vision as you look up at his face. you feel incredibly shy, completely stripped of your armor, your voice dropping to a small, trembling whisper. "i went on the date with jake. he was perfect, jay. he took me to that jazz lounge, and he held my hand, and he told me i was beautiful... but it felt completely empty. i didn't want him to touch me. i didn't want him to kiss me. because the whole time, the only person i could think about was you. i thought about how you look at me, and how safe i feel when you hold me, and... and i realized i've been lying to myself for weeks. i don't want jake. i want you. i've always wanted you."

jay stares down at you, his expression completely blank for three long, agonizing seconds. you feel a sudden, terrifying wave of panic hit your stomach, convinced you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.

then, jay’s shoulders start to shake.

he drops his head back, a sudden, sharp bark of laughter escaping his lips. he keeps laughing, a breathless, rough sound that makes your heart sink into your shoes. he’s laughing at me, you think completely mortified, stepping back a fraction. yunjin was wrong, he thinks i'm pathetic—

before you can even take a full step away, jay moves.

his large hands shoot forward, wrapping securely around your waist, and with one heavy, desperate pull, he yanks you forward into his dorm room. the door slams shut behind you with a loud, final click, and suddenly, you are crushed completely against his broad chest.

jay wraps his strong arms around you, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck, holding you so tight it’s almost bruising. you can feel the heavy, erratic thumping of his heart against your ribs, his whole body trembling slightly as he holds you like you’re about to disappear.

"jay?" you squeak out, your hands hesitantly coming up to clutch at the thick fabric of his black hoodie.

"i'm not laughing at you, newbie," jay murmurs against your skin, his voice thick, ragged, and completely devoid of his usual arrogance. he lets out another low, disbelieving chuckle right into your hair, his grip tightening. "i'm just... i'm in complete disbelief. i can't believe you're actually standing here saying this to me."

he slowly draws his head back, keeping his large hands firmly anchored on your waist so you can't move away. his dark eyes are incredibly heavy, looking down at your tear-stained face with a raw, consuming tenderness that completely melts your heart.

"you are such a moron," jay whispers, a soft, beautiful smile finally breaking across his sharp features. "you really thought this was all just a clinical lesson for me? you think i let you straddle my lap for a whole hour because i'm a dedicated tutor?"

you sniff, looking up at him through your lashes. "yunjin said..."

"yunjin was right," jay interrupts softly, his thumb rising to gently wipe away a stray tear from your cheek, his touch unbelievably sweet. "i’ve liked you for weeks, sweetheart. even a month, probably. do you have any idea what it was like for me to sit in that chair and listen to you ramble on about jake sim every single week? i hated it. i hated every single time his name left your mouth. i wanted to throw him across the campus every time you showed me a text from him."

you blink, your heart spiking. "then why didn't you say anything?"

"because i was terrified," jay admits honestly, his jaw clenching slightly as his dark eyes lock onto yours. "you came to me so innocent, so focused on this dream you had of being with him. i was so scared that if i told you how i felt, i would pressure you. i was scared i'd ruin your confidence, or make you feel trapped in the lessons. i didn't want to hurt your feelings. so when you texted me on monday saying you were done..."

he pauses, his breathing turning shallow as he leans his forehead lightly against yours, his hot breath fanning across your lips.

"i was resigned," he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly, vulnerable register. "i decided to just let you go to him. i thought, if jake makes her happy, i'll just step back and let her have her perfect boyfriend. it almost killed me, newbie. i haven't slept a full hour since monday."

hearing his confession makes your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming wave of love. you lift your hands, your fingers tangling deep into the soft, dark hair at the back of his neck, pulling him that final, microscopic inch closer.

"you don't have to let me go," you whisper directly against his lips. "i'm right here."

"yeah," jay murmurs, his dark eyes flashing with that familiar, possessive heat right before his mouth crashes onto yours. "you're right here."

the weight of his confession still hangs in the air of his room, but the heavy emotional armor you’ve both been wearing for weeks has completely shattered. your fingers are knotted so tightly in the dark hair at the back of his neck that your knuckles ache, your body pulling flush against his broad chest until there is absolutely no space left between you.

jay doesn't give you a single second to breathe. the moment your lips touch, the familiar, intoxicating taste of him rushes over you, but this time, the desperate restraint he had been clinging to during the "lessons" is completely gone. his mouth crashes into yours with a raw, possessive hunger that makes your knees instantly turn to water. it isn't a demonstration. it isn't a baseline. it is a fierce, consuming claim that leaves you both dizzy.

"jay," you gasp against his lips, a soft, helpless sound escaping your throat as his mouth slides hungrily down your jawline, his teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear.

"i've got you," jay rasps, his voice an incredibly deep, gravelly vibration against your neck. "i've got you, sweetheart. you're not going anywhere."

his large hands slide down from your waist, his broad palms gripping the undersides of your thighs with a sudden, bruising force. with one effortless, powerful lift, jay hoists you completely off the ground. you let out a sharp gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the three short steps over to his bed, collapsing both of you onto the unmade blankets.

the impact is soft, but the physical heat between you is instantly blinding. jay hovers directly over you, his heavy frame anchoring you to the mattress, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead as he looks down at your flushed, breathless face. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, blazing with a fierce, protective intensity that makes your heart thump wildly against your ribs.

"look at you," jay whispers, his chest heaving under his black hoodie as his thumb traces the swollen, red curve of your bottom lip. "you're actually here. in my bed. telling me you want me."

"i do," you breathe out, your hands sliding beneath the hem of his hoodie to press your bare palms flat against the warm, defined muscles of his lower back. "i want you so bad, jay."

a low, ragged growl catches in his throat at the touch of your bare skin. he leans back down, his mouth devouring yours in a deep, wet, frantic rhythm that completely shatters the last of your control. his tongue slides possessively over yours, guiding your mouth to open wider, drinking in every single soft, broken moan you make.

the physical friction escalates instantly. jay shifts his weight, his heavy hips settling right between your thighs, the thick, rigid length of his arousal pressing hard through his sweatpants directly against your core. your dress is hiked up around your waist, leaving only the thin fabric of your underwear between your bodies. instinctively, a desperate, white-hot hunger takes over your body, and your hips tilt upward, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the unbearable pressure.

"fuck," jay groans directly into your mouth, his eyes flying shut as his entire body goes completely rigid at the sudden friction. his hands move to your hips, his long fingers digging into your skin to hold you still, but the desperate, needy roll of your pelvis makes a rough, unvarnished swear escape his lips. "newbie... shit, hold on. you're going to break me."

"no," you whine, your hands slipping out from his hoodie to clutch tightly at his broad shoulders, your eyes fluttering open to look up at him through your lashes. "don't stop, jay. please. i've been thinking about this for weeks."

the admission completely breaks his remaining restraint. jay lets out a sharp, ragged exhale and lets his hips move, matching your upward tilts with a heavy, rhythmic grind of his own. the dry humping is agonizingly perfect, the thick, hard pressure of his length rubbing relentlessly against your hyper-sensitive core through the fabric of his clothes. every single slide makes your head spin, your fingers digging deep into the soft cotton of his hoodie as you arch your back off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room.

"yes, just like that," jay murmurs, his voice a ragged, breathless rasp as he buries his face back in your neck, his lips pressing a trail of burning, wet kisses along your collarbone. "let me feel you. god, you're so hot, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good."

he shifts the angle of his hips, grinding harder, deeper, targeting the exact spot that makes your whole body tremble. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the suffocating heat of his body, the rough friction between your thighs, and the intoxicating, raw intimacy of hearing him lose his mind beneath your touch. his chest is heaving violently against yours, his breathing shallow and rough as his hips thrust down in a fast, desperate rhythm that brings you both dangerously close to the edge.

"jay," you sob out, your head tossing back against the pillows, your core weeping with a desperate, heavy ache that dry humping can no longer satisfy. "jay, please. i don't want the clothes anymore. i want to feel you. really feel you."

jay stops his movement instantly. he draws back, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps as he looks down at you. his face is flushed, his eyes clouded with a fierce, overwhelming hunger, but beneath the passion, that deep, protective tenderness returns with a beautiful clarity.

"newbie," he whispers, his hands gently framing your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears from your cheeks. "are you sure? your first time... i want it to be perfect for you. i don't want to rush this."

"i'm sure," you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the anxious beating of your heart. you look straight into his dark eyes, your fingers rising to gently trace the tiny pale scar on his nose that had given the lie away. "i love you, jay. i want it to be you. teach me the rest."

a profound, heavy silence settles over the room, the raw emotion of your words melting away the last remnants of the old "lessons." this isn't an educational baseline anymore. this is a confession, a complete surrender, and jay handles it with a reverence that makes your eyes sting with happy tears.

"okay," jay whispers, his voice dropping into a soft, beautifully thick register. "okay, sweetheart."

slowly, deliberately, he sits back on his heels. his large, warm hands move to the hem of your dress, gently and carefully sliding the fabric up over your hips, your waist, and over your head, tossing it onto the floor. his eyes track the movement, his gaze raking over your exposed skin with an unvarnished, breathless admiration that makes you feel completely worshiped. he reaches down, his long fingers hooking into the sides of your underwear, easing them down your legs until you are completely bare beneath him.

"you are so beautiful," jay murmurs, his voice shaking slightly as he leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare stomach. "absolutely perfect."

he stands up briefly, pulling the black hoodie over his head and kicking his sweatpants away, revealing his broad, heavily defined chest and the thick, white-hot length of his arousal. when he slides back onto the mattress, the sheer, raw heat of his naked skin making contact with yours sends a violent shock of adrenaline through your veins.

he hovers over you again, but this time, he doesn't immediately move to progress things. he takes his time. his large, warm hand slides down your side, his palm resting flat against your hip as he gently coaxes your knees apart, sliding his body between your thighs. he leans down, his mouth sealing over yours in a slow, agonizingly sweet kiss that tastes of absolute devotion. his fingers slide down, finding the slick, dripping heat between your legs, and he uses two fingers to slowly stroke your core, priming you, making sure you are completely prepared for him.

"relax for me," jay whispers against your lips, his thumb applying a steady, heavy pressure that makes your hips instinctively lift. "i'm going to go so slow, sweetheart. if it hurts, you tell me to stop. understand?"

"i understand," you whimper, your fingers tangling into his dark hair, pulling his face down so you can kiss him again.

jay pulls his hand away, the sudden loss of contact making you let out a needy whine, but then you feel the heavy, smooth head of his shaft aligning directly against your tight, wet opening. the sheer thickness of him makes your breath hitch, your hands instantly clutching at the firm muscles of his shoulders.

"look at me," jay commands softly, his voice a low, gravelly purr.

you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of the moment, to find him staring down at you with a consuming, fierce possessiveness. his dark eyes are entirely focused on yours, locking you in place.

slowly, with an agonizingly careful, steady pressure, jay sinks his hips down.

the initial stretch is tight, a sharp, white-hot pinch of discomfort making your eyes widen as a soft, broken gasp escapes your parted lips. your body automatically tenses beneath him, your fingers digging deep into the skin of his shoulders.

instantly, jay stops. he freezes in place, only a fraction of his length inside you, his jaw clenching hard as he battles his own primal urge to thrust. a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin, but his entire focus remains totally on your comfort.

"i know, i know," jay murmurs sweetly, his face dipping down to press a series of soft, comforting kisses to your eyelids, your burning cheeks, and the tip of your nose. "breathe through your nose, newbie. just like i taught you. let your body adapt to me."

he reaches down, his large hand finding your core again, his thumb rubbing slow, heavy circles against your sensitive skin while he stays perfectly still inside you. the steady, masterful friction slowly melts away the sharp pinch, replacing the discomfort with a deep, heavy wave of slick, throbbing heat. your muscles slowly relax, opening up around him, practically begging for the rest of his weight.

"jay," you whisper, your hips giving a tiny, tentative upward nudge. "more. please."

"good girl," jay rasps, a low, broken hum of absolute approval escaping his chest.

he shifts his hands, wrapping his long fingers securely around your waist, anchoring you to the mattress. slowly, smoothly, he pushes his hips down the rest of the way, burying his entire length deep inside your tight, wet heat. a loud, unvarnished cry tears out of your throat, your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even closer as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him completely consumes your senses.

jay lets out a deep, guttural groan, his head burying themselves into the crook of your neck as he stays completely buried inside you for three long, breathless seconds, letting you adjust to the magnificent weight of him.

"you're so tight, sweetheart," jay whispers, his voice completely ungrounded, shaking with a raw emotion that has absolutely nothing to do with a lesson. "you feel so perfect around me. fuck. you're mine. you know that, right? you're completely mine now."

"i'm yours," you sob out, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heart beneath your fingers. "i'm yours, jay."

when he finally begins to move, it is the furthest thing from the clinical, calculated pacing of before. it is slow, incredibly deep, and heavy with a fierce, possessive passion. jay draws his hips back until he is almost entirely out, making you let out a needy, panicked gasp, before sliding back in with a long, smooth stroke that drives straight to the center of your ache.

“ah— jay!” you cry out, your head tossing back against the pillows as the relentless, deep rhythm takes over the small room.

he guides you through every single movement. when your breathing gets too frantic, jay uses his grip on your waist to lift your hips slightly, slowing the pace down, lingering deep inside you until your breath catches in sync with his. his mouth is everywhere — kissing your lips, your jaw, biting softly on your neck, leaving dark, faint marks on your skin that say louder than words exactly who you belong to.

"you're doing so good for me, baby," jay praises you, his voice a heavy rumble right against your ear. his breathing is completely shattered, his chest slick with sweat as it crushes against yours with every single deep, driving thrust. "look at you. you're taking all of me so perfectly. so pretty for me, sweetheart."

the explicit, loving praises send jolts of pure electricity straight down your spine. you grow bolder, your fingers digging into his hips as you match his pace, lifting your pelvis to meet his downward thrusts, creating a flawless, sharp friction that completely breaks his remaining restraint.

the pacing quickly turns heated, the slow tenderness fracturing beneath a sudden, overwhelming wave of raw, unadulterated passion. jay's dark brows furrow in a look of pure agony, swears escaping his lips with every single heavy, pounding thrust. he moves faster, deeper, his hips crashing against yours with a bruising, desperate force that makes the entire bed shake.

"jay... jay, i'm close," you sob out, the tight, hot knot in your lower stomach coiling so tightly you can barely breathe. your fingers tangle desperately into his damp hair, pulling him down, needing his mouth on yours as your climax approaches.

jay snaps his eyes open, his dark gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying, beautiful amount of gravity. "look at me," he rasps, his hips thrusting deep, holding you completely still beneath him. "look at me when you break, sweetheart. let me see you."

you look up through your lashes, staring straight into his cloudless, fierce eyes as he delivers three fast, incredibly deep thrusts. the coiling tension inside you completely snaps, a blinding wave of pure, white-hot release crashing over your entire body. you let out a loud, broken cry, your inner muscles clamping tightly around his length in violent, pulsing spasms.

the sudden, tight friction completely breaks jay's remaining control. he lets out a deep, guttural cry against your mouth, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck as his hips give one final, breathless thrust, burying himself as deep as physically possible inside you as his own release hits him.

jay stays buried deep inside you for a long moment, his chest pressed flush against your back as both of you come down from the high. his lips brush lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, like he can’t stop touching you even now.

“are you okay, pretty?” he murmurs, voice rough and low against your skin.

you nod, still catching your breath, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “more than okay.”

he hums in satisfaction and carefully pulls out, immediately rolling you over so you’re facing him. his large hand slides up your side, gentle and possessive at the same time, as he tucks you against his chest. for a while, neither of you speaks. the only sounds are your slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of campus life outside his window.

jay’s fingers trace slow circles on your bare back.

“so,” he says after a long beat, that familiar lazy grin creeping into his voice, “how do you feel now that you’ve graduated from my lessons?”

you let out a soft laugh, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck. “i feel like an idiot.”

“yeah?” he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “took you long enough to figure it out.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, your fingers brushing the tiny scar on his nose. “why didn’t you say anything sooner? all those weeks… you just kept teaching me like it didn’t kill you every time i mentioned jake.”

jay’s expression softens. he cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin with surprising tenderness.

“because you came to me wanting help to get another guy,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t going to be the asshole who messed with your head while you were vulnerable. even if it sucked. even if i wanted to throw my laptop across the room every time you showed me his texts.”

he leans in and kisses you slowly, deeply — nothing like the heated frenzy from earlier. this one feels like a promise.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“for the record,” he murmurs, smiling again, “you were never going to end up with jake. not after the first time you asked me for a ‘practical example.’ i knew it then. you were already mine.”

you groan, embarrassed but smiling. “you’re so cocky.”

“and you love it.”

you do.

jay pulls the blanket higher over your shoulders and wraps both arms around you, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. his lips brush your temple.

“no more lessons,” he whispers. “no more pretending. just this. just us.”

you press a soft kiss to his collarbone, already drifting off in the warmth of his embrace.

“just us,” you echo.

as sleep starts to pull you under, you feel jay smile against your hair.

“goodnight, newbie.”

you smile sleepily.

“goodnight, professor park.”

© jongst4r, 2026

taglist: @solonenova, @neabrownn, @drowsypanther, @redessertired, @pinkdazed, @enhypenlvrsstuff, @strwberrylhs, @insignificantlillady, @vanillakirstein, @jaeynslutt, @d2iose, @gchirpy, @k13endall, @phjayyy, @unnatrual, @kookiesnkim, @kpopishgirlie, @kaejua, @ineedjaeyun, @moonchild-31, @cortised, @borderdaytwo, @wonrlls, @heartsski, @dollhoonki, @kristynaaah, @d1m-cataclysm, @bitemhoon, @wh0re4deonnu, @cutehoons02, @missoxy, @ahgasedaddz, @hoonie-luvr, @fixonfairy, @letwiiparkjay, @celeyy7

[enchive]

HOW TO PRETEND

⏱︎  sunghoon wakes up in a world where you're alive.

⏱︎  park sunghoon x f!reader, ft. 02z ⏱︎  fluff, angst, fantasy [alternative universe, time travel themes], college!au, slowburn(?) ⏱︎  wc: 19.2k ⏱︎  cw: major character death, grief, mourning, emotional breakdown... sunghoon just goes through it i'm sorry T_T

⏱︎  enchive's lttr: i worked on this a lot during my finals week and then proceeded to get cooked. enchive is taking summer courses so this came out very slowly i apologize. it took a lot of brain juices but i powered thru, so hopefully there aren't any inconsistencies bcus my brain was so scattered writing this. special shout to @02zc0re, @cherryw0n whose anticipation greatly motivated me. thank u kindly! +++ shoutout to my roomie for beta reading i love u <3 here is a small playlist I listened to while writing~

how to pretend by lucy bedroque i saw you in a dream by the japanese house time machine by willow

Park Sunghoon hasn’t been himself ever since you died in winter.

Not that there’s much left of him to be.

Most of him perished when you did, and the other part that remained became a lifeless body trying to pass the time day by day. The color disappeared from his life once you did, and now all that’s left of him are bleak, monochromatic snapshots of his grief weaving into his everyday routine. Time became indistinguishable without you. Two years of his life were structured around your dates, your classes, and spending time with you. But now, his life became a repetitive cycle of waking up, going to class, and going home, where he rotted with your visage behind his closed eyes as he lied in bed until the next day broke.

Winter left, and Spring came, yet Sunghoon still felt like he was stuck in the cold season. 

In your shared apartment, your things were still there as if you never left. Your puffer jacket was still hanging on the coat rack, unwashed and chilly to the touch. Your toothbrush was still right next to his in the bathroom, the bristles bone-dry from the lack of use. There was an empty space on the full-sized bed, a perfect fit for where your body was supposed to lay right next to him. If Sunghoon closed his eyes and breathed in hard enough, he could still smell the remnants of your lingering, sweet shampoo clinging to the fibers of your pillowcase. 

His friends tried hard to help him move out of his cycle of grief. Sunghoon loved them for it, but he couldn’t help but remain where it was safe, in the little domain where your presence was missing, but your life was still there. Where your pictures hung on the walls, your bright smile lighting up the darkness of each room. Where your lucky pendant mocked him as it hung off the backpack you left on the stool of the kitchen island. Where you still were alive, even if you weren’t physically there.

Jake came in first after you died, letting Sunghoon have his peace for two weeks. Jake was the type to worry so much that it was overwhelming. For the past two weeks, he had blown up Sunghoon’s phone everyday, not letting him have a moment to himself on the device. (Sunghoon was grateful, honestly. Because he had spent the past two weeks looping every video of you until he could memorize the timestamps of every action you took.)

Jake checked on Sunghoon by knocking on his door and bringing him food. “Sunghoon, I brought pyeonyuk from your favorite place…” He gently breached the silence with a careful lilt to his voice, afraid that Sunghoon would snap if Jake said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Sunghoon begrudgingly got out of bed, clutching his phone tightly in his hand, and met Jake in the living room, his hair flying on his head and body dragging across the floorboards.

“I’m not hungry…” Sunghoon muttered in response, the same answer as the day before and the day before that.

“You should eat something, Hoon…” Jake frowned, setting the food on the dining table anyway and opening the takeout bag. Sunghoon didn’t respond. He knew Jake was right, but didn’t have the energy to say anything back. “She wouldn’t want you like this–”

“Don’t talk about her like you know what she wants,” Sunghoon snapped, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. The words stayed in the air, with regret settling into Sunghoon’s guilt-adled mind. But Sunghoon didn’t take them back, he couldn’t.

Jake was your friend before Sunghoon even knew you, so he knew that Jake was still mourning. Sunghoon knew it was wrong for him to say that, but he couldn’t help himself. Jake didn’t know you like he did. He didn’t know the soft murmurs of your sleep and the look of affection in your eyes.

Sometimes, he was angry at Jake for being able to smile after you passed. Other times, he was envious that he could move on so easily and continue living as if you were never there. But in the privacy of your apartment, Jake’s sniffles would merge with Sunghoon’s as they recounted the sides of you only they knew.

Jay came in after to help organize your apartment, more persistent than Jake. “You can’t keep staying like this, Hoon. You’re gonna get bugs, or something…” He murmured, bending over to pick up stray debris on the wooden floors. When your death was still fresh, and your messes were still around, Sunghoon loathed Jay’s help. How dare Jay come in and taint the memories of your existence by cleaning up what you had left behind?

“Jay, stop…” Sunghoon murmured as he helplessly watched his friend reach for the zip-up jacket that you had left on the couch, the cotton material still holding onto your perfume.

“It’s just a jacket, Hoon. It’s gonna smell if you leave it here–”

“I said stop! Just– just fuckin’ leave it where it is, Jay!” Sunghoon’s voice cracked as the volume rose. He stood up without realizing, in Jay’s space, and gripping onto your jacket like it was a lifeline. Jay startled, the jacket slipping from his hands and into Sunghoon’s protective grasp.

“Why does it matter?” Jay had shot back, frustration finally slipping through. “She’s not coming back to wear it, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon’s heart steeled, and he could only whisper back to Jay as tears slipped down his cheeks.

“Get out.”

Sunghoon was still embarrassed about the amount of screaming and sobbing he did to Jay, but he’s sure that they’re fine now. Apologies flew between them, but Sunghoon had already let go of the anger in his chest. After all, it was only swallowed up by the grief he was feeling for you.

When both of his friends noticed it wasn’t helping, they would take him out on the town, shoving milkshakes in his hand and laughing louder than they usually would. They talked about everything and nothing all at once, carefully avoiding your name as if he would break upon hearing it in public. After a while, Sunghoon didn’t want his friends to feel like their efforts were in vain. So he learned to force a smile, puffing up his cheeks and curling up his lips as Jake made a stupid joke to Jay like he always did. (When Jake and Jay looked triumphant about their victory, turning away to silently celebrate, Sunghoon would let his smile falter.)

The night was like the others. Jake and Jay took him to this diner far out of the way, with an American retro vibe. Red and white stripes lined the walls, and the tiles gleamed in the bright overhead lighting. There were only a few patrons in the restaurant, as it was late. The smell of meat cooking on the grill wafted through the air, permeating the atmosphere with smoke and seasoning. The three men were munching on burgers, updating each other about their courses for the next semester. But mostly, it was just Jake and Jay speaking to Sunghoon. The youngest of the three remained silent for most of the meal, only responding when he felt like he really had to.

But the sight of the cheeseburgers and fries on his platter only made him think of you even more. Even if he knew his friends were trying to distract him from you, he could only be reminded of the countless dates you had at the burger joint next to campus. Reminded of the way you used to get ketchup on the corner of your lips, and how he would wipe it off with his thumb. He used to complain about how you always ate so messily, but he couldn’t help the wide smile from growing on his lips. Can’t you come back? He’d never complain again…

“Guys, it’s getting late. I think we should go now…” Sunghoon spoke up after a while. Truth be told, he was spacing out for most of the time and just wanted to bury himself under the covers. Jake looked at him and smiled, not wanting to push anything.

“Sure, man, we can go back now.” He stood up, dusting off the crumbs from his thighs. He looked at Jay, who simply nodded and stood up to let Sunghoon out of the dining booth they were sitting in. Jay drove them back home, not forgetting to tell Sunghoon to text him in the morning. Sunghoon only nodded in response before going back up to your apartment.

When he opened the door, the silence greeted him as always. Not your cheery voice yelling his name or your padding footsteps eagerly running towards him. There was only a suffocating absence waiting for him. The wooden door clicked shut behind him, and with that sound, his composed act dropped.

Sunghoon’s shoulders slumped. He tried. He really tried. But when his breath hitched, his emotions began to unravel uncontrollably, unfurling like a roll of ribbon. His keys slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor. His vision blurred as quickly as he blinked, tears filling up his eyes, and his throat closing up as a sob threatened to rise from his chest.

“Fuck–” His word broke apart as soon as he let it out. He collapsed to the ground, his body not strong enough to carry him and the weight of his emotions anymore. He felt ugly– so ugly. His figure practically folded into itself as his knees hit the ground, his chest pressed against his thighs and his arms awkwardly crossed. He uncurled his body, crawling like a baby as he thought to the only thing he wanted.

You.

But you weren’t here. So his hands desperately sought out the closest thing he could get. Your jacket, the one that he still hadn’t moved even though Jay tried to many, many times. He bunched up the fabric in his fingers, the cloth wrinkling under the force of his tight grip. He buried his nose into the fabric, inhaling the sweet smell of your perfume– from the bottle that was still at your vanity, macerating as it went unused. A choked sound tears from his throat as he inhaled sharply, like maybe if he breathed your scent in deep enough, he could fill the hollow space you left behind.

“Please…” His voice was barely there now, worn thin from crying. “Just—just come back.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and the memories came flooding in. Your bright laugh that lifted any weight off his shoulders, your warm eyes always seeking to stare into his, and your heavy hand that slipped effortlessly to slot into his. Then, the quiet moments that you both lived, the meaningless ones, the ones he never thought he’d have to remember like this. They all hit his brain at once, bringing on a throbbing headache for him. But even though it ached to think of you, he still clung to these memories desperately, replaying them over and over on loop.

If he stopped and let them fade even a little, then it would be like losing you all over again.

Your voice wasn’t there to comfort him like it always used to be, and if he took out his phone to play a clip of your sweet voice messages that used to encourage him, he wasn’t sure how he would react. His sobs eventually silenced, faltering into desperate gasps of air. Exhaustion pulled him down as his breathing became uneven. He curled into himself on the floor, still clutching what little of you he has left as his body tumbled to the side. The last thing he felt before he passed out was the faint scent of your perfume and the hollow ache in his chest that never seemed to go away.

Winter had long passed, allowing flowers to bloom over the frigid grass. Yet, Sunghoon remained frozen in the cold weather, trapped in the season you left him in.

Sunghoon didn’t remember setting his alarm, but the shrill sound of it woke him up from his deep sleep.

He kept his eyes closed as he pouted, squirming around as he patted around for his phone. But, instead of meeting the cold floor, his hands brushed up against warm bedding. He shot upright, eyes wide and head throbbing. Who the hell moved him from the floor to the bed?

For a moment, Sunghoon sat still, disoriented and trying to piece together the puzzles of last night through his dazed head. He remembered having a breakdown and the sweet aroma of your perfume. His vision was blurry, and he thought that it was from his tears from last night, but even after blinking for a few seconds, his eyesight didn’t gain any clarity. His hands shot up to rub his eyes, but his sight was still fuzzy. He remembered passing out on the floor, holding your jacket. But he surely didn’t remember this.

He looked down, realizing he was on a twin XL bed. He squinted his eyes as he stared at the bedding. It looked way too familiar. The way that the blanket hung off the edge, and the striped pillow was resting up against the wall, compressed into a flat piece of cotton. It looked all too familiar, too similar to the navy blue set that he used during his freshman year of college.

A chill ran down Sunghoon’s spine as he realized where he was. He was in a freshman dorm.

As he glanced around, his bleary eyes still didn’t clear, but the room around him became a little more concrete. The cheap white paint peeling on the ceiling, the shaky frame of his wooden bunk bed, and the pile of unfolded laundry sitting right in the middle of the floor in a blob of mixed fabrics. The mini-fridge was humming next to his closet. It was all there, exactly the way he remembered two years ago. He would’ve mused at the fact that it looked so identical if he wasn’t so freaked out about being in some random freshman dorm.

Fuck, what did I do last night? I probably look like a creep! In the dorm of some random freshman kid when I’m a junior… He nearly sprained his ankle trying to jump off the bed, scrambling to leave as soon as possible. But as soon as he jumped down from the top bunk, the door opened, revealing Jay.

“Dude, you good? You jumped off the bed mad hard.” Jay snickered, running a hand through his wet hair. Sunghoon blinked. This had to be a dream, a prank, or a grief-induced hallucination. Maybe he cried himself so hard that he lost his fucking mind. Because there was just no way he was staring at freshman year Jay in his freshman year dorm.

Jay was supposed to have short black hair with a strictness that only college and a two-year unpaid internship could instill into him. He was supposed to be wearing button-ups and polos with tight trousers and a fancy belt. But this Jay had longer, dyed silver hair with his teenage features still ghosting his face. This Jay was wearing a soccer team jersey with baggy shorts and his silver conch piercing still looped through his ear.

“Sunghoon, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…” Jay nervously laughed, throwing the towel around his neck into his hamper. “Did you have a nightmare or something?”

Sunghoon’s throat was dry. He tried to swallow, but instead he broke out into a coughing fit. Jay scrambled to pat his back, grabbing a cold water bottle from the shared mini-fridge. “Th– Thanks…” Sunghoon wheezed as he greedily gulped down the entire bottle. “Uhm, I’m– I’m okay…” He whispered, trying to find his voice. Jay frowned, concerned.

“Are you sure? You sound weird as hell, man.” Jay smiled again, his expression dry and one of concern. Sunghoon cleared his throat and nodded again, turning around to look at himself in the mirror. He was faced with the younger version of himself from two years ago, too. Instead of his ripped figure, his muscles were just beginning to bulge with the beginnings of his consistent workouts. His hair was dark as usual, but he could see the overgrown appearance framing his eyes.

“I– I think ‘m gonna be sick!” Sunghoon gagged, before running to the communal bathrooms and flinging open the closest stall door. He yakked in the toilet, sick to his stomach. The sour smell of vomit filled the claustrophobic space of the stall, and Sunghoon nearly threw up again as chunks of undigested food sputtered out from between his lips. Jay came in a minute later, standing awkwardly next to the open door.

“Are you good, man? You’re worrying me… Did the dining hall fuck you over, too?” Jay snickered. Sunghoon flushed, leaning heavily against the wall as cold sweat clung to the back of his neck. His whole body felt wrong. Jay lingered outside for a moment before speaking again, voice softer this time. “Seriously, Hoon. Did something happen?”

Sunghoon stared at the tiled floor for a moment before flushing down his puke. Everything had fucking happened. You were dead, and he had buried you. But he couldn’t say that to Jay. So instead, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and forced out a weak response.

“Bad dream.”

Jake had been talking about you for weeks before Sunghoon met you.

The puppy-like boy had been yipping his ear off about you, but Sunghoon didn’t even know what you looked like. All he knew you as Jake’s hometown friend who’s known the man since high school. Yet Jake talked about you like Sunghoon was already integrated into your friendship, like you were apart of their routine too.

“Yuck, this dining hall food sucks.” Jake scrunched his nose as his fork penetrated the dry chicken, the metal tearing into the strips of meat. Sunghoon snorted as he dug his spoon into the “soup” that had animal fats coagulating on the surface of the bowl. “Should we take the bus downtown and get sushi?” Jake licked his lips, eager for the change of meal.

“We already used a meal swipe, Jake. I don’t want to waste it.” Sunghoon frowned, but he himself was about to lose his appetite as he stared into the abyss of the tomato soup that bubbled and popped, spurting tiny droplets of thick tomato onto the table. When Jake didn’t respond, Sunghoon assumed that Jake had conceded and began eating his dry chicken, but when he looked up, Jake’s eyes were somewhere else.

Sunghoon followed his eyes to see that Jake was staring at a girl grabbing a cookie. “Ohh, you think she’s cute?” Sunghoon teased. Jake’s lips then curled up in disgust, his entire face contorting to express his repulsion to Sunghoon’s words. The younger boy frowned, disappointed. “Jake, don’t look like that. She may not be your type, but she’s a cute girl.”

“What? Dude, that’s Y/N. My friend from home.” Jake snickered. “So you think she’s cute, huh?” The chestnut-haired boy leaned across the table immediately, grin widening like he had just been handed the greatest entertainment of his week.

“No, Jake, I didn’t say all that.” Sunghoon groaned, knowing that he had just walked himself into a trap.

“Nah, don’t lie. You think she’s cute, huh? She’s single, I can set you up…” Jake smirked, wriggling his eyebrows. Sunghoon groaned, the tip of his pale ears turning red from the embarrassment he was feeling. He covered his face to hide his expression.

“Stop, Jake…” He whined. Jake snickered and pushed Sunghoon’s elbow.

“Be cool, man, she’s coming.” Jake winked, biting his lip at Sunghoon. The pale boy’s face was so red, he was sure he looked like a stop sign at that point. Behind Sunghoon, he heard the steady sounds of footsteps against linoleum. It was when the footsteps were directly behind him that he decided to turn around, not wanting to look too snappy or weird.

Sunghoon was blown away. He thought you were cute from a couple of feet away, debating whether to grab either the cookie or the brownie as you tapped your foot in a rhythmic motion. But you were even more breathtaking up close. You had a soft, warm smile gracing your lips, making you look approachable. Your cheeks were dewy from the humid air that resulted from the smokiness of the chicken charring behind the dining hall bars. You were wearing sweats and a hoodie, dressing warmly for the cool temperatures that began to settle in the atmosphere during September. He absolutely couldn’t hide how smitten he was with you, so much that Jake began lightly kicking his foot under the table.

“Hi, Jake.”

God, even your voice was like honey. Smooth, silky, and thickly sweet. “Hey, Y/N. Did you finish eating, or did you just get here?” Jake asked you, not bothering to hide the wide, mischievous grin that began to spread across his lips.

“Mmm, I ate with my classmate, Chaewon. She left to go back to her dorm already,” You answered, circling the table to stand behind Jake. Your face came into full view of Sunghoon, and he had to remember to swallow so that he could prepare his mouth to speak.

“H– Hey.” Sunghoon’s voice cracked as he greeted you. Jake pursed his lips, biting them to stifle his laughter. He cleared his throat and looked down, embarrassed.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, Jake’s friend.” You giggled, melodic and charming. Sunghoon shyly smiled up at you, gathering the courage to look up at you directly. You took the seat next to Jake, maintaining your friendly grin as you stared at Sunghoon. “Aren’t you in my CS class?” You asked, tilting your head. Sunghoon gulped. He didn’t even realize, but you remembered him so easily. He felt a little guilty.

“Uhm– Uhm, yeah, ‘m– ‘m in CS 1010… Monday, Wednesday, Friday lectures from 12:15 to 1:30… You– you too?” Sunghoon stammered out his question. You giggled again, seemingly amused and endeared by his bashful demeanor.

“Yup, that’s me too! Hey, sit next to me in lecture next time! I sit in like, the middle back. And I’m going to be honest with you, the guy who usually sits next to me… he’s a bit obnoxious…” You leaned in to cheekily whisper to him, as if letting him in on a secret only you both knew about. (And Jake, he guessed…)

The conversation began flowing into a natural river of meaningless talks about dorm life, classes, and unshared stories of Jake that you both had. Honestly, Sunghoon barely remembered what you guys talked about. All that was stuck in his mind was the way you kept glancing at him with your bright, wide eyes that squinted with your cheeks as you smiled and giggled.

At the time, Sunghoon thought it was just a lucky afternoon, stumbling upon a pretty girl and even scoring a friend in a class. He didn’t know then that it would become coffee dates and late-night study sessions, shared bus rides, first kisses, and apartment keys. He didn’t know that one day, he would be whispering “I love you” to you every night before you both fell asleep after long days of cramming for Data Structures and Algorithms. He didn’t know then that you would become home.

And he definitely didn’t know that one day, years later, he would sit on the floor of that very home, begging the universe to let him have you back.

Back then, all he knew was that you smiled at him, and for the first time, he was excited to attend CS 1010.

Sunghoon had finished hyperventilating twenty minutes ago. Or maybe thirty. Time felt fake now, so he honestly couldn’t tell.

All he knew was that he had woken up in his freshman dorm, thrown up in the communal bathroom, cried for a little bit more until Jay awkwardly told him he had to leave, and then kneeled down on the (very disgusting) floor of the stall trying not to pass out or cry again. Either grief had sent him into some form of delusion or psychosis, or genuinely sent him two years in the past. Neither option was looking like an optimal answer to his question of why the hell he was in his freshman year self.

After managing to get up, he went back to his dorm to search for anything that could help his predicament. (As if his dingy gaming laptop could send him back into the present…) He entered his room to grab his morning essentials, splayed out in a cup on his white dorm cart. His vision was still blurry, and it finally clicked to him as to why when he noticed a foreign object on the same cart. He picked up a glasses case and opened them to reveal a pair of glasses. He put them on and stared at himself in the mirror secured on the front of his closet door. 

They were black, wide, and thick-rimmed, pressing up against the sides of his nose and nudging into the fluffy skin of his cheeks. But Sunghoon never wore glasses– he had perfect 20/20 vision. Sunghoon freaked out– who wouldn’t freak out after losing their after a night’s sleep?

He took his cup of essentials to the bathroom, cringing at the loadout. He had a dingy, plastic toothbrush and a cheap tube of toothpaste. He didn’t own his usual mixsoon skincare, so he couldn’t wash his face with cleanser. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with purple Listerine, and splashed his face with water.

“God, this is sick. This is actually so sick,” he muttered to himself, patting his face dry with his sleep t-shirt and putting on the glasses. Now that he could properly see his reflection in the dusty and streaky mirror, he was staring at the younger version of himself that had softer features, longer, dark-brown hair, and a pair of fucking glasses now.

He looked like a loser, and his present-day brain wanted to fight himself for not taking care of himself properly until he began talking to you. He checked the time on the old and unnecessary clock hanging over the door of the communal bathroom, whispering a curse as he realized that it was almost 8:30AM, his class was at 9AM, and the walk was 20 minutes away from the dorm. 

He ran back to his dorm room to change, throwing open his closet door with a resonating slam against the wooden sideboards. Instead of the expensive and sleek monochrome clothes he meticulously spent two years curating into his fashion style, he was greeted with vibrant colors overtaking any monotone hue that could have hidden in his hangers. He pulled each hanger back, revealing neon green, a bright yellow, and a shirt with Detective Conan on it. He groaned, internally cursing his freshman-year self for buying whatever he could get his cheap hands on. He picked out a green sweater and a clean pair of blue denim jeans. He wanted to accessorize, but when he dug through his other drawers, he couldn’t find anything. There wasn’t even a watch or necklace or bracelet. He shook his head and exhaled in frustration.

Sunghoon checked the calendar on his desk promptly, throwing on a jacket and grabbing a random apple on his desk. It was November, three months after university had started for him. But when his eyes landed on the color-coded events, he was confused. Because instead of CS 1010 and CALC III, the usual courses he took on Monday, he was looking at CHEM 1010 and BIOL 2100. He remembered taking the chemistry course his freshman year, but he definitely remembered not taking anything biology-related in his college career. Hell, he was a Computer Engineering major. What would a CS student need Biology for?

Ignoring the weird nostalgia blooming in his chest and the odd discrepancies that just continued to pile up, Sunghoon went out to go to his classes. Instead of the green trees and blossoming flowers welcoming him outside, he was met with the warm leaves and moderate temperatures of Autumn. Students passed by in a haze, chattering about their classes and walking way faster than Sunghoon remembered. The cold breeze drifted through the campus, inflating his sweater as it crept under the fabric. Jay had already left to attend a mixer for his pre-law frat, leaving Sunghoon to try to stimulate his own brain so he could ignore his weird time flashback or time-travel or whatever the hell this was…

He checked his phone, inhaling a big breath of air and holding it in, as if bracing himself for the impact that he was seeing his screen two years in the past. When the screen brightened, Sunghoon was greeted with Patrick Bateman laughing maniacally at him with blood splattered across his face. He instantly shut his phone off out of embarrassment. “Hell no.” He grunted.

He inhaled again and opened it to check his text messages. He expected to see your name at the top, but instead, it was Jake followed by Jay. He scrolled through, expecting to see your name at least somewhere. After all, it’d been three months since you’ve met. You should’ve at least talked about the CS midterm by now, right? But instead, he scrolled through to see his parents, his sister, and some random high school friends Sunghoon hadn’t thought of in years.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a headache coming on, and his heart was twisting into itself, wringing out all of his worries about his time-travel to soak up the anxieties of you. If he was here—if this was really freshman year, really November, really two years ago— then where the hell were you?

Sunghoon stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk, students brushing past him with annoyed mutters, enunciated scoffs, and eyerolls. His fingers trembled around his phone as he opened your contact again, except… there was no contact to open. Your name didn’t exist in his phone, and there was nothing to remember you by. His stomach dropped to his feet, and from his feet, crept up the nauseous nagging of… what if you didn’t exist at all now, these two years ago that he was in?

“No, no, no…” he muttered under his breath, swiping faster like your name might magically appear if he looked hard enough. But it didn’t. All that stared back at him was the image of fucking Christian Bale laughing at him, jeering at him as if making a mockery out of Sunghoon.

Could… this not have been his timeline entirely? Instead of going back to the past, did he somehow fall into a world where you never even existed?

Even the beginnings of the thought was enough to make Sunghoon keel over, steadying his body on a nearby tree and focusing his eyes into the nearby bush. Was this world not the version where you sat next to him in CS 1010 and whispered gossip to him during lectures? Because if so, then this wasn’t the version where he walked you home after late-night study sessions and fell in love with you under fluorescent library lights. This wasn’t the version where he kissed you outside your apartment in the snow for the first time.

The version of him that had met you.

Sunghoon’s breathing started to shorten again. He had one hand pressed flat against it the thick and textured trunk of the tree, as if it could keep the world from tilting. The autumn air began feeling suffocating instead of crisp, and the stray threads inside his stupidly bright green sweater began scratching at the hairs on his arms, penetrating through to itch his skin.

think think think think think

Jake? Jake knew you first, didn’t he?

He couldn’t give less of a fuck about his stupid CHEM 1010 class, not when the idea of you not being in his life again was wrapping heavy hands around his neck and choking him. His thumb fumbled as he opened Jake’s contact and scrolled through his messages. Most of it was stupid nonsense, with the most recent text being Jake begging him to skip class for food. Then, buried between them, secluded amongst the sheer amount of back-and-forth texts, was a diamond in the rough.

jake: bro r u coming to the library tmrw nite? jake: y/n’s gonna be there too jake: bro please be normal this time 😭🙏

Sunghoon choked out a broken sound, a cacophony of laughter and sobbing. His knees nearly gave out from the release of tension in his muscles. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, digging it into his eyes to steady himself. Sunghoon didn’t care that he looked like an idiot in the middle of campus while students walked around him. After all, they were ignoring him like his spectacle was an everyday occurrence. He couldn’t care less.

you existed here you were here alive breathing here here in this world not six feet under but above ground walking talking breathing living

Sunghoon stared at the message until the words blurred.

y/n’s gonna be there too

alive alive alive

You were no longer trapped inside of the pictures hung up on the walls. Not reduced to old voice messages and the lingering scent on the piles of clothes you left around the apartment and in your hamper. Not a mere name carved into stone and buried under the solid, winter dirt.

alive.

Sunghoon’s chest caved in on itself. If he had not met you like he did two months ago in the dining hall, then would you both be starting from square one now? Does that mean that he had another chance to start from the beginning? To love you again, wholeheartedly, and make sure that you wouldn’t die? That instead of two measly years, he could love you for an entire lifetime? Or were you destined to meet the same fate again?

He didn’t hesitate to decide. No matter what lifetime he was in, he would make the same decision. He would choose you again, every time, even knowing how it ended. Grief this devastating could only exist because love had once been so kind, and now that he had a chance to experience your living love again, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity.

Sunghoon: r we still on for the library?

“I didn’t think making a grade calculator would be this fucking hard, oh my god.”

You and Sunghoon were both deep into three Red Bulls, eyes bloodshot and accessorized with grey and purple bags hanging under them. Sunghoon exhaled and slammed his laptop shut, before immediately pulling it open again to reveal the same piece of coding that had been mocking the both of you for hours. Meanwhile, you were slumped over your own laptop, fingers tapping away at your keyboard meaninglessly. Honestly, you weren’t even trying to fix the code, you were just typing a bunch of bullshit into the program.

“Seriously, why did I choose CS?” Sunghoon sulked, about to begin reflecting on every decision that led him there, before you snapped him out of it with a few delicate taps to his arm.

“How about we take a study break, hm?” You tilted your head, smiling up at him. Even though you look exhausted, you still managed to muster up a warm grin on your lips that instantly quelled his anxieties about your project. “Where should we go… it’s pretty chilly outside…” You thought aloud. The way your eyes flicked up and your hand dramatically stroked your chin endeared him, blossoming an aggressive affection in his chest. He squeezed his hands into a fist, trying to resist pinching your cheeks.

“What time is it now? 2AM? Is anything even open?” Sunghoon yawned. You thought about it for a second before gasping. Sunghoon could almost visualize the lightbulb flashing above your head.

“Let’s eat ramyeon at the convenience store on the main road!” You suggested. The brown-haired boy hummed in agreement, standing up abruptly to stretch before putting on his coat. You both abandoned your things and put your trust in student honor as you began your 10-minute walk down the street, leaving the warm and humid library in favor of the chilly autumn weather.

“Sunghoon, have I ever asked you about your lore?” You suddenly asked. Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows.

“Lore? What does that mean?” He responded, confusion puppeting his eyebrows into a furrow. You puffed up your cheeks as you thought about how to explain the term.

“Like– your cool anime backstory, or whatever…” You answered, embarrassed at the way you chose to describe it. Sunghoon snickered, shaking his head.

“Uhm, I don’t think I have a cool anime backstory, or whatever…” He started to think. “Well… I have a younger sister and then I used to figure-skate. Nothing really interesting, I don’t think…” You gasped at his downplaying of his abilities.

“You used to figure-skate? That’s so cool! When did you start?” You smiled, eyes sparkling at looking up at him with wonder. Sunghoon’s face flushed even harder.

“Uhm… when I was pretty young… I was pretty good at it, other people tell me. But I didn’t have many friends when I was a kid because I was the only guy who did figure-skating,” he continued. You tilted your head curiously.

“Do you have any pictures, Hoon?” You perked up. He tried to ignore the flutter in his heart with the usage of your sudden nickname, instead opting to fumble for his phone. He hid away the Patrick Batemen lockscreen he forgot to change before flashing you a photo of his younger self.

Child Sunghoon was round and soft, with a cute and awkward smile on his face. He wore a flashy costume, a white button-up with silver glitter lining everywhere that it could trace. In his hands was a trophy and a bouquet of flowers. A coo immediately erupted from your throat as you took it in. “Sooo cute, ohmygod!” You gasped. His shining pupils disappeared as he smiled, bashful as he looked away. He turned off the phone, causing you to whine.

“Nooo~ Hoon, send me the photo! I’ll make it your contact!”

As much as he didn’t want to give in, ultimately, he did. He airdropped the photo to you, which you received with a delighted squeal. Sunghoon peered over your shoulder, trying to subtly look at what you were going to do. Just as you said, you immediately went to change his assigned contact photo to the child version of his picture. But as you opened his chatbox, his heart stuttered. His number was saved under ‘hoon <3.’

He immediately jerked his head away, blushing profusely as he tried to ignore the steady and rising thumping in his chest. You looked up at him, oblivious to the motions his body was going through.

“Soo, what ramyeon should we eat?”

Sunghoon didn’t know shit about biology, so he left his lab as soon as the class ended.

His labmates were very obviously frustrated, not-so-subtly glaring at him as they passive-aggressively shot their DNA samples into the wells of the gel electrophoresis. One of his lab mates, a nice boy named Sunoo, leaned in to whisper into his ear, “Are you okay? You’re normally never this slow?” And after a reassuring nod, Sunoo pouted and looked away. Sunghoon guessed that meant he was actually skilled in biology, but he knew for sure that this Sunghoon, the one who wanted to pursue cybersecurity, didn’t know jackshit about DNA, RNA, and whatever the Central Dogma was.

Sunghoon was hungry, his brain was overloaded with too much new information, and all he could think about was the thought of seeing you. Breathing, alive, and here. So as soon as the TA dismissed everyone, he sprinted out of the lab and across campus to the library. He didn’t care if he looked stupid, clutching his backpack strap and punching his shoulders backwards and forwards in order to gain more momentum as he ran for his life. All he cared about was you. you you you

As he neared the library, waiting for the crosswalk to turn green for pedestrians, he whipped out his phone to text Jake.

Sunghoon: Hey Jake. Where are U sitting. Sunghoon: What floor are U on? Sunghoon: Where R U located. jake: ???? jake: were on the fourth floor in a cubby jake: why r u texting so weird LOL when dod u use punctuations n caps? Sunghoon: Uhhh trying out a new style of texting. jake: wtv man just dont act like a weirdo with y/n LOL jake: dont tell her i said this but she said shes excited to see u

Sunghoon’s heart was pounding, and he was sure it wasn’t because of the intense cardio. He looked back and forth on the road, tapping his foot impatiently as the crosswalk was still red. As soon as the street was cleared of cars, he began rapidly walking across the road, ignoring the protests of the crossguard with an embarrassed expression on his face.

He practically bolted across the small lawn in front of the library in order to enter it, panting as he climbed up the large flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance. He pushed the doors open, his feet rapidly clicking against the tiled floor as he raced to find you and Jake. He rounded around the entirety of the fourth floor, ignoring the pointed and obvious stares of the other people trying to study. Soft chatter and giggles filled the wide floor, as well as the sounds of keyboards clicking under pressure and Apple pencils tapping against screens. But one particular sound stood out to him.

The sound of your sweet, sweet laughter.

He nearly tripped as he rounded the corner, only to see the glorious sight that his heart had been searching for forever.

You.

You were sitting cross-legged on one of the seats in the cubby, your laptop balanced on your thighs and a Red Bull cracked open beside you. The same, sugar-free flavor that you always liked when you both studied together and that Sunghoon conditioned himself into loving, too. Jake was next to you, saying something dramatic with his hands, and you were laughing at him– your head tipped back slightly, eyes squinting, your smile so bright that it was the only thing he could see.

For a moment, the entire world went silent until his ears began ringing. There was nothing else in the world except you.

Just you.

Alive.

Not framed in a photograph, not buried under frozen dirt, and not simply reduced to a voice memo he replayed at three in the morning because he was afraid he’d forget the exact cadence of your laugh.

You were here.

You were breathing, laughing, smiling, moving, existing. Alive.

Sunghoon stopped walking.

His body forgot how to function, rooted to the tiled floor as if one more step would shatter the fragile miracle in front of him. His vision blurred almost instantly, tears gathering so fast it embarrassed him.

Because you were there, right in front of him after the seasons had changed and months had passed since he last saw you.

Wearing some oversized hoodie he recognized from years ago, sleeves covering half your hands. Your hair slightly messy, your lips wrapped around the straw of your drink, your foot absentmindedly bumping against Jake’s chair.

You were so alive.

Sunghoon’s throat closed as the tears wouldn’t stop. He hurriedly brought up his sleeves to wipe his eyes. He had spent months begging the universe for this. Whether he was in the kitchen, pleading to have you back so you could wash your dirty dishes. Or buried in the side of your bed, his face smothered by the scent-heavy fabric of your pillow case. At your grave, where your name engraved into the stone mocked him and the dates of your birth and date blending in together. In every quiet second where grief became too heavy to carry, and Sunghoon’s body would collapse from the sheer weight of it all on his back.

Yet now, here you were, as if no time had passed at all and Sunghoon was back to day one. 

Jake noticed him first, standing outside the cubicle like a weirdo. To be fair, Jake thought Sunghoon was a weirdo until he recognized the vibrant fashion choice. “Dude, finally—” Jake started, the beginnings of a laugh about to escape his throat, but the words died in his throat when he saw Sunghoon’s face, because Sunghoon looked like he was seeing a ghost.

Your eyes followed Jake’s, landing on him, and Sunghoon’s breath hitched. He had your eyes on him, and they hadn’t changed from the last time he saw you. They were as bright as he remembered, with the stars of the night filling them with a shine so breathtaking that Sunghoon couldn’t believe that this was real.

And then you smiled, the same smile that always instantly calmed him down, alleviating him of any negative thoughts. You smiled like you hadn’t fucking died, and Sunghoon was almost angry at how naive you looked, oblivious to the suffering that he had gone through for months without seeing that beautiful visage. But as soon as your lips curled, they faltered.

“Sunghoon?” you said, tilting your head a little. “Are you okay?”

God, your voice was as melodic as he remembered. So softspoken per usual, with a tune that was like angels were singing. A broken sound left his throat before he could stop it— a half laugh and a half sob mixing together to produce something ugly and raw. His hand came up to cover his mouth like he could physically shove the emotions and sound back inside of his throat. But he couldn’t. because you were looking at him finally after months of going without it.

alive alive alive youre really alive and youre really here and youre smiling so pretty so beautiful my sweet girlfriend my y/n mine mine mine youre mine

Tears spilled over despite every humiliating attempt to stop them. Your expression immediately shifted, your weak grin fading into a concerned look as you stood up too quickly, chair scraping against the floor.

“Dude— are you crying?” Jake asked. You hissed at him, silently scolding him for his dumb question. Sunghoon couldn’t help but laugh because that was such a you thing and you were doing it like you always did before and he can’t stop crying you’re you you’re you you’re you

“I’m fine,” he lied instantly, voice cracking so badly it made Jake wince.

You took another step closer. You were so close, so close that he could smell the same sweet perfume that you always wore. The one that he kept on your nightstand to let macerate after you died. The one that was masked by the putrid smell of formaldehyde at your funeral. The one that he spent the last couple of months trying to get a whiff of out of your dirty clothes and unwashed pillowcase.

This was torture. You were standing there looking so beautiful but so painfully not his. Because at this point in time, you didn’t know him yet. Not the way his you did. No, this you didn’t know the shape of his hands in the dark, or how he took his coffee, or the way he only liked sleeping if the weight of his leg was thrown over his. You didn’t know about the apartment that you both lived in until it was just him, alone, with the broken promises of forever and eternal love left to remember you by.

Sunghoon’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to reach out to at least brush his fingertips over your arms. He wanted to hold your face. He wanted to hear your heartbeat to make sure that it was beating. He wanted to bury himself in your arms and stay there until the last few months faded until it didn’t exist to him anymore, so he could at least pretend like your death had never happened and he finally got his happily ever after. But he was scared. So scared that if he touched you, he was afraid he would never let go, or you’d vanish and disappear, or he’d wake up from this beautiful dream that was your world.

So instead, he just stood there sobbing and shaking his head like an idiot in the middle of the library.

Sunghoon was inconsolable for an hour.

He honestly thought that an hour was too short for his whiplash of relief and anguish to stop, but he was fine.

Nope, he wasn’t. You patted his back and he began sobbing again.

“Dude, are you okay? What’s wrong, man? I’ve never seen you like this before…” Jake asked, worry laced in his accent-heavy voice. You looked at Jake, your eyebrows knitted in concern for the poor boy sobbing his heart out in front of you.

“Are you having a hard time because of midterms? It’s okay, Sunghoon, it’s okay to cry… let it out, you’ve probably had a stressful week… don’t worry, you’ve worked hard…” You tried to comfort him, but he only sobbed harder because this was something that you would definitely say. Sunghoon sniffled, but let out a few coughs instead. Jake unsuccessfully stifled his snickers as the younger boy began to cough excessively, before crying harder.

“Jake…” you silently hissed, thwacking his shoulder with a heavy hand. His mouth opened as he flinched back. Sunghoon finally calmed down after a while, staring at you with wide eyes. Your hand was still resting lightly against his back, warm through the thin fabric of his sweater, and he thought he might start crying again just from that alone. It was after he processed your body heat that he realized you were touching him. You weren’t a memory or a dream anymore, and most importantly, this is real. Not some cruel hallucination his grief-ridden brain had conjured to keep him from completely falling apart.

Jake looked between the two of you like he was watching a live drama unfold in front of him. “Okay,” he said slowly, dragging the word out. “So, uh, what happened, man?”

Sunghoon opened his mouth.

Nothing. Because what was he supposed to say? Sorry, I watched the love of my life die, spent months rotting in our apartment, cried myself to sleep holding her jacket, and then apparently got thrown backward into freshman year like some sick cosmic joke?

He knew Jake believed in the idea of multiple universes. He knew that from his constant rant about physics and the laws of the galaxy or whatever the hell Jake yapped about– it wasn’t like Sunghoon didn’t care about Jake’s interests. He just didn’t understand. But Sunghoon wasn’t sure that Jake would be so open-minded to find out that he had time-traveled two years into the past from a future that you died in.

Sunghoon simply swallowed hard and just looked away. “I just…” His voice came out hoarse. “I had a really bad dream.”

Jake blinked. “Dude, that bad?” He grimaced.

Sunghoon nodded with a small frown. Your expression softened immediately, and Sunghoon immediately noticed the shift in your face. Because you were giving him that unbearably gentle look you always gave him when he was trying too hard to pretend he was okay, the same look that Sunghoon got when he failed his CSO midterm in sophomore year and when he almost flunked Prob Stat. It made his chest ache with a comforting nostalgia.

“Sunghoon,” you said softly, pulling your chair out beside yours, “you should sit down before you pass out or something. You look like you ran here.” You giggled. Sunghoon sniffled, his plump bottom lip jutted out in a pretty pink pout. His cheeks were now streaked with the dried-up stream of his tears and his entire face was flushed and puffy. You sounded so pretty when you said his name. Sunghoon let out a weak, embarrassed laugh and sat where you told him to, because your voice still had the same authority over him that it always would.

Jake shoved a tissue packet toward him across the table, the plastic messily torn open, as if Jake didn’t care for tabs that instructed him. “For our sobbing Sunghoon…” he snickered. You and Sunghoon both smacked his arm.

“Shut up,” Sunghoon croaked, his voice still ruined from crying. You laughed softly at that, and the sound nearly made him start all over again. He pulled off his glasses and dabbed uselessly at his face while desperately trying to act like a normal person and not a man whose entire soul had just been resurrected by the sight of you alive. When he put back on his glasses, his vision clear from tears and poor eyesight, they landed on your laptop.

The screen was still open beside you, but instead of lines of code and an unfinished project like he expected, he caught sight of anatomy diagrams and a color-coded set of notes. Organs, labeled veins, tiny handwritten mnemonics in the margins. On another tab, a link to register for CNA classes. Sunghoon blinked, confused.

“…You’re not in CS.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Jake snorted immediately. Your eyebrows lifted in confusion before you laughed. “No? Definitely not.” You turned your laptop a little toward him, showing him the mess of biology notes even though you didn’t really have to prove it to him.

“I’m a nursing major, unfortunately,” you sighed dramatically. “Heavy emphasis on the unfortunately this week. I have a poster presentation due for chem lab this week, and my group partners suck… They keep ghosting me… but what can you expect from engineering majors?” You joked lightly. “Hey, did you think I was a CS major ‘cuz I keep hanging out with this stinky loser?” You pouted.

“Hey!” Jake protested in the background, but Sunghoon didn’t care. His word was tilting even more on its axis, and he felt like the laws of the universe were rewriting themselves.

“No– No, sorry… I guess I mistook your major for someone else’s…” Sunghoon nervously laughed. “Uhm… Is– is it hard– Nursing, I mean?” Sunghoon meekly gulped. You smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, but, I guess everything is hard, right? I don’t think I could ever take discrete or linear or anything of that sort.” You giggled. Sunghoon swallowed dryly and nodded. What would you think if you knew you were his tutor in those classes when you guys dated? Would you laugh him off in disbelief, or would you brush it off and claim yourself as a genius…?

Jake rolled his eyes at how awkward you both were. He distracted himself with his Calc III homework, trying to ignore the very obvious attraction looming over the both of your heads. He thought to himself as he made a very hard point to not stare at the both of you guys speaking.

“Man, I hope I don’t have to third-wheel.”

Your number was in Sunghoon’s phone now, saved under your name.

You had input your own contact name, a simple formality of your name, and in parentheses (jake’s friend). But you were more than just Jake’s friend to him, so he changed it as soon as he got back to his dorm, replacing the parentheses with a sweet and simple ‘<3’ instead. He resisted the urge to text you as soon as all three of you left the library.

Sunghoon took a shower as soon as he got back to his dorm. It had been so long since he stepped foot in a communal shower that he almost stepped in barefoot. He almost freaked out when he realized he forgot his shower slippers. He stepped back in, feet now clad in slippers and his shower caddy in hand. The water pressure was harsher than he remembered, the shower spray hitting his scalp like bullets. His caddy only contained a simple shampoo, conditioner, and bar soap, which made him grimace internally. When he did his skincare, he tried to ignore the oily feeling that sat like a film over his skin.

Jay greeted him when he entered his dorm again, his wet hair dripping a pathway into the shared space and his slippers flopping against the wooden floor. “Hey man.” Jay briefly looked up, staring at his laptop as he softly strummed his guitar. “You going to bed soon? I can stop playing.”

“No, you’re good, Jay…” Sunghoon replied, taking off his glasses and setting it back into the case, the magnetized plastic snapping shut. Sunghoon grunted as he climbed onto the top bunk of his bed. Jay smiled and nodded, before going back to playing around with his acoustic guitar.

Sunghoon tucked himself under the covers, letting out a small sigh of relief. His back was aching, and his eyes felt a bit sore. He rubbed at the sides of his cheekbones, trying to relieve the puffiness in his face. Suddenly, his phone pinged, causing the black-haired boy to flinch. He reached for his device, tucked under the pillow, opening it only to see your name in his notification center.

y/n <3: hii sunghoon! did u get back to ur dorm yet? i just got back y/n <3: r u feeling better now? Sunghoon: I got back safe. Sunghoon: Thank U for today. Sunghoon: Sorry for being weird. y/n <3: LOL its okay y/n <3: honestly i was kinda flattered Sunghoon: Flattered??? y/n <3: yeah y/n <3: imagine crying that hard after seeing me y/n <3: my ego is huge now y/n <3: but seriously are u okay?

Sunghoon stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Too many answers began to crowd his throat, and he was certain he was about to start crying again. But instead, he typed:

Sunghoon: Bad dream. Sunghoon: Thats all. y/n <3: aw man i’ve been having weird dreams too… but i hope u have a good dream tnt… y/n <3: come study w me again tomorrow!!!

Tomorrow. There was going to be a tomorrow with you.

y/n <3: OH y/n <3: and dont cry again when u see me pls y/n <3: what if i get bullying allegations…

Sunghoon covered his face with one hand, laughing weakly into his palm. God, you were just like how you were back in freshman year of college. Always so approachable and kind, so sweet and patient. Sunghoon bit his lip to stifle his tears, not wanting to interrupt Jay’s peaceful strumming.

Was this a chance from the universe to win you back? To have you back in his arms where you were supposed to be? Were the stars realigning for your love to reconcile? To give you a chance at the life that was taken away from you too early?

Because if so, then who was Sunghoon to deny the universe’s gift?

He vowed it there and then– that he would make you his once again.

The next few weeks blurred together for Sunghoon. Time did feel fake, after all.

At first, he thought being around you again would continue hurting. He’d thought that every time he’d seen you after your first encounter, he’d start crying over and over again. He thought every glance at your face would reopen the wound inside his chest until he bled out from the sheer amount of grief that had welled up in his hollow chest since that fateful winter morning.

But instead, Sunghoon got used to you again.

Between your late-night study sessions and meaningless unproductive chatter in the library, you slipped into his life as naturally as you did the first time around. And now, you managed to sew yourself into the knittings of his daily life cycle again. Your “study nights” turned into convenience store midnight snacks. You invited him to your dorm to “fix the wallpaper” which ended up with you guys reminiscing about your high school days. Your texts became routine too, and every single notification still made his heart jump. Some nights, you’d call him instead. (But your sleepy voice through the speaker sounded too much like the nights in your shared apartment when you’d mumble nonsense into his chest before falling asleep.)

Sunghoon didn’t realize it until late, but he began to notice he was listening and watching you pre-emptively. When you told him about the guy you had beef with for talking back to the teacher back in high school, Sunghoon already knew that. Before you told him you had a bad habit of chewing on the sides of your fingernails when nervous, Sunghoon had already told you to stop. He already knew everything about you. From the way you’d subtly eye the way he took bites of food even after insisting you weren’t hungry to the way your nose would twitch before you started crying– Sunghoon knew every single minute detail about you.

You never commented on it. Sunghoon hoped you just chalked it up to him being observant rather than looking like a creepy stalker who cried whenever he saw a pretty girl. 

“Hoon? Helloooo? Earth to Hoon?”

Your hand was waving in front of his face, a pout on your lips. “Zoning out again?” You huffed. He smiled, cheeks puffing up as he looked at you. You both were in the convenience store again, looking for a late-night snack amidst your endless studying for finals.

“Yeah, just thinking what to get,” he replied, following you around as you scoured the aisles. You kept whipping your head back and forth, scanning each item meticulously as you thought about what you were craving. Absentmindedly, you rubbed your tummy over your hoodie, pouting slightly. 

“I dunno what to get either. Should I get a drink too? ‘M kinda thirsty.” You hummed, pinching a drink pouch between your fingers as you examined the flavors. Sunghoon watched as you looked around. He suddenly reached out to give you a green grape flavored drink pouch. You looked at him, confused but still smiling.

“Thanks, Hoon, but I don’t really like green grape.”

What?

Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows, confused. “Really? You don’t like green grape?” His tone was wavering, and you were puzzled. He sounded so torn up about the fact that you didn’t like green grape.

“Are you a green grape superfan, Hoon?” You laughed, reaching for the lychee pouch instead. Sunghoon’s face remained confused, his eyebrows knitted and lips twisted up into a weird pout. He shook his head, making you laugh.

“You’re so weird sometimes, Hoon…” you said, giggling as you picked up an ice cup. Sunghoon followed you, still perplexed as you continued to pick your late-night meal.

Because you loved green grape and hated lychee.

He remembered when you told him about how you hated lychee. It was too sweet, but green grapes were just right for you— a perfect balance of sour and sweet in a small fruit. He remembered laughing at you about it, teasing you for being so nitpicky with your fruit, so why were you here eyeing every sweet fruit flavored pouch?

Your fingers skimmed across all of the ramyeon cup noodle packages, your head tilting as you tried to find the perfect one. Sunghoon was still behind you, but his footsteps became slower and more mechanic as his brain was racing. “What about this flavor?” Sunghoon picked up your favorite, Carbonara Buldak. You scrunched your noise and picked up the 2X Spicy Buldak instead.

“I like really spicy things, Hoon! The carbonara isn’t spicy enough for me!”

His mind was clipped, as if everything he had been thinking of suddenly disappeared. Sunghoon could excuse the change of majors— hell, his own major changed when he woke up in the past. But the few little things that he had grown to love were even changing in front of his own eyes.

“Ah? Really… this flavor is good too…” he mumbled, nearly incoherent. You laughed, furrowing your eyebrows before going to pay for your food. He followed behind, mindlessly tapping his card to pay for your things, his racing mind drowning out the sounds of your whined protests.

It was after that when Sunghoon began watching you closely.

During movie nights, you happily stole bites of Jake’s mint chocolate chip without even batting an eye, but you hated mint chocolate chip ice cream because your cousin threw it up on you when you were seven. You sucked at chemistry and nearly cried over memorizing all the molecular orbital structures, but now you could solve a retrosynthetic analysis question with a single glance, as if you were adding one plus one. You told him one late night walking back to the dorms that you became a nursing major because your mother was a nurse, but Sunghoon remembered his “future-mother-in-law” actually worked in an IT department, which led to your passion for computer systems.

This version of you didn’t scrunch your nose at sickly sweet candle scents anymore. This version of you didn’t like wearing cute pieces of jewelry that framed your body like an art piece. This version of you didn’t like dogs. This version of you hated rom-coms. This version of you wasn’t exactly his.

The more time Sunghoon spent in this world, the more wrong everything felt. You were still here, and that’s all that he believed he cared for. But everything felt wrong enough to keep him up at night, recounting all of the true memories he shared with you. This place looked like his world, his universe, but every day, more tiny differences revealed themselves like cracks in glass to the point where the fragile world that Sunghoon wanted to believe in was about to collapse.

You’re still Y/N. Sunghoon couldn’t deny that. But you didn’t feel like the same Y/N that he fell in love with sometimes. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from loving you again. Sunghoon could ignore the minor changes in your life if it meant having you all over again, right?

“You’re staring again.”

Sunghoon blinked, immediately looking away from you across the table. Where was he again…? He glanced around, taking in his surroundings that was the study area on the first floor of your dorm building. Sunghoon briefly looked at the multitude of formulas you had written on the whiteboard of the small room before directing his gaze back at you.

“I am not,” he muttered.

“Soo we’re lying now…?” you laughed, spinning the whiteboard marker between your fingers. “You always stare at me, Hoon. Do you know that? It’s like you know something I don’t… like you know everything, or something, or whatever… You’re so suspicious sometimes….” Sunghoon shrugged awkwardly and looked back down at his laptop screen.

“It’s not that, promise. You’re just hard to look away from,” he mumbled before he could stop himself, the reply coming easily to him. It was something that he used to tell you all the time.

Your face flushed immediately, and Sunghoon felt warmth crawl up his own neck too. But unlike before, he didn’t panic under your gaze anymore. Sunghoon used to be scared of moving closer to you. Was it too bold to constantly sit next to you? To comfortably lean into your space as if it was his too? He was itching to have you be his again.

But over the past month, you had become comfortable around him too. Comfortable enough to lean against his shoulder during late-night bus rides. Comfortable enough to nab food off of his dining hall plates. Comfortable enough to text him first thing in the morning and last thing before sleeping. Comfortable enough that sometimes, when you laughed too hard, you’d instinctively grab onto his arm.

You’re too cruel. You were unknowingly becoming his again. But Sunghoon didn’t know what to think. All his mind could conjure was the question of how fast you could be his again– should he confess now? But instead, he continued to stare as you worked through your chemistry practice exam questions.

One evening, the three of you ended up stuck in the library until nearly midnight because Jake refused to finish his Calc assignment anywhere else. Sunghoon had long stopped pretending to study. Instead, he watched you again. He couldn’t care less if you thought he was staring again. To be fair, you were half-asleep beside him, cheek squished against your folded arms while pretending to read anatomy notes. It’s not like you could exactly call him out when you were on the verge of passing out.

Your highlighter slipped from your fingers. Sunghoon picked it up before it rolled off the table. Your eyes fluttered open tiredly. “…Thanks,” you mumbled softly. Even exhausted, you looked beautiful. A dangerous tenderness spread through his chest so intensely that it almost scared him. He felt like he was falling harder this time, especially knowing how you both would end up anyways.

“Sunghoon.”

He blinked out of his thoughts. You were staring at him again, your hooded lids fighting to stay open to look at him properly. “Yes?” He replied softly, not wanting his loud voice to puncture you out of your sleep-filled daze.

“You were zoning out...” You frowned slightly, your voice slurring slightly from how exhausted you were. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

Every time he looked at you for too long, memories overlapped. You laughing in the library became you laughing in your apartment kitchen. You falling asleep beside him at a study table became you sleeping on his chest during thunderstorms. Your warm fingertips caressing his soft cheeks before leaning in to press your lips against his–

Sometimes the timelines blended together so badly he forgot which version of you he was seeing. But Sunghoon couldn’t say that, so instead he lied, “I’m okay.”

You looked unconvinced. Then, after a moment, your hand slowly slid across the table toward his. It was a decision that you carefully made– Sunghoon could tell by the way you suddenly spaced out and looked left to right as if physically weighing the choices between touching and not touching him. It was barely anything– a pebble of physical touch that pebbled in comparison to the boulders of love that he used to share with you. It was just your pinky lightly touching his, tentative and careful. You looked shy immediately after doing it, eyes darting away. But Sunghoon felt love blossom in his chest nonetheless.

“…You don’t have to tell me if something’s wrong,” you murmured. “But I hope you know you don’t have to deal with everything alone.” The warmth of your skin against his nearly killed him.

Fuck, so what if some things changed? You were still you in every universe. So kind and gentle and always reaching for him, noticing almost intuitively when Sunghoon was about to lose himself. He carefully hooked his pinky around yours under the table, sending you a reassuring and small grin. Your breath caught slightly, not expecting him to so confidently touch you back.

Jake looked up from his homework. “…Am I interrupting something,” he deadpanned, already knowing the answer despite still asking.

“No,” both of you answered immediately. Jake narrowed his eyes, but didn’t reply. He just let out a quiet sigh before going back to scribbling on his iPad again. You finally closed your eyes to go back to sleep, a subtle and content smile lingering on your lips. Your pinky was still tightly interlocked with his while your other arm relaxed.

Maybe the universe had rewritten details. So what your majors changed or your histories changed? Who cares if this wasn’t his original life?

Because all that mattered to Sunghoon was that you still found your way back to him anyway.

“Hey Hoon!”

Jay entered the dorm in a ruckus, hissing as his guitar case nearly slammed the doorframe and cursing when he stubbed his foot against the wooden plank of the actual door. Sunghoon rushed to hold the door open for his roommate, wincing as Jay slammed his backpack to the ground.

“You okay, Jay? I haven’t seen you in awhile.” Sunghoon took note of the slightly older boy’s appearance. He looked disheveled, with eyebags accessorizing his face and sunken-in cheeks.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just been busy looking for internships and studying for finals— shit— and these networking events are kicking my ass. They’re like, ‘oh, you need at least 3 years of experience!’ But it’s a fucking entry-level position!” He ranted. Sunghoon smiled softly at the familiar ramblings— at least Jay didn’t change.

“What a tough life you live, Jay.” Sunghoon sighed.

Jay dropped face-first onto his bed with a loud groan, one arm dangling off the side dramatically. “I’m serious, Hoon. If one more recruiter tells me to ‘circle back next semester,’ I’m actually gonna lose it.”

Sunghoon huffed out a quiet laugh from his desk, spinning a mechanical pencil between his fingers. He had chemistry notes spread out in front of him, though he hadn’t processed a single word in the last couple of hours. His brain had been occupied by you since the moment he woke up. “Whatcha doin, man? Homework?” Jay peered over the railings of his bed to look down at Sunghoon’s desk. The younger boy ran his fingers through his silky hair, tilting his head.

“Yeah, just reading the textbook for my Chem discussion. I’m not going to lie, I don’t really understand anything right now…” Sunghoon laughed. The side of Jay’s lips crooked up into a teasing smirk, like he knew something that the other boy didn’t.

“Oh? Chem discussion, huh?”

“What does that mean?” Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Jay wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, licking at his bottom lip in a weird display that made Sunghoon squirm with discomfort.

“OKAY, don’t tell Jake that I told you this but… he’s been texting me about you and Y/N…” Jay let out, sounding exasperated as if he just lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. He didn’t expect Jay to say this to him, but he was sure that Jake was telling at least some other person about the rapid development of friendship between you and Sunghoon.

“Really? What is he saying?” Sunghoon acted nonchalant, trying to appear relaxed to coax Jay into spilling more. Jay looked around briefly, biting his lip before leaning in closer.

“Okay, basically.. he’s saying that you and Y/N have been hanging out a lot like— one-on-one without him…” Jay excitedly rolled. Sunghoon nodded. “But you know how Jake is– he tried asking Y/N about you and she thought he was acting weird because he sucks at being subtle… so can I ask you about it? Like, are you guys talking or…” The silver-haired boy trailed off awkwardly, waiting for Sunghoon to finish his question.

The raven-haired male tilted his head. “Uhm… I guess so…” he sheepishly replied. What else was he supposed to say? “Nah, I’m actually trying to get my girlfriend back after she died in another universe???”

“I’m happy for you man, really.” The sincerity in Jay’s voice was almost worrisome.

“Oh, uh, thanks, Jay…” Sunghoon smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond to the genuine pride that Jay had carried in his tone. The silver-haired man nodded, seemingly content before rolling back into bed. But seriously, what the hell did he mean by Chem discussion?

“I never expected you to make the first move, honestly. I heard from Jake that you were the one who initiated your first hangout together, right?” Jay spoke, his eyes glued to the ceiling that had white paint falling off the bone. Sunghoon hummed in agreement, but was getting impatient. Couldn’t Jay get to the point already? “Man, I remember when you first talked about her to me. They grow up so fast,” he continued to ramble, his speech slurring as sleep began hitting him. Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows. When did he ever talk to him about you?

“Jay, I think I just met the love of my life in Chem discussion!”

Sunghoon froze. He shot up in his seat, nearly tripping as he ran to the side of Jay’s bunk. His fingers curled into the railings protruding from the frame of the bed, his warm skin cooling against the frigid metal material. “What? Jay, what? When did I tell you this?” He rapid-fired at the older boy. Jay yawned, rubbing his eyes.

“Remember? When school started? You went to Chem discussion annoyed with the readings and came back like a lovestruck idiot.”

“What? When school started back in August, Jay?” Sunghoon sputtered out. Jay nodded with another yawn.

“Yeah, man, remember? You woke up so annoyed about all the readings you did, but when you came back you were like, head-over-heels. You said it was love-at-first sight.” Jay snorted quietly at the memory, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. “Dude, it was actually kinda insane. You came back to the dorm and wouldn’t shut up about her.”

Sunghoon stared at him, pulse beginning to pound against his ribs.

“…What did I say?” he asked carefully.

Jay grinned immediately, already amused by the memory. “You were acting crazy, man. Like genuinely gone.” He pushed himself up slightly on his elbows. “Jay, I think I just met the prettiest girl ever. Jay, I think I’m in love. Jay, she smiled at me and I forgot what I was saying!” He exclaimed, trying to imitate Sunghoon’s unique tone.

“You’re exaggerating,” Sunghoon muttered weakly, but his head was slowly began to pound with the thought of him gushing about you before he met you. As if his consciousness existed before he woke up in the past.

“Swear, I’m not.” Jay laughed. Sunghoon’s stomach twisted. “You told me she sat two rows ahead of you during discussion, that she had these little charms hanging off her pencil case, that she kept pushing her hair behind her ear while talking to her discussion group—” He suddenly paused, staring at Sunghoon suspiciously. “Wait, why are you acting like you don’t remember this?”

Sunghoon’s throat tightened immediately. He didn’t. This wasn’t the right beginning or the right way of meeting you. He could’ve excused the minor changes about your preferences, discrepancies in your life, but now there were too many that his head couldn’t keep up. And now, your entire story was beginning to collapse in front of his eyes, through his ears, even if he wasn’t there to experience it.

“I dunno,” he lied quickly. “I think I’m just tired. I– I have a headache…” Sunghoon stumbled to his side of the bed.

Jay looked unconvinced for a second before shrugging. “Well, anyway, after that you started acting weird as hell,” he continued.

“Weird how?”

“You kept dressing up for Chem discussion.” Jay barked out a laugh. “Like suddenly you cared about your appearance. You asked me if your hair looked okay before class.”

Sunghoon nearly recoiled in horror. “I would never ask you that. I always look good.”

Jay furrowed his eyebrows, but barked back accusingly, “You did. And then after discussion ended, you’d come back looking all devastated because you never talked to her.”

Sunghoon’s chest ached strangely. He felt as if he could picture it so vividly. Him sitting in chemistry discussion secretly staring at you. Getting nervous. Fixing his hair in the reflection of his phone screen. Trying to work up the courage to speak to you. Falling in love slowly and naturally without grief or death or memories of a future that already happened clouding every rational thought in his brain.

Jay continued rambling, oblivious to the way Sunghoon’s expression had begun to fall. “And then one day Jake mentioned his hometown friend named Y/N and you literally interrupted him mid-sentence.” Jay laughed harder now, fully awake from recounting the story. “‘Wait— Y/N? Nursing major? Chem discussion on Thursdays?’ Dude, your face was priceless.”

Sunghoon felt sick. He didn’t know you were a nursing major until that fateful night he had seen you in the library. “Oh my god, dude I feel like I’ve been holding this in. Remember the first time you guys talked?” Sunghoon’s heartbeat was thudding loudly in his ears, and he’s sure that they were about to ring. He remained silent, and Jay took it as a sign to keep rambling.

“You said she asked to borrow an EXPO marker during discussion because hers was out of ink or something.” He snorted. “You kept replaying the conversation like a loser, saying that her voice was like descending from the angels.

Sunghoon’s grip tightened around the railing of Jay’s bunk. He agreed, but he wouldn’t ever verbalize is like that so shamelessly. He honestly thought saying something like that was a little corny, and then the realization began to sink in.

He wouldn’t say that. No, not him. Another version of him.

It was then when it dawned about Sunghoon. God, he hadn't even considered the possibility that another version of him existed before he became conscious. But that meant something that Sunghoon didn't even want to even think about considering– some empty timeline where he had conveniently slotted himself into a vacant life, or where he went back into the past two years with just a few butterfly effects changing the outcomes. This universe already had a Park Sunghoon who liked you before future Sunghoon ever woke up here. And Sunghoon had stolen it.

Jay kept talking, unaware of the devastation crawling across Sunghoon’s face, like a spider mapping out its web of a trap. “Then.” Jay cackled. “You literally flopped face-first onto your bed and said– hold on, I remember this exactly–” It seemed like talking about you energized him or woke him up, because he cleared his throat dramatically, trying to imitate Sunghoon’s voice again.

“Jay, I’m actually gonna marry her.’”

Sunghoon’s breath hitched. He had said that before, two years into the future, when he was drunk off two bottles of Original Soju as he was eating barbeque with a much more mature Jay and a burnt-out Jake. He had never brought up marriage before until that night, a few days after you guys moved into your apartment together.

But apparently, this version of him had said it too before any of that happened, even with only knowing your name and that you were Jake’s friend.

Was loving you inevitable in every universe?

Jay blinked suddenly, his teasing grin faltering slightly as he finally noticed how pale Sunghoon looked. “…Hoon?” Sunghoon looked away quickly, swallowing hard. “You okay?”

No. No, he really wasn’t.

Because Sunghoon’s entire world and entire universe was collapsing. His fate was twisting, and the red string that threaded it together was tangling within itself. Was the universe fucking with him now? After giving him so much hope with your presence in his life after losing you? What’s the point of him going back in time if not to reclaim his love story?

Because now, it felt like he was interrupting someone else’s.

“It’s snowing!”

Your voice was cheery, lilted so lightly that it instantly spread a feeling of warmth across Sunghoon’s body despite the cold air penetrating through his heavy puffer. You were both outside the library, about to trek to the convenience store when the sudden weather inclement put a hole through your plans. Delicate snowfall began raining upon the campus, fluttering down beautiful in a flashy array of flakes.

“It is,” he acknowledged, following after your hyper footsteps that began tracing a circle in the translucent sheet of snow that had already fallen onto the ground. You ran around, whooping and cheering as you basked in the icy sensation of snowflakes landing on your skin. Sunghoon could only watched, endeared by how excited and energized you suddenly were.

Suddenly, you ran up to him, burying your open fingers under his arms and around his waist. He laughed, caught off-guard by your abrupt hug, stumbling back a little. “What’s with you, hm?” He softly crooned, wiping your hair out of your face. You smiled up at him, eyes shining despite the overheard dark sky looming over you.

“It’s so pretty, Hoon! I didn’t think it’d snow this year!” You cheerfully exclaimed, eyes curling into crescents as your mouth parted with the sheer excitement coursing through your body. He pulled you in closer on instinct, and you let out a small “oomph!” from the impact of your bodies colliding into a tighter embrace.

“You know what they say, Hoon? If confess during the first snowfall, your love will last forever!” You spoke up. Your speech was murmured, but Sunghoon had heard every word perfectly.

“Yeah? Do you believe in that?” He looked at you fondly. You nodded.

“Sunghoon, I like you so much, let’s go out!”

His mouth fell agape as your confession rang through the snow air. You looked horrified immediately after, but Sunghoon had pulled you in impossibly closer, tight enough to where you almost couldn’t breathe. “Hoon,” you whimpered miserably, hiding your face inside your scarf. “This is so embarrassing…”

“You like me?” he breathed out incredulously before bursting out into laughter. Snowflakes landed in his dark hair as he laughed, falling off as quickly as they came from how hard his body was shaking.

“You’re so mean!” you accused.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he insisted between breaths.

“Then why are you laughing?!”

“You’re just so cute,” Sunghoon confessed, his voice so tender and blossoming with the unsurmountable affection he had for you. “I like you too,” he admitted softly, “ever since I saw you in the dining hall.”

You smiled, but when he blinked, suddenly he was in the middle of his apartment. The cold air dissipated, bringing in the warmth of the heater he left on in the living room. His arms were still wrapped around something, no, someone. No.

Nothing.

His hands clenched around empty air, and the snowfall transformed into the city lights outside of the apartment windows. Your scarf that was in between his fingertips disintegrated into the dust that he never cleaned. Your laughter was still ringing in his ears, so elated and bright and it was mingling with something so sharp jarring annoying–

His ringtone?

The sound grew louder and louder until it drowned out everything else, until your smiling face started blurring at the edges. You were still standing in front of him beneath the snow, cheeks dusted from the cold with flecks of flakes littering your face.

“Hoon?” you laughed softly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His phone kept vibrating.

“Hoon?”

The screen lit up across the dark apartment with an unknown number, and under the bold white digits in grey was the name of the university hospital. His breathing turned ragged instantly. His body moved before his brain could catch up, fumbling for the phone with trembling hands. But when he looked back up, you were still there. Snowflakes still landed in your hair. You were still smiling, cheeks puffed up and smile lines indenting your skin.

“I like you too,” he heard himself saying again, the memory replaying against his will. “Ever since I saw you in the dining hall.”

“Hoon?”

But this time your voice sounded farther away. His thumb shook over the accept button, and  when he pressed the green button, everything crashed together all at once, creating a collision in his mind. Your confession beneath the snowfall. Your wet toothbrush beside his in the apartment bathroom. Your warm hand in his while crossing the street. Your cold hand dangling under the white sheet in the morgue. Your voice whispering goodnight. The casket being lowered six feet deep in a hole that seemed too big for you.

Sunghoon doubled over violently, nearly dropping the phone as nausea twisted through him. It felt like someone had reached into his skull and ripped every memory apart before shoving them back in the wrong order. His head was pounding, throbbing violently as each memory churned in his head like butter. Then it curved into a dull ache, static on a television screen. 

“Is this Park Sunghoon?”

And just like that, the snow was gone, and the only cold he felt was the absence of your warm body.

“Sunghoon, you’ve been acting weird lately.”

“Oh, hm?”

Your face was suddenly in front of his, and you had a concerned pout on your lips. “You’ve been zoning out so much, it’s really worrying me… I know it’s just your personality, but you’ve been doing it so much…” You frowned, leaning forward, your shoulders hunching into your sides.

“I’m sorry– there’s– there’s just a lot going on…” He weakly replied. You let out a soft sigh.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Me or Jake… I care for you a lot, you know. I hope you really know, Hoon…”

Sunghoon forced a tight-lipped smile and nodded. “I know,” he responded, his words sharper than intended. Your eyes were staring right into his, and before, Sunghoon would’ve felt the warmth. But now, all that he felt was the chills that Jay had instilled into his body. You stilled, before pulling away from the conversation, instead opting to grab your straw. Instinctively, he picked it up before you could, punching the plastic out of the wrapper and puncturing your drink for you.

“Oh, thanks Hoon. You really didn’t have to do that.” A sweet giggle escaped your lips, and the sound instantly grounded him.

“It’s not a big deal, let me do these things for you,” he easily said in response, the reply leaving his mouth naturally as it used to do.

“Sunghoon, do you act like this with everyone?” You suddenly asked. He looked at you, confused. “I mean– like, do you always act so sweetly towards everyone? Or is it just me…” you almost seemed embarrassed asking him this. 

“No, it’s just you?” He retorted, as if it was common sense that he would treat only you with the utmost care. Your face was warming up, and he could tell that you were flustered by his response.

“Really? So like, uhm, there’s no other girl that you’re, uhm… acting like this with, right?” Your voice was timid as you asked another question. Sunghoon scoffed, taken aback by how ridiculous your inquiry was. From the future and now in the past, you were the only girl for him, so why were you being so ridiculous now?

“Of course not,” he nearly snapped. He regretted it as soon as he saw your face falter and your posture shrink. No, what was he thinking? You didn’t know that. Of course you would ask. “I’m– I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me ba…” He trailed off as the nickname nearly slipped from his lips, so naturally that it was like calling you by your name. “Uhm, Y/N. I’m sorry. I think I’m just having a tough week. I promise you.”

You nodded, so patient as always, as you sipped on your drink. “It’s okay, Hoon. I hope things get better.” You smiled. He nodded, biting tentatively into the pastry. He didn’t like this cafe, and he knew that you didn’t like it either, but he didn’t want to ruin your first experience here. He half expected you to actually like the cafe if the past weeks were anything to go by, but he was pleasantly surprised when you instead scrunched your nose.

“This matcha is too milky…” You whispered. He smiled and nodded.

“Yeah? This pastry isn’t too good either. Wanna try?” He lifted up the dessert to your mouth, letting you take a bite right where he had previously taken one. You bit into it, lips curling into disgust.

“Should we just go and toss our stuff somewhere else? I don’t want to waste it, but it’s really not that good…” You whispered. Sunghoon laughed and nodded, holding out his hand. You hesitated, but took it, letting him lead you outside the cafe. You threw your drink and his pastry into the nearby trash can, just as you did before in Sunghoon’s original universe.

“Are you still thirsty? Should we get something from the convenience store instead?” He asked. You shook your head.

“No, I’m okay. Can we just walk a little?” You asked. Sunghoon nodded automatically.

You both began walking side-by-side down the sidewalk, your shoulders occasionally brushing together from how close you were. Autumn had left too soon, now bringing in the frigid weather of winter. The city was quiet, with everyone buried inside of their comforters during the early chilly morning. Some joggers and dog-walkers passed by, but it still only felt like you two were the only ones existing in that peaceful morning atmosphere. For a while, neither of you spoke. Sunghoon shoved a hand into the pocket of his coat while the other was still holding yours. He was trying not to stare at you again, but it was difficult when you were right there beside him, looking so soft beneath clouded skies.

“What I said back in the cafe… you’ve been treating me so differently,” you murmured suddenly. His stomach tightened.

“…Differently how?” He carefully asked back.

You slowed your pace slightly, looking down at the pavement. “I don’t know.” You laughed nervously. “You just… take care of me a lot. I remember when I first met you in Chem discussion, you were so shy. It was like you were scared of me. Then, you started crying in the library when you saw me… and now… it’s like you’re so much more mature than me… Does that make sense?”

“Is that bad?” he asked quietly.

“No– no, of course not. But, I don’t know Hoon. You stare at me… kinda weird,” the words carelessly slipped from your lips, and it was obvious with the way you let out a gasp and a flurry of apologies, before stumbling onto what you mean to say. “God, that’s not what I meant–! I meant… I don’t know. Like you take care of me so naturally, and you seem to already have a good sense of like–” you laughed nervously, rubbing at your face in embarrassment, “I don’t think you’re weird or anything, Hoon. I actually really like how caring you are.” Your voice softened at the end. “It’s just…” You slowed to a stop beneath the awning of a closed convenience store, your joined hands swinging slightly between your bodies.

Sunghoon turned toward you quietly, and you looked conflicted, with your mouth screwed and lips pressing up against each other so hard that the skin was jutting out uncomfortably. “Sometimes I think you’re so confident about knowing me that you forget there are still parts of me you don’t know yet? Is that too deep?” His chest tightened instantly, and he inhaled before he knew it, trying to regain the breath that you had just knocked out of him.

You kept talking before you lost the courage. “Like… you always know what I need before I say it. Like when I’m cold, when I’m tired, when I’m not feeling well…” You smiled faintly. “And it makes me really happy. It does.”

“But?” He pressed on, trying his best to hide his impatience.

“But sometimes it also feels like you’ve already decided who I am, in a way? Like, you seem to expect something differently than what I give you, Hoon. And sometimes…” you continued hesitantly, “I’ll say something that surprises you, and you get this look on your face like I said the wrong thing or something– and it’s kind of… okay, I’ll be honest, it’s kinda weird…” You laughed again, and the noise seemed like it was punched out of you like a soundboard.

“Like, you always try to guess what I like or what I don’t like or what I prefer– and at first I thought it was endearing, but it’s almost always wrong. And that’s fine, I guess. But sometimes you sound so confident that it’s– I dunno. That’s why I asked if there was another girl. Like, I don’t know, are you thinking of someone else?” You breathed out.

No, no, no, never. He always thought of you. He could never stop thinking about you. He inhaled and opened his mouth, wanting to defend himself, but you sputtered out something else so rushed like you were forcing it out of your throat, “I– I really want you to know me, Hoon.”

Sunghoon wanted to throw up. He had spent so much time trying to preserve the memory of the girl he lost that he had started overlooking the girl standing right in front of him. His skin was itching with the lovebugs crawling up it. He felt selfish. And suddenly, the image of him, nerdy and lanky and gushing to Jay with a flush on his pale cheeks struck his mind, hitting him bluntly on his noggin.

His fingers loosened around your hand before tightening again like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go completely. You looked nervous after your confession, eyes darting away from your intertwined hands immediately. “Sorry,” you laughed weakly. “That sounded way harsher than I meant it to.”

“No,” Sunghoon answered as soon as you stopped speaking, his voice coming out rough. “No, you’re right.” Your eyebrows furrowed slightly. He looked away before he could see your expression fully. “You’re right,” he repeated quieter this time. 

I really want you to know me. Not her. No. You? This version of you, the one standing beside him now. He looked at you, but was met with the sight of your side profile. The side profile that belonged to the same woman who he met at the dining hall, who moved in with him, who cooked him soup in the shared kitchen when he fell sick– memories hit him so violently he almost staggered, and he couldn’t tell where the lines were anymore.

Your favorite drink, your laugh, your habits. Were they yours? Hers? Was he loving you because you were you, or because he was desperately trying to keep the you that he remembered, alive?

Sunghoon felt sick. He felt saliva rapidly rise under the muscle of his tongue, and he kept swallowing and swallowing to keep it down. He felt like he was going to throw up.

“Hoon?” Your voice softened instantly at the sight of his face. Concern replaced your apprehension immediately. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” he muttered. You blinked. “You were honest.” He swallowed hard, nearly gasping for air as he opened his mouth to speak. “I think… I needed to hear it.” Your expression slowly softened, though puzzlement still lingered behind your eyes. Sunghoon stared down at the pavement.

For the first time since waking up two years in the past, his brain turned to mush, soft enough to let a thought penetrate his mind that he had been avoiding. Was loving you here ever supposed to be about getting his old life back with you? What was he here for? Images of him– not him, the him that you knew, came crawling back into his neurons.

Things wouldn’t have been like this if he had come. You and the right Sunghoon could’ve been where he was. The guilt began creeping down his throat and accumulating in his chest, weighing down his lungs with every shortened breath he took in.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to anymore. To you? To the girl he loved in the future? To himself? Or the other version of himself that he was living through?

You shifted slightly beside him, worry crossing your expression. “Hoon…? Sunghoon…?” You quietly spoke up, hesitant as your palm gently brought itself up to cup his cheek. He instinctively leaned into your warmth, but squirmed as his face rested in his palm. The ink of his guilt began to spread further as if his body was just dipped into water. He tightened his grip on your hand again on instinct, but it felt wrong, like was still trying to anchor himself into an ocean with waves that were too crashing upon each other.

“I didn’t…” his voice broke. “I didn’t mean to–” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. What was he trying to say? What was he even freaking out for, apologizing for? Because as much as he wracked his brain, he couldn’t grasp onto an answer still. For loving you wrong? For loving another version of you? For erasing you because you were right here, all alive and happy and oblivious? Sunghoon exhaled sharply, almost choking on it.

His hand finally loosened. “…I’m sorry,” he said again, but softer this time. You gently stroked his face with your thumb.

“Hoon, please don’t cry on me again.” You tried to lighten the mood. His eyes were shimmering with tears that built up in his ducts, but he simply shook his head, whispering out another apology.

“I’m not okay,” he admitted finally. You flinched, and the honesty honestly surprised him too, but you didn’t pull away. You just continued to comfort him, just as you always would. No. Sunghoon closed his eyes for a second. He shouldn’t think like this anymore. When he opened them again, he was looking at you. Just you, standing there, as you were.

“I think…” His voice cracked slightly, so he paused, forcing air back into his lungs. “I think I’ve been… confusing things.” Your expression softened, but you didn’t interrupt. “I thought I came back to something I lost,” he continued vaguely, “But I think I’ve just been standing in front of someone I never took the time to understand.”

His feelings felt like it finally had somewhere to go, not onto you, or even to him, but somewhere where Sunghoon couldn’t reach. It felt freeing, unraveling a tight knot of emotions that he didn’t have the energy to release before. Your hand lowered, as if drawn to pull off of his face. He let go of your other hand, finally loosening his grip.

“So then let me help you,” you whispered. His heart dropped. “Hoon…” Your voice trembled slightly now, heavy with the weight of the emotions pulsating between the both of you. “I know you’re confused right now, but I–"

He already knew what you were going to say, because you had the same hopeful look on your face that fateful winter night when you confessed under the snowfall. And before, selfishly, he would’ve let you. He would’ve let you pour out his feelings to him, accept them as easy as reciting ABC, and live without the burdens of the future weighing him down.

But this time, the words felt too important to take from you and from the other him that had been waiting for you.

“…Don’t,” he whispered. The hurt on your face was immediate, and he had to will himself to not take back his words. “No, no– not like that,” he corrected quickly, voice cracking. “I just… I don’t think I’m ready to hear it yet.” Snowy breath escaped your lips slowly into the cold air. “You deserve someone who can listen to you properly,” he said quietly. “Someone who can know you for who you are now. And I don’t think…” He inhaled shakily. “I don’t think I’ve been doing that.”

“Hoon…” You softly spoke up, but he interrupted you as soon as your mouth opened.

“I want to,” he admitted immediately. “I really do.” He wasn’t lying. Every part of him still wanted to hear you confess, to keep you close, to selfishly pretend like nothing was wrong. But loving you like this was beginning to feel cruel, so instead, he took a small step back.

“Will you…” He paused. “Will you meet me again another time?”

Your expression crumpled slightly in confusion. “When?” You whimpered. Sunghoon pondered for a moment, before he felt like he found the right answer.

“When I’m finally able to see only you.” He smiled. He had walked you back to your dorm, letting the silence loom over the both of you. He left you with an adjustment to your scarf and an endearing pat on your head.

That night, when he slept, he dreamt of your funeral.

The sky had been gray that day, with cumulonimbus clouds blocking any trace of sun. Just as your death had obstructed the access to the light of his life. People were crying around him. Jake had been sobbing openly beside Jay, shoulders shaking violently as he kept wiping at his face with trembling fingers, but Sunghoon remembered standing there completely still.

He hadn’t believed it yet.

Even as your framed photograph sat in front the altar. Even as your parents bowed their heads. Even as people whispered about how young you were. Even when he received consolations from everyone, telling him about how much you loved him. He remembered thinking absurdly as he stared at your altar.

How could you look so happy when his entire world had just ended?

The question echoed through the dream as Sunghoon stood frozen before your altar. Then slowly, memory after memory began surfacing around him. The first night you basked in your love after moving into your apartment, cuddling together so tightly that separating you guys would’ve been like pulling magnets apart. The night where you comforted him after his research symposium when he felt like he was the biggest failure in the world. The mundane moments where you laughed at him after burning rice and the soft moments where you whispered “I love you” so much that it was like you were reaching a quota.

The memories came so quickly that they stopped hurting individually. Instead, they melted together into something warm and alive. And suddenly, Sunghoon understood something he had been too devastated to realize before, that your death wasn’t the biggest thing about you. Your life was.

Not the funeral or grief, but just you as you were. The way you smiled, laughed, cried, and loved. The way you existed so brightly that even now, after death, you still filled every corner of him. Tears finally slipped down his face in the dream, but he wasn’t drowning in them anymore.

And standing there in the stuffy funeral home, Sunghoon quietly laughed to himself. “You’d be so mad that everyone’s crying this much,” he murmured. And he could hear the echoes of your voice scolding him for being so torn up when he should be moving onto better things because he was so young (just as you were.) The thought made him smile through his tears. Your memory no longer felt like a wound splitting open inside him. It felt like hands pressed gently around his heart. 

And when Sunghoon finally opened his eyes, he was no longer standing in the funeral home. He was home, in his apartment. Morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, warm gold spilling across hardwood floors and untouched, uncleaned furniture. The silence was familiar now. It wasn’t as sharp and reverberating against emptiness like it used to be, but quiet in the way winter mornings were quiet.

For a long moment, he just layed on the couch. The blanket you used to complain about because it “shed fuzz everywhere” was still draped over his body. One of your hair ties still sat around his wrist from weeks ago. The apartment still carried traces of you in every corner, soft remnants of a life that had once intertwined with his so naturally that even death couldn’t fully unravel it. Sunghoon slowly sat up after a while. For the first time since you died, the ache in his chest did not immediately make him want to chase after you. It only made him miss you.

A framed photo caught his eye from across the room. A snippet of a beach date where you both were smothered in sand and shattered seashells. He remembered that day now without feeling like his ribs were caving inward. He remembered it and smiled.

The sunlight continued pouring into the apartment little by little, warming spaces that had long felt frozen over. Sunghoon looked toward the empty side of the couch beside him. Then quietly, he whispered your name into the stillness, but for the first time, it wasn’t a plea to the Heavens. 

Winter took you from him, and Sunghoon spent the cold months treating his grief like something sacred, afraid that healing meant betraying you. But Spring came quietly, melting ice from sidewalks and blooming flowers through the cracks, and he finally learned that acceptance didn't mean loving you less.

You’ve been having strange dreams lately.

They felt so vivid, so clear to your vision that it felt like you could reach out and touch them. In these dreams, Jake’s cute nerdy friend, Sunghoon, was in them. He was in all of them, actually.

Visions of Sunghoon and you, on a date sipping on cola floats together. Visions of you both curled up in the library cubicle, giggling and sharing secrets instead of being productive. But oddly enough, he wasn’t wearing his thick-rimmed glasses and features grew into a more mature version, with a stronger jawline and deeper eyes. In these dreams, you could see the warmth in his eyes, hear the sounds of his soft laughter, and feel the intimacy of his affection.

Sometimes, the dreams were absurdly specific. Like mundane captures of you both arguing in the grocery store over what meat to buy, snapshots of an apartment you’ve never stepped foot in, and images that you don’t remember taking.  Sometimes, the dreams hurt. They echoed with the sound of anguished cries that made your chest ache when you woke up, made you feel empty like something was hollow from inside and like you were missing something that mattered so dearly yet you couldn’t remember. 

All he was to you was a boy in your Chem discussion and Jake’s close friend, so why did your dreams think differently, as if he was the most important person in your life?

You went to the library one night with Jake, and Sunghoon came later, only to end up crying as soon as he saw you. And for some reason, your heart signaled to your mind that, maybe he was, for some reason, because your chest began to ache with an odd sense of familiarity and endearance. So, it was only natural that you began to form a crush on him. But sometimes, your feelings felt deeper than just a mere crush, as if your feelings had roots that stretched somewhere your thoughts couldn’t reach.

You began hanging out with Sunghoon so much that you barely saw Jake anymore. Not that the Australian boy complained– after all, he was too busy trying to survive whatever war engineering majors had to go through that he didn’t even have time to hang anymore. But the more frequent your hangouts were, the more frequent the dreams were. You dreamt of tiny domestic things, like him stealing bites of your food and folding laundry terribly while you laughed at him. Falling asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. Listening to him hum quietly in the kitchen while making late-night ramen.

Eventually, you stopped trying to suppress what your heart already accepted. You liked him. (Maybe too much for someone you technically barely knew.)

So when the wintry season hit its peak, you saw Sunghoon again after texting him to meet you near the cafe where he initially rejected you. You both still hung out, but after that morning when you failed to confess properly, he seemed different. He looked lighter and full of life. Before, he seemed like a shell that was carrying an invisible burden that you couldn’t begin to understand. But now, he acted naively, as if there was nothing in the world that could dare drag him down.

“Hoon?” you called softly. He turned toward you immediately, expression warming the second he saw you approach. He smiled widely and adjusted his glasses. It was obvious he took some time to look good, with his hair styled up and his fashion seemingly taken from another closet. (Jay’s, you presumed. You heard his roommate had good fashion taste.)

“Hey, Y/N! Why did you want to meet me here?” He asked cheerfully.

You smiled as your fingers tightened around the straps of your bag before you finally blurted, “I’ve been having dreams about you.” His expression froze, and his eyebrows knitted together so adorably. You swallowed hard as you continued abruptly, realizing how bad that could’ve sounded. “Not wet dreams– shit, I mean, like– They’re weirdly specific. Like… really specific.” You laughed awkwardly. “Like dreams of us. Together. Dating…” You shyly trailed off.

Sunghoon stared at you silently, kindly waiting for you to finish as he listened intently.  “And sometimes,” your voice softened, “they’re sad.” Something flickered painfully across his face. You continued carefully, “In one of them, you were crying. Really badly.” Your chest tightened at the memory. “And I remember thinking that I wanted to comfort you more than anything, like that day you cried to me in the library…”

The breeze carried the scent of frost between you both. Sunghoon’s eyes began glossing over as he watched you, looking conflicted and a bit more confused. “I don’t really understand why this is happening.” You smiled faintly despite your nerves. “So…” You laughed softly.

“Maybe this is crazy, but I think I like you, Park Sunghoon. Do you want to go out with me?” You shyly asked. His mouth fell agape as his eyes widened.

“You– You like me? Like me, as in Park Sunghoon?” He sputtered out in disbelief, pointing a gloved hand at himself. You giggled and nodded.

“Yes, you idiot,” you laughed, cheeks warming from how genuinely stunned he looked. “How many Park Sunghoons do you think I know?” You teased, tilting your head to the right. His lips parted as stutters spilled from them unintentionally. And then, to your complete shock, his eyes immediately began watering.

“H-Hoon?” you gasped. “Oh my god, are you crying again?!”

“A– Again? When did I– snnfffh– When did I ever cry in front of you?” He choked out, sniffling away the snot that began to run down his philtrum, his voice cracking into two. He ripped his glasses off quickly, furiously wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. You burst into laughter at how offended he sounded despite the tears visibly collecting on his lashes. Sunghoon groaned softly under his breath, embarrassed, before hiding his face behind one hand.

“This is so humiliating,” he muttered miserably, “Yes– God, a million times yes– I want to go out with you. Please go out with me,” his voice curved into a plea. You giggled, slotting your body into his to form a warm lock of an embrace.

You looked up at him, and it began to snow.

[momentsofengene]

WHEN DUTY CALLS ✧ park sunghoon

pairing: neurologist!sunghoon x ob-gyn!reader

after years of being co-workers, he never reciprocated the feelings you had for him. so you buried them and learned to live with it. that is, until a small encounter leads him to start showing you that he cares.

genre: co-workers to lovers, fluff, slow burn, hospital au

word count: 12k

It's 2 am, and you're at the hospital.

Seated in the doctors' lounge, you go through your previous patients' charts, updating them one-by-one. From their vitals, medications, progress notes, everything has to be precised and double checked.

Being an OB-GYN means your life rarely follows a normal schedule.

Most nights are spent awake. On call, in delivery rooms, watching life come into the world one patient at a time. It’s exhausting, relentless… but familiar. Somewhere along the way, the chaos became routine.

You barely notice how late it’s gotten anymore.

The quiet scratch of your pen against paper is suddenly interrupted by a soft clink.

Then a cup of coffee appears beside you.

You pause, eyes shifting from the chart to the cup, then upward to the person who placed it there.

Park Sunghoon.

Four years of working in the same hospital, and he still has a way of showing up without a sound. White coat neat as ever, expression calm in that almost unreadable way of his. He works as a neurosurgeon, precise, composed, and annoyingly consistent.

“Night shift again?” he asks, already pulling a chair a few steps away before sitting down.

You lean back slightly, exhaling as you close the file in front of you. "Yeah, I wasn't able to finish these in one go so I had to switch schedules with Dr. Choi."

“I get it,” Sunghoon replies, offering a small, understanding smile. “There are days when I end up doing the same thing too.”

“Well, thanks for the coffee, I really needed this,” you say, taking a sip. You pause, then look up at him surprised. “You even remembered my order?”

Sunghoon simply purses his lips and shrugs, as if it were nothing, before reaching for his own cup. “You’re welcome.” Just as he’s about to say more, his phone vibrates.

“They need me there. I guess I’ll see you later.” He stands from his chair and lightly pats your shoulder before heading toward the door.

You glance at the cup of coffee in your hands, a small frown forming. You’d only been to the café together twice: once three months ago, and again just two weeks ago. How could he have memorized my order?

A warm feeling slowly blooms in your chest as you think about Sunghoon and his sudden thoughtfulness.

It reminds you of a time when your feelings for him were harder to ignore. Back during your first week working together, when he introduced himself as the newly hired neurosurgeon. What started as simple admiration gradually turned into something more.

Those feelings lasted for an entire year. But between the long hours, the need to stay professional, and your own reluctance to risk it all, you chose to bury them. You kept telling yourself that workplace romance should be avoided, that work always comes first, and that romance simply wasn’t worth the risk. Eventually, you convinced yourself that being nothing more than co-workers was for the best.

You shake your head, snapping yourself out of your thoughts. “Why am I suddenly thinking about the past?” you murmur under your breath. “He probably just has a really good memory.”

With that, you turn back to your work, forcing the lingering warmth in your chest to fade.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Sunghoon, who was on his way to a patient’s room after leaving you alone in the doctors’ lounge, caught himself smiling slightly, especially when he recalled the look of surprise on your face when you realized he had remembered your order.

Back then, he hadn’t paid much attention to you. He hadn’t gone out of his way to learn the little things. Like how you took your coffee or whether you preferred something sweet on the side. But ever since that small hangout with you and a few co-workers three months ago, something had shifted. A quiet curiosity about you had begun to grow.

It wasn’t just because you were one of the best rookie OB-GYNs the hospital had seen. It was also the way you cared for others, not just your patients, but people in general.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Three months ago…

As the rest of the group prepared to leave the café, you lingered behind, glancing at your phone as if you had just remembered something.

“I just remembered I need to buy something before I go. You guys go ahead,” you told Chaewon, your friend. She nodded, calling out a quick goodbye before catching up with the others.

Once they were gone, you stepped back towards the counter and ordered two croissants and a bottle of water. After paying, you hurried outside, scanning the area as if looking for someone.

What you didn’t realize was that Sunghoon had stayed behind. He had gone to the restroom just before everyone left, assuming he’d catch up with the group afterward.

As he stepped out and dried his hands, he paused when he spotted you still there. From inside the café, he watched as you approached a beggar and a small child sitting near the parking lot.

You crouched down to their level, handing them the food you had just bought. A gentle smile spread across your face as you spoke to them softly, though he couldn’t hear the words. After a moment, you gave a small wave before turning to leave.

Sunghoon stood there a little longer than he meant to, quietly processing what he had just seen. Something about that moment stayed with him. The sincerity, the kindness, the way you did it without expecting anything in return.

It made him realize that maybe you were more than just a co-worker he had known for years.

And somehow, from that day on, he found himself paying closer attention.

──────────────────────────────

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing you into the quiet hum of fluorescent light and mirrored steel.

You pressed your back lightly against the wall, exhaling through your nose as the display above the doors blinked from floor to floor. The senior doctor’s message still lingered in your mind: Come to my office. I need to introduce you to someone.

The elevator slowed briefly at the 5th floor, then continued upward. You checked your watch out of habit, fingers tapping once against your coat sleeve.

Just then, the doors opened with a gentle ding. You looked around to find out nobody there, until your eyes caught movement at the far end of the corridor.

A familiar figure stood just outside the elevator’s reach, hands tucked into his white coat pockets, posture relaxed in a way that somehow still looked presentable. Sunghoon.

He nods slightly when he sees you inside, stepping into the empty space beside you. He presses the button, and the elevator doors slide shut with a soft chime.

“Busy today?” he asks, breaking the silence a few seconds after stepping in.

“Not really. I just need to meet with the senior doctor.”

“Oh? How come?” he asks, a hint of surprise flashing across his face. It’s rare for either of you to be called in, usually only for major announcements or worse, bad news. So when you first read the message, you had been just as puzzled.

You shrug lightly. “I’m not entirely sure. She did mention introducing someone, though. Maybe a new employee.”

Sunghoon nods, taking that in.

“How about you?” you ask, turning to him. “Anything big happening today?”

“Actually, I have a procedure at 5 pm,” he says casually.

You instinctively glance at your watch. “That’s in thirty minutes.”

"I know." Sunghoon replied. "You don't seem like you're in a rush." You replied, noticing his chill attitude.

"Well it's a minor one. Just a lumbar puncture, won't take long." He says, seeing your expression.

“Huh… that’s your version of minor?” You mutter, brows lifting slightly as you look at him.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet breath, almost a huff of amusement, barely there. “You just get used to it.”

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Still sounds intense.”

“It’s routine,” he says simply, like that alone should settle it. And somehow, coming from him, it almost does.

The elevator hums softly as it slows, the numbers above the door blinking once before stopping.

Your floor.

The doors slide open.

You hesitate for only a second, then shift your weight forward, stepping out into the hallway. Before fully turning away, you glance back at him.

“Good luck, Sunghoon.”

He meets your gaze, calm as ever. “I don't need it.”

That almost makes you scoff, but instead you just exhale a small laugh. “Still, good luck.”

The doors begin to close behind you.

And just before they shut completely, you catch it, the smallest hint of a smile on his face, gone just as quickly as it appears.

You walk straight to the end of the hallway, where the senior doctor’s office is located.

Stopping in front of the door, you knock three times. A voice from inside calls, “Come in.”

Taking the cue, you twist the doorknob open and step inside. Dr. Lim stands near her desk, a folder in hand. Beside her is a young man with sharp, cat-like eyes, standing straight with quiet composure.

You close the door behind you and walk toward them.

“Dr. Kang,” the senior doctor says, closing the file in her hand, “This is Jungwon, a newly assigned resident. He’ll be rotating in OB-GYN under your supervision.”

You turn your attention to him just as he steps forward, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Kang.”

You shake his hand without hesitation, offering a small, welcoming smile. “Nice to meet you too, Jungwon. Welcome to the OB-GYN department.”

He smiles back, his expression calm and professional, no trace of nervousness in sight.

“Alright,” Dr. Lim continues smoothly, already reaching for another document on her desk. “Jungwon, you’ll report to Dr. Kang starting today. She’ll orient you with the ward and your responsibilities.”

Jungwon nods. “Understood, ma’am.”

The senior doctor looks up once more, this time addressing both of you. “OB-GYN is a demanding department. I expect discipline and clear communication. Dr. Kang, he’s your responsibility during this rotation.”

You give a small nod in acknowledgment.

Dr. Lim leans back slightly, signaling the end of the meeting. “Now that’s settled. You may go.”

You turn first, straightening your posture as you head for the door. Jungwon follows a step behind, attentive.

Once you’re outside in the hallway, you turn to face him.

“First things first,” you say, folding your arms lightly. “Call me by my first name, Y/N. No ‘Dr. Kang.’ It makes me feel older than I am.”

Jungwon lets out a small chuckle. “Got it. Y/N it is.”

“As Dr. Lim mentioned, I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your rotation in OB-GYN,” you continue. “Since it’s your first day, I’ll give you a quick tour of the facilities so you can start familiarizing yourself.”

You gesture forward. “Let’s go.”

The two of you head towards the elevator. “The OB-GYN department is on the third floor,” you add, pressing the button.

When the doors open, you’re greeted by the nurses’ station. The nurses on duty look up from their desks.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Kang,” they greet in unison.

“Good afternoon,” you reply with a polite nod before turning slightly to Jungwon. “This is Jungwon, our new resident. He’ll be working here starting today.”

Jungwon smiles and greets them, and they return the gesture warmly.

You lead him down the left hallway lined with patient rooms. “This is where admitted patients stay, postpartum mothers, as well as those recovering from surgery,” you explain. “The rooms along the right hallway are mainly for regular check-ups and consultations.”

“And over here…” you continue, walking towards the far end where a large door with glass panels stands. “…is the Labor, Delivery, and Recovery Room. LDR for short.”

You push the door open just enough to step inside and the shift is immediate.

A strained breath cuts through the air, followed by a low cry. A patient grips the bed rails, her knuckles pale, while a nurse guides her breathing with steady reassurance.

“Active labor,” you say calmly as you step further in. “This is where things start to pick up.”

Jungwon stays close behind you, noticeably quieter now, his eyes taking everything in.

A monitor beside the bed beeps steadily, then suddenly dips. The nurse straightens. “Doctor, heart rate’s dropping.”

Before the tour can even pause, you’re already moving.

“Position her to the left,” you instruct, your tone calm but firm. “Give her oxygen.” The room shifts instantly, quick hands, precise movements, controlled urgency.

The patient gasps, her eyes squeezed shut as another contraction hits. You glance at the monitor. Then steady again, as the beeping evens out.

“Good,” you murmur, stepping back as if it were second nature. “Keep monitoring.”

“Yes, doctor.”

The tension doesn’t disappear, but it eases just enough. You turn back to Jungwon, your expression composed.

“It can change that fast,” you say simply. “You learn to respond before it becomes a problem.”

He nods, still processing what he just witnessed.

“Come on,” you add, already heading for the door. “Let’s continue.”

“On the opposite end,” you say, pointing down the hallway, “is the operating room.”

You walk in that direction, with Jungwon following closely behind.

You push the operating room doors open, and a wave of sterile, cool air greets you as you step inside.

Bright overhead lights reflect off stainless steel instruments neatly arranged on trays. The operating table sits at the center, surrounded by monitors and machines humming quietly in the background.

“Procedures like cesarean sections and gynecologic surgeries are done here,” you explain, your voice steady as it echoes slightly in the room. “And when things don’t go as planned…”

You pause for a brief moment, your gaze flicking toward the operating table.

“…that is where we take over.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The tour continues as you guide Jungwon through the rest of the facility, from the ultrasound rooms to the examination areas, and finally to the newborn units. You explain each section with ease, answering his occasional questions, barely noticing how quickly time slips by.

It isn’t until you glance at your watch that you pause.

“Oh, it’s already 6 pm,” you say, a little surprised. “Perfect timing. My shift ends now, and since I’ve already shown you around the entire OB-GYN department, we can both head home.”

“Wait, really?” Jungwon asks, clearly caught off guard.

You nod. “Yes. Once I leave, there won’t be anyone to supervise you anyway. And since it’s your first day, I’ll let you off early this time. Your real work starts tomorrow.”

“Ah…” Jungwon exhales in relief, a small grin forming. “I’ll be ready by then,” he assures you, determination settling into his expression.

“Good to hear,” you reply with a faint smile. “Well, I’ll get going now. See you tomorrow, Jungwon.”

“See you, Doc,” he says.

You give him a small wave before leaving.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

After gathering your things, you take the elevator down to the underground parking area. The space is quieter now, the hum of engines and distant footsteps echoing faintly. You spot your car a short distance away and walk towards it, pressing your key fob to unlock it.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, you place your bag on the passenger side and reach for the ignition.

You turn the key.

Click.

Nothing.

You try again.

Click. Click.

The engine doesn’t turn over.

A faint frown forms as you attempt a few more times, but the sound only grows weaker until the car falls completely silent and unresponsive.

"Unbelievable,” you mutter, letting your forehead rest briefly against the steering wheel.

You sigh, leaning back as frustration settles in. Your eyes drift to your bag beside you.

“How am I supposed to go home now...”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

A few minutes later, you find yourself standing outside the hospital entrance, arms folded loosely as you scan the road.

You decided to take a cab instead, but even after waiting for several minutes, none stop. The few that passed by are already occupied, their headlights briefly illuminating you before disappearing down the street.

You shift your weight, glancing down the road again, hoping the next one will finally be empty.

Then, a sleek silver BMW pulls up in front of you, the engine purring softly as the window rolls down.

You look over to see who it is.

Sunghoon sits behind the wheel, one hand resting loosely on it while the other drapes over the passenger seat’s headrest, his posture relaxed.

“Need a ride home?” he asks.

“I—”

Before you can even answer, he leans over and pushes the passenger door open. That leaves you with little room to refuse.

You step in, closing the door gently behind you.

Settling into the passenger seat, you sit a little stiffly, your gaze fixed on the window beside you.

It’s your first time riding in a car alone with him, something you never really imagined would happen. And not just any car, but his.

For a moment, the air inside feels thick with unspoken tension. Neither of you says anything, the quiet stretching just a bit too long.

After a while, Sunghoon clears his throat, breaking the silence. “So… what happened to your car?”

You turn slightly to look at him. “The battery died. I’ve been so busy these past few weeks that I forgot to get it replaced.”

“I see.” He nods once. “How long were you waiting out there?”

“About twenty minutes,” you reply.

“Good thing I saw you then,” he says, a faint chuckle slipping through. “You looked like you were about to lose your patience.”

You let out a small laugh. “Honestly, I was. And thank you, by the way. If you hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve ended up walking home.”

That earns another quiet hum of amusement from him.

After that, the conversation fades, but this time, the silence feels different. Softer. Easier. The low hum of the engine and the faint music playing on the radio fill the space comfortably.

For once, it isn’t awkward.

The car slows to a stop at a red light. Sunghoon glances your way, his expression unreadable but calm. “You hungry?”

“I think I’m good,” you reply, but almost immediately, your stomach betrays you with a low rumble. Shit.

You freeze for a second, suddenly remembering that you skipped lunch earlier, too distracted and a little too nervous about the senior doctor’s message.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh at the sound. “Let’s grab something to eat,” he says, already easing his foot back on the gas as the light turns green. “My treat.”

You don’t argue.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

A few minutes later, you find yourselves at a casual Italian fast-food restaurant. The warm lighting and soft chatter from other customers make the place feel cozy despite the rush hour.

You scan the area and spot a small booth tucked into the corner. “There,” you say, heading towards it.

You slide into the seat while Sunghoon remains standing beside the table. “What would you like to eat?” he asks.

“I think pasta’s fine,” you answer.

He nods. “Alright. I’ll order for us. Just wait here, okay?”

“Okay.”

You watch as he walks toward the counter, joining the short line. For a moment, you find yourself absentmindedly observing him the way he stands, calm and composed even in something as simple as ordering food.

A few minutes later, he returns carrying a tray.

He sets a plate of pasta in front of you, his lasagna beside it, then hands you your drink.

“And this one’s for you,” he adds, placing a slice of pizza next to your plate.

You blink, confused. “I didn’t order that.”

He sits across from you, completely unfazed. “I did. I figured the pasta wouldn’t be enough since you’re hungry.”

You cough lightly, feeling your cheeks warm. “Oh… uh, thank you.”

You start eating, your gaze fixed anywhere but him. Somehow, the earlier ease from the car ride has shifted again, replaced by a quiet, awkward tension.

You never really imagined this. Sitting across from him, sharing a meal like this. It almost feels unreal, like something out of place in your usual routine.

You can feel his gaze on you, subtle but unmistakable.

“What happened with the senior doctor earlier?” he asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You look up, surprised, but your shoulders relax now that the conversation has shifted. “She introduced me to a new resident,” you explain. “He’ll be under my supervision.”

Sunghoon nods, taking a bite of his food.

“His name’s Jungwon,” you continue, twirling your pasta with your fork. “From what I’ve seen so far, he has potential. He wasn’t nervous at all, even when we went to the LDR earlier.”

“That’s good,” Sunghoon says. “At least he seems passionate from the start.”

You nod, but then the thought that’s been lingering in your mind resurfaces. You hesitate just for a second before speaking.

“Sunghoon… can I ask you something?” He looks up. “Sure.”

“Not to sound rude or anything, but why are you suddenly talking to me?” you ask, your voice softer now. “I mean… we’ve been co-workers for four years, and this is the first time you’ve bought me coffee or talked to me for more than ten minutes.”

For a brief moment, he looks genuinely caught off guard. His eyes widen slightly, and a faint blush creeps up to his ears as he scratches the back of his neck. “That’s… uh…”

"I just thought that I've been so shy these past years that I don't get to socialize with my co-workers that much. You know, I just recently became close with that dermatologist, Kim Sunoo." He replied.

You nodded, a small smile forming. “That’s good to hear. I remember you skipped the Christmas party for two years straight. It’s nice to see you stepping out of your comfort zone.”

He smiles back. “I guess it is.”

The conversation drifts into something lighter after that, and before you realize it, dinner is over.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Soon enough, you’re back in his car, this time parked in front of your apartment building.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, turning slightly towards him. “Thank you for the ride, Sunghoon. And for the food.”

He smiles softly. “Don’t mention it. If you ever need a ride home, you can just call me.”

You stopped. “But… I don’t have your number.”

“Here.” He unlocks his phone and hands it to you. You take it, typing your number into his contacts before handing it back. “There.”

You step out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your skin. “Goodnight, Sunghoon,” you say, closing the door halfway and then you heard him speak, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You pause for just a moment before shutting the door completely, the sound echoing softly in the quiet street.

Later that night, as you lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, your mind drifts back to everything that happened.

The coffee. The car ride. Dinner.

Him.

Your heart beats a little faster, your cheeks warming at the memories.

Those feelings you buried years ago? They’re being dug up by none other than Park Sunghoon himself.

──────────────────────────────

Three weeks after that dinner with Sunghoon, the two of you have grown noticeably more comfortable around each other. He even picked you up from your apartment the morning after that night, insisting so you wouldn’t have to take the subway to work.

And now, you’re back in the thick of it. Endless patients, heavy workloads, night shifts, deadlines, and back-to-back surgeries taking up most of your time.

“Doc, I’m done with my rounds for now,” Jungwon says, appearing beside you while you’re busy taking a patient’s blood pressure.

You finish up, offering the patient a small reassuring smile before noting down the readings on the chart.

“Good,” you say, turning to him. “I want you to check on Baby Jung in the newborn unit. When I assessed the baby earlier this morning, the condition was a bit unstable. If that continues, report back to me so we’ll coordinate with the Pediatrics Department.”

“You got it.” Jungwon gives a quick salute before turning to leave.

“Oh, and Jungwon,” you call out just as he’s a few steps away. “Don’t forget the dessert you promised me for lunch.”

He chuckles, glancing back. “Of course, Doc. See you at the cafeteria later.”

Over the past three weeks, you and Jungwon have also grown closer, spending nearly every day working side by side. You’re grateful to have someone to share the hectic schedules and overwhelming workload with as it makes everything feel just a little lighter.

You grab the clipboard with your patient records and head towards the elevator. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out, about to read the message but you bumped into someone.

The impact causes the clipboard to slip from your hands, papers scattering across the floor.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry!” a voice says quickly.

You crouch down to gather the papers, the other person doing the same.

As you pick them up and glance up, a nurse you don’t recognize hands you a few sheets. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” you reply, standing up.

“I’m really sorry again, Doctor…” Her eyes flicker to your coat, reading the name stitched onto it. “…Kang.”

You shake your head lightly. “It’s okay. I wasn’t looking either. It’s partly my fault.”

You pause for a moment, studying her. “By the way, what’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

She smiles sweetly. “I’m Jang Wonyoung. I just started working here yesterday.”

“Well, it’s nice meeting you, Wonyoung,” you say with a friendly smile. “Sorry our first meeting had to be like this.”

“That’s alright,” she replies. “Have a nice day, Dr. Kang.”

She gives a small wave before heading off.

You continue towards the elevator and pressed the button. While waiting, you check your phone and read Jungwon’s message. He mentions that the newborn unit is a bit crowded with nurses and a few parents, and that he’ll update you once he gets inside.

Ding.

The elevator doors open.

You look up and see Sunghoon inside.

A smile forms on your lips as you step in, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

“Funny how we always run into each other at the elevator,” you say, turning to him.

“It is,” he replies, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Maybe I should start charging you for getting to see a handsome face like mine every time the doors open.”

You let out a laugh, and he joins in, the sound light and easy between you.

“Anyway,” he continues once the laughter fades. “Where are you planning to eat lunch? Sunoo and a friend of mine are trying out a newly opened restaurant nearby. Want to join us?”

“I’d love to,” you say, “but Jungwon and I already made plans, and he’s treating me to dessert, so I can’t really say no to that.” You nudge his side playfully.

“Ah, I see.” He nods, though you can’t help but notice the slight disappointment in his tone. “Maybe next time.”

“Definitely next time,” you reply.

The elevator doors slide open at your floor.

You step out, then glance back at him. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

And with that, you walk away, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you just a second longer than usual.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Lunchtime arrives, and you’ve been sitting there for almost an hour.

Your plate is already empty, your drink long finished, and yet there’s still no sign of Jungwon or the dessert he promised.

You let out a quiet sigh, resting your cheek against your palm as you glance towards the cafeteria doors. Maybe I should’ve just gone with Sunghoon instead…

Just as the thought crosses your mind, the doors swing open and Jungwon rushes in, scanning the room before spotting you.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry I’m late, a patient was—” He’s panting so hard he can’t even finish his sentence.

“Woah, hey. Sit down first,” you say quickly.

He does as told, and you hand him your spare bottle of water. He takes it immediately, drinking it down in one go.

Once he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you apologetically. “I really wanted to come earlier, but a patient asked me to stay with her until her husband arrived. I didn’t expect it to take that long… if I had known, I wouldn’t have stayed.”

You nod, your expression softening. “It’s okay. I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Did you at least eat lunch?” you ask.

“I did,” he replies. “The patient felt bad for making me wait, so she gave me some food.”

“Then I guess that leaves us with dessert,” you say, pointing lightly at him. “Now go get me that dessert you promised.”

Jungwon stands up immediately and heads to the counter.

A few minutes later, he returns, but this time, there’s a slight frown on his face.

“They ran out,” he says. “I guess it’s my fault for getting here late.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “So… what are we supposed to have for dessert now?”

Jungwon pauses, thinking for a moment before his expression brightens. “I know a place. Come with me.”

A short while later, the two of you find yourselves standing in front of a gelato shop in town.

“I come here whenever I’m craving something sweet,” Jungwon says, a hint of excitement in his voice. “They make the best gelato.”

He steps ahead of you, holding the door open.

“You’re really serious about this gelato, huh?” you tease with a small laugh.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Across the street, inside the newly opened restaurant, Sunghoon sits with Sunoo and Jay.

“Is that Y/N?” Sunoo suddenly says, pointing towards the window.

Sunghoon’s attention shifts instantly, his gaze following the direction.

Outside, he sees you with Jungwon.

“She’s with the resident,” Sunoo adds, still watching.

“They seem close,” Jay comments casually. “Maybe a little too close. I can’t even remember the last time I became friends with a resident.”

Sunoo gasps softly, covering his mouth. “Right? I thought I was the only one who noticed.”

Sunghoon’s grip on his fork tightens slightly as he listens, his eyes still fixed on the scene outside. On the way Jungwon holds the door open for you and the way you laugh.

“Do you think maybe they’re—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sunghoon cuts in, his tone sharper than usual. “Can we just eat in peace and not start rumors?”

Sunoo scoffs, side-eyeing him. “Geez. I was just saying.”

Sunghoon then goes back to eating, but the air at the table has shifted.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

After finishing your gelato, you and Jungwon stepped outside.

Just as you’re about to leave, you spot Sunoo approaching the shop.

You wave at him, and he waves back enthusiastically, a grin spreading across his face.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Getting dessert,” he replies. “Do they have mint chocolate here?”

“Yeah they have tons of flavors, actually. I think you’ll like all of them,” you say with a small laugh.

“Really?” Sunoo’s eyes light up. “I can’t wait!”

He practically skips toward the entrance.

Moments later, Sunghoon and Jay approach.

“Hi,” you greet as they stop in front of you.

“Hello,” Jay replies, glancing inside. “Is Sunoo in there?” You nodded.

“I’ll see if there's a flavor I like,” he says, turning to Sunghoon. “You want anything?”

Sunghoon shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Jay heads inside, leaving the two of you and Jungwon, who has just stepped beside you in an awkward silence.

“Hey,” you say to Sunghoon, but this time, something feels off.

He just nods. No smile. No teasing remark.

Jungwon shifts slightly beside you, and Sunghoon’s gaze flickers toward him, sharp, assessing.

“Right,” you say, trying to ease the tension. “Jungwon, this is Dr. Park Sunghoon, my friend.”

You gesture towards Jungwon. “And Sunghoon, this is Jungwon, the resident I told you about.”

Jungwon immediately extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Park.”

For a second, Sunghoon just stares at it, his thick brows slightly furrowed.

You clear your throat softly. Only then does Sunghoon take his hand, briefly.

“Uh huh,” he mutters.

Jungwon withdraws his hand, the smile on his face still polite, though a little uncertain now.

Just then, Sunoo and Jay return. With Sunoo holding his three scoops of mint chocolate chip gelato.

“Let’s head back,” Jay says. “Lunch break’s almost over.”

The five of you began walking back towards the hospital. Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Jay walked ahead, while you and Jungwon trail slightly behind.

“Jungwon… I’m sorry about that,” you say quietly. “Sunghoon isn’t usually like that. I don’t know what got into him.”

“It’s okay,” Jungwon replies, giving you a reassuring smile. “Maybe he just had a bad day.”

“Still… I’ll talk to him.” Before he could respond, you jogged forward.

“Sunghoon,” you call.

No response.

You try again.

Still nothing.

You frown slightly before reaching out and poking his side.

He flinches, finally turning to look at you. “What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening, so I had to resort to that,” you say, pouting slightly. His expression softens just a bit.

“…Sorry. What did you want to say?” He asks as you crossed your arms. “Why were you rude to Jungwon earlier? The kid was just trying to introduce himself.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied, looking away.

“You were,” you insist. “What’s wrong? Are you upset because I didn’t join you for lunch?”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes as he looks back at you.

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not that. A waiter messed up my order earlier, so I didn’t really enjoy the meal,” he lied, his voice a little too fast, as if he’s trying to convince both you and himself.

“Oh… that sucks,” you say, your tone softening. “So you really just had a bad day.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. His ears tint slightly red.

“You should leave them a bad review,” you say lightly. “They don’t deserve all that hype.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Maybe I should.”

──────────────────────────────

It was now time for the yearly medical mission, this time held in Gangwon Province.

Early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen, doctors were already gathered at the back of the hospital, loading supplies into vans. The atmosphere was focused, everyone moving with practiced efficiency.

Once you finished loading your things into the vehicle, the senior doctor, Ms. Lim, arrived to announce the car assignments. Most of the staff, doctors and nurses alike were placed in the larger vans, while only three were assigned to the smaller car.

That included you, Chaewon, and a pharmacist.

“We better get moving. The drive will take two to three hours, and I don’t want us arriving late,” Ms. Lim said as everyone began heading toward their assigned vehicles.

You stepped into the small car first, with Chaewon following right after. “Great, seatmates,” you said lightly, earning a smile from her as she settled beside you. The pharmacist sat in the front passenger seat, next to the driver.

Even with only four people inside, the space felt slightly cramped, with a few supplies stacked behind your seats, signaling the long drive ahead.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

You arrived in Gangwon Province after two and a half hours.

You stretched your arms as soon as you stepped out of the car. “Finally, we’re here,” you said, glancing at Chaewon beside you.

“Look at the view,” she pointed out.

Ahead of you, mountains covered in green stretched into the distance, the early sunlight rising over them and casting a soft glow across the landscape. The air was noticeably cooler and cleaner, a quiet reminder that you were far from the city now.

Around you, doctors and staff had already started unloading supplies from the vehicles. You moved towards the car again and joined in, helping carry boxes as the medical mission was about to start.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The medical mission is taking place at a public school gym that is converted into a temporary clinic.

Folding tables are set up in sections for each department, with simple privacy screens dividing consultation areas. Nurses move between stations guiding patients, while rows of chairs line the sides of the gym for those waiting their turn.

You sat at a small table marked for OB-GYN consultations, flipping through charts as a line of patients steadily forms in front of you, the hum of the makeshift clinic filling the space around you.

The check-up began smoothly, most patients were cooperative, listening attentively as you gave instructions and advice. Those who needed minor procedures were guided to the adjacent room for outpatient care, while you stayed at your station, calmly writing prescriptions and updating charts.

From across the space, Sunghoon sat at a parallel table, his gaze occasionally lifting towards you. He observed the way you spoke to each patient, reassuring and always gentle in tone, together with the soft smile you gave even in the middle of a busy line.

“Man, you gotta stop staring at her. There are patients on their way,” Jay said quietly from beside him.

“I— I wasn’t staring,” Sunghoon replied immediately, shifting his attention to the neatly arranged supplies in front of him, pretending to align them even though they were already perfectly in order. “Just… observing.”

Jay let out a small hum of disbelief. “Whatever you say.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Lunchtime came, with your team providing free food for all the attendees. A long line formed as patients waited for their meals, the gym still buzzing with quiet conversation and movement.

You sat at the table assigned for the doctors, with Sunghoon taking the empty seat beside you.

“Hi,” you greeted as he greeted back.

“How’s the consultation so far? I saw there are a lot of patients in your area,” he asked as he started eating.

“It’s going well. I haven’t had this much fun in a while,” you admitted, earning a small nod from him.

“Good to hear you’re enjoying it,” he said simply.

“I am,” you continued. “It’s always a pleasure helping people.”

The conversation flowed easily as you both ate. When you finished your meal, you reached for the brownie included in the tray, but Sunghoon stopped you.

“Don’t.” You looked up at him, confused.

“It has nuts,” Sunghoon added.

“Oh,” you blinked, then set it back down. “Right.”

A beat passed before you asked, “How did you know I’m allergic to peanuts?”

He cleared his throat, looking down at his food. “I saw you separate the nuts when you were eating that salad last week. And I've seen the EpiPen you always carry in your pocket.”

You stared at him for a second longer than intended, your chest tightening.

“You noticed that?”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s hard not to.”

A quiet warmth settled in your chest, though you kept your expression calm. “Well… thank you for warning me.”

You glanced back at the brownie, then sighed softly. “But it feels like a waste to just leave it.”

Before you could say more, Sunghoon reached over and took it from your plate.

“Always so considerate,” he said, before taking a bite himself.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

It was already night by the time the medical mission ended.

Everyone looked exhausted, evident in the way people moved slower than usual, taking their time packing up supplies. The once busy area had quieted down, replaced by tired chatter and the occasional sigh.

You grabbed your things and made your way to the car, opening the trunk.

“Here, I got it.”

Before you could protest, Sunghoon had already taken the supplies from your hands and placed them neatly inside.

“Thanks,” you say, watching as he closes the trunk.

Just then, Chaewon comes rushing over, slightly out of breath. “Y/N, I asked Ms. Lim earlier if I could transfer to the van since I felt claustrophobic in the smaller car. She said I could, but only if someone switched places with me. I tried asking around, but no one wants to,” she groans, squeezing your hands in mild panic.

You give her a sympathetic look. “Chae, maybe we can—”

“I’ll switch seats with you.”

Both of you turn as Sunghoon speaks up, having clearly overheard the conversation.

“You would?” Chaewon asks, her face lighting up.

He gives a small nod. “Yeah.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” she squeals, then quickly turns back to you. “But Y/N, is it okay if I’m not your seatmate anymore?”

You smile softly. “It’s fine. I know how much you hate small spaces.”

Chaewon beams before pulling you into a quick hug. “Thank you, Y/N. You’re the best.”

“Everyone, let’s go!” Ms. Lim calls out.

“I have to go, see you at the hospital!” Chaewon says, waving as she hurries off.

You wave back before heading to the car. You slide into your seat, and a moment later, Sunghoon follows, settling beside you.

“She’s right,” he mutters, shifting slightly. “It is cramped in here.”

Your shoulders brush against his from how little space there is.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “We just have to endure it for two and a half hours.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The car ride begins, the hum of the engine blending with the low chatter of others. You pull out your phone, texting Jungwon about updates from the hospital. The screen blurs slightly as you blink slowly, fatigue catching up to you.

You let out a quiet yawn while waiting for his reply, your eyelids growing heavier by the second.

“Tired?” Sunghoon asks softly from beside you.

“Mm,” you hum in response, too drained to form a proper sentence.

“You should get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll wake you up when we arrive.”

"Maybe I should.”

You lean your head against the window, eyes slowly closing as the gentle motion of the car puts you to sleep.

A few minutes pass.

Sunghoon glances at you, noticing the way your head keeps tilting awkwardly against the glass, your body shifting uncomfortably with every bump on the road.

Carefully, he moves a little closer.

Slowly, so carefully you don’t wake, he lifts a hand and gently guides your head away from the window, letting it rest against his shoulder instead.

“There…” he whispers softly.

Your head settles against him, your breathing evening out as you remain asleep, now in a far more comfortable position.

He stays still, not wanting to disturb you. But as the quiet of the ride settles in, he begins to feel his own exhaustion creeping in.

His eyes flutter shut.

And soon enough, he falls asleep too.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Unbeknownst to the two of you, Sunoo, who had already taken the front seat earlier, insisting he wanted to ride shotgun instead of being stuck in the back with the supplies on the van, was quietly watching a movie on his phone.

At some point, he glanced up from his screen and caught a glimpse of the back seat through the rearview mirror.

His brows lifted slightly.

He shifted in his seat and turned just enough to look behind him directly.

There you were, fast asleep, your head resting gently on Sunghoon’s shoulder.

And Sunghoon, also asleep, his head slightly tilted toward yours.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across Sunoo’s face.

He paused his movie and casually raised his phone, snapping a photo of the two of you, clearly entertained.

“Interesting…” he muttered under his breath before returning his attention to the screen, as if nothing had happened.

──────────────────────────────

The morning two days after, you step out of the elevator, heading towards the doctors’ lounge, only to stop in your tracks.

A few feet ahead, you spot Sunghoon walking out of the operating room. He’s in the middle of removing his surgical gown and cap, his hair slightly disheveled as he runs a hand through it to fix it.

For a moment, you just watch him.

You were about to walk over, maybe ask how the surgery went when someone beats you to it.

“Doctor.”

You glance over.

It’s the nurse you met before, Wonyoung.

“How was the surgery?” she asks, her voice softer than usual.

“It was fine,” Sunghoon replies.

“Of course it went well. You’re good at what you do,” she says, stepping a little closer than necessary. “Do you need help with anything, Dr. Park? I can assist you in cleaning up.”

Before he can respond, she reaches out, noticing his collar slightly crooked from removing his surgical gown and fixes it herself.

You freeze.

For a second, you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing. Your lips part slightly as you watch the interaction unfold, something uneasy settling in your chest.

She’s clearly flirting.

You wait, expecting Sunghoon to step back, to say something, to at least react.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, looking at her, almost as if he’s momentarily zoned out.

Something about that makes your chest tighten.

“Tsk.” You crossed your arms and turn away, not bothering to watch any longer.

Your steps are quicker now as you head straight to the doctors’ lounge, pushing the door open a little harder than necessary.

The sudden noise makes Jungwon look up from his laptop, slightly startled. “Y/N?” he says.

You pause, then let out a small breath. “Jungwon. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I’m just working on a report,” he replies, closing his laptop halfway. “What’s up? You look a little… irritated.”

You sit down beside him, crossing your arms as you lean back.

“Jungwon, do you know that newly hired nurse? The tall one who looks more like a supermodel than a nurse?”

He turns his chair toward you, giving you his full attention. His brows knit slightly as he thinks. “Nurse Wonyoung?”

“Yes, her,” you say quickly. “I just saw her flirting with Sunghoon out there. Can you believe that? A nurse who’s barely been here a month, hitting on a doctor?”

Jungwon lets out a small chuckle once you finish.

“Yeah, I believe you,” he says. “You don’t usually get this worked up over something small.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” he leans back a bit, a teasing glint in his eyes, “you sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” you repeat, almost scoffing. “Of course not. He's my friend and I’m just looking out for him. You know it’s against company rules to date someone new.”

You can feel the warmth creeping up your cheeks.

“…Yeah right,” Jungwon says, clearly unconvinced.

You quickly stood up, not wanting to entertain his teasing any further. “Whatever. I’m going to grab something to eat.”

“Alright, Doc,” Jungwon says with a small teasing grin as you head for the door.

You walk down the hallway, your gaze lowered as you fumble through the pockets of your coat, searching for some cash. Distracted, you don’t notice where you’re going and end up bumping into someone.

It’s Sunghoon.

Your expression shifts almost instantly, your mood dropping the moment you realize it’s him.

“Where are you heading?” he asks, one brow slightly raised.

“Just going to buy some food,” you reply.

“Want me to come with you?” he offers.

“I’m fine,” you say a little too quickly. “I can manage on my own. Besides, I have a hysterectomy scheduled after this. I need to get back right away.”

The lie slips out easily, even though you know the surgery isn’t for another hour.

“Okay… just don’t forget to—”

You don’t let him finish.

You walked past him without another word, your steps just a little faster than before, the image of what you saw earlier still lingering stubbornly in your mind.

Maybe it was better to avoid him and push those resurfacing feelings back down. So that in the end, you wouldn’t end up getting hurt.

──────────────────────────────

The next few weeks stayed the same, you avoided Sunghoon as much as you could.

You grew distant. Conversations were cut short, small talk nonexistent, and every interaction between you was kept strictly professional.

It felt like the friendship you built with him had never existed at all, as you treated him the same way you had for years before.

“Working the night shift again?” He asked as you were waiting for your coffee at the vending machine.

You froze for a split second at the sound of his voice behind you, but quickly composed yourself.

“Yeah.”

The cup dropped into the slot. You took it without looking at him as you walked past him.

Sunghoon could only watch your retreating figure, letting out a quiet sigh as another attempt to start a conversation with you failed.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Sunghoon leaned back against the counter in the doctors' lounge, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere distant. Jay glanced up from his phone and watched him for a moment before speaking.

“You’ve been like that all week,” he said.

Sunghoon didn’t respond.

“Actually,” Jay added, setting his phone down, “ever since she started avoiding you.”

That finally made Sunghoon look at him. “Avoiding?”

Jay let out a short scoff. “You didn’t notice?”

Before Sunghoon could answer, the door opened and Sunoo walked in, drink in hand, immediately sensing the tension.

“Notice what?” he asked casually.

Jay nodded towards Sunghoon. “He just realized.”

Sunoo blinked once, then laughed lightly. “No way.”

“What are you talking about?” Sunghoon frowned.

Sunoo leaned against the table, studying him. “You’ve been acting off for weeks.”

“I haven’t—”

“You have,” Jay cut in. “You’re more distracted. You forget small things, double-check things you normally don’t.”

Sunoo added, “And you keep looking towards her area even when you’re not assigned there.”

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened slightly. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does,” Jay said calmly. A brief silence followed before Sunoo tilted his head.

“You didn’t even realize she was avoiding you until now.”

Sunghoon paused, thinking back. Vague replies, shorter conversations, the way you left early, the lack of eye contact. “…I thought she was just busy,” he muttered.

Jay shook his head. “You don’t believe that.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer.

Sunoo exhaled softly. “You’re not just noticing her.” He smirks slightly. “You’re affected by her.”

The words hung in the air.

Sunghoon scoffed weakly, but it lacked certainty. “I’m not affected.”

“Then why do you look like that every time she walks past you and doesn’t stop?” Sunoo asked simply.

Silence.

Jay crossed his arms. “You didn’t care before.”

Sunghoon frowned slightly. "What do you mean?”

“You used to be fine,” Jay said. “Now you’re not.”

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "She’s been acting weird...”

Jay immediately corrected him. “No. You’ve been acting weird.”

Sunghoon looked between them, irritation flickering but it didn’t last. Because it was starting to feel… accurate.

Sunoo sighed and pushed himself off the table. “You know what your problem is?”

Sunghoon looked up. “What?”

“You think noticing her is enough,” Sunoo said simply.

That made him pause.

Jay added more quietly, “It’s not.”

Sunghoon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Sunoo stepped closer, voice steady now. “You don’t get to just notice her forever.”

“You either do something about it or someone else eventually will. Like perhaps, Jungwon?”

That landed differently.

Sunghoon’s expression hardened. "What am I supposed to do?” Jay answered immediately. “Tell her.”

Sunghoon blinked. “Tell her what?” Sunoo lets out a short laugh. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

He pulled out his phone and unlocked it, tapping a few times before turning the screen toward Sunghoon.

The photo from the night of the medical mission appeared. You, asleep, your head resting on his shoulder. Him, leaning slightly toward you, closer than he remembered.

The room went quiet.

“How did you get that?" He coughs. "And you know, that was just an accident. I didn't mean to end up in that position,” Sunghoon said after a moment, but his voice was quieter now.

Sunoo hummed. “Sure.”

Jay added, almost matter-of-fact, “You don’t let people that close.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on the photo longer than necessary. “Since when did I start doing things like that?” he muttered under his breath.

Neither Sunoo nor Jay answered.

Instead, they just watched him, because for the first time, Sunghoon wasn’t denying it anymore. He was thinking.

Then Sunoo spoke again, softer but sharper.

“You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t feel anything. We know.”

Jay nodded once. “Just talk to her.”

Sunoo tilted his phone slightly, still showing the photo. “Before someone else does.”

And this time, Sunghoon didn’t argue.

──────────────────────────────

You push through the operating room doors, the sterile air hitting you instantly as the urgency inside the room becomes clear. The patient is already on the table, breaths uneven, the monitor beside her flashing unstable vitals.

“Doctor, her blood pressure is dropping,” one of the nurses calls out.

“I see it,” you reply, already gloving up. “Prepare for immediate delivery.”

Jungwon stands across from you, already scrubbed in, eyes focused but tense. This is different from the cases he’s seen before, this one is slipping, and even he can feel it. The usual controlled rhythm of the operating room feels tighter, heavier.

You moved quickly, voice steady despite the rising pressure. “Ma’am, stay with me, okay? You’re doing well. Just a little more.”

The woman turns her head slightly towards you, her face pale, lips trembling. “Doctor…” her voice is weak, barely audible. “If something happens…”

You shake your head immediately. “Nothing is going to happen. We’re getting both of you through this.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers weakly gripping the sheets. “Please… just save the baby.”

“No,” you say firmly, without hesitation. “We’re saving both of you. Stay with me.”

“Heart rate dropping!” another nurse calls.

“Let’s move, now.” The room shifts into rapid motion.

“Push,” you instruct, your tone controlled but urgent. “You have to push for me.” With one final effort, the baby is delivered.

A second of silence, then a cry fills the room, strong and alive.

“Baby’s out,” you announced, a flicker of relief passing through the team.

But it doesn’t last.

“Doctor, she’s bleeding heavily!”

You look down, there's far more blood than before as it pooled rapidly.

“Start uterotonics. Apply pressure, now!” you order, your voice sharper now.

Jungwon hesitates for a fraction of a second before moving, following your commands, his movements slightly rushed.

“Ma’am, stay with me!” you call, louder now. “Stay with me!”

The monitor begins to slow.

“No, no, come on,” you mutter under your breath. “We’re not losing you.”

“BP unrecordable!”

“Prepare for resuscitation!”

The flatline cuts through the room. Followed by a long, continuous sound.

“No!” you shout, immediately stepping in. “Start CPR!”

You begin compressions, counting under your breath, your movements precise but desperate.

“Come on… come on…” you whisper, your voice cracking just slightly.

Jungwon watches for a brief moment, then steps in to assist, swallowing hard as he follows your lead.

Minutes pass, but the monitor doesn’t change.

The sound remains flat as your movements slow down.

The weight of the silence settles heavily in the room, no one daring to speak. For a moment, you just stare at the monitor, as if waiting for it to change. It doesn’t.

You inhale slowly, forcing yourself to straighten.

“Time of death,” you say, your voice quieter now, but steady as you glance at the clock. “4:56 pm.”

The baby’s cries echo faintly from across the room, a sharp contrast to the stillness surrounding you.

You turn your head towards Jungwon, your expression composed, but your eyes betray a flicker of something deeper.

“Transfer the baby to the newborn unit,” you instruct. “Go with the nurses.”

Jungwon nods, swallowing hard as two nurses carefully prepare the infant.

He hesitates for just a moment, looking back at you, before following them out.

You exhaled deeply, looking at the patient lying before you. Then you instructed the nurses on what to do with the body, ending with, “I’ll go inform her husband.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Pushing the operating room doors open, you stepped out into the hallway. The bright lights feel harsher now, the noise around you dull and distant. Across from you, her husband sits in the waiting area. The moment he sees you, he stands up quickly.

“Doc… how are they?” he asks as you approach.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, gathering the courage to say the words.

“I’m sorry, sir… but your wife didn’t make it,” you say quietly.

His shoulders drop as he looks down, his composure breaking as he starts to cry.

“…And the baby?” he asks after a moment, wiping at his tears.

“She’s alive,” you reply gently. “They’ve taken her to the newborn unit. I’ll let you know when it’s okay for you to visit.”

He nods weakly, trying to hold himself together.

“I’m… I’m sorry again for your loss,” you add, trying to sound professional despite the lump in your throat.

“It’s okay,” he says, though his voice trembles. “At least… at least you saved our baby. Thank you for that.”

You nod, offering a small, sympathetic smile as he turns and walks away, his steps heavy and unsteady.

You know it wasn't your fault, but deep down you still feel disappointed in yourself for not saving her.

As a doctor, moments like these are inevitable. But for you, it has only happened six times, including today. You always do your best to save your patients’ lives and you usually succeed. So when the worst happens, you can’t help but feel responsible, as if the loss was yours to carry.

You step aside, pressing a hand lightly against the wall as you take in a sharp breath. Tears begin to fall, quiet at first, then harder as the memory resurfaces, your patient’s face, the way she looked at you, trusting you when you promised to save both her and her baby.

“Y/N?” You heard someone call and you look up to see Sunghoon. You stared at him for a while, your expression a mix of surprise and nervous at the thought of him seeing your vulnerable side.

“Sunghoon, I—”

Before you can finish, he closes the distance and pulls you into a gentle embrace. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, guiding it to rest against his shoulder, while the other slowly rubs your back.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmurs softly. “You don’t have to explain anything.” He holds you carefully, like you might fall apart at any second.

You stayed like that for a while, crying into his shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around you.

You’re not sure how, but the simple gesture made you feel safe. The comfort you didn’t even realize you needed is suddenly there, steady and warm, easing the tightness in your chest little by little.

“I couldn’t save her,” you manage to say, your voice breaking as you pull away slightly, shaking your head. “I tried… but it wasn’t enough.”

“Hey, look at me.”

His hands gently cup your cheeks, guiding your gaze back to his.

“It’s not your fault,” he says softly. “It never was. So don’t blame yourself for what happened. You did everything you could.” His voice remains calm, comforting. “I’m like that too, I don’t always get to save my patients. But what matters is that you tried. That’s what counts.”

You swallow, nodding slowly as his words sink in.

“You’re right. Thank you,” you whisper.

He gives you a small, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to thank me. Just know that I’m always here for you.”

Your breath catches at that.

Your brows knit slightly as you search his face, trying to find even the slightest hint that he’s joking, but there’s nothing. Just sincerity, clear and unwavering in his eyes.

“Sunghoon…” you murmur.

“Yeah?” he responds, tilting his head slightly.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask quietly. “I’ve been a jerk to you these past few weeks but you’re still here, comforting me.”

Your gaze drops again, guilt creeping in.

“I don’t think I deserve your kindness… or even your friendship.”

Sunghoon shakes his head almost immediately. He lifts your chin gently with his finger, making you look at him again.

“I don’t care about the past few weeks,” he says. “You needed someone, so I came.”

Something in your chest stirs at that, soft and unfamiliar, yet overwhelming all at once. Your lips tremble slightly as your eyes begin to sting again.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise I won’t do it again.”

Before he can respond, you step forward and wrapped your arms around him once more, holding him tighter this time.

Sunghoon lets out a soft chuckle, clearly caught off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gently pats your back, his touch warm and reassuring as you cling to him.

──────────────────────────────

The next day after the incident, you, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Chaewon went out to eat together. It was Sunghoon’s idea, he said it might help cheer you up after everything that happened.

You sat at the table with Chaewon beside you and Sunghoon across from you.

As you waited for your food, you glanced at him and smiled. “Sunghoon, thank you for this. I really needed it. I’m glad to have a friend like you.”

Then you looked over at Chaewon and Sunoo. “And you guys too.”

“Aww, no problem, babes. We’re always here to cheer you up,” Chaewon replied, wrapping an arm around you in a side hug.

“Friends?” Sunoo suddenly echoed, glancing at Sunghoon from the corner of his eye.

You blinked, confused.

“Oh– I mean… yeah, you’re welcome,” he quickly corrected, offering an awkward smile.

Before you could question it further, the food arrived, filling the table and momentarily shifting everyone’s attention.

The conversation died down as you all started eating, the clinking of utensils replacing it.

A few minutes in, Sunoo suddenly stood up.

“I just need to go to the restroom,” he said casually, then turned to Sunghoon. “Come with me.”

Before Sunghoon could even react, Sunoo was already pulling him up from his seat. Sunghoon barely had time to set his fork down, looking completely caught off guard as he was dragged along.

You watched them walk away, brows slightly furrowed.

“What was that about?” Chaewon asked.

You shrugged, just as confused. “I have no idea.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

As you walked back to the hospital, you decided to bring up what happened earlier.

“So… are you going to tell me what that was about, or am I supposed to pretend it was nothing?” you asked, glancing at Sunghoon.

“What? That?” Sunghoon replied casually, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Sunoo was just overreacting about something.”

“Really…” you said, clearly unconvinced. “What kind of something?”

He rolled his eyes slightly, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s just between me and him. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you if it ever concerns you.”

You let out a quiet sigh, deciding not to push further. “Okay, fine. I’ll believe you. As long as it’s not about a secret crush or anything, then I’m out.”

“What?” Sunghoon suddenly said, a bit too quickly.

You frowned, studying his reaction. “Huh…?” Then it clicked. “Wait… I’m right?”

“N-no, you’re not,” he denied, but the tips of his ears turned noticeably red.

A laugh slipped out of you. “Hey, relax. I won’t tell anyone,” you said, nudging him lightly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He glanced at you, still unsure whether to believe you.

“I think I already have an idea who it is,” you added, a teasing smile forming. “And don’t worry, I support you.”

“Oh…” Sunghoon exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “T– thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a small smile.

You looked away after that, your chest tightening just a little, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Relief, because Sunghoon trusted you with something so personal, and disappointment, because you hadn’t expected him to like Wonyoung back.

You thought you had successfully buried those feelings long ago, but hearing him admit he had a crush still stung more than you were willing to admit.

It’s fine, you told yourself. As long as you stayed good friends, that would be enough.

──────────────────────────────

The fluorescent lights in the doctors’ lounge felt harsher than usual.

Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Or maybe it was the way the numbers on the chart in front of you refused to make sense no matter how many times you read them.

Beside you, the cup of coffee you bought earlier had long gone lukewarm.

You reached for it anyway, bringing it to your lips in a half-hearted attempt to wake yourself up.

The bitter taste lingered, but it did little to chase away the heaviness in your eyes. If anything, it only reminded you how tired you really were.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still, the words blurred.

With a quiet sigh, you leaned back slightly in your chair, pressing your fingers against your temple as if that would somehow force your mind to cooperate. It didn’t. If anything, the silence of the room only made your thoughts louder and harder to ignore.

You didn’t even realize you were staring blankly at the same line for the past five minutes.

“You’re going to misread that.”

The voice came from behind you, calm and familiar, cutting through your haze like it always did.

You didn’t turn immediately. Instead, you let out a small breath, somewhere between a tired laugh and defeat.

“I’m not,” you muttered weakly, eyes still on the chart. “I’m just… taking my time.”

There was a pause. Then the sound of footsteps, slow, unhurried, coming closer.

“You’ve been ‘taking your time’ on the same page since I got here,” he replied.

You finally turned, meeting Sunghoon’s gaze. His expression wasn’t mocking, nor was it particularly soft, it was something in between, the kind you had learned to read over the years. Observant. Quietly concerned.

You straightened a little in your seat, as if that alone could prove your point.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though even you could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

His eyes flickered briefly to the untouched coffee beside you, then back to your face.

“You didn’t even finish that,” he pointed out.

You glanced at the cup, then away. “It’s not working,” you admitted under your breath.

That was when his expression shifted, just slightly.

“…Come on.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“Come on,” he repeated, already turning away as if he expected you to follow.

You stared at his back for a second, then let out a quiet sigh before pushing your chair back. The legs scraped softly against the floor as you stood, grabbing your coat almost out of habit.

“Where are we going?” you asked, trailing after him.

“Fresh air,” he said simply. “Since that clearly isn’t working.”

You glanced back once at the abandoned cup of coffee on the table before following him out.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The hallway was quieter than usual.

Your footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floors, falling into rhythm with his. Neither of you spoke, and yet the silence felt… comfortable. Familiar. It wrapped around the two of you like something well-worn, something neither of you questioned anymore.

The elevator ride was short.

You leaned lightly against the wall, arms loosely crossed, your head tilting back just enough for your eyes to close for a second. The hum of the elevator was almost lulling, dangerously so.

“You’re actually going to fall asleep standing up,” Sunghoon muttered.

You opened one eye lazily. “I’m not that far gone.”

He didn’t respond, but you felt his gaze stayed on you for a brief moment.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The rooftop door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

The moment you stepped out, the cold night air hits your face, sharp and refreshing. It stole the warmth lingering on your skin and replaced it with something clearer.

You inhaled deeply.

And for the first time in hours, your head felt lighter.

“…Okay,” you admitted, stepping forward. “That actually helped.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing past you and tugging at the edges of your coat. Fabric shifted, swaying gently with each passing breeze, the night wrapping itself around you in quiet movements.

You walked towards the railing, resting your hands against the cool metal as you looked out at the city below. Lights flickered in the distance, cars moving like slow, distant streams.

For a moment, everything felt far away.

“Thanks for this,” you said softly.

No response.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Sunghoon stood a few steps behind you, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his posture relaxed but his gaze wasn’t on the view.

It was on you.

You turned slightly, brows knitting together. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took a step closer.

Then another.

The faint sound of his shoes against the concrete felt louder than it should have, each step closing the space between you until he was standing beside you, closer than usual.

Close enough for you to notice the way the wind shifted his hair slightly.

Close enough to see the way his eyes caught the city lights.

The way they seemed to twinkle, just barely, as he looked at you, not distant, but focused in a way that made your chest tighten without warning.

Something in your expression must have changed, because his gaze softened a little.

“You know, lately…” he began slowly, his voice lower now, steadier but heavier somehow. “I’ve been noticing things I didn’t before.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly.

“I thought it was nothing,” he continued. “I told myself it didn’t matter.” Then he took another step closer.

You didn’t move.

“But it keeps coming back,” he said, softer now. “No matter how much I try to ignore it.”

Your heart was beating faster now, louder than the wind, louder than your thoughts.

You couldn’t look away, not when he was standing this close, not when his voice sounded like that.

“Look, Y/N…” he said, your name quieter than you had ever heard it from him.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something—”

A sharp sound cut through the air.

Your phone rang.

The sudden noise felt almost too loud in contrast to the stillness that had built up around you. You flinched slightly, breaking eye contact as you reached into your pocket.

Jungwon’s name flashes on your caller ID the moment you pick up.

Before you can even speak, his voice comes through urgently. “Y/N, there’s a woman in active labor with complications. We need you here now.”

“Okay, I’m coming,” you reply, your voice cutting through the quiet rooftop.

The wind is still, almost cruelly calm compared to the urgency in his tone.

You turn to Sunghoon, and for a brief second, your expression softens with guilt. “There’s an emergency. You can tell me that next time, okay?”

“Oh… okay,” he says quietly, the disappointment flickering across his face before he can hide it.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” you add, already stepping back.

And just like that, you’re gone.

Sunghoon watches as you rush towards the door, your coat trailing behind you, footsteps echoing sharply before fading completely into the hospital corridor.

The rooftop falls silent again.

He stays there for a moment longer, unmoving, the wind brushing through his hair as if time itself has slowed down just for him.

A small breath escapes him, almost a sigh, as he looks at the empty space where you were standing just seconds ago.

══════════════════════════════

☙ taglist:

@kristynaaah @choibeargyu @oopshee @wonstruck7 @missoxy @loveydoveyez @naraemin @momoarchiveee @betagalactose @jakebitez @reneleaily @jakey1115 @honestlyatomicpanda @jaeunaria0-0 @thisismepls @sievenderz @fabulousarepo4 @heestiki @cumtrov3rsy @wonniecaramelmacchiato

author's note: wow, 12K words, this is actually my first time writing a fic that reached this word count

i really enjoyed writing this, which is probably why it ended up this long haha. as a med student myself, i got especially excited while writing the medical parts. and i think this is, by far, my favorite fic that I’ve written so far

i hope you were able to read it until the end >< even if it didn’t fully meet your expectations, i genuinely did my best to pour my heart into this fic (which I think I somehow did hehe)

[jiuchip]

THE CROWN'S CALLING - ACT I

⋆༺𓆩♔𓆪༻⋆ ♔ THE CROWN THAT BLEEDS

℘ — crown prince!theo (테오) x princess!reader    ▸   ⌜ 15k ⌟

synopsis ▸ the crown prince has many duties; one of which is to marry not for himself, but for his kingdom. but the woman he’s being betrothed to is one he can’t stand. you have always known that your sole duty as princess is to marry a man who will bring prosperity to your country. but what happens when that man is the same boy who sowed the seeds of disdain since you were mere children? a realist and an idealist. an arrogant prince and a stubborn princess. because when did that ever bode well for anyone?

δ — nsfw (mdni), slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, childhood nemeses, jealousy, oblivious mutual pining, everyone makes a cameo, blood, implied abuse, power dynamics, smut, unprotected sex, hate sex, oral (f. rec), degradation, power play, manhandling

♪ salt and the sea - the lumineers

ᯓ an — this is my new magnum opus. please give it a read, i promise it's worth it! please leave a comment, reblog, like, any feedback at all! this was the hardest i've worked on a fic :') act ii will be out tomorrow!

ACT II OUT NOW / SERIES MASTERLIST

“Your hair would make good home for a pigeon,” said Choi Taeyang, crown prince of the northern kingdom, at the age of ten, in your home, at your birthday ball.

It was that one single comment that had cemented his place in the dungeons of your mind, the place where you keep people undeserving of your kindness. 

It didn’t matter how hard your mother pushed you to play nice. You refused to. But it wasn’t entirely your fault—Prince Taeyang made it an absolute nightmare to be his friend. Snobbish, uppity, and above all, rude. It might be his status as crown prince that feeds his ego but you’ve long demised that it is simply him.

And he has the nerve to call you stuck up when you refuse to speak with him. But you’ve learned the art of ignoring him whenever his kingdom visited, and making as little contact as possible with him and his flock of heathens when you were dragged with your sister to the northern kingdom. 

You still remember the dinners; they were always a spectacle. Ignoring each other despite always being sat next to the other, pretending you didn’t hear his request for the gravy, pretending he wasn’t talking about you when he detailed the story of having the displeasure of meeting an “unpleasant twat” at the occasion’s ball. The resounding sighs and reprimands still ring in your ear a decade later. 

In a way, you almost missed those childish squabbles. Because now everything was political and that’s far more depressing than crying over who spilled scorching tea on whom. 

He hasn’t visited often in the past few years, the growing duties of an elder crown prince surely burdening him more and more with each passing year. And you hadn’t had much reason to travel the long week to his kingdom either, not that you’d want to. 

But on the rare instance that you did meet once a year over recent times, your arguments would be more… personal. 

He is a man of the state. Of abiding by rules that constrict him to something less than a human, more of a machine. A malleable puppet for the King’s iron hand.

You think it’s all ridiculous. The power that he has as a man gone wasted to a mindless drone who has become an echo chamber of ‘Yes father’s.

You almost miss that nuisance boy he once was. At least that boy marched to the rhythm of his own beat. 

But he’d started fading from your life after he turned twenty. Two years have gone by now since his extravagant birthday celebration, the party where he had taken one look at you and reminded you of all the reasons you despised the man. 

“I didn’t realize we’d opened the doors for harlots,” he told you, eyes raking over your figure that had admittedly grown into your curves the past year. 

You’d scowled at him, at that infuriating, lazy slant of his lips like he was above putting in any effort to even smirk at you. “I didn’t realize we were still celebrating self-interested pigs. I thought we were progressing.”

“You’re still here, darling,” he mused. “Not sure your argument holds when you’re here at the celebration for said self-interested pig.”

You folded your hands behind your back to hide your clenched fists, forcing on a sweet but strained smile to keep appearances for passersbys that waded around in emeralds and garnets. “Do you think I had a choice?”

He raised a dark brow, taking a step forward. “Isn’t that what you’re always crying about? Choice, freedom?” He drawled. “The thing you claim we all have the right to? The very thing you’re claiming to be shackled by.”

He didn’t let you get a word in before he swept past you, letting his words linger as he sauntered away. 

“You’re a lot of things, dear. I didn’t take you for a hypocrite as well.”

After that, you were glad to see him becoming more of a past, pestering ghost in your life. 

You’ve had to deal with enough condescending comments from your family, and everyone around you for that matter, on your standards of what it is to be human. 

You’ve been long pressured to sit in your place as a princess, as something of a pawn for your father’s play, but you’ve never sat easy. Why should you have to conform to their expectations when you had no say in what you were born into?

You would think Taeyang, someone who, like you, was born into something out of his control. That he would sympathize. But he is everything you despise, everything you’re terrified of becoming; a puppet with your strings under the hand of another.

But of course, you were the unreasonable one for having ambition greater than your title would allow. It didn’t matter that you wanted to do something with your power—the state, and your father, simply wouldn’t allow for it. 

You didn’t let it dim your fight though. Neither did your sister. 

You sister, who is the only person you have in your corner. The one person that not only sees you, but hears you. 

And the one person who actually tells you the current state of things, otherwise you’d be completely blind to the happenings in your own kingdom. 

“King Choi and Prince Taeyang are set to arrive today,” is what she greets you with first thing in the morning. You’ve barely opened your eyes from sleep before she’s ripping the curtains open and blinding you with piercing sunlight. 

The words don’t process in your bleary mind. “That sounds nice,” you grumble, turning over and burrowing yourself further into your army of blankets. 

But when they finally settle through the fog in your brain, your heart jolts. You spring up, staring at her with wide eyes. 

“Why?” You snap. “The King too? Is there something else no one bothered to tell me about?”

She sighs, marching over to your bedside. She shows you no mercy to the cold as she yanks your blankets off of you, ignoring your affronted yelps. “No, sister, I didn’t find out until just now. They’re set to arrive this afternoon so I suggest you hurry and look less… unsightly. We’re expected to be there.”

You glare at her, wrapping your arms around yourself to shield off the biting air. “I’d rather not.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

You grit your teeth and persist with your glare. But when she doesn’t budge, you sigh. “When do I ever?”

You’d sensed something was amiss. Your father has been awfully evasive lately, even more so than usual, and your mother is as disinvolved with anything as ever, too busy with her lady’s society to bother keeping up with anything else.

The North kingdom being involved can mean either something good will happen or something horrible will happen. Peace between your kingdom and the Choi’s has been a fickle thing over the past few decades, only one misjudgement away from a full blown war. If they’re visiting out of the blue with no significant reasoning, it can either mean they’ve come to an agreement or the opposite. You desperately hope it’s the former. 

And you desperately hope you can avoid him. 

But where does that hope lead you? Right at your front door, greeting the King and the prince with your mother, father, and sister at your side.

Prince Taeyang stands across from you, two years after his last spoken words to you—something about a hypocrite (you pretend like the exact words he’d said don’t ring in your ear from time to time)—looking more regal than ever, standing straight with his hands folded behind his back.

His shoulders are broader now and fill out his coat. His brown hair is long enough to brush the base of his neck and frame the sides of his face. That air of importance around him is more prominent than ever. And yet that smile of his remains the same, as infuriating as you remember, with that subtle slant of his lips that you’re sure no one else but you are able to pick up.

“Sizing up the enemy?” He asks you, loud enough that only you can hear as your fathers reacquaint themselves.

“I wouldn’t call you much of a threat,” you retort coolly, keeping your impassive expression firm on your face. You fold your hands at your stomach. “A persistent pest that I can’t seem to keep away, maybe.”

He tsk’s, then lets his eyes fall to rake over your velvet adorned figure. “I see you’ve grown more… mature.” You don’t miss the way his eyes snag at your curves as they make their way down.

That simmering heat of anger that only he can spark in you roars back to life. You’d nearly forgotten how quickly he brings it out of you. 

You take a breath in an effort to shelve away your steadily growing ire. “We are adults now,” you tell him calmly, ignoring the not-so subtle implication behind his words. “We can keep ourselves civil, no? Besides, I’ve only come to bid you a warm welcome.” You plaster on a strained smile to emphasize the warm. “I’ll be taking my leave shortly.”

“But you’ve gotten all dressed up,” he comments, and you don’t miss the way that slant of his mouth lifts higher. He has no trouble recognizing he’s riling you up. His talent of reading people is something that others admire and something you have come to loathe. “It would be a shame to let this pretty dress go to waste. Won’t you join us for dinner?”

Your jaw ticks. You’ve learned not to take any of his ‘compliments’ to heart. “I don’t think I will.”

“Actually, you will,” your sister cuts in from your right. “Father’s orders.”

You sigh, shooting her a sharp look that she shrugs at. 

“You’d fare well to listen to your beautiful sister,” Taeyang says, giving your sister a charming smile that she only scoffs at. “She’s always been the sensible one of either of you.”

“Speaking of sensible, where’s your brother?” You divert, because the last thing you need is for your sister's claws to come out. And it is peculiar to see him without the second prince, Jiung, who is normally stuck to his side during all of their visits.

Prince Jiung is the only one of the four Choi princes you’d call yourself somewhat acquainted with. He’s the only one of the five siblings that you can stand, really. Well, the two youngest were too young for you to connect with in any capacity, not that you’d want to tie yourself further in any way into their wretched family, and Prince Keeho has always been too frivolous for your liking.

Taeyang’s smile falters and falls back into its usual tilt, his eyes losing a bit of their mirth. “He has fallen a bit ill so he couldn’t make it this time,” he answers, and you frown, hoping it wasn’t anything severe. “Why? Aren’t I enough?”

The question throws you off-guard. But before you can question him, your father’s voice cuts in. “Why don’t we all move to dinner? I’m sure you’re both famished from the long journey.”

Taeyang straightens again, addressing your father with a quick nod and a smile. “Yes,” he admits, his eyes shifting back to you for a brisk second, “I am.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

The shift to the dining room is a flurry. You’re forced to sit across Taeyang (your father had given you the eye when you tried to sit with your mother and sister) while the kings sat on opposite ends, their voices carrying through the table as they continued their idle chatter. 

You’re diligent to not make the mistake of making eye contact with him. Though you can feel the weight of his attention on you as you eat, only tugging away when your father pulls him into conversation. But even then, you feel the tip of his boot clad foot nudge against your heeled one. 

When you pull back, he only seeks you out again, all while chuckling and answering your father’s questions with a calculated charm. 

Fed up, you lift your head to shoot him a glare that he pretends not to see.

“Child,” you grumble over your wine glass.

“What was that?” He asks, not very quietly.

You curse yourself for forgetting that Taeyang will leap at any chance to escalate something that is better left alone. 

You lift your gaze back to him and plaster on your practiced smile. “Child,” you repeat firmly, because you’ve never been one to back down.

His brows raise, easy lips lifting into a slow smile. “Ah. So neither of us have grown it seems.” He ignores your twitching eye as he barrels on. “Whatever happened to being mature adults?”

“Whatever happened to being a proper prince, you pompous—“

“Dear,” your father cuts in, voice edged with a simmering rage. “That is no way to treat our guests. Watch your behaviour.”

You grate your jaw, glare still locked on Taeyang’s  provoking smirk. “I know you’re not getting any younger, father, but I didn’t think you’d forget how little Prince Taeyang’s respect means to me.”

Taeyang’s eyes flash with something sharp and his smile wavers just a tad. You can’t name what he’s feeling though, his emotions always hidden behind a wall.

You can hear your father’s deep breath of restraint. “I think it’s pertinent that you remain on your best behaviour with him from now on.”

Something about those words make a hollow pit form at the bottom of your stomach. 

“From now on,” you repeat, turning to face your father. “What does that mean?”

But he doesn't answer you, just lifts his wine glass to swig it back.

You hear King Choi’s silverware clatter to his plate from the other end of the table. “You haven’t told her?”

There’s a ruminating pause that follows.

“Told me what?” You ask your father sharply. The hollow grows in you, carving your insides to make space for dread to settle in the longer your questions go unanswered. 

You watch intently as your father stalls, wiping his lips with his napkin and clearing his throat. He doesn’t meet your eye as he addresses the table in whole to read you your fate. 

“It has been decided that you are to marry Prince Taeyang and join the reign of the North as Princess Consort."

It’s silent. 

In your head and around you. 

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. 

It has been decided.

Like your say wasn’t needed, like it didn’t even matter. Like your life wasn’t yours. 

Marry Prince Taeyang. 

Those words don’t register. They can’t. Because in what world are you to be shipped off to foreign lands, to him, without your say?

“Decided,” you find yourself saying, voice a weary thing. Decided, like you were just a pawn in their game of political chess you’d not signed up for. “Where was my say in this?” 

“You have no say in this,” your father tells you simply as he returns to his dinner.

Something in you snaps. 

You spring to your feet, plates clinking as you jostle the table on your way up. “I should have every right to have a say!” You yell, chest heaving. “This is my life you’re pawning away.”

“Sit down, I will not tolerate this heresy in front of our—”

“Heresy?” You cut in sharply. Your heart is pounding and your breaths betray you. Your fists shake at your sides, and you can’t see straight, your vision a blur of tears and rage. 

And you can’t help it. You start laughing.

“Heresy!” You cry. 

You’ve never heard the dining room so silent before. Even the servants have stopped in their tracks to watch you spiral. 

Your gaze falls to Taeyang who, for once, is not already looking at you. His face is stone, impassive as ever, as he stares at the candelabrum in front of him.

But you don’t feel like dissecting his emotions, too caught up in your own storm of them. Certainly not in this setting, where clearly your presence is not significant. 

You take a breath to quell the tempest in your chest as you step away—but it’s a futile attempt. “I will take my heresy elsewhere then,” you say, reeling it all in like you were made to do your whole life.

You don’t look back as you leave, the clacks of your heels piercing the silence you leave behind.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Powerless. That’s what you are now and what you’ve been your whole life. 

The midnight air on your skin doesn’t feel soothing like it normally does. It feels intrusive. The moon doesn’t help much, hanging high out there bright and nauseating.

You step back from the window and slide the glass shut, tugging the curtains back into place to douse yourself into the dark of the library. The shelves around you feel caging but you’re already suffocating. 

Every fear that you’ve harboured growing under your crown is becoming real and you’re helpless to it. It had all been imaginary before—becoming nothing but a wife and a baby-bearer, reduced to just an image. A prim caricature, just like your mother turned out to be. She was surrendered to the ill fate of any woman, no matter the status, of falling to the hands of a careless man.

But it’s not just being a wife that you have a gripe with. It’s with who that makes you his wife. 

You’ve heard the cruel hand that the Choi King carries at his side. You’ve seen with your own eyes the looks of disdain he couldn’t even care to disguise that he’d thrown to his wife. Hell, he hadn’t looked the slightest bit mournful when he’d watched her casket be buried.

And if you’re to marry a man of his making… how long will it be until you become a husk of a woman like your mother, barren of a will. 

The scuff of boots a few shelves away pulls you back to reality. The footsteps are not light enough to be your sister’s and not heavy enough to be your guard’s. It’s far too late for your mother to be up, not that she’d care to come looking for you anyway.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

You whip around to be met with Taeyang’s broad shadow turning the corner of the shelf you’re tucked behind, stopping a distance away from you. 

He’s clad in nightwear from what you can see with the minimal moonlight that spills through the curtains. Even in the dim, you can see his stoic expression.

“You’re still just as predictable,” he says.

The emotions you’d been carefully reeling in for the past few hours come rushing to the surface, pressing under your skin like an overwhelmed dam.

“I really don’t want to see you right now,” you tell him, voice wavering with restraint.

He hums. “Good thing it’s dark.”

“Leave,” you hiss quietly. “Leave my home and never return.”

He folds his arms behind him and sighs, like he’s addressing a turbulent child. “I could leave. But that won’t change what’s happening.”

He speaks like this is just another day for him, another negotiation to tackle. How can he be so calm?

You narrow your eyes, searching for any signs of distress in him. But there’s nothing to be sought in his unmoving expression. Almost like he’s…

It hits you with a startled breath. You stumble back as if the realization had physically blown you. 

“You knew,” you breathe, watching his impassive, cold face. “You knew, didn’t you? And you agreed?”

“Of course I agreed,” he says, like its simple fact. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You laugh incredulously, a short, sharp thing. “Why wouldn’t—because we can’t stand each other! We can never work. We never have and we never will!”

His jaw ticks, his expression cracking just a bit but he’s not affected enough. You hate that even with all this, he keeps his composure. Because now you’re the hysteric one. “Well that doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Of course it matters!” You yell, exasperated. “I will not let my life be played under my father’s hand, let alone yours. I refuse to be a pawn in your games.”

He turns his head from you to take a steadying breath. Then he turns back with a sharp eye, taking a step forward and lowering his voice in restrained ire. 

“This isn’t a game,” he starts. “This is about justice for both of our lands. You know as well as I do that this will bring peace to our nations and we can finally move past this pointless spat of traipsing around each other in fear of another war.”

The state. It all comes back to the damn state.

You stand your ground even as the space between you grows crowded and charged. “And what about my peace?” You ask, your eyes flitting between his. “I should sacrifice it for a country that has never given a damn about me?”

“That is the fate that you were born into,” he tells you slowly, taking another step forward. “You’d do well to just stick to it and commit to your role.”

“Oh what, like you?”

He stops a foot away from you, and his towering height forces your head back. It's an intimidation tactic you’re already numb to from the countless men in your lives that have tried to belittle you.  “At least I know what my duties are. I fulfill them, I don’t throw a tantrum about them.”

Crazy. Manic. Heresy. And now tantrum. 

You wonder just how many demeaning words reside in your armory that have been thrown at you to diminish your feelings. Are you supposed to accept them from your supposed husband, too?

“You should be more upset about this,” you tell him, voice above a whisper. There has to be some part of him that feels what you do, has to feel trapped as you do, because you’re sure this is all his father’s doing. “This is both of our lives that will fall victim to a lifetime of misery just for our fathers’ satisfaction.”

His answer comes a moment later that he spends searching your face. You hope for a second that he finds the plea in your eyes, walled behind your wailing.

But his expression only hardens, brows pinching further, lips setting in a cold frown. “I’ve spent a lifetime preparing for this. As a princess, you should have too.”

“What.” You take a step forward, your own expression mirroring the cold in his as you seethe the words. “Because I was born into something I didn’t ask for, I should sacrifice my freedom?” 

His expression falters for a second before it stitches back into a full glare. The last bits of his composure hang by just a thread. “Why are you being so difficult?”

Difficult. You nearly laugh. 

“Because this affects me more than it affects you,” you start, slow and deliberate so he can feel the weight of your distress. “You get a wife you can control, that will just sit pretty and bear your children. I get a lifetime of misery, shackled to the image of an obedient wife who does everything her King wishes.” The tears that you’ve been fighting for hours finally start to well in your eyes. “I’ve seen it happen to my mother. She’s not a person anymore, she’s not my mother. She’s a hollowed out shell of herself. I will not resign myself to the same fate.”

His irritation seems to grow tenfold at the insinuation. “What makes you think you will fall to that same fate with me?”

“Because you’re just like your father,” you tell him, and his expression falls blank. "You are everything he is and wants you to be. You're a puppet.”

He goes silent.

The last dregs of his composure crumbles away and anger replaces it all. He snaps, closing the distance with a charged step that has you scrambling at the sudden movement, your back hitting the shelf behind you.

“Do you think I want this?” He bites, his words brushing against your face as he spits them right at you. “That I have a choice in any of this? You cannot be so foolish to think that we have any power. It’s been decided, princess, that you are to be mine, so just accept it.”

His chest heaves, manic eyes bearing down on you with a furied gaze you’ve never seen from him before. A part of him, the worst of himself, that comes to light because of you.

“This,” you whisper quietly into the thread of space between you. Your cheeks dampen with tears that finally give. “This is exactly why I will never be yours.”

It takes a great effort that your weakened soul can barely give to tear yourself away, escaping him before he can say another word.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Prince Taeyang and the King leave the next morning with a quiet exit. You don’t see them out. 

But he was right. Him leaving didn’t change a damn thing.

Because here you are, two weeks later with your belongings in tow and a bare thing of a farewell from your parents along with a meager promise of seeing you at the wedding—because apparently your father has more important things to attend to over your engagement, and your mother isn’t so bothered about missing such an event.

You’re not surprised. Nor do you really care. Because your sister is here with you and she’s all you’ve ever needed to get through the hailstorms of your life since you were toddlers.

But you arriving at the Choi Kingdom, armed to move in, doesn’t mean you’ve resigned yourself to the fate that these men have decided for you. Far from it. If your calling is misery, you’ll make it theirs too. 

You feel his eyes on you the moment you step out of the carriage.

You stand before him with your sister at your side, feeling the pierce of his gaze from where he stands a few paces away at the base of the entrance, arms folded behind his back. A guard remains at Taeyang’s side who looks… distracted. Dazed almost.

“Are all your guards this starry-eyed?” You remark drily, not wanting to address the situation at hand just yet.

Taeyang himself seems to snap into the present to look to his right. “Hey,” you hear him quip under his breath and his guard immediately bristles, standing straight at attention as a furious flush rises to his cheeks. Taeyang sighs and turns back to you with that signature smile of his, though it's sharpened more than you're used to. He’s still no doubt miffed from your last encounter, just as you are. “You’ll have to forgive Intak. He’s not used to being in the presence of such… striking… company.”

The pure derision in his words makes your eye twitch. “But no less competent, I hope,” you challenge, keeping your gaze steadily on Taeyang’s. “I need to know that I haven’t been gambled into a throne with no dependability.”

Taeyang’s jaw ticks, the smile on his lips turning sour. Your sister coughs beside you to disguise her laugh and the guard, Intak, looks scandalized.

“I can assure you, Your Highness,” Intak starts, scrambling into a kneel and bowing his head. “You are in good hands with us. I will see to it myself that we do everything in our power to make our future Queen feel safe.”

A smile, terrifyingly fond, tugs at your lips at the sincere display before you. “Hm. I like him,” you muse. “May I request he be my guard?”

You don’t even have to look up at Taeyang to hear the venom in his voice as he answers with a prompt, “No.”

Intak looks up with a smile bright enough to light the sun but his eyes don’t linger on you for long. They shift almost immediately to your left and linger there. 

You let Intak rise before looking back to Taeyang, whose smile is wiped clean off while he stares at you with that indifferent gaze of his.

“That’s too bad,” you lament. “I thought I was to be greeted with a warm welcome.”

“It’s sunny,” he says.

“Very funny.”

Silence ensues while you both glower at each other.

Your sister clears her throat sharply to your left and the halted moment sets into ungraceful motion again.

“Really?” Taeyang snaps, eyes narrowing into cutting slits. “You still can’t be mature?”

“I’m being perfectly pleasant,” you fire back. “Aren’t I, dear sister? Handsome guard?”

Neither Intak nor your sister respond, your sister sighing to herself already and Intak too busy trying to pick up his jaw.

Taeyang’s expression tenses even further. “You live here now. We’ve got to be civil.”

“Right,” you drawl. “Because that worked for us so well in the past, hasn’t it?”

“Things are different now.”

“Are they? Are you?”

His mouth snaps open to counter but he reels himself in at the last moment with a deep breath, eyes pressing closed. “Alright,” he says through the exhale. “Let’s just move along. We have a busy week ahead of us with the engagement in tow. Since you cannot be mature, I suggest we avoid speaking to each other until then.”

“Lovely,” you agree with a feigned grin on your lips, determined to take everything a step further. “The perfect foundation for a blessed union. Yes, Your Highness. Let’s never speak to each other again.”

Taeyang mirrors your smile and the vitriol in his eye is as apparent but not nearly as strong as the one in yours. “We’ve never been that lucky now, have we, darling?”

The overly familiar way he calls you darling only adds to the fire that prickles just beneath your skin, threatening to ignite your ire up into uncharted territories. “No. We haven’t.” 

But it makes you feel alive just the same.

𓆩⟡𓆪

And so it begins. The ruin of your marriage before it has even gone to fruition.

The preparations for the engagement ball are entirely out of your hands, besides the dress fitting, which gives you plenty of free time to venture the castle, learn the family, and acquaint yourself with the people you’ll be living with for the rest of your life.

You do none of it. 

No, you spend your time entirely in the bedchambers temporarily assigned to you, doing your damned best to avoid attaching yourself to this place in any way. 

You don’t voluntarily reacquaint yourself with any of the rest of the Choi family either. The only one who keeps your miserable company is your sister. 

And the only times you do emerge from your shackles (your sister calls you dramatic for calling your chambers that) is during meals, the only time you’re required to be among them, and even then you avoid speaking to anyone. Well, to him, at least, because the others that do join you and your sister besides Taeyang for meals—the four princes and their young princess (the King prefers to eat alone)—have actually grown to be quite charming.

“My, my,” Prince Keeho had said upon your first appearance at the dining room that night you’d moved in. He rounded the table from his seat to you and took your hand as he fell into a deep bow, kissing it as he went. “Have you always been so beautiful or have I been blind all this time?”

You’d taken one look at him and that cheeky, noncommittal smile on his lips before you decided you would play nice with him. He has always been far more welcoming to you than your betrothed.

“Seems your eyes have finally been opened,” you’d remarked teasingly, curtseying in response with your hand remaining in his firm grip. 

He leaned into you before he parted, leaving you with a whispered, “Let me know if my brother’s haven't in time for the wedding,” before sauntering back to his seat, not without throwing his older brother a wink.

You ignored Taeyang’s piercing gaze, focusing instead on Jiung as he approached you with his charming smile.

“It is good to see you again, Your Highness.” He’d fallen into a bow and kissed your hand as well but with none of the flirtation of his younger brother. Though it did nothing to ease away Taeyang’s sharp gaze.

“It’s good to see that you’re doing better, Prince Jiung,” you say, mirroring his smile with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “I heard of your ailments.”

“I’m all better,” he chirps. “Ready to be of service to you if you so wish.”

“Oh my,” you pretended to fawn, letting your hand slip from his. “Seems as though I’ve made incorrect judgments of your family.”

“Well…” he leaned in conspiratorially, his smile widening, “We don’t exactly have the best representative.” He wasn’t quiet enough for Taeyang to miss his words.

You’d ignored Taeyang’s watchful eye as you moved on to greet the princess, more outspoken and charismatic than you remember her to be—a bit like Taeyang if anything—then their youngest, Jongseob.

“I see now where all the good genes have gone,” you told Jongseob as he lifted from his curtsy, smiling at the blush rising to his cheeks.

He had then gone on a stuttered rant on the castle’s history from his seat beside you when you’d entertained him to just be polite, but that had been shut down shortly after by Taeyang with a quick, “If you speak while eating, you’ll choke. Silence.”

Things were quiet after that. Stiff. Even Keeho’s attempts at rekindling the scene were quickly shut down by the one and only, and you didn’t feel inclined to offer any substance.

But you hadn’t spoken a word to Taeyang. Not since he ‘welcomed’ you.

It was a grueling task, getting through the days leading up to the engagement ball. Wake up, spend another horridly stiff meal with the Choi family, debrief (complain) to your sister as if she wasn’t also there, wait out the hours until lunchtime, repeat until dinner, then call in an early night.

It was a routine that had you pulling at your hair by day five.

It wasn’t sustainable. You’d always known it wouldn’t be but it was becoming more and more apparent as the days passed. You were hoping by now Taeyang would have realized it as well but he seems as unbothered as ever.

The thought prattled around in your head into the late hours of the night, so much so that you had to pry yourself out of bed and roam the halls to burn out the nervous energy, a tactic that’s done you well in the past.

But it’s colder up north, and the thin gown you’re wearing does nothing to shield the chilly air nipping at your skin, so you don’t survive for long before you’re rerouting back to your chambers. 

You knew not taking the time to map out the area would come back to bite you, because you’d roamed so aimlessly that now you’re not sure where you are.

You curse under your breath and wrap your arms around yourself, rubbing your palms along your arms to kindle some warmth. 

“I thought I had enough reason to detest this place,” you grumble to yourself as you pad around the corner of yet another hall that seems to run in circles.

But you run into a wall this time. A broad, muscled wall made of warm flesh and soft linen.

“Do you now?”

The chills that the voice sends through your body are more prominent than the ones from the cold.

You wonder just how many more cruel jokes the fates have threaded for you.

When your eyes adjust through the dark, you see Taeyang’s face set in cold indifference as he stares down at you. The usual.

“Why are you floundering around so late and cursing my home?”

It takes a sheer force of will to not roll your eyes. “Am I not allowed to walk? This is my home too now, isn’t it?” It’s not.

His eyes flicker down and you become well aware of your state of dress—or undress, rather. You lift your arms to wrap higher around your chest, bracing yourself for his provoking comments.

Instead, he shifts his gaze away and clears his throat, and even under the pale moonlight you can see a flush of red on the pallor of his cheeks.

“You shouldn’t be out and about so late,” he says gruffly. But you can tell in the low cadence of his voice that he’s simply tired. 

He looks it too; his hair a mess of shaggy brown, lids weighing heavily over his eyes, and shoulders slumped—a far cry from the prim and proper prince he’s parading around as during the day.

You’re not sure what it is about him in a state like this that makes you want to be just a little honest.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Is there something wrong with your chambers?” He sounds robotic. Like he’s curling in on himself the longer he spends here, pulling away from the moment and from you. “I can have you reassigned somewhere else.”

But you still feel exasperated at his deflection. “You know that’s not why.”

He’s silent for another moment before he turns his head away. “I suggest you gather yourself. It’s not very fitting to have you wandering around like a child.” It doesn’t sound malicious despite the words, which isn’t something you’re used to from him. 

When he steps around you to continue on his way, you quickly interject. 

“I’m lost.”

Maybe it’s the late night draining away your inhibitions, maybe you haven’t said what you needed to say yet. But you’re glad that he stops and tells you over his shoulder, “Follow me. I’ll take you back.”

You don’t hesitate like you normally would. Keeping a few paces back, you trail him as he leads you with his hands folded behind him. The walk back to your chambers is longer than you expected—you didn’t realize just how far you’d travelled in your fugue state.

It's not exactly tense, the silence that accompanies your way, but it’s not welcoming either.

“Why are you still up?” You ask him if only to fill some of that silence.

“Working,” he answers simply. 

You frown. “So late?” 

He’s not exactly involved with any of the wedding preparations. What could possibly keep him up this late?

“Hm,” is his assent, and you almost wished he’d make a remark about you asking too many questions.

He’s tired, you remind yourself, and you suppose you can give him some grace.

Then he halts abruptly and you walk right into his back.

You stumble back with a muttered apology, and he doesn’t even bother to turn to you as he says, “Here. Get some sleep.”

Simple. Quick. A conversation that doesn’t want to exist but must out of necessity of the situation. Is this what your future holds?

He turns to leave without another word, but you reach out and grab his elbow before he can get too far.

“Taeyang, wait.”

His name tastes unfamiliar in your mouth. You don’t think you’ve ever referred to him by it before. He must realize it too with the way he tenses when he stops.

He looks over his shoulder at you and still you cannot tell what his gaze holds as he waits for you to speak.

You’re not sure what it is you want to say either. But the night keeps you honest.

“I can see you don’t want this either,” you tell him hesitantly.

He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t pull his arm away either. He just watches you and you hope that being gentle with him might actually get him to listen.

“You can put an end to it,” you all but beg. Your hand slides down his arm with a mind of its own, palm wrapping tightly around his wrist as if trying to inject the plea into him physically. His skin is cold under your touch. “There’s still time for you to make your own choice. You do not have to submit yourself to your father’s every whim. You get that, don’t you?”

His eyes flicker with something but it passes too fast for you to pin. But the way he says it—doused in something sad, something defeated—helps you paint the picture a bit clearer.

“Get some sleep,” he says, gently prying your hand off his wrist and placing it back to your side. “Goodnight.”

And just the way he’d appeared from the shadows, he vanishes.

Taeyang doesn’t show up at mealtimes for the next few days.

The engagement ball commences without hindrance despite your hoping that Taeyang would grow the heart, or the balls, to put his foot down against it.

But here he stands beside you now, armed in his regal reds, crown sat pristinely atop his slicked hair, and lips lifted into a pleasant, fake smile as he addresses the audience before you both. 

The ring around your finger feels eerily like a shackle, threatening to weigh you down as you lift your red dress to follow Taeyang’s lead into a curtsy.

It feels like you witness it from a second body, like an interloper stumbled into the wrong vessel, as you’re announced as Princess Consort Choi. 

Fate seals itself bit by bit into stone and you feel helpless to stop it.

“I should have known you were a coward, too,” you mutter under your breath while you watch the crowd bow as a collective in respect. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he states, his smile lifting without reaching his eyes as the crowd rises. “Now you have a lifetime to learn.”

Your expression sours for a split second before you pull it back to its pleasant default. You can’t have your mask slipping in front of your—his kingdom. 

It’s not yours, you chide yourself. It never will be. 

You’re pulled out of your head when he offers you his arm. You only stare at it until he sighs and takes your gloved hand to guide you down the stage.

“We will reconvene for our dance,” he tells you once you’ve both made the steps down to the floor. “Do what you wish until then but stay on your best behaviour.”

You scoff at how quickly he’s slipped back into his normal, snide self. You bite your tongue though, well versed in your restraint. 

But you can’t slip away quickly enough before you’re approached.

“Taeyang!”

A woman in a red dress bounds up with a sunny grin on her face, a man who you assume is her husband in tow. She’s a spitting image of Taeyang, if he were short and a decade older and a woman.

Taeyang’s face brightens at the sight of her and you’re taken aback by the sincerity of his smile. “Auntie!” He chirps, dipping down to pull her in a hug as she practically lunges at him.

“Oh, it’s been too long,” the woman coos as she pulls from the embrace, taking Taeyang’s face in her palms. “You’ve grown so handsome. Hasn’t he, dear?”

Her husband chuckles in agreement, giving Taeyang a polite nod that he returns once he’s been released from his aunt’s grasp.

You’re too startled from Taeyang’s shift in demeanour to prepare yourself to be caught in his aunt’s clutches. 

“And you,” she exclaims, beaming up at you as she brushes your cheek. “A darling pearl fit for our Taeyang, aren’t you?”

You blush at her fussing, lowering yourself into a bow. “A pleasure to meet you,” you say pleasantly, rehearsed.

She waves you up to your feet. “Oh none of that! I’ve heard so much about you from Taeyang when he was younger but he’s never mentioned you were this beautiful.”

Your brows raise, eyes flitting over to Taeyang who clears his throat and stands straighter. “Aunt—”

“But no matter!” She cuts him off with a giggle, turning to him with a teasing grin. “You must be quite happy now, aren’t you?”

Clearly, you’re missing something. You’ve never seen Taeyang so ruffled but he recovers quickly with that practiced smile. 

“I am glad to have a partner by my side,” he concedes. Not necessarily her, you hear in the unsaid.

“As am I,” you agree politely and the woman practically beams. 

“I must say, you compliment each other very well. You even have the same frown between your brows.”

Your hand instinctively lifts for your face but you stop it halfway, dropping it to your side.

It brushes against Taeyang’s hand between you, and like they were struck by static, they flinch away. You bring your hands to your stomach as he pulls his behind his back.

His aunt caught the moment, giggling behind her hand. “Oh, how sweet. They’re so tense,” she tells her husband, nudging him with her elbow. “Remember when we were like that too?”

The man smiles fondly. “Yes dear.”

“You’ll warm up to each other eventually,” she tells you, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially at you. “The secret is to pester him until he caves.”

“Is that so?” You muse. “He’s usually the one that does the pestering.”

The woman giggles again, bumping her shoulder to yours. “That just means he cares.”

You glance at him to catch him looking away from you, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he clears his throat and looks onward.

“I find that hard to believe,” you murmur under your breath and she places a gentle hand on your elbow, her smile growing warm.

“You’ll do just fine.”

Before you can mull over whatever implications hide behind her sparkling eyes, she takes her husband by the arm and waves themselves away with a promise to reconnect later.

Taeyang’s shoulders slump as soon as his aunt is out of your immediate radius. “I’m going for a drink.”

A gentleman might have offered you one. But he leaves you in the swarm without another word. 

You watch him wind through the crowd over to the bar, where he greets a woman there in a familiar way that makes your stomach lurch.

You recognize her from around the castle; a worker maybe. But you don’t let yourself dwell on it for long.

Aware of the many eyes on you, you keep your annoyances internal and tear your eyes away.

Music and swaying bodies allow you to drift along the sea of scarlets as an onlooker. You watch from the sidelines with a distant smile on your lips, the picture-perfect image of a princess happy to be among her new home and to be wedding a prosperous man.

But you’ve never felt so out of depth. Every face is unfamiliar and you’re being watched, scrutinized by people who you’re supposed to call yours.

Your sister is off somewhere, surely trying to wade her way through the masses to you. You scour the crowds for her, desperately in need of a familiar face to calm your nerves. 

You spot her at the far end of the ballroom and you sigh in relief, rerouting towards her. 

But you stop in place when you notice that she’s not alone.

Taeyang’s guard, Intak, is with her, and he’s—

Kissing her hand?

You stare at the scene, mouth agape. 

“Are you alright, your Highness?”

You jump out of your thoughts, whipping to your left.

Jongseob bristles back where he stands a foot away from you, eyes wide. “S-Sorry!” He squeaks. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The breath leaves you in relief as you shake your head, lowering it in a quick bow. “That’s alright. I’m glad you’re here actually, I was starting to feel a little…” You trail off, trying to summon a word fitting and not insulting.

“Out of place?” He offers quicker than you expect.

You laugh softly, feeling your nerves ease a little with his presence.

“Apt,” you hum. 

He frowns, turning to look through the crowd. “Is my brother not keeping you company?”

“He went for a drink.”

“Ah,” he says with an understanding nod. “Avoiding.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, letting your eyes surf through the crowd in search of that shine of his crown. “Avoiding me.”

Jongseob falls into a commiserating silence for a moment. “I know he may be… off-putting,” he starts, “but my brother just isn’t good at expressing himself. He isn’t a bad person.”

“Except he kind of is.”

Keeho’s voice cuts in to your right and you turn to be met with his blinding smile.

“You shouldn’t speak of him that way,” Jongseob grumbles. “He may have his moments but that doesn’t make him terrible.”

“It doesn’t mean he’s good either,” Keeho says, bumping his shoulder to yours while he turns to face the crowd. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

You purse your lips to smother your bitter smile. “I fear I can’t speak ill of my fiance in such a public setting.” You pause. “But yes.”

Keeho's laugh is loud enough to have heads turn your way.

“I am so glad you’re not as stuck up as he is,” he chuckles. “With the way he made you out to be I feared he’d found his match made in hell.”

“Get to know me a little better and you might find yourself regretting those words,” you warn him. “I’ve been told I’m as terrible as he is.”

“I doubt it. He just doesn’t know how to bring out the best in others.” He pauses and aims that disarming smile of his at you. “I can,” he adds provocatively, leaning into your space. “Care to find out?”

You feel a traitorous little flutter in your chest at his sultry voice and even sultrier eyes, but you’re quick to snuff it out.

Jongseob scoffs from your left. “Here we go again.”

You’re grateful for the levity that Keeho brings, and while his flirtations may or may not work entirely the way he intends to, it at least makes you feel like not everything in this place is a tightly wound coil.

And if flirting with Keeho is the only chance at entertainment around here, who are you to deny it?

Before you can return it, a sharp clatter of glass shattering and a piercing cry pulls your focus away.

A woman with her dress drenched with dark stains and in the midst of a tantrum starts berating the maid kneeling on the ground before her, scrambling to apologize and gather the broken pieces of glass with her bare hands.

You want to recoil at the display. “Being rude runs in the kingdom, does it?” You mutter.

But your woes go unheard by Keeho. “Excuse me,” he says hastily before taking off.

You blink as you watch his figure disperse into the crowd. “Did I offend him?”

“No,” Jongseob sighs. “I think he’s found his new fixation.”

It takes you a moment but when you see Keeho rushing after the maid as she flees out of the ballroom, it clicks.

“The maid?” You gasp, scandalized.

“Anything with two legs and a pretty face.” Jongseob freezes, guilt dawning on his face. “Ah… I shouldn’t be so crass. I apologize.”

You wave it away, a distant thought forming in your mind. “That’s alright.” You clear your throat, trying to keep your tone casual as you ask, “Are all Choi men that way?”

Jongseob raises his brow at you, as if a little offended at you thinking you could hide from him. “Taeyang is too duty driven to entertain such things.” Then he tacks on as an afterthought. “Same with Jiung.”

“Ah,” you say, flushing when you realize you’ve been caught. “Just curious…”

The amused smile he gives you has you lowering your defences. 

“What about you then?” You ask and his face morphs with confusion. “Are you also duty driven like your brother?”

His expression falls, eyes averting to the ground before he looks up at you with a guarded smile. “I go wherever he needs me but that’s not very often so I’m… mostly to myself.”

A sadness tugs at your heart at the morose tone of his voice.

“Well, you’ll be of more help to me than any of these bast—gentleman,” you correct yourself, preening internally when it has a smile tugging on Jongseob’s lips and you catch a glimpse of his endearingly crooked canine. “I’m sure I’ll be calling on you while I’m here if that’s okay with you.”

He bows his head hastily, a little flustered. “I’m happy to be of assistance to my sister.” His eyes widen when he realizes his slip, snapping back up to you. “Was that too informal? I apologize, I didn’t mean—”

“You’re alright,” you interject his rambling with a fond laugh. “I’ve never had a brother.”

His cheeks heat once again as he lowers his head. When he looks back up, his expression tenses as his gaze sets above your shoulder.

You don’t get the chance to see for yourself what his eyes have caught onto before you feel it behind you like a solid wall of warmth.

Tendrils of electric nerves snake through your body and hold your limbs in place when his deep voice brushes the shell of your ear.

“A dance, Your Grace?”

It takes you a moment longer than you’d like to admit for you to gather your bearings and regain your breath. You don’t turn to him, don’t even speak, as you nod your head in assent.

You feel his hand hover against the small of your back as he guides you, never touching, towards the center of the ballroom. The crowd parts for you as chatter fizzles out, all eyes following you and the Prince as you take your places.

Having this many eyes on you is not a feeling that’s foreign to you. Neither is the scrutiny with which they watch you stand in front of Taeyang, following his lead and dipping into a deep curtsy.

But it feels all the heavier with his eyes on you, unrelenting.

You don’t meet his gaze when you lift. You busy yourself with the intricate patterning on his coat as you take his hand and step into his space, swallowing your instinctive protest when his free hand finds your waist without delay.

The point of contact tethers you to the moment, to him, as your mind threatens to slip away and flee. It’s a warm touch, one that you’re not entirely opposed to in such a nerve-driven moment, even if it is from him.

The music must have started, you don’t know, because you’re too caught up in holding your breath when he pulls you into his chest and leads you in step with the song.

The nerves leave you feeling cold even against the heat of his body as he leads you with a surprising grace. You keep up just as well with the simple dance, but your limbs feel as though they’re under lock with all the hushed murmuring that echoes among the circle of overlooking bodies around you.

“Won’t you look at me?”

Taeyang’s voice is hushed, brushing against the bridge of your nose. You’ve been neglecting his gaze on you in favour of the pointed arch of his chin.

“It’s not necessary,” you tell him just before he pushes you into a spin.

You return with a dramatic flair of your dress, nearly colliding into his chest when he pulls you back with a little more force than necessary.

But you’re nimble on your feet, catching yourself and stepping neatly back in his swaying hold. 

And still, you don’t look up. You watch his lips as they lift into that infuriating non-smile.

“It shows good chemistry if you do,” he points out.

You hum, mirroring his step as you stand parallel, your forearm lifting to cross with his as you both move in a circle. 

“I didn’t think chemistry was required for a royal match,” you remark drily.

He moves to swipe your hand and pull you in with another spin, less delicate this time as the music crescendos, but he doesn’t stop you like you expect.

Instead, he dips you low, a solid arm wrapped around your waist to keep you against him as he follows you down.

Your gasp drowns out into the sea of others at the sudden move, and your eyes finally snap up to his, wide in alarm.

But his eyes aren’t on yours. They’re on your lips.

“This one does,” he breathes, and he’s so close that you can feel the words against your lips.

The moment feels trapped in a stand-still as the music comes to a rest, murmurs of the crowd fading away in bated breath.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

You wait for him to meet your eye but he doesn’t.

The cue goes missed when the music trickles in again, Taeyang seemingly confined under the proximity of you.

When he does pull you back up, a beat too late, it's with unhurried movement.

Your eyes fall back to his chest just when his gaze lifts up again, too overwhelmed by how the moment has unravelled.

You wonder if Taeyang can feel your racing heart against him as he leads you through the final steps of the dance, tying it up with a curtsy.

Your breath returns to you when you finally step out of each other’s space. The applause around you falls deaf to the blood rushing in your ears.

You know you’re not imagining the pull you’d felt in that horrifyingly long moment. As you peel yourself away from the crowd, you find yourself wondering if he felt it too.

The balcony is a welcomed reprieve from the stifling air inside. Thankfully the night is nearing its end, and with it gone and past, you hope that memory will stop replaying in your mind.

You can still feel the heat of his face an inch from yours, the tender brush of his breath against your face, the prickling weight of his gaze on your lips.

You can still feel the urge you had for that one grueling second to close that distance, a thought that had gone as soon as it came. A thought you’d banished for the past few hours to keep yourself from spiraling in front of people.

But now, out here in the open air and under the light of the moon, the thought resurfaces, as does the horrible realization that you might not have pulled away if he’d closed that distance himself. 

You're grateful to be pulled out of those terrible thoughts by the sound of the balcony doors opening.

“That was an impressive dance,” you hear one of the voices muse.

Intak.

You tuck yourself further into the corner of the balcony, your figure hidden by a pillar.

“That’s one word for it.” Taeyang.

Your heart thumps incessantly against your ribs. You shouldn’t be prying into their conversation, but leaving would mean revealing yourself and you’re not quite ready to face him just yet.

You hear Taeyang’s voice move towards the other end of the balcony and you have to strain to hear him now. “But that’s about the closest I’ll let it go.”

“What does that mean?” Intak’s voice follows.

“It means that I’ll be keeping my distance. This is as far as it will ever go.”

Your chest twists without your permission at his words, at what he’s implying.

“Are you saying you’re just going to ignore her?” Intak sounds incredulous, about as emphatic as you’re feeling on the inside. “Your entire marriage? You can’t possibly think you can go your whole life like that.”

You hope the silence means Taeyang is rethinking his words and realizing how ridiculous he sounds.

But his answer shatters any of the hope that had been growing for the past hour under all of your dread and misery. 

“I can try.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

The bitter taste of hearing Taeyang openly declare he plans to neglect you for your marriage lingers throughout the next day.

You hoped that maybe it was just an overdramatic hoax, but he stayed true to his words. Even as you let yourself finally explore the grounds of the castle, you hadn’t run into him once except for a rather stiff and silent breakfast. You heard he’d taken his lunch and dinner up in his office.

It doesn’t help that the wedding preparations are fully in tow and that you’d be much more involved. Of course, Taeyang would have no involvement in that. Every choice regarding the ceremony was all relinquished to you.

The frustration builds; not only do you have this chaos to deal with, but Taeyang turns a blind eye to all of it, and to you, as if there was no wedding in the first place.

Instead, you have to deal with the living reminder that every day that passes seals you further into this fate.

But if this is the game that Taeyang wants to play, you won’t take it lying down.

You bring it up at breakfast the next morning. “I notice you’re not participating in any of the wedding planning.”

Taeyang’s fork pauses on its way up and you wait for him to meet your eye and answer, but he simply continues to scarf at his food like it's something he wants to be over with.

“Such trivial matters are not under my responsibility,” he says after swallowing.

You can feel the eyes of the others glance over in poorly disguised interest. This was the first time you’d willingly started a conversation with him. And it was clear it wasn’t leading anywhere pleasant.

“Hm.” You lean back in your seat, folding your arms over your lap as you watch him wipe his mouth with his napkin. “But it's mine?”

He rises to his feet, not bothering to look at you as he says, “If not you, then who else?”

So, you plan. Not your wedding, but you plan how you can make him as miserable as he’s trying to make you. Petty retaliation is something you’re not above.

You start small. 

You purposefully drag yourself out of bed later than usual and take your sweet time to join breakfast that waits for your arrival to commence out of respect for their new sister.

When you finally do arrive, after changing through a few different dresses to find the one that sets your mood for the day, it's to a grumpy face.

“Did you oversleep?” Taeyang asks you as you take your seat. He takes note of your styled hair that’s usually left relatively untouched during casual mornings like this one. “I didn’t take you for one to care about your vanity.”

You turn to him with a saccharine smile. “Can’t a lady pretty up for her fiance?”

Your sister coughs across from you and the young princess muffles a laugh, but you’re too focused internally preening at the way Taeyang’s eyes narrow at you, a light blush dusting his cheek.

He looks away quickly, turning his attention to his waiting plate of food. “Must it really take you so long to get ready? It’s nothing impressive in the first place.”

Your smile drops into a scowl. Jongseob gasps quietly beside you, scandalized. “You try fitting into a corset every morning,” you sneer as you turn to your own plate.

You see him lean forward from the corner of your eye, can hear the smirk in his voice without having to look up. “Is it difficult? Why don’t you demonstrate for me?”

Keeho chokes on his orange juice somewhere down the table before he promptly bursts into laughter. 

You chug back your glass of water to soothe away the heat that simmers in you. Of anger, nothing else.

You know then that you have to step it up. So a few days later, when you’re pulled in to pick out decorative fabrics for the wedding, you lug it up to Taeyang’s office.

You barge in midday, just after he’s finished with his meetings, with an army of fabric and twine bundled in your arms with a poor maid in tow hauling in the other few dozen you’d picked out.

“Taeyang!” You sing brightly as you barrel in through his doors.

He looks up from his mountain of paperwork, eyes narrowed behind the thin spectacles sitting low on his nose.

“What is the meaning of all this?” He asks, watching you dump the fabric onto the chairs across his desk.

“We need to pick out some fabrics for the wedding,” you explain, turning to him with a smile and your hands on your hips. “You know, for napkins, tablecloths, curtains. Things like that.”

His lips twitch in distaste, eyes flicking up to look at you through his furrowed brows. “You don’t need my input for that.”

“Nonsense!” You grab a few cuts of fabric, different shades and textures, and drape them over the stacks of paper on his desk. “I’ve already narrowed it down to about a hundred. I’d like to know what my dear thinks.”

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, taking in a settling breath as he sheaths his quill. 

You smile at the restrained curses that filter through his eyes alone.

“Alright,” he says after a moment of deliberation. He stands from his chair, pulling the sleeves of his white button shirt further up his forearms as he rounds the desk.

Your smile falters. You’d expected him to blow a casket or outright refuse you, maybe even drag Intak in to kick you out, but you didn’t expect him to play along.

But you square your shoulders, stepping back to allow him the space. 

Taeyang leans down to make a show of examining the selection before he picks up a horribly brown mustard tweed (you hadn’t narrowed anything actually, you’d just grabbed an armful to bring up).

He fiddles with it in his hands before turning to you, pursing his lips at the clear disgust on your face.

Instead of placing it back, he rolls it in his hands then takes a step closer to you and wraps it around the back of your neck. Before you can question him, he tugs you in by the ends of the fabric and you go barreling into his chest.

“I think I like this one,” he says, sly smirk on his lips as he looks down at you.

You glare up at him, trying to ignore the nauseated flutter in your belly and the heat on your cheeks. You open your mouth to retort but he cuts you off. 

“Ah!” He reaches behind you to pick another from the pile on the chair and drapes it over your head like a makeshift veil. “And this one will go nicely, don’t you think?”

You get distracted by the horrid combination of mustard brown and sage to berate his flirtations. “Are you colourblind?” You huff, yanking the fabrics off of you and stumbling back to escape the dizzying heat of him against you. “This is a terrible combination.”

He pushes his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Yes I am, actually.”

You scowl at the indifferent look on his face. 

Useless. 

He thinks that was enough to get you off his back, and it was for a handful of days, but you bounce right back.

It’s parchment and fonts this time for designs of the wedding invitations. The batch of cards are enough for you to carry yourself to his office, so this time you’re on your own when you barge in again.

Taeyang’s gaze lifts from the pile of paperwork that seems to be larger than the last time you’ve been in here, and he looks just as miffed but not unsuspecting to see you.

“Again?” He drawls as you prance over and drop the cards on his desk. “Really?”

“For our invitations,” you explain instead, spreading out the different parchments and font samples. “We need to pick something nice. Something that will portray our undying love for each other.”

He looks at you for a stretched second before turning back to his paperwork. “I’m not interested.”

Your brows furrow. He doesn’t have his usual, arrogant fire, seeming a little more worn down from your last impromptu visit.

But that’s not your problem to worry about.

You take a seat across his desk, folding your arms and leaning back.

His scribbling ceases when he notices you’ve settled yourself in. He lifts his gaze to you, raising a brow. “Seroiusly?”

You shrug. “I can wait here all day. This is the last task on my list.”

“Lucky you,” he says drily.

“Go on then.”

“This is childish.”

“So is trying to ignore me when we’re about to be wed.”

That seems to get a crack forming through his defenses. 

“Fine,” he concedes through gritted teeth. He drops his quill with a clatter and reaches for the parchments. He sifts through them and picks out one of the font cards. “This one,” he says with zero enthusiasm.

You eye the card. “Too fancy.”

He stares at you for a moment. “It’s a royal wedding. Shouldn’t it be fancy?”

“Yes, but we don’t want to appear conceited.”

He huffs then picks out another.

“Hm…” You pretend to think, eyeing the card. “Not fancy enough.”

His left eye twitches. He picks another.

“Too rustic.”

And another.

“Too swirly.”

And another.

“Are you trying to sabotage our wedding?”

He only takes so much more, pushed to the brink with your incessant critiques, before he drops the card and fixes you with a hard glare.

“What’s your game here?” He snaps.

You smile sardonically at his ire, pleased at finally getting some sort of reaction out of him. 

“No game,” you answer, leaning forward and folding your arms over the edge of his desk. “This is just my way of letting you know that you can’t go through this entire marriage ignoring me.” Your smile sharpens into something cold, mirroring the ice in his gaze. “I’m not just some problem that’ll vanish with time. So, it’s either this or you break it all off.” 

Taeyang’s jaw works around gritted teeth as he considers your words, knuckles rapping the oak absentmindedly.

“I can’t break it off,” he mutters after a moment, though it seems like it pains him to say it.

Expected. 

You rise from your seat, gathering the cards. “Good,” you nod, then give him a final, mirthless smile. “Then it's this.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

Taeyang isn’t so sure what game he’s inadvertently started but he hopes you let it up soon. But by your constant pestering and with your stubborn ego, it doesn’t seem like you’re planning to anytime soon.

He’s tired. But he knows you are too, if the circles around your eyes and the manic twinge in your slightly terrifying smiles are anything to go by. He knows it's his fault—partly, because you’re no walk in the park either—but there is, quite literally, nothing for him to do.

He’s tried to stay away from you. He’s tried to distance himself. He really did, because he doesn’t want anything complicated to arise out of your relationship. It’s been the same song and dance with you since his childhood, so it’s better to keep it that way. 

But he just can’t seem to shake you. And he’s not so sure he hates the fact that he can’t.

But it weighs on him; every look of disapproval, of discontent, of distaste at his instigating remarks—the fact that he’s pulling you into a life that neither you nor he wants.

But again, as his mantra goes, there is nothing for him to do about it.

“You look like you’re having a splendid time,” Keeho says from where he’s been lounging around on Taeyang’s office couch, pretending to read a book.

It’s unnatural, because Keeho’s never one to linger around like a needy child unless there was something wrong. He’s been looking a little too less-than-himself in recent days for Taeyang’s liking so he allowed the intrusion while he worked away at his desk.

Taeyang lifts his head and narrows his eyes at his brother. “What are you on about?”

Keeho drops his book to his chest, tucking his arms behind his head. “I could hide nickels in the furrow between your brows.”

Taeyang immediately relaxes his face, finally taking note of the tension it had been holding. Then he glares. “I was under the impression your presence here would be a silent one.”

“I made no such promises.”

Taeyang rolls his eyes and turns back to the policy document laid out in front of him. As much as he tries to, he can’t find his focus. Maybe his sleepless nights are finally catching up to him. With each day that passes, his father deems him able enough for even more responsibility, no matter how strung out he already was.

And now with you in the picture, his days fare heavier.

“There’s that look again.”

Taeyang’s eyes snap up to Keeho’s again, irritated this time. “What?”

Keeho simply grins. “That look. The tension in your face. I think I know what your issue is.” He sits up and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?”

He can feel the familiar twitch in his eye at the mention of you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Keeho laughs. “Don’t be coy with me brother. I can tell she takes up more of your headspace than you’d like.”

Taeyang knows there’s no hiding from Keeho. As useless as he likes to be, he’s got Taeyang’s knack of reading people.

“Well I really wish she wouldn’t,” Taeyang admits with a huff, dropping his quill and sinking further into his chair. “I have far more pressing things to worry about.”

“More pressing than your wife?”

“She’s not my wife.”

“Yet.”

There’s a silent pause that Taeyang wants to drown himself in to escape Keeho’s prying gaze.

“You’re not happy, are you?” Keeho asks after a moment of contemplation, softer than Taeyang appreciates.

He scoffs, smiling wryly at the wall across from him. How can he be happy knowing he’s signed himself up for a fruitless union? How can he be happy knowing he’s trapping an unwilling girl in one too?

But again, there’s nothing to be done but to bow his head and shoulder his duties. It would do you some good to learn that as well. Hopefully you’ll realize it sooner rather than later so you can stop trying to muddle his life.

Taeyang doesn’t like questions he can’t answer. So he redirects.

“What’s happened with your new plaything?” He asks instead, shifting his gaze to Keeho’s. “I heard inklings of the commotion at the engagement.”

There’s a silence that passes as Keeho reads the plea in Taeyang’s eyes to not make him answer that question. Keeho’s always been one of the few emotionally grounded ones of the people he considers family, along with Jiung and their late mother, so he accepts Taeyang’s plea with a barely there smile.

“She’s not a plaything,” Keeho states and Taeyang raises a disbelieving brow to which Keeho narrows his eyes. “She’s not.”

“Then what is she?”

“She’s…” Keeho trails off, gazing off into the distance as an enamoured look fills his eye. Taeyang has never seen Keeho consider his words so carefully before. 

But before he can finish his thought, the doors barge open. Taeyang has become so used to your little routine that he isn’t the slightest bit surprised to see it’s you.

“Just the man I was looking for,” you chime with one of those showy, manic smiles with your hands on your hips. You look to your right and give Keeho a nod of acknowledgement. 

Keeho’s demeanor immediately shifts as he stands from his seat, mirroring your short bow with a smile that’s a tad too coquettish in Taeyang’s opinion. “Your Highness. I will leave you both.”

Taeyang feels a sour taste on his tongue when Keeho moves past you, deliberately brushing his hand against your arm as he goes.

“Try not to cause too much trouble, yes?” Keeho drawls as he reaches the door and the laugh you give him in return, light and real, makes Taeyang’s hand tighten into a fist.

“I can make no such promises,” you purr, following Keeho with your gaze as he slips past the doors with a final wink, letting the doors shut behind him.

You turn back towards Taeyang, smile slipping back into that subtly sharp one, and he feels suddenly defensive against it.

“What is it today?” Taeyang asks, already exhausted by the slew of nonsense he’s sure is about to ensue. “Are we picking out the rags that the maids will be wiping the floors with? Perhaps the toiletry? Or is it the—”

“You look awful,” you cut him off, and Taeyang freezes at the blatant insult.

He rears back to retaliate but pauses when he sees that your face isn’t twisted in disgust but rather… concern?

“When was the last time you slept?”

Now he’s confused, because while the words may seem like they’re out of concern, you ask it in such an accusatory tone.

“I slept fine,” he grits defensively, picking up his quill and turning back to his documents. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

He hears your sharp exhale but he doesn’t look up. Not even when he hears your heels marching across the room and right up to his desk.

“Stop being so stubborn and ridiculous.”

Taeyang’s eyes snap up to you. Your brows are pinched and your arms are crossed. “I’m the one being stubborn and ridiculous?”

You roll your eyes, evading his gaze at the accusation. “At least mine is on purpose,” you grouse before looking at him once more. “You look one punch away from keeling over.”

“No one is punching.”

“I might.”

“Do I need to bring in Intak again?”

“What, so we can gossip by your window again? Go ahead.”

Taeyang scowls. He hates that his own guard has taken such a liking to you that he refuses to obey his own boss’s bidding in favour of yours.

With a deep sigh, Taeyang leans back on his chair and pulls his spectacles off to knuckle away the tension in his eyes.

“What do you need today?” He asks, calling upon his restraint. He’s not sure how he finds so much of that when it comes to you.

“Nothing, actually,” you say, and Taeyang looks up to see you frowning again. “Not anymore. You don’t look well.”

Taeyang’s heart does a complicated thing. He’s not sure if you’re showing compassion or if this is another one of your verbal traps. 

So he tries to swing back with one of his own.

He puts on that smile he knows tugs on the heartstrings of all the maidens he comes across. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve finally come to care for me, princess?”

But it’s a shot and a miss, because your frown only deepens.

“No,” you say. “This is my way of telling you that you’ll kill yourself if you keep continuing this way.”

“What way?”

“This!” You say with a flurried gesture of your hands toward him and his overcrowded desk. “Working yourself to the bone. You look like a zombie. And I’m shallow, alright, I don’t want to marry a man that looks akin to a skeleton.”

Taeyang sighs, shutting his eyes for a moment. “This is simply my work, princess. Nothing to get yourself worked up over. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me to it.”

“Work?” You scoff. “I understand you’re an important figure, that you have a lot of responsibility. But there will be no one left to uphold them if you keep going at this rate.”

His eye twitches again. You just don't get it, do you?

“I know you think you’re being considerate, dear, but father—”

“Gods!” You exclaim, tossing your hands up in frustration. “There we go again with the whole father spiel.”

His eyes narrow as you step away and fall into a pace in a circle, your hands propped on your hips. Taeyang nearly laughs at how quickly you’ve taken the image of a nagging wife.

“I don’t understand you, Taeyang.” 

Taeyang’s breath hitches when he hears his name fall from your lips for the second time. But he doesn’t dare interrupt your rant. 

“I understand you must carry your father’s place one day, and it is a worthy cause.” You stop in the middle of the room, turning to fix your dismayed gaze on him. “But is it really that worthy at the cost of yourself? Of your sanity? I’ve only been here for a month but I can see what he’s doing to you. I can’t imagine how long this has been going on for. And to make it worse, you never fight back! You just roll over and take it!”

He feels the simmering heat of anger start to seep into his skin again. He is not a coward, as you may imply. That’s his problem with you, you just don’t understand him.

He stands from his chair and leans forward, palms braced against his desk. “I must follow in my father’s footsteps,” he starts carefully. “I have to wear the crown one day. I cannot just sit back and expect the transition to go without a hitch that way. And if preparing myself means working myself to the bone, then so be it. This is only a fraction of what it will be like once I actually am King so I suggest you start getting used to it.” Your expression only sours with each sentence, but he doesn’t relent. “I don’t need you to worry, I am right where I have to be. This is my duty.”

You have the nerve to laugh and roll your eyes to the heavens. “There we go again with the duty.” You cross your arms and fix him with another one of your stern gazes. “I understand you upholding your duty, Taeyang—” three “—but that doesn’t mean taking things as they are. If you must work yourself to shreds, fine, but at least do it with some dignity. Your rule will be your rule, not your fathers. You shouldn’t just do things because your father tells you. Do them of your own will.”

His nails dig into the oak. “I can’t just go against his wishes. It doesn’t work that way.”

“That’s ridiculous!” You exclaim. “Shouldn’t you challenge things that you don’t agree with?”

“Sure, in an ideal world,” he concedes. “But this isn’t a fairytale. I have my duties and rules to abide by, and so do you.”

He doesn’t expect you to falter at that. Your expression sobers into something more mournful. “Yes, well… Your duties are far more important than mine.”

Taeyang should feel victorious at the hesitance and the flicker of shame that crosses your gaze, but he can’t. Not when you look like that—vulnerable, almost.

It makes him remember that night he’d bumped into you as you wandered the castle like an aimless child. You looked small. Unguarded, just like this. Young.

It’s a sudden epiphany, the realization how young you really are. How young he is. 

And yet you’re both expected to carry the weight of something so far out of your depth and submit yourselves to a life without say. He understands what you must be feeling; powerless.

You must think he feels the same. And he can’t find himself to fully deny it.

“I understand you must feel frustrated,” he finds himself saying, softer than he intends to.

You blink out of the daze you’d faded into, lifting your wide eyes up to him. He watches in real time as you build those walls back up—straightening your shoulders and folding your hands at your stomach in the perfect poise of a well-trained princess.

It’s eerie how similar your rehearsed coat of arms looks to his.

“I understand my words mean little to you,” you start, voice unnaturally even. “But I hope you’ll realize your power is more than mine. You have the freedom to do what I cannot. To stand up for yourself.” The weight of your words sink heavily into his chest as you pause, your lips lifting in a small, bitter smile. “I envy you.”

It’s the most honest thing you’ve said to him.

And it takes him so far aback that he doesn’t realize when you leave the room.

You disappear for the next few days. But your voice doesn’t. 

It lingers with him through his routines. You have the freedom to do what I cannot.

It tells him to choose for himself. And he finds himself complying. Sometimes, at least.

𓆩⟡𓆪

You’re not sure what the shift was, but you think your words may finally have gotten to him.

Because he doesn’t look like death when you see him again for the first time in days, not in his office for a change.

Much to your surprise, you notice him stepping away from his duties from time to time. Whether that be taking a moment for tea by the courtyard, or a walk through the gardens with either Keeho or Intak by his side, or chatting with the royal family’s healer, a woman that you’ve curiously seen linger around him on more than one occasion.

But the most surprising turn of event is when he’d shown up in the parlor during your flower arrangement session and willingly offered to join you.

“Did you have a stroke in the few days that I haven’t seen you?” You asked, staring wide-eyed at him over the large bouquet of bush daisies in your arms.

“Maybe, but it wasn’t severe enough for me to think bush daisies are the right choice,” he said simply, prying the bouquet out of your arms and practically shoving it towards his sister, who has so graciously been helping you with your errands. “Let’s try azaleas."

You’d watched him in disbelief and in awe as he fussed over flowers for the next hour with a diligence you didn’t expect from him over such a trivial matter. Even the servants were watching the spectacle in amusement and his sister was no better at hiding her incredulity.

And when Keeho and Intak had stumbled into the equation, well, you’d gotten your proof that Prince Taeyang was very capable of the ridiculous antics of a man in his twenties, evident in the scene that had transpired in mere moments of Intak taking the role of a bride that Taeyang walked down a makeshift aisle holding a… colourful bouquet that Keeho had arranged.

You didn’t have the heart to tell them that you hated the arrangement. And you were too distracted by Taeyang’s unusually cheery, childish sense of humor.

It had taken you aback to see him as anything but a stiff puppet, to see him without the hard shell of a Prince but as just a young man. 

You didn’t expect him to join even more of your wedding planning sessions, let alone take them so seriously. But it seems he is a man of surprises.

“This one tastes like dirt,” says Taeyang, staring woefully at the rusk cake in his hand.

The baker, a young girl, hurries over and yanks the rusk from his hand. “I haven’t soaked that in sugar water yet!”

Taeyang blinks at the girl’s frantic bow before she scurries off to the side. “It was just sitting there so I thought…” He trails off.

You purse your lips at him where he stands by the counter, trying to smother your smile. 

You’d watched him drift off from the main island arranged with plated desserts when his eyes caught onto the tray of rusk tucked away on the counter to the side. But you said nothing to stop him because he looked a little bit like a child carrying off with his curiosity, finding it a little too amusing to not just sit back and watch.

“Taeyang,” you call and he whips around to blink at you. “Get back here.”

He bristles, like he’s about to retort, but thinks better of it and shuffles back towards his seat beside you.

The baker moves back to stand across the island from you, waiting nervously for your decree. Jongseob, who’s sitting to her left and has been keeping you company while you waited for Taeyang to arrive, also seems eager for your approval. 

“I like the lemon tart,” you tell the baker, and she and Jongseob both beam.

“It’s too sour,” Taeyang says from beside you. You notice Jongseob’s smile waver.

“That’s what makes it good, ” you argue at Taeyang’s scrunched face.

“Of course you would like the sour stuff.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s the saying? You are what you eat?”

A childish grin pulls at his lips when you can’t find something to retort with, opting to just narrow your eyes at him instead. You then turn your gaze to Jongseob, who flinches at the sudden weight of attention on him.

“How have you dealt with this for eighteen years?” You ask him and Jongseob breaks into a tiny giggle.

“I’d consider myself lucky that I can’t remember a lot of it,” he says lightly. “I’d offer you advice but I don’t think anything would be enough to prepare you for a lifetime with him.”

Taeyang stiffens beside you. “As if it’s any easier with you around,” he retorts with a tongue that’s sharper than it needs to be. Jongseob’s face falls and the baker tenses beside him. “I don’t understand why you’re here anyways, you’re not needed. Shouldn’t you be playing with your little guard boy?”

You’re about to cut in but Jongseob beats you to it. “I didn’t realize you ran the kitchen as well, Your Majesty,” he sneers, angrier than you’ve ever seen the boy before. The sharp looks they share are cold and charged with something you’re clearly not privy to. “Excuse me for traipsing in your untouchable presence.”

He doesn’t allow any space for further argument before he stands and marches out of the kitchen. The baker looks as if she might run out after him but stays put in due of her duties.

The air stays tense as Taeyang places his fork down, rising from his seat. “I vote for red velvet for the cake,” he says, buttoning his coat. He gives an acknowledging nod to the baker who simply keeps her head lowered, face drawn to a hard blank as she nods back. Taeyang doesn’t offer you a second glance as he turns to leave the kitchen. “I must be back to work.”

You’re baffled as you watch Taeyang leave so casually as if he hadn’t just caused an unnecessary scene during your otherwise peaceful day. At least the fight wasn’t with you this time, but your heart tugs for Jongseob.

It’s not your place, but you really can’t let it go ignored. You lift from your seat and rush out after him.

“Your Highness,” you call but Taeyang doesn’t stop as he heads up the stairs. You’re left to stumble after him up as quickly as you can in your heels and long dress. “Don’t you think that was a little harsh? He’s your brother.”

He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he turns into the hallway to his office. “And? You have a sister, surely you have to put her in her place from time to time.”

“Well, yes, but never in that manner. He’s just a young boy—”

Taeyang stops in his tracks and turns to face you so abruptly you nearly tumble into him. You’re taken aback by the near fury you see in his gaze. “He doesn’t need coddling,” he snaps. “He’s been coddled his entire life. If I don’t engage with him in this way, he’ll remain soft and weak.”

His intensity makes you think there’s more at play than simply just an older brother moulding his younger in shape. But you don’t get to ask about it before he barrels on to shut you down.

“No matter what it may or may not be,” he continues, narrowing his eyes at you. “Know your place. Stay out of things that don’t involve you.”

And just like that, everything you thought you’d been building with him for the past few days comes crumbling down. You’re left in the corridor, watching his back disappear down the hall with that bitter taste back in your tongue and a gnawing ache in your heart—a kind you’re not familiar with.

ACT II

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[sungbeam-deactivated20260719]

nonidol!jung sungchan x f!reader

at some point beneath the glittering summer sun and along evening tides, you and sungchan tripped over the line drawn in the sand.

▷ genre, warnings. brother's best friend!au, friends-ish 2 lovers, family vacay + sungchan lol, swearing, kissing, fluff, humor, sungchan does go shirtless (it's a beach), mentions of food, mentions of alcohol; lee jeno, sohee, and anton r ur brothers! (so u have the lee last name but u "look more like ur mom"); barely proofread, also im sorry if this is boring my head has not been in the game for Months

▷ word count. 10.0k

DISCLAIMER: i DO NOT actively write for or stan riize; this is literally just a birthday present T-T so if dynamics/personalities aren't right, i literally don't know these guys 💀

a/n: happiest birthday to my beloved soulmate and wife @justalildumpling :')) i hope u like it <3

OFTEN when you came back home from work, your joints and muscles ached to the point you could barely stand, your hair felt gross on your head, and your eyes stung from dehydration and sleep deprivation. That was the toll of working closing shift at the restaurant you worked at, and had been working at, for the past several years. 

It wasn't out of the ordinary to see the lights in the house still warm and bright when you got home either. Your family was a handful of night owls, not discounting yourself. They had witnessed you in this particular rat-nest dump of a state time and time again, which was why you didn't worry about looking like Death Incarnate. 

“Hey.”

Your soul left your body. 

Sitting on your living room couch was not a family member. Though, he might as well have been a part of it from how much you had been seeing him lately. Jung Sungchan was your older brother Jeno's best friend, but Sungchan was in your year rather than Jeno's. The two met via the high school soccer team and had been good friends since. 

Years later, he was sitting on the living room couch, nearing one in the morning, his hair damp from a recent shower, T-shirt sleeves rolled up his shoulders, and his phone paused from the game he was playing. Your brain was too tired to even register the amount of muscle packed onto his arms (what the fuck—). 

“Sorry, did I scare you?” He chuckled sheepishly, reaching up to ruffle his dark hair, grown out slightly. 

“What are you doing here?” You blurted instead. Exhaustion meant that conventional politeness was completely defenestrated. It was one in the morning on a summer night… usually your older brother was out clubbing or drinking (not that you were any different, but you worked quite a bit more nights lately). 

Sungchan's eyes danced up and down your form. “Jeno and I decided we're gonna pull an all-nighter for the road trip in—” He glanced over at his phone, “—seven hours and just knock out in the car. How was work?”

Road trip? Car ride? If you could just make it to the shower… “It was fine. Tiring,” you said with a sigh. You trudged over to the far side of the room, behind Sungchan, into the kitchen. You grabbed a cup to fill with water, then drained it down your throat just as fast as it had been filled. 

With water in your body, your systems were finally coming back online. Road trip. Car ride. Your eyes widened. “Oh my god. I have to pack.”

“You haven't packed yet?” He queried, tone light and teasing as he watched the progression of your panic with amusement. “Even Jeno's packed.”

You sputtered back at him, “Quiet, you!”

Sungchan's warm laugh followed you out into the hallway and all the way to your room. You couldn't understand why your face felt so hot; you should have been too preoccupied to be embarrassed, after all. 

You slammed your bedroom door shut, dragging a hand down your face. You couldn't believe Sungchan just saw your I-just-worked-for-eight-hours-in-customer-service face. Not even some of your closest friends had seen the aftermath of your night shifts at work yet. 

Crazy. 

It wasn't every family vacation where a plus-one was invited. Your family tried to set aside time for these trips just for the six of you, but this time was an exception. Somehow—you weren't a part of the delegations—Sungchan was invited on this summer's trip to the coast. Your mom mentioned offhandedly it was because Sungchan “was a nice boy,” or something to that effect. Your family rented out a cabin right along the beach for a week, and the lot of you were going to be stuck in the family minivan for a good eight hours together. 

And if Sungchan was tagging along, that meant you were going to have to fight for the middle row seat or—

“Yn—you’re in the back with Sohee and Anton.”

You came to a screeching halt on your way out of the house, a bucket hat shielding your puffy eyes from the waking world, your duffle strapped over your shoulder. It was seven hours later—an ungodly eight in the morning. “What? Nuh-uh; I don't think so.”

Jeno stood only a few meters ahead of you by the door of the minivan, his hands primed on either side of his hips as if he was the self-proclaimed guardian of the car seating chart. “Well, I said so. Sungchan has longer legs than you—”

“Why don't you sit in the back then?” You shot back with a saccharine sweet smile. You were too tired for this shit. 

Sungchan scratched the side of his head as he walked out of the house to stand by you and join the argument, his flip flops thwacking against the ground. “Uhh, I can sit in the back middle seat. It's cool, dude.”

“Sungchan's too tall for the middle seat,” your dad interjected. He took yours and Sungchan's bags to add to the trunk. “Yn's in the back. Sorry, hon.”

“Dad,” you groaned. 

“You can switch with Jeno half way.”

“Dad!” Jeno squawked this time. 

Your father gave a tired sigh, saying more than he would ever say aloud. “Everyone in the car. Can't you two be like Sohee and Anton? At least they're knocked out.”

“They know they'll be sent to the back without question,” you pointed out as you made your way to the minivan. As you passed by your brother, you sent him a very potent stink eye, then clambered into the back row. 

Like your father had said, your younger brothers, Sohee and Anton, were already dead asleep. Their mouths hung open wide enough to catch any wayward fly with their heads angled back against their neck pillows. You snorted and snapped a photo of them to add to your collection of brotherly blackmail. 

Your mom was settled into the front passenger seat already queuing up driving directions to get to the coast. From your perch in the middle, you had a clear view of her phone screen—seven hours and two minutes. Yay. 

You supposed there wasn't anything too terrible about the middle seat; you were out like a light as soon as the car pulled out of the driveway. 

When you woke up, it was about four hours later, and your parents were having a hushed discussion amongst themselves and Sungchan. A baseball cap had materialized on top of Sungchan's head at some point when you were asleep, and the sleeves of his T-shirt were once again rolled up to expose his muscled shoulders. Did this guy not have a tank top?

“...I like it, at least—well, I don't mind all the extra requirements, and I know it'll help me reach my ultimate end goal, so.”

Your mom let out a hum of approval. “Ah, that's good that you like it. You'll be busy as a nurse.”

Right, Sungchan was in the nursing program. Your brother wasa kinesiology major, and you were going into law. It made for quite the diverse pool in the car. 

You opened your mouth in a yawn and fumbled your hand around your lap for where your earbud had fallen out of your ear, carefully so that you didn't shake off Anton's head on your shoulder. (Oh no, was he drooling?)

“Yn-ah, good morning,” your mother teased quietly. 

You glanced up, eyes going wide when you realized both your mom and Sungchan were now peering back at you. “Morning,” you murmured. Your fingers enclosed around your fallen earbud to tuck it into the case left in the bag at your feet. 

“Sleep well?” Sungchan piped up. There was that twinkle in his eyes, the same one from last night. It made your stomach twist in a way that was more pleasant than not. 

You cleared your throat, unconsciously reaching up to adjust the placement of your bucket hat and praying you didn't look like a sewer rat. “For the most part,” you replied. “How about you?”

He shrugged. “I had a decent power nap. Your mom says you're going into law. That's really cool.”

“Oh,” you blinked. “Thanks. And you're in nursing, right? That's cool, too—super admirable.”

Sungchan's mouth widened into a small grin. “Thanks. It's only our first year, but it feels like so much work already.”

“Right? Tell me about it…”

Less than fifteen minutes later, the family van pulled into the parking lot of a diner off the interstate, exactly halfway through your journey. The seven of you, weary and hungry, filed out of the vehicle and into the establishment. You and your parents slid into one booth, while your brothers and Sungchan occupied the one behind you. 

There was a low-spun fan swirling above your heads, an 80s song you vaguely recognized wafting through the air at a dull decibel. Your phone was stashed away in the bag tucked into your end of the booth seat while you idly sipped on your glass of iced water. 

You jolted at the feeling of something light hitting the back of your head. 

A gasp from behind you. 

You rolled your eyes, twisting around in your seat while picking the wadded up straw wrapper from your hair. “Who did it?” You deadpanned. 

The boys table was filled with sheepish expressions, to their credit. Your younger brothers, who were sitting on the far side facing you, thrusted their fingers in each other's faces in a torrent of blame and accusation. 

“Aish, never mind. I don't care who did it,” you dismissed. Your eyes caught onto Sungchan's. He sat just diagonally to your left and for some reason, his eyes on you made you feel warm. 

You flicked the wrapper back; it hit Anton square in the forehead. Jeno barked out a laugh. 

“Nice shot,” Sungchan nodded, extending his fist to you. 

You couldn't suppress the smile from coming onto your face as you bumped his fist with yours. 

Food arrived swiftly afterward, and it was demolished as quickly as it came. In the sway of a palm tree frond, the seven of you were back in the confines of the family minivan. 

The remainder of the car ride carried over quickly. Though Jeno unhappily sat his ass down in your previous spot with you claiming his from before, he and your other brothers snored away five minutes in. You didn't go back to sleep despite having a full belly and less than five hours of sleep under your belt; you watched the world pass by outside the window in a blur. 

Urban skylines melted into rolling emerald mountains and pastures, sank into palm trees and sandy shores that met a blue horizon as far as the eye could see. 

The beach house your family rented this year was a two story cottage-type. It was small, with only one bedroom and bathroom upstairs, a bathroom downstairs, and a living room and kitchen. The rest was all beach. It was determined that you and your mom would be given the honors of the upstairs bedroom and bathroom, while all the boys piled into the living room. 

Once everyone was settled in, there was little else to do but go make use of your new backyard for the next week. 

“Yn! Come on, slowpoke!” Sohee shouted at you from the shoreline with cupped hands. You saw his bare back as he splashed into the waves after Anton, who was already only a speck in your vision. 

Your bare feet sank into the sand, and you wiggled your toes between the warm grains. Sunshine, glorious and concentrated above the distant horizon, soaked into your skin. Ah, this was the life.

Just as you reached for the hem of your shirt to reveal your bathing suit, you caught movement from the corner of your eye. Jeno and Sungchan were coming onto the beach from the front of the house, a disassembled volleyball net hanging between them. 

Your eyes nearly fell out of your head at the sight of Sungchan's back—

Before Jeno or any of your other brothers or Sungchan could catch you ogling, you gave yourself a nice, mental slap to the face. No more. You needed to stop this. When did you ever look at Sungchan like this?

(You could still remember when he was the gangly kid with the growth spurt trying out for the high school soccer team. He was paired with Jeno to test his potential, and the rest was history.)

Sungchan was the first to spot you as he and Jeno determined a place to set up the net. He beamed boyishly, his chin inclining toward you. “Hey, wanna play?”

Your eyes flickered to the corded necklace hanging from his collar and between his—Yn, shut the fuck up. “Sure,” you said simply, feigning nonchalance. 

If he noticed your wandering eyes, he didn't comment. Instead, he nodded back at you. “Sick.”

You both turned back to your original tasks. Your hands went back to the bottom hem of your shirt to tug it up and off your body. (Maybe you weren't the only one with wandering eyes, though.)

You draped your clothes over the back porch railing and began making your way down to the shoreline. “I'm gonna take a dip and then come back up!” You said to Jeno and Sungchan. 

“Oh, okay—ow!” 

You didn't see nor hear what happened, but when you glanced back, Sungchan had his back turned to you as he furiously rubbed the back of his head, while Jeno smiled innocently. 

Your older brother waved you along. “Carry on!” He said. 

Walking backward for a couple steps, you shot him an incredulous look, then turned around to meet your little brothers in the ocean. Whatever. 

You had been staring at the wooden ceiling above your head for the past forty-five minutes. Your mom's even breathing and the ocean waves rolling outside the window failed to rock you into unconsciousness. You'd figured the sunlight from this afternoon would have made you tired, or perhaps all the food you ate for dinner, but your eyes continued to stay wide open. 

A quiet sigh fell from your mouth as you rolled over onto your side and gently peeled the covers off. With near silent footsteps across the oak floors, you slipped out of the bedroom and down the stairs. 

The cacophony of combined snoring from all the men in the living room was comparable to the volume of the waves just outside. 

You barely contained your snort of amusement. You didn't worry about waking any of them up as you crossed the living room, full of a smorgasbord of limbs and bodies draped across the large couch sectional and blankets on the floor. 

The back door was left unlatched when you reached its threshold. Outside, moonlight dappled across the calm sea like a sprinkling of diamonds. You slowly pried the door open, freezing. 

You and Sungchan made eye contact from across the back porch. He was perched on the top step, nursing a bottle of beer in his hand. A loose breeze wafted through the strands of his hair. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, moving to retreat back into the house. 

“Oh, no—please.” He patted the empty space next to him on the porch step. 

You blinked, at odds. He was clearly out here for a reason and you'd figured he wanted some space, but if he was inviting you, then… 

You closed the back door behind you and settled beside him, with a comfortable amount of negative space between your bodies. You folded your arms over the tops of your knees and stared out at the midnight horizon. It smelled of salt and sea spray, and the light wind was a refreshing crispiness against the humid evening air. 

“Couldn't sleep?” He murmured, glancing over at you. 

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He hummed in response. 

“I'm not surprised,” you said. The corners of your lips curled upward. “I wouldn't be able to sleep amongst my brothers either. Their snoring could wake a bear.”

Sungchan sputtered out a laugh as his eyes crinkled upward and he pressed the back of his knuckles against his mouth. “I wasn't gonna say it, but…”

You shared a grin with him. “I will happily say it for you, dude.” 

His eyes were stunning in this lighting. The moonlight hit his irises at an angle that made them shimmer like a shade of molten copper. He licked his lips, and you saw his eyes dart from your eyes, down a few inches, then further down to the beer bottle in his hands. 

“Oh, uh,” he stammered, tipping the bottle nose in your direction, “want some? I thought the alcohol would help me sleep, but it's not looking awfully promising.”

For a split second, your heart leapt at the thought—your mouth pressed against the place his mouth had been, tasting the place he'd drunk from. 

You dashed the thought from your mind. It couldn't have been so significant as your brain was making it out to be. You were probably just sleep deprived. 

“Thanks,” you said while reaching across the gap to accept it from him. Judging by the weight, it was just about half full, and you took a light swig. 

A drop of liquid dribbled out of the corner of your lips, and you swiped it with the pad of your thumb, sticking the finger into your mouth to suck it off. You passed the bottle back over to him, catching his eyes not looking at yours. 

(The organ in your chest was no longer in your chest. Was it normal for your heart to make a home in your throat instead? Why did he look at you like that?)

“Any reason for not being able to sleep?” You asked him to break the silence. “I mean, besides the symphony my brothers and dad are conducting, of course.”

His eyes shuddered, as if breaking out of a trance. “Oh, uhm—nothing in particular, I guess. Maybe it's just from all the excitement. I think it's usually hard for me to sleep in new places.”

You bobbed your head in understanding. “No, I get that. It takes me a little to get used to new environments, too. I don't know how I would have survived if I was living in the dorms at uni and not at home.” The university you attended was a decent commute from your house, so living on campus was never something you gave much thought to. The idea of living independently appealed to you sometimes, but in general, you didn't have a ton of qualms against your circumstances now. 

“For sure,” Sungchan whistled lowly. He contemplated the opening of his beer bottle, then took a gentle sip of its contents. “Have you made a lot of friends? I feel like it's a lot harder than people make it seem.”

You passed him a curious glance this time. “Some, but it's definitely not as easy as high school. You haven't made a lot of friends?”

“The soccer team, mainly,” he chuckled. “The occasional ally in my classes.”

You let out a bright laugh that made his smile widen. “'Ally?’” You parroted. “What a fun word to call classmates.”

“It's true!” He insisted, chuckling. “Some of these professors are evil, man. Competitive grades? Not a chance,” He scoffed. “We're all in this together, even if the curve is against us.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from being too loud, but the rolling waves likely covered your noise plenty. Your family were deep sleepers. 

“I just figured that you meet lots of people,” you offered when your mirth died down to a giggle. You toed a pile of sand sitting on the last step of the porch. “Your socials are pretty active,” you said, “but I guess I shouldn't judge a book by its cover.”

“I could say the same about you, Miss Party Girl,” he smirked. “When are you gonna drag me to a rave?”

Heat raced up to your cheeks. “I've only been to one,” you said, rolling your eyes. He'd seen that post? First, the post-work daze, and now, the turnt raver? “I haven't gone to a party in a few weeks 'cause of finals anyway.” 

Now that you thought about it, you'd been so busy as of late, you couldn't even count the amount of outings you'd declined on your two hands. 

“Trust me, I get it.” He raised his hands in an act of surrender, his knees angling toward you. The negative space was suddenly a lot less negative. 

Another tip of his beer bottle; it swapped hands once, twice more. The liquid dribbled smooth down your throat just as Sungchan knocked the rest back. The empty glass made a dull thunk sound as it hit the wooden porch to Sungchan's right. 

“So what I'm getting,” you drawled, mimicking his position by angling your knees toward his. You felt your legs brush—the stimulus sent a jolt down your nerves that warned of addiction and tasted like the forbidden. “Is that you've never been to a rave before?”

Sungchan gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe I have.”

You mocked his shrug. “Maybe you have.”

“Or maybe it's just that I haven't gone with you yet.”

Even the waves seemed to quiet for a second. Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest, and you tied down the nervous laugh ready to bubble out of your mouth. You bit your lip and found yourself nodding. “We'd paint the town red, Jung Sungchan,” you murmured. 

There it was again—that flicker of his gaze to some place you both knew crossed a line. It was the beer, was what you were telling yourself. It was the beer. 

Seagulls surfed the ever-blue sky. Eternal summer could be thought of as a filter of golden, glittery gauze across one's already rose-colored glasses. But summer, truly, was the shade of Jung Sungchan's tank top peeling off his body as he sprinted down the sandbank after your brother, Anton. 

You watched the fabric whip around in the salt breeze before settling into a heap where his footprint melted into the mineral grains. You were giving Sohee the sunscreen spritz-down up on the covered porch, while Jeno barreled down the bank after his friend and brother. 

From behind you came the scratch of the back door sliding open. You and Sohee peered back to where your mom poked her head out. 

She just barely caught her sunglasses in time as they slipped off her head. “Hey, your dad and I are heading out. Watch each other, okay?”

“Got it!” You and Sohee chirped. 

One more nod from your mom, and then she was gone. Your parents were going to take a date into town, just the two of them. That left you and the boys here with the surf and sand—definitely not a terrible compromise. If you wanted, you could probably have the whole house to yourself, anyway. These guys could entertain themselves. 

“Yn! Sohee!” 

Jeno arced one arm up into the sky to beckon you down to the sea, only to get dragged underwater by his two comrades. You and Sohee harked out twin laughs as you watched Jeno fight for his life with limbs flailing and foam flying into the sky. 

You patted Sohee's shoulder as you set the can of sunscreen onto the porch step. “Alrighty, you're good to go, bro.”

“Thanks—race you down!”

“Hey!” Your laughter echoed as you bolted down the sand after him to join the fun. 

As your feet dug into the wet embankment, your palms made purchase against Sohee's shoulders to shove him into the water. A yelp leapt into the air, and you turned away to avoid getting hit in the face with the consequence of your prank. 

“I'm so gonna get you for that!” Sohee spat water out of his mouth, a wicked grin pulling onto his lips. 

“No, you're not, actually!” 

You bolted—well, stomped, your way through the knee-deep water, furiously trying to get away from karma. Water yanked down on your limbs in a forceful coax to give into your punishment, but you were determined. 

You could hear your brothers’ hollers of encouragement: “Get her, Sohee!” and “RUN, YN, RUN!”

Adrenaline pumped through your veins and you pushed your legs harder. 

“I got her!” Wait, was that Sungchan?—

You suddenly felt a pair of hands on either side of your waist—you swore as your legs came out of the water and your world twisted. 

“No, no, no, no, no!” You squawked, squirming wildly in Sungchan's arms as he scooped you into his hold like a bride. (NO. NOT LIKE A BRIDE. WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE A BRIDE?—) One arm cradled your back and the other under your knees, and he laughed—he chuckled—as you attempted to flip yourself out of his grasp. 

“You're not getting out of this, party girl,” he said close to your ear. 

For a heartbeat, you lost your breath at the rasp behind his words and the grin on his face. But a heartbeat was all he needed. 

There was free fall, and then all sound muffled as cold water engulfed your body. You plugged your nose and screwed your eyes shut. You felt your ass hit the sand at the bottom in slow motion, before the air in your lungs began to lift you back up to the surface of the water. 

You broke out with a gasp, hair flipping back as you furiously swiped your hands down your face to get the water out of your eyes. They stung like a bitch, but you could feel the rush of blood in your ears; it was thrilling. 

A hand in your vision enclosed around yours.

“You asshole!” You scowled up at Sungchan from where you knelt, though it was half-hearted. 

He beamed back at you boyishly with damp hair hanging in his eyes and water running down the crevices of his stomach like a goddamn system of canals. “You're a good sport, Yn.”

“I'm really not.”

You had the distinct pleasure of seeing the smile slip off his face before you used his grip on you to yank him into the water. You swallowed a good half pint of saltwater, but the revenge couldn't have been sweeter. 

When Sungchan's head broke the surface, it was followed by a dog-like shake of his head. You laughed to turn away from the spray of water; Sungchan delighted at the sound. 

Amusement still lingered on your lips as your eyes snagged on the piece of seaweed that made its home on his head. You didn't think twice about it before leaning closer to reach it. 

You stepped forward, and—oh boy, was that a mistake. 

You had a front row seat view of a droplet of water slipping down the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, and the cliff of his chin. You wrestled down a swallow, and pulled the seaweed off his head, flinging it into the water. 

“You had, uhm, a little…”

“Right, thanks—”

You both flinched apart as a man-made wave of water crashed into your sides. “AMBUSH!” Your three brothers declared, springing up out of the water and parading a full-blown attack with all weapons firing. 

You and Sungchan were swift to launch your own counterattack. 

Merriment filled the summer air as much as saltwater embedded into your skin and eyes and mouth. You almost made the mistake of thinking your racing heart was just from the determination to beat your brothers, and not from the guy on your side of the war. The heat was getting to you and the sun was getting to him.  

It was about an hour later that you found yourself lazing upon the slick and smooth plane of a surfboard. The ocean rocked you gently from beneath the board; it had been surprisingly calm all of today. 

At some point, you and the boys established a truce in the Great Water War, mainly because your brothers were hungry and there was a big, juicy watermelon just begging to be cut open and devoured in the house. 

Suffice to say, you let your brothers figure it out. 

Your consciousness faded into the foreground of your mind as a distant sound of splashing neared. You peaked one eye open, lifting the rim of the hat up to see who dared to encroach upon your isle. 

You could recognize Sungchan's mop of hair from a mile away, at this point. You couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing, but why did it have to be either?

He cropped up right beside you, pushing back his hair to keep the water out of his eyes. “Hi.”

A smile curled onto your lips, teasing. “Hi. Good swim?”

“Good nap?”

“As good as one can be on the open ocean,” you said, shifting the hat up so you could see him better, but keeping your face shaded. “I don't know how dolphins sleep with half their brain on.”

Sungchan's brows rocketed toward his hairline. “They sleep with half their brain on? Crazy.”

“I know. I can't even stay awake with half my brain on.”

You and he shared a laugh, and he set a palm on the board next to your body. “Aw, no,” he assured. “If you've got less than half a brain on at all times, then I've got one brain cell.”

“Joke's on you, half my brain is half a brain cell.”

He wrinkled his nose at you. Cute. “Sweetheart, hate to break it to you, but that's not how brain cells work.”

You nearly fell off the board. “Okay, Mr. Know-it-all, do tell.”

“I'm not about to talk about neurons on my vacation.”

You challenged him with a look. “Overruled, counselor. Answer the question.”

His mouth fell open in a stunned daze, and his reaction made you break face for a moment to laugh. He blinked. “I have to be really honest with you…” Sungchan carded a hand through his hair, then pressed his knuckles to his mouth. “That was really hot.”

Was it suddenly five degrees warmer out here? 

If blood rushing in your ears was akin to the sound of waves crashing, there must have been one hell of a tsunami in your veins right now. 

You sputtered a laugh. “You need to get out of the sun—”

“I'm sorry I said that aloud,” he grimaced sheepishly. 

“Nurse? Nurse!—” You feigned raising your head up to look around for an imaginary nurse in the middle of the ocean. “Oh, right. You are the nurse.”

He groaned, tilting his head back and playfully punching your shoulder. “You're so—”

“Hot?”

You howled at the sight of his cheekbones blooming the color of ripe watermelon. “I'm kidding; I'm teasing!”

He sighed, smiling despite the pain etched onto his gorgeous features. “Never living that down, am I?”

You shifted your position to laying on your stomach now, your arms folded beneath your chin. Sungchan carefully turned the surfboard so the tip faced him, and you were trapped in his gaze, head-on. “It was cute,” you consoled. 

“So you think I'm cute?” He cocked a brow. 

“And you think I'm hot.”

He flicked water at you. “Aaand, there it is!” 

You laughed again, delighted at the red lingering on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. God, he was fucking gorgeous. 

A beat passed for a second. Something settled between the two of you, a thing you couldn't yet put a name on, but it had been there since last night. Or maybe it had been there longer, festering in the negative space between you until said space could become something of a memory. 

You weren't sure why he was here—why he'd swum out here to meet you when his best friend was back at the beach house, gorging on watermelon and getting his ass handed to him in Mario Kart by his siblings; why he all of a sudden occupied a part of your mind like the tide creeping up the embankment at four in the afternoon. At first, he was far enough for you to settle into a false sense of security; until all of a sudden, there he was, the foamy waves lapping at your feet and his smile the only thing you could see when you closed your eyes. 

His tongue swiped over his lips and he cleared his throat. “So, uh, watermelon?” That was his original reason for coming out here. (He did volunteer, after all.)

You perked up. “Right, sure. Watermelon.”

“Great.” He broke into a smile, but the corners of it were softer, fonder. You could get used to the look of it. 

There was this saying—the elephant in the room—but here in the cabin living room, it was definitely more of a blue whale. Just completely out of the water, weighing about thirteen tons, the size of twelve school buses… yeah, that sounded about right. 

“GO FISH!” Anton flung his finger across the circle at Jeno with the glee of a kid on Christmas morning. “Suck it!”

Your mom sent an express glare his way. “Anton.”

Your youngest shrunk down sheepishly. “Sorry, eomma.”

The seven of you were settled in the living space this fine evening with a deck of cards. Your parents were on the couches watching the movie on screen and the game before them, while you, your brothers, and Sungchan huddled around the coffee table playing said game. Sunsoaked and weary, it only took one hearty and filling dinner to perk the lot of you right back up like a field of sunflowers.

“This is a stupid game,” Jeno sulked as he examined his hand of cards. 

“You only say that because you're losing,” you pointed out. “Anyways, Jeno, can I have that three?”

Jeno cut you a glare as the rest of the table rolled into fits of laughter. Your smile was cheeky, reaching out to snatch the three Jeno revealed he had during his turn. 

“That's cold,” Sohee snorted. 

Your eyes darted over to Sungchan opposite you. His eyes were glimmering. “Yeah, I didn't know you had so much ruthlessness in you, Yn.”

“Why do you think she's going into law?” Jeno grunted. Though one card less, it meant that he had one less pair in his finished pile. At this rate, you might win and end up with the most pairs. 

“Guys, it's literally just how you play the game.” You nodded over at Sohee. “Sohee, do you have a jack?”

Your younger brother handed it over without ceremony. “Unfortunately.”

“Anton, do you have an ace?”

He shook his head. “Go fish, noona.”

“See?” You said to the rest of the table, but your eyes went to Sungchan's. “The nature of the game.”

They let you off the hook because you didn't plunder everyone of their cards this round. It continued on with Sohee, then Anton, before landing on Sungchan. 

He made a show of considering his cards, a furrow between his brows. He glanced up at you over the rim of his hand and gestured with a curl of his fingers. “I'd like that ace, Yn.”

“Oooh,” Anton giggled. 

Jeno grinned as you extended the ace across the table to Sungchan. “Karma.”

“Thank you—” his fingers grazed against yours as he plucked the card from your grasp, “—very much.”

You pressed your lips into a small smile, nose wrinkling up at him. You had a few cards left to rid yourself of. 

Your dad cleared his throat as he stood up from the couch to bring his empty bowl to the sink. “By the way, are you kids still going into town tomorrow?”

The five of you exchanged brief eye contact with one another. “Yep.”

The idea had come up during dinner after your parents came back. They'd mentioned a variety of activities and little shops to visit that might be fun for you to see, including a hand churned ice cream shop and a port side arcade building. It would just be the five of you going, while your parents would walk down to the beach trails about a mile from the cabin to go hiking. 

In the morning, you and everyone else in the house took your time getting up and ready for the day. Breakfast was taken together at the table before you split off into your separate parties. 

Jeno took the wheel with Sungchan riding shotgun, and you sat in the middle row with Sohee, while Anton occupied the back. You rolled down your window to rest your chin on the fold of your elbow, your sunglasses slipping down the bridge of your nose as you watched the scenery pass by. 

Right in front of you, Sungchan also had his window rolled down with his arm propped on the lowered sill. He chatted animatedly with Jeno about whatever game he and all three of your brothers were playing this morning, but you could feel his gaze go to his side view mirror more than once. 

The ride was an easy, breezy one. 

The main town center bustled with locals and visitors alike in the late morning. Jeno found free parking about a block away, and the five of you walked over as one big group. 

“Ice cream first!” Anton declared with one arm raised toward the sky. 

“I concur,” you chimed in. You lifted your sunglasses up slightly so you could read the town directory easier. “Seems like we're close by.”

Anton nodded in approval. “Onwards, then.”

You and your youngest brother led the way. The idea of ice cream made your mouth water, especially since you could already feel a bead of sweat dribble down your spine. Why was it so goddamn hot?

The shop was a cute, little building with a pink and white striped awning and a large window in the front that gave visitors a front row view into the ice cream churning experience. You snorted as Anton pressed his nose up against the glass, a wide grin splitting his face. 

“You're scaring the workers, dude,” you jested, tugging your brother along. 

Anton scrunched his nose up at you. “You scare me every morning.”

“Just because you're a wimp when I put toner pads on—hey! Do you want ice cream or not?” You cackled as he attempted to flick you square in the forehead. 

Jeno groaned. “Guys, can we please act normal for once?” He asked as he swung the door open for everyone. 

Sungchan beat you to the punchline, slapping his friend on the back while he ducked inside. “That's rich coming from you, man.”

“Hey!” 

The squabble was swiftly swept out of your mind when you stepped foot into the shop. You were nearly knocked over from the potency of the sugary waffle cone scent that occupied the room. At the sight of tubs upon tubs of frozen treats kept within the display case, your entire face lit up, eyes going glassy with wonder. “Oh no, too many to choose from,” you gasped, cupping the lower half of your face. 

Sungchan chuckled beside you as he crossed his arms and assessed the dozen options before you. “I didn't know you were such an ice cream fanatic, party girl,” he mused. He glanced over at you with a fond sort of gleam in his eye. 

“Don't even get her started,” Sohee groaned. “She and Anton have a sweet tooth to rival Willy Wonka.”

Anton flagged down one of the workers, having already found his targets to try. He was in here for less than two minutes and was already rattling off the entire menu to the poor girl behind the counter. 

“Tiramisu sounds really good,” you muttered. Your eyes moved slowly from tub to tub. Another gasp flew from your lips, and you clasped a hand on Sungchan's shoulder. “Wait—but strawberry shortcake—hhhhh.” You wrinkled your brows together, lips pressed into a taut line. 

This was not good. 

“You could always get a double scoop,” Sungchan suggested. 

You bobbed your head. “That's true, but I'm just worried I won't be able to finish, y'know.”

“Well, maybe I'll get one of the flavors you want and we can split.” His shrug was all too casual. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, biting his lip through a smile. 

The organ in your chest gave a hop, skip, and a leap. You weren't sure if it was at the thought of it all working out alright or if it was because of Sungchan's generous gesture. You were telling yourself it was the former, but you could be persuaded it was the latter if given a light shove in that direction. 

When everyone's scoops were paid for, you fell into a loose formation to stroll around town while you finished your treats. 

You and Sungchan were glued to each other's sides out of necessity since you were sharing flavors. Jeno walked on his other side, however, lapping at his cotton candy blue scoop seated upon a throne of waffle cone. The two youngest walked in front, leading you all to wherever they wished to go. 

The town itself was rather quaint when you finally soaked it in. It seemed like the kind of place everyone knew everyone, and if you were new or only visiting, the locals were just as friendly and welcoming. The town center was stocked with anything a resident might need—a small grocer down the street, clothing stores and restaurants lining the boulevard, a newspaper stand at the corner, a laundromat, a hardware store, and more places you were certain you wouldn't be able to see in just one walk. 

As you scooped a bite out of some of the last bits of tiramisu in Sungchan's cup, Jeno was summoned up to his brothers who were debating over which way they should turn next. You and Sungchan lingered behind to finish off the ice cream in your respective cups. 

Just as you slurped up the melted shortcake ice cream at the bottom of yours, your eyes caught onto a storefront behind Sungchan. It was decked out in cliché boho-chic, with braided nets, shells, and sand dollars in the window and over the door frame. The souvenir shop seemed to embody the quintessential tourist trap, and you didn't mind falling into it. 

“—guys, we're gonna go to the arcade now!” Jeno said, beckoning you and Sungchan over. They must have decided on a route then. 

You made your decision. “You guys can go ahead! I'm gonna pop into this place for a second. I promised I'd get my friend Minjeong something.” Minjeong was one of the few close friends you made at university, and though you didn't promise to her face you'd get her something, you were determined to get her a little trinket as a token of your affection. 

“You're gonna go alone?” 

You blinked. “Yeah, I'll just meet you guys at the arcade.” 

Sohee piped up, “But mom said buddy system.” Okay, you should probably honor that, but it wasn't as if the four of you always followed that rule. 

“I'll go with you.”

All eyes went to Sungchan who tossed his empty cup and spoon into the nearby trash can. He gave a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. “I wanted to get my mom something anyway.”

You tilted your head to the side curiously as Jeno narrowed his eyes at Sungchan, like they were communicating telepathically. Odd. 

In fact, you didn't really know what to think about being alone with Sungchan. There was a difference between coincidentally ending up on the porch together or conversing in the ocean away from everyone else, to purposefully breaking off from the group to spend time with each other. 

Then again, he said he was getting something for his mom. That gave a different implication to him volunteering to accompany you. The goal was capitalism, not something forbidden.

Maybe you were thinking about this too much. 

“Okay, fine,” Jeno relented. “We'll meet you at the arcade, but don't take too long or we'll leave without you.”

“Aye-aye,” you teased, raising a hand to wave goodbye to your brothers. “C'mon, Sungchan.”

You dumped your empty ice cream cup and spoon into the trash before slipping inside the souvenir shop with Sungchan following right after you. You lifted your sunglasses up on top of your head, skin prickling with gooseflesh from the draft of air conditioning wafting overhead. A soft-toned acoustic played in the background, accompanied by the cheery greeting of a staff member from behind the register. 

You and Sungchan lifted your hands in warm reply, then disappeared into the aisles to explore. 

Your fingers grazed along the racks of clothes branded with the beach town's name and minimalist artwork; your eyes roamed over the ships displayed in bottles on the walls, the not-for-sale surfboard hung for decor. Like many souvenir shops, there were several turning displays that boasted rows upon rows of themed keychains with specific names engraved into them. 

“I will never find my name amongst these,” Sungchan mused quietly from beside you as the two of you rifled through the surfboards and seashells and sharks. “And yet, I look for the S names all the time.”

“Valid,” you nodded. “Sometimes I can't find my name either, but it's the hope that gets you.”

“And fails you,” he pointed out.

“Touché.” 

Near the keychain displays stood a tower of hats and head accessories galore. There were crocheted bonnets, straw hats, ball caps, and even headbands. Your expression glittered as you plucked up a headband with twin sunflowers on the top like a pair of antennas. 

After hanging your shades on your shirt color, you donned the headpiece, twirling around to show Sungchan. “Thoughts?” You asked, failing to sweep your grin away. 

Sungchan beamed back at you. “Oh, you're too cute.”

You ignored the heat creeping up the back of your neck to reach for another headband—this time, one topped with red crab claws. Sungchan graciously bowed his head for you to crown him with the piece. 

“Fabulous,” you declared with your hands on your hips. 

He peered into the small mirror to the side of the hat rack. “You think?”

“Of course.” So much so, that you pulled out your phone to snap a picture. You tilted your head toward his to fit both of your faces and headbands in the frame. 

Sungchan peered over your shoulder to take a glimpse at the photos. His tongue was jammed into his cheek, and you could feel his breath along the shell of your ear. “Send me those?”

“I'd need your number first.”

He grinned boyishly, roughing a hand through his hair before taking your phone from you. “You don't even have to ask.”

As he saved his contact information into your phone, you attempted to calm the giddy butterflies in your stomach by peering back into the mirror at the headband on your head. You squished the plush sunflower heads with your fingers, humming thoughtfully. “I low-key wanna buy this.”

He glanced up from your phone before handing it back to you. “If you buy that one, I'll buy this one,” he replied, pointing up at the crab claws on his head. 

“You're such an enabler,” you jested. A beat passed. “Okay, but only if you get it with me.”

“That is what I said,” he chuckled, eyebrows arched. 

The remainder of the time you and Sungchan spent in the shop was mainly to figure out what you would purchase for Minjeong and what Sungchan would buy for his mom. (Mainly, implying that there was still room for shenanigans.) It took a little more than half an hour, but you both emerged from the souvenir shop with a gift bag each, containing your headbands and the baubles bought. 

The arcade was only about a ten minute's walk from your location, so you and Sungchan took your sweet time getting there. As the two of you walked—the backs of your hands grazing against one another, shoulders bumping—you nearly forgot that Sungchan was your brother's good friend. Jeno had never made it a point that you and his friends should never mix, and you knew he could care less about your love life, but this was different. (Was it?) It felt like something that shouldn't happen, and yet, why were you starting to want it so badly?

The outside of the arcade was a cream colored building, much like the others in town, but with large posters on the outside beckoning guests to come in and try their hand. Your brothers texted you to let you know they were in a game of laser tag right now, so that gave you and Sungchan a little more time to yourselves within the arcade. 

“I have an idea!” Sungchan grabbed your free hand and hauled you off toward something in the distance. 

The feeling of your fingers slotting with his had more than just your steps skipping. “Hey, man—you and your long legs need to chill!” You hollered at him through a laugh. 

He sent you a look over his shoulder before stopping at one corner of the arcade. With jazz hands, he presented his marvelous idea. “Ta-da!”

Before you was an all-time classic: Dance Dance Revolution. 

Your eyes widened just as your smile did. “It's like you read my mind,” you marveled. 

The machine was just like the movies with a multicolored screen of bright blues and purples, a platform with two sets of arrows in the floor, and two arched rails at the back for each player to hold onto as they danced the night away. 

Sungchan marched up onto the platform and fished a wadded up paper bill out from his wallet. “Have you played before?”

When the machine devoured his money, the screen leapt to life and blasted its opening music to announce that somebody was willing to step up to the challenge. 

You set your gift bag down at the foot of the platform and climbed up to join him. “I've only seen it done before, but I've always wanted to try it.”

You and he locked eyes, and you were sure the twinkle in his was a reflection of just how excited you were. 

“Well, today is your lucky day, party girl,” he chirped. “Let's see what you've got.”

It didn't take long for you to figure out that “what you've got” was a lot less than whatever Sungchan had. 

You grappled onto the railing behind you tightly as you stomped your feet against the coordinating arrows that flashed on-screen. How long had it been since that fateful first round? Ten minutes? Two days? It was all mashing together. 

“This is unfair; you have longer limbs,” you groaned after missing a few arrows in a row. Why were you so out of breath?

A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of Sungchan's head. It was almost comical how serious you were both taking this game. “I have practice,” he corrected cheekily. 

“Same difference!”

“A master never blames his tools.”

You huffed. “Bullshit.”

At this point, your losses were becoming ridiculous. Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

For a sequence you knew you were going to miss, you leaned over and pinched his side. Sungchan jolted—it did the trick, and he missed the steps. His head whipped over to you, an impish gleam in his irises. 

“Oh ho ho… you wanna play that game?”

You placed your hand on your hip as the round ended. “If I'm gonna lose, might as well go out with a bang.”

His tongue swiped over his lip. “You're on.”

The next round commenced, and adrenaline spiked through you like a spear, more powerful than before. You knew to expect Sungchan's revenge, but you struck first. 

A poke at his side resulted in a tickle at your waist. You returned his parry with a blind poke at his stomach. 

Anticipating his response, you spotted his arm incoming out of your periphery and moved to step out of his reach. Instead of solid platform, however, your breath hitched at the feeling of half your sandal slipping off the edge. 

Sungchan's eyes went wide and his arm instead curled around your waist and hauled you to him. “Shit,” he muttered, “are you okay? Sorry, that was totally my fault.”

Your palms had landed on his chest, your heart rate slowing but not fast enough. All of the excitement in your veins was likely more so from the game itself, and not from almost falling off the platform… and perhaps, another part of it was you realizing just how close you and Sungchan were now. 

You nodded. “Yeah, I'm completely fine; don't even worry about it. And it wasn't your fault—I miscalculated my step and I started it anyway.”

He pressed his lips together. “Still.”

“Nice catch, by the way,” you said quietly. 

You saw his eyes leave your gaze, and this time, you followed in his movements. He ducked his head, almost shyly. “I guess so,” he chuckled. “I'm glad I caught you.”

If anything, your heartbeat was gaining speed again. The hand pressed into your waist was a little more addicting than you would have liked, and his mouth was closer than you thought it had been. 

In the neon glow of the Dance Dance Revolution screen, you and Sungchan leaned toward one another with one aim, and one aim only. 

“Hey guys!” 

You leapt off the dance platform at the same time that Sungchan zipped to his side, gripping the railing with an expression akin to a deer caught in headlights. 

You pressed a hand against your palpitating heart and turned to find all three of your brothers bounding over to where you and Sungchan were. 

“Oh my god,” Anton gasped, “is that DDR?”

It seemed that Anton and Sohee were more focused on the game than yours and Sungchan's compromising position. But Jeno… you noted the suspicious narrowing of his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest…

You swore you and Sungchan swallowed at the same time. 

“Did we interrupt something?” Jeno drawled. 

“Nope!” 

You and Sungchan looked at each other at your simultaneous answer. Great. That definitely wasn't even more conspicuous or anything. 

Jeno pressed his lips together. “Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced. “Well, Mom and Dad texted and asked for us to meet them at the house, so we've gotta go.” He lifted the screen of his phone up for you to see. Dear god, you hadn't even realized they'd texted the group chat.

You cleared your throat. “Right.” 

You picked up your gift bag, and your younger brothers immediately flanked you on either side to gush about the game of laser tag they had just partaken in. Though you nodded and engaged in their conversation, your mind was elsewhere. 

Plus, it was hard not to be hyper aware of the fact that Sungchan was now alone to face Jeno somewhere behind you. You were not looking forward to the car ride back.

There were always some, unspoken fine lines that should not be crossed—at least, purposefully. In retrospect, you knew Jeno didn't care about who you chose to spend your time with, as long as they treated you right. In the same vein, you didn't care much about what he thought when it came to your own decisions, and yet, you found yourself caring a little more because this was one of his friends. Not yours. 

But feelings were feelings… and you were slowly coming to terms with yours. 

It was like déjà vu when you crept down the stairs in the dead of night for the second time this vacation. You simply could not bear staring at that wooden ceiling any longer with your mind reeling from this afternoon's events. 

The living room was yet again a cacophony of light snoring, and you crossed the room toward the back door once more. 

You paused again, the sight of Sungchan's back a familiar one. Instead of sitting on the porch steps, though, he leaned against the railing, gazing out at the dark waves. It was yet another calm night out on the embankment, but the moon tonight was hidden away behind a few wisps of cirrus clouds. 

He glanced over his shoulder at you. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you greeted softly, gently closing the door behind you so you could join him at the railing. It was funny how you both were on the same wavelength. Fate had a funny way of encouraging you.

You and he hadn't properly spoken since the arcade, and Jeno hadn't said a word about it to you either. Dinner had gone on normally enough, so you were unsure of where this all stood. 

“I wanted,” Sungchan began, “to talk to you about something.”

You glanced over at him and found his eyes already on you. “Sure, of course.”

He straightened, gesturing to the sandy beach beyond. “Walk with me?”

You nodded and followed him down the porch steps. Your feet met the cool grains of sand, and a sense of calm seeped into your bones from the bottom up. 

A hand outstretched in your vision, uncertain. You clasped your hand in his palm, and the pair of you began to walk. You couldn't recall whether you began to adore the feeling of your hand wrapped up in his earlier or just now. 

“So…” you trailed off. 

“So,” he picked up. “About earlier today. I wanted to, uhm, make sure we were on the same page about something.” 

He stopped you both when you were a good distance from the house, where the waves slipped along the sand louder than the snores. 

“I had a really fun time with you today,” he said. 

You nodded your head in earnest. “I had a great time with you, too.”

He smiled then, hand letting go of yours to drag over his face. “I'm—I’m happy to hear that,” he replied, and you were sure he was trying to hide his growing giddiness. 

You reached over and gently pried his hands away from his face. “Did Jeno talk to you about today? Did he say anything?” Before he could reply, you added, “Because I know he means well, but who I choose to spend my time with is my decision. If he can't handle us together, then he'll have to learn to suck it up.”

“He did say something to me about it,” Sungchan admitted, “but it was just to make sure I wasn't playing around.” With his hands locked in yours, he gave your palms a reassuring squeeze. “And Yn, I'd like to take you out sometime—properly. No playing around.”

No more toeing the line in the sand. 

Your heart rattled violently in your chest. “I'd really like that.”

His expression melted into something tender, like the dark swirls of molten chocolate in the scoop of tiramisu ice cream. His thumb grazed over the back of your hand. “Okay,” he murmured, barely audible over the soft laps of the waves, “good.”

He considered you for a moment longer, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “I also—I did intend on kissing you earlier today, and I probably should have prefaced it, but—mmmh!”

You looped your arms around his neck and pulled his mouth over to yours. He sank into your hold with a content hum, his hands slipping around your waist to tug you closer to him. You'd never really thought about what kissing Jung Sungchan would be like, but you knew that your imagination couldn't have been better than this. 

When you broke apart with your foreheads pressed against each other and sharing breathing air, you let out a small laugh. The sound coaxed a warm chuckle out of your counterpart. 

“Sorry,” you breathed against his lips, “I probably should have asked first.”

He smiled against you. “You can apologize by kissing me again.”

He most certainly didn't have to tell you twice.

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed! (idek if that was good, im off my Game and off my Rocker dkfnrj)

m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @meosjinn @fluorescentloves @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @kflixnet

[sungbeam-deactivated20260719]

nonidol!park seonghwa x f!reader

you and park seonghwa, petty rivals since the third grade, can't stand the sight of each other. at least, that's what you both claim. sometimes, getting the truth out of two stubborn people just requires turning up the heat. ❧

▷ genre, warnings. nc-17. academic rivals 2 lovers, college au, by definition this is a slow burn, swearing, drinking, angst, moms comparing you to other children </3, petty rivalry bc why r they like this in college it's been 12 YEARS—, kissing at some point i promise, STEM </3, business major slander (it is justified for this character LOL), i spent two whole paragraphs describing how seonghwa gets out of a pool, like one suggestive line, slice of life, gets a little sappy at the end, brief mention of blood

▷ word count. 30.4k (ao3 link)

▷ associated tunes. the winner takes it all (abba), lemon drop (ateez), angeleyes (abba), i think i'm in love (kat dahlia)

a/n: this is my submission for the live alive! collab!! go check out everyone else's fics too <3 pls enjoy!!

SOME THINGS WERE JUST meant to ruin your entire day.

“0% chance of rain, huh?” you muttered wryly as you stared out at the torrential downpour with a scrunched nose.

“Good afternoon, Aurora County! It seems that our region has been hit with an unexpected storm. Get your umbrellas and raincoats out, everyone—especially if you're in the KQ University area—we’ll be in for a very wet evening,” came the voice of the news anchor from the local channel. It was broadcast on the small flatscreen hoisted up in the corner of the corridor behind you. He sounded all-too jolly for the current state of your world.

You let the front door to the sociology building slam shut behind you—not before it whipped one last gust of air conditioning at your back—leaving you to the storm, the heat, and your own devices. How the hell were you supposed to walk home in this?

The day had commenced rather uneventfully, as most mundane days in the middle of the week did. Spring quarter was in full swing with midterms creeping up faster than you could run out of this obscene amount of rain.

You racked your brain for any friends with a car who might have still been on campus. There was a decent chance there was someone around who could give you a ride back to the house, right?

BEEP BEEP!

You nearly flew out of your skin at the sound of a car honk going off down the steps from where you stood. In this small back street on campus, there weren't many cars that passed by who weren't instructors or TAs.

You squinted out into the heavy downpour as the passenger window to the silver sedan rolled down. “Oy! Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna let me drown before you get in here?”

“Wooyoung?” you shouted back, disbelief stark on your face. If he was in the passenger seat, then who was…

There was a blur of dark hair behind Wooyoung's head in the driver's seat, and you cursed under your breath. It didn't matter; all that mattered was that you got out of this rain. Any friend of Wooyoung's was a friend of yours.

You made a mad dash down the stairs and out to the street with your hand shielding your eyes and your head ducked to keep from being blinded by the fat splotches of rain. You crashed into the backseat of the car, hair slightly damp, skin a little damper. The AC was blasting from the front vents, blowing back a mixture of Wooyoung's signature oak and vanilla-bourbon, as well as a hint of something softer and sweet from the driver's side. AOA's Miniskirt shimmied out from the speakers under the loud accompaniment of the rain drumming overhead as you clocked the C-3PO Lego figurine on the dash.

“Hey, thanks,” you exhaled out sharply as you maneuvered around to deposit your backpack at your feet and get yourself strapped into the seat. Your eyes went to the driver's side, eyeing the dark hair at the back of his head. He looked familiar—

“If you don't buckle your seatbelt in ten seconds, the car will start yelling at you,” drawled a voice that made your stomach drop.

Swiftly, that realization shifted into a hot flash of annoyance, one that made your nose wrinkle and the corner of your mouth dig into your cheek with disdain. The C-3PO made sense all of a sudden. “Oh,” you droned as your seatbelt clicked into place, “it's you.”

Wooyoung's head hit the back of his seat with a loud groan. “Please, God.”

“The rain is waiting for you if you'd prefer that to me,” Park Seonghwa said to you through the sharp slant of his eyes in the rear view mirror. You didn't need to see his face to hear the saccharinity lacing his words like venom. “It wasn't my idea to—”

“Enough!” Wooyoung screeched, fingers digging into his hair. “You two are so loud sometimes, and that's coming from me!”

You folded your arms over your chest in the manner of a petulant child. You had been in the backseat of Seonghwa's car a total of five times—and you would attest to everyone you knew that it was at least somewhat unwilling each time.

“Sorry,” both you and Seonghwa grumbled under your breaths. At this rate, you knew how annoying yours and Seonghwa's pettiness could be to your friends. It was something that couldn't be helped, even at the ripe age of twenty-something—some things just could not be forgotten. And some people were just meant to ruin your day.

Wooyoung loosened a sigh from his breath that sounded so akin to your mother's. “Yeah, yeah. Let's go, I'm hungry.”

Seonghwa tugged the car into drive and the wheels peeled away from the curbside.

The drive from campus to where your house was located wasn't a long one by any means. Walking took far longer than driving, and if it wasn't raining like the world was ending, you wouldn't have minded the walk. You stared out the window to your right, watching the university district pass by behind a curtain of raindrops chasing one another down the glass pane.

“So I'm guessing this means the car wash fundraiser is gonna be cancelled,” Wooyoung piped up after the last song ended. The synthesizer of the next song began to drift out from the speakers.

You turned to look at the back of his head in front of you. “Oh shit, you're totally right,” you said. “I mean, the rain kind of beat us to it.”

There was a click of a tongue from the driver's seat. “Sucks,” he muttered. “I was looking forward to raking in more cash than you, Ln.”

You didn't bother to hold back a roll of your eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Park,” you shot back. A spare raindrop rolled down from your hairline, and you reached up to swipe it away just as it dribbled down the side of your face. When you glanced up to meet Seonghwa's eyes in the rearview mirror, he darted back to look out the front windshield, as if burned by the eye contact—or from being caught.

“Aish,” Wooyoung muttered. “I think we all know I'm the moneymaker of our society.”

A snort fell from your lips, and Wooyoung let out a squawk of indignation. “What was that?” He twisted around in his seat, hands clutching the back of the headrest as he scowled back at you. “Say it to my face, Ln.”

You grinned. “Yeesh, so much of my last name today. You know you boys would have lost, right?”

The three of you had all been a part of the same pre-health student society since the beginning of your college careers. In kind, that meant that you also orbited similar social circles. You and Seonghwa had known each other the longest out of everyone here, having hailed from the same high school, the same community, and the same goddamn neighborhood block. (The universe had it out for you, truly.)

As the end of the school year was rolling around, your society was due for its standard round of fundraising. The idea that the leadership came up with before Spring Break had been that of a car wash fundraiser in bathing suits, and a competition between whether the guys or the girls could raise more money. One could always count on the male gaze, right? But now that this unexpected and early summer storm hit your county this week, it was doubtful that the fundraiser would still go on.

You could hear Wooyoung rolling his eyes through his voice. “I guess leadership is gonna pivot to that speed dating idea then, huh?”

“Changing the subject now, are we?”

“Shut up!”

Your mood remained afloat the entire rest of the drive.

When the car began to slow as it neared the apartment complex Wooyoung lived in, you began to gather your things along with him. The rain had yet to let up, but your educated guess told you that you could make it down the street without your backpack flooding.

Seonghwa slid into an empty space along the front curbside, and Wooyoung was already hollering his gratitude, shoulder shoving his door open.

“Hey, where are you going?”

You stopped just before you opened your own door, your backpack half on and making you sit at an awkward angle. You turned slightly toward the man who had spoken up and met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I'm leaving?” you replied.

His eyebrows furrowed. “But you don't live here.”

Even Wooyoung stalled outside the car as the rain pummeled the top of his hood. “Yeah, Yn, you don't live here—”

“Wooyoung, can you please close the door before half the car gets wet” —SLAM— “thank you.” Seonghwa saluted to his friend through the passenger window as Wooyoung shouted something unintelligible from outside. The rain made it impossible to hear him, but he didn't wait to repeat himself, and ducked his head while sprinting for the apartment door.

The driver returned his attention to the front. “I'm driving you to your house,” he said, and signalled to get out onto the street again.

“You don't have to do that. Your place is, like, the opposite direction—”

“It's just a block away,” he countered. “Do you not want to be dropped off right outside?”

You deflated slightly. You definitely did, but was it not inconvenient to drive further up the street when his own living situation was back the way you just came? You could understand stopping at Wooyoung's apartment because it was in the middle, but enduring not one, but two U-turns in the congested, stormy university streets was not something you were wishing on anyone. Even Park Seonghwa.

He took your hesitation as your answer. “That's what I thought.”

Whatever. If he wanted to drive the extra block, the extra two U-turns, and spend the extra time in the congested rain with people who didn't know how to drive, then that was his prerogative.

The car was silent for the next three minutes, barring the radio being played at a low volume. Just as he said he would, Seonghwa pulled his car right up into the driveway of the house you shared with six other girls.

He let the engine stall as you maneuvered your second backpack strap over your shoulder. “Thanks,” you said quietly, hand lingering on the door handle.

Seonghwa carded a hand through his hair absentmindedly. “Yeah, sure. I'll see you at Trivia Night then, I guess.”

“See you when I wipe the floor with you again, you mean?” you asked as you climbed out of the car, holding an arm over your head.

“Close my goddamn door, Yn—”

Your laughter was interrupted by the slamming of his backseat door and muted by the downpour.

Trivia Night was held every Thursday evening in the basement of the anthropology building. It was the only classroom available at your required hours equipped for all of the society's needs; plus, its projector was still in working condition and it certainly beat the chemistry laboratory building's No Eating policy.

As a handful of the society's members gathered once again, it was beneath the dense storm clouds of the region's recent summer-like showers. This evening's theme was Homeostasis, an apt topic to study when the temperatures lately were far greater than any this city had ever endured in mid-April. When the sky wasn't unleashing the floodgates of Hell over KQ University, it was inflicting a diabolically humid atmosphere.

“Do I really need to know the technical term for your hair standing erect?” Choi San groaned as he waved a hand at the screen, while the traumatic rhythm of the Kahoot theme song distressed everyone in the room.

Society President, exhausted fourth-year, and medical school-hopeful Kang Seulgi had her boots propped up on the desk at the front, crossed at the ankles. She tossed a chip into her mouth. “Hey,” she said and pointed at him, “don't come cryin’ to me when you see 'piloerection’ on your MCAT and you can't remember why it's relevant.”

From the back row of the desks, Song Mingi hollered out, “Can we switch to physics yet?”

A wave of groans swept through the room in a unanimous objection. The third-year math major widened his eyes at the reaction to his words, expression screaming, 'What'd I do?’ His desk neighbor and best friend, Jeong Yunho, wheezed and slapped a hand onto Mingi's shoulder.

“The only person who actually prefers the physics questions is you, Mingi,” Seonghwa teased from where he sat a few desks to your left. As the only person who had ever ventured past calculus, Mingi was, in turn, the only person in the room who favored math-based topics and was also good at them.

Mingi shrugged his shoulders helplessly and gesticulated wildly between Seonghwa and you. “I can't help that you and Yn suck at math.”

You whirled around in your chair. “Hey! Why am I being pulled into this?” you asked, mouth agape.

“Because you and Hwa have been neck-and-neck for first place for the past twenty questions!”

“It's only 'cause I'm letting her catch up,” came Seonghwa's flippant reply, feigning boredom as he glanced down at his phone screen.

Your head snapped over him so fast, you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “Oh, you're letting me catch up?”

He met your gaze like a challenge, mouth curling into the kind of smirk that made your heart pump (with absolute malice, of course). “I said what I said.”

“Alright.” Kim Hongjoong clapped his hands from the seat beside Seonghwa while sending his own friend a pointed look. “Seulgi, if you'd please just—let’s move on.”

Seulgi blinked, her chip-equipped hand freezing mid-air. “My show was just getting started.”

“You're so messy,” snorted Soyeon as she slapped a palm over her mouth. She turned to you and placed a placating hand on your arm. “Sorry, babe.”

Your mouth pursed together in an unamused pout, but you were far from being actually offended. Any agitation you might have felt would only be aimed at the guy a few desks down from yours who had yet to wipe that audacious smirk off his face. As your friend and housemate Ronnie liked to remind you, sometimes it felt as if you and Seonghwa bickered like cats for fun. You could not disagree more; the pettiness between you was far more serious than you were proud enough to admit.

Seulgi smiled to herself and shook her head, then clicked something on her keyboard. “Oh, before we move on, I thought we'd take a brief commercial break and talk about our upcoming fundraiser.” She muted the Kahoot theme, and the entire room seemed to deflate, all tension seeping out of your postures.

The tab switched to the one on the far left, revealing a PNG of a graphic copy-and-pasted into a document. You leaned back in your seat, loosely folding your arms over your stomach, as you picked out the words “bracelet-making” and “matchmaking.” The idea was not something you had seen or heard of on campus yet, and you found yourself nodding absentmindedly. Bracelet-making was cute.

“Leadership has decided,” said Seulgi as she wiggled her salty fingers at the screen, “that since the weather has so graciously ruined our plans for this weekend, we would move onto phase two of our fundraising and postpone the car wash idea.”

“So we're not going forth with the speed dating thing?” Wooyoung piped up from somewhere near San, Yeosang, and Jongho's seats.

Madam President shook her head. “Nah. Well, we're just not advertising it as speed dating; it's more like 'friendship matching’ and making friendship bracelets. The student association doesn't like the idea of actual matchmaking for some reason. We'll just be pairing everyone who decides to participate through this” —she scrolled down to highlight a hyperlink— “form. Anyone can join for an entry fee of eight dollars, which includes all of the bracelet-making materials, too.”

Lee Chaeryeong lifted her hand slightly to catch Seulgi's attention. “And this is not happening this weekend, right?”

“No, it'd be too fast of a turnaround, so it'll be hosted two weeks out. Any other questions?”

“What’re your pairing criteria?” Seonghwa posed.

Seulgi shrugged. “That's for me to know and you to never find out. And Hongjoong is sworn to secrecy, so don't even try.”

You chuckled to yourself, glancing over in the pair's direction. Hongjoong was shaking his head and smiling as Seonghwa nudged him in a joking attempt to coax an answer out of him.

When there were no more questions for the moment, Seulgi nodded her head and switched back to the Kahoot host screen. “Remember to repost the announcement on your Instagram stories, or I will make you suffer during our next Trivia Night. Okay! Next question…”

The remainder of Trivia Night went as anyone could predict: you and Seonghwa tied for first place. No one was surprised.

As members began to trickle out of the room following adjournment, it left only a select few. Soyeon, Seulgi, Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho remained; all five of whom surrounded the instructor's desk at the front of the room that Seulgi occupied to share her bag of chips.

Seulgi gestured at Soyeon with a vague wave of her chip. “I’m surprised you didn't go home with Yn. Don't you guys share a house?”

“Yeah, but my friend Miyeon's got this rehearsal she's wrapping up soon,” said Soyeon, “so I told Yn to go back before me since she has some things to do.”

“Oh, wait. Don’t you guys have that biochem exam coming up?” Jongho chimed in.

Those around him, barring Seulgi, groaned altogether and Jongho snickered. Though most of the third-years in the society were actively enrolled in a biochemistry course, not all of you were in the same section. You, Soyeon, and Seonghwa were in an earlier section, while everyone else had a later section. Both sections were taught by the same professor, though, so both sections’ pain was quite similar.

“Don't remind me,” Yunho grunted and he slipped another chip past his lips. “That’s what I'll be working on all weekend now that we don't have the car wash fundraiser.”

“Speaking of,” Mingi piped up, nodding to Seulgi, “how are you planning to make pairs for the bracelet-making thing?”

The president narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head. “Just because you brought me muffins last week, Song Mingi, does not mean I'm gonna let you pull anything out of me.”

“Okay, but” —Yunho raised his palm, tongue jammed between his grin— “can you at least tell us if you're gonna put Yn and Seonghwa together?”

“So you want whoever's near them to suffer?” Jongho asked incredulously.

Yunho's smile only widened. He lifted both hands now in a gesture. “C'mon! I can't be the only one tired of their back-and-forth. They can't really hate each other. Soyeon” —he shot a finger gun her way, catching the girl mid-chip— “you have to know something about this. You live with Yn.”

Soyeon finished chewing her bite, her expression screwing up into something both contemplative and frankly, disturbed. “I mean, I don't know what you expect me to say…”

“Well, does she bring him up a lot? Because I feel like Hwa definitely brings her up in conversations.” Anyone who was close to Seonghwa could name at least five instances where the man in question spontaneously inserted your name into the conversation. Outsiders who were unfamiliar with your dynamic would think too naively that he was talking about someone he didn't see as his academic rival since the goddamn third grade. (Yunho still shook his head at that. And they called him Mr. Overcompetitive?)

“Yes, but it's to, y'know, complain about him!”

Jongho cocked his head to the side. “We're not counting that then?”

Both Seulgi and Soyeon replied at once, “It's complicated.” They whipped their heads around to look at each other, then bursted out laughing.

The boys present could only blink at them.

“Okay, okay,” Soyeon said through a last huff of laughter, “I do have to admit that there's no way she engages in these verbal sparring matches all the time with him for fun. Maybe I'm delusional, but she… looks at him.”

Yunho thumped his fist against the desk. “So does he! Look at her, I mean.”

“Third grade until now is a long time for a slow burn arc,” Seulgi mused.

“It's about goddamn time though.”

Soyeon waved her hands around to stop the conversation. “Now wait a minute, I'm not saying that she has feelings for him—”

Yunho grinned. “You're not,” he agreed, “but we're just putting two and two together. If you think about it, if they actually just liked each other, wouldn't that make a lot of sense? All the bickering is just foreplay!”

“Good grief.”

“I'm just saying!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “I think Seulgi should pair them up for the event, so they'll finally realize that the only tension between them is—”

Soyeon put a hand to her brow. “Don't say what I think you're gonna say.”

“I think they need to make out and get it over with.”

“If they can get over their massive egos first,” Mingi pointed out unenthusiastically.

From her president's chair, Seulgi sucked the remaining salt and crumbs off her thumb and forefinger in deep contemplation. Since the moment you and Seonghwa set foot in this society, there was a feeling prodding at the back of her mind about the two of you; one might call it a hunch, a sixth sense. Maybe you claimed to hate each other's guts, but maybe there was a chance to smooth out that wrinkle and get you both to shut up.

There was another smile curling onto Yunho's face as he regarded her from across the desk. “You have a plan,” he said. It wasn't a question.

Seulgi merely shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

When you were first entering into university—and even when you were still in high school—people’s favorite fearmongering tactic when you expressed your desire to go into medicine was that organic chemistry would suck the life right out of you. Truly, you wondered if the fear they ingrained in you was what made you ace the series last year, or maybe if it was just because Park Seonghwa was in your class.

You were beginning to suspect that the latter was the case, considering biochemistry was not even half as bad as you were expecting it to be.

“Your flashcards must be magic or something,” Soyeon grumbled beside you as she peered over your shoulder at the Quizlet deck you flipped through. The two of you were amongst the school of other students in your biochemistry course loitering outside the examination hall, cramming last minute knowledge into your already-packed craniums. iPads, textbooks, and notebooks were splayed out and poured over; you were certain someone had even brought a tea light to pray over.

You finished the deck you were on, drumming your fingers along the seam of your pants to give your nervous energy somewhere to go. “They're not magic; I just become a hermit when exam weeks come around,” you replied. None of this information came natural to you, and the curve of your spine could attest to the amount of hours you spent hunched over your desk, grinding notes and problem sets.

Soyeon hummed, unconvinced, to herself. She had her own notes she was scrolling through on her tablet, a worried furrow between her brows. “Is it weird that I have a bad feeling about this exam?”

Your stomach twisted at just those words. “No, I feel it too,” you muttered. You shivered then, as if an evil breeze just blew against your neck.

Your eyes coincidentally wandered elsewhere in the building lobby and met the gaze of a familiar opponent.

“Nope,” you drawled as the man approached where you and Soyeon lingered, “it's just Seonghwa.”

Soyeon muffled a laugh by squeezing her lips together and she gave your shoulder a light shove. “You're so petty, oh my god.”

Seonghwa lifted one perfect brow when he drew closer, lowering his headphones to hang them around his neck. “Should I even hazard a guess at what you just said about me?” he asked you directly, understanding full well that Soyeon was not the culprit.

You wrinkled your nose at him. “I have faith that you know.”

Soyeon coughed loudly. “So, Hwa, how're we feeling about this midterm?”

A sigh fell from his mouth and it was a haggard sound that you could relate with down to your exhausted bones. He raked a hand through his hair, eyes flitting to you before going back to Soyeon. “It's… hit or miss, I think,” he said, almost as if he were picking the words carefully.

“That's how we're feeling, too,” you added in with an absent-minded bob of your head. “Dr. Chung has been in a bad mood lately.” This statement was paired with a grimace while you hissed through your teeth.

“I hear you've been locking in hours at Quill all weekend, Ln.”

Quill was the colloquial name of KQ University's largest library, a frequent haunt of students during Finals Week because it was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It had also practically become like your third home over the last few years of your undergraduate career. Truly, that reading room had seen far too much of you. “Are you asking around about me, Park?” you queried.

He flashed you a wry smile. “Don't flatter yourself,” he quipped. “Everything I learn about you is against my will.”

“But you still listen to it, right?”

“Know thy enemy,” he replied simply.

(Soyeon observed the two of you with a new set of eyes. After the conversation shared between five members of the Yn and Seonghwa Need to Get Over Themselves Club, she hated to admit that she was actually seeing Yunho's point—and she hated to admit when a man had a point. There was always this inkling wriggling at the back of her mind that there must have been something deeper between you two, but she knew what it was like to not be able to stand the sight of someone.

The difference in this case was that, as much as you both claimed you loathed the sight of one another, you could not keep your eyes off each other.)

Soyeon leaned her elbow onto your shoulder and flashed the screen of her tablet at the both of you. As much as she was fascinated by this little observational study, there was an exam she needed to pass. “Can we go over glycolysis again? We have five minutes before they let us into the room.”

You and Seonghwa snapped out of your previous conversation. “Shit,” you muttered while pocketing your phone, “yeah, let's go over it.”

Five minutes later, the doors to the Gwang-Yin Hall opened to allow the flood of students into its bowels. The mass shuffled into the spacious room in an unorderly fashion, a mass of nervous jitters and panic that would eventually tighten into a yarn ball only unwoundable by one's graduation date. Even then, the stress would only continue to mount rather than vanish.

All one could do was trudge on.

Two hours later, your hand was cramping and the digits on the clock projected upon the screen were getting closer and closer to zero. Your knee shook under the tiny wooden desk, palms and fingers sweating as you scanned through your answers and fixed one last response.

“Time! Pencils and pens down.”

A mishmash of curses and thumps rattled throughout the lecture hall. You heard sighs and coughs and calculators slam shut (which was weird because you didn't need a calculator on this exam); paper fluttered as exams were passed to the ends of rows and TAs came by to sweep them up. The professor was yelling at someone to stop writing, but you were already folding the desktop between the seats and shuffling out of the row.

Your brain hurt, fuck.

As you made your way toward the exit, your peers were already finding their friends and exchanging answers. This was arguably worse than the exam itself. You tried not to listen to them—what if your answers were different? What if the answer you got wasn't even in the same ballpark?

Exhaustion weighed down on your body from all the stress you'd accumulated over this past week and weekend. You raised your head to let your eyes surf through the crowd. Where was Soyeon…

Your eyes did not snag on Soyeon, but they did catch the back of a familiar head. He was closer to the exit than you were, and you maneuvered through the masses to reach him.

“Yo” —you appeared at Park Seonghwa's side just as you both shoved out into the disgusting and muggy April morning.

He sent you a look, eyebrows pursed in surprise. “Yo,” he said back.

“Thoughts?”

Seonghwa sucked in a breath that sounded very much like a hiss. “Hit or miss, as I said,” he drawled. “I'm not in the mood to compare answers though, Ln.”

“Me neither. I kind of need caffeine though,” you thought aloud. It was only the beginning of the day, after all. You still had to get through a lab and one more lecture before you were due at the university hospital for a volunteer shift.

“That sounds… super good right now actually.” Seonghwa's eyes went from you to the phone in his hand. “Where are you headed?”

“Physics lab,” you grunted with a scrunched-up nose.

His expression shifted. “Oh,” he said. “The wave simulator one?”

“Yeah, the one they made us learn beginner Python for.”

“It's easy,” he told you with a flick of his wrist. “My group finished early and left with like, an hour to spare.”

You cocked a brow at him. “Easy for you to say. You went to that Comp-Sci camp in high school every summer.” You didn't know what inside you suddenly thought to speak the words in your head, but they were out in the open now. Maybe you really were tired—in what reality did you even suggest that he was better than you at something?

Seonghwa made a sound that was suspiciously akin to a laugh. Disbelief filled his face; he shifted a foot toward you. “You remember I went to fuckass Comp-Sci camp?”

“Don't get ahead of yourself,” you quipped, squinting one eye at him. Maybe you should not have said that, but there were worse places to be stuck. “My mom just would not shut up about it.” Just like how she would not shut up about how much better Seonghwa was doing in his academics, and in general. The comparisons had gotten so out of hand when you were kids.

He bit his cheek. “Don’t worry, Ln, my mom wouldn't shut up about how you tutored first graders after school everyday. If that makes you feel better.”

Your mouth curved into a frown, albeit incredulously. How much did your mom tell his mom? Neither you nor Seonghwa asked to be pitted against each other, but the dynamic had been ingrained in the two of you like a bad habit, and bad habits died hard. “It's whatever,” was all you managed to say. You shouldn't have brought it up.

Seonghwa looked as if he was going to say something. His mouth opened, then snapped shut, his mind changed. “Yeah, it's whatever.”

In seventh grade, Seonghwa's bike broke down along one of the worn trails behind the school that would take him toward the block you both lived on. The situation ended up with bloodied and scraped-up knees, and an equally bloodied and scraped-up ego, because you had watched it happen in real time.

Middle schoolers were not known for their empathy, but you saw the watery silver lining his eyes as he angrily shoved himself to his feet, tugging his bike along with him. He could barely step without his legs trembling.

Maybe your mom had just reminded you that he won the science fair again, but it didn't exactly feel right to abandon him on this trail, of all places. You slowed your bike to a stop next to him and met his glare with defiance.

“Just leave me alone.”

“So you don't want a ride home?”

He scoffed. “Not from you. I don't need help.”

You could have growled with all of that middle school girl rage. “Get on the dang bike, Seonghwa. You're bleeding.”

He glanced down at his shins. Dark red streamed from the open wounds as if he'd just survived some chainsaw murderer, not Mother Nature from the height of a bike. Seonghwa glanced back over at you on your bike, the foot bars on the back wheel. He couldn't meet your eyes as he abandoned his vehicle on the path and propped one foot onto the corresponding bar of yours. “If I hear you talking about this at school—”

“Yeah, whatever,” you interjected, rolling your eyes. His fingers dug into your shoulders and you felt his weight press down on the wheels. You propelled your foot off the dirt trail and pumped your legs to make it up the small hill ahead. He could do his worst for all you cared.

“Good afternoon, Aurora County! It looks like we're in for another stormy week. Forecast says to expect showers through to the weekend with highs of about 86 degrees Fahrenheit—” SLAM.

You brought an umbrella to your sociology lecture this time.

The accessory popped out like a parachute as you launched it above your head, wincing as raindrops went flying in all directions. The outside world remained a living sauna—hot and wet and miserable. Nobody asked for this.

You paused to select a playlist to listen to, then commenced what you expected would be a long trek in the rain. Wednesdays were usually what you considered your break days; they acted as somewhat of a pause during the middle of the week to give you a moment to breathe. In the morning, you had a very relaxed bioethics seminar, and in the afternoon, it was your sociology lecture. There was a reason you loved Wednesdays—

BEEP BEEP!

Déjà vu washed over you like rainwater being splattered by a car racing past. The familiar silver sedan rolling up next to you in the street sealed the deal.

Park Seonghwa lowered the passenger side window only partially. “You need a ride?”

“Are you purposefully driving down this way or…?” This week and the week before were the only times you ever saw him drive on this road. What class did he even have before this?

“The main road that gets to North campus is closed for reconstruction, remember? They roped it off two weeks ago.” He deadpanned at you, unamused. “Of course, I'm driving this way on purpose.”

You made a face at him. “You don't have to be chivalrous.”

“So that's a no?”

“I don't need a ride from you.” As if it would help your case, you waved your hand up at your umbrella with a flourish. “I have coverage.”

His expression somehow seemed to flatten further. “Get in the car, Yn.”

Your reputation as a Seonghwa hater was suddenly in danger if you got into this car. You had an umbrella, good tunes, and a free afternoon. It was Wednesday, a good day.

You got in the car.

“This could be considered kidnapping,” you hummed with no real malice as you wrestled your umbrella into its closed position, then shut the door.

Alright, Drama Queen. He rolled his eyes and pulled the car forward. “I regret everything.”

As soon as you settled properly into the seat, you realized where exactly you found yourself. The AC was blowing a cool and comfortable breeze at you, rustling up the smell of his flowery-coffee cologne. The song playing on low from the stereo was one that settled on the tip of your tongue, a name you could only remember when you saw its title on the navigation screen. And then there was that damned C-3PO Lego figurine stuck to the dash.

Seonghwa was less than a foot away from you with only the center console separating you. The two of you have sat closer to one another—there was that spelling bee tournament in third grade, that school assembly in sixth grade, that Science Olympiad competition in tenth—but all of those had been assigned. This was something you did on your own, just as you had run after him post-exam yesterday, just as he had walked up to you and Soyeon pre-exam.

You fiddled around on your phone and tucked your earbuds into your backpack, antsy to forget where you were and the choices you'd made.

He coughed. “So,” he said, dragging out the vowel, “how was the physics lab yesterday?”

There was a sudden spike of anxiety in your chest from the question, even though the lab itself had gone pretty okay yesterday. It was as if your body was gearing up for another cat fight on its own, as it seemed to do frequently around him. “Fine,” you said. “I really don't know why they made us do a whole workshop for learning Python, though, when all we did was change two numbers around.”

“Yeah,” he chimed in with a sigh, carding a hand through his hair as he made a turn, “me neither. It was helpful if you wanted to make more advanced adjustments though.”

“Oh.” You couldn't help but think: how much more was Seonghwa learning or gaining from each lab because he had a slightly better foundation than you did in code? There would undoubtedly be future lab situations where you would need to know some kind of code in more depth, but… You dashed the thought away; you could look into an online course later. It would be fine. “You have your physics midterm next week, too, right?”

He grunted, the corner of his mouth pressing into his cheek. “Unfortunately. You?”

“Same.” You glanced out the passenger side window. “Seulgi's probably gonna give into Mingi's demands tomorrow night—for physics questions, I mean.”

Seonghwa chuckled something low. “Yeah,” he agreed with a grimace, “a nice reminder of what we're in for. Maybe this time, I'll even let you beat me.”

You arched a brow at him, unimpressed. “You'll be so low on the rankings tomorrow, you'll never forget what gravity feels like.” A bold statement from someone who could barely punch the right buttons on her calculator. Then again, while Seonghwa went to Computer Science camp, it didn't necessarily mean he was good at math… or computer science. He just knew slightly more than you.

(Maybe it was time to actually look into coding classes.)

“Speaking of gravity.”

Curious, you lifted your head to look at him.

His eyes darted off the road briefly to meet your gaze, before settling on the rain-slicked streets, the car's wipers swishing back and forth over the windshield. “My mom keeps asking about you,” he said, the words coming out terse as if he had to rip them out of his vocal cords.

What did that have to do with gravity?

“Ah,” you vocalized. His mom asks about you, too? You didn't necessarily find yourself in too many situations like this—situations wherein you had time for a full-length conversation. Truth be told, your mom enjoyed asking about Seonghwa, too. “Tell her what I tell my mom about you.”

His brow flicked up when he glanced at you this time. “And what's that?”

“That you're fine—I mean, doing fine.”

The car paused at the red light, the rain continuing to drum overhead. His stare bored into the side of your head, and you couldn't understand why your pulse suddenly leapt. Your heart was doing sprints—no, cartwheels—as his lips pulled into a cheeky sort of grin. You chalked up your racing heartbeat to annoyance. He did have an infuriating face. “How fine am I, Ln?”

Was it hot in here? You could have sworn the air conditioning was on.

You looked back at him blankly and held your poker face for as long as physically possible. “Check your ego, Park.”

The only reason he broke away was because the traffic light turned green.

As a responsible pre-health student with an impending physics midterm, you were stuck in the library on a Friday afternoon. The weeks seemed to tear by fast in the spring quarter, and you weren't sure you could keep up. Rain, as forecasted by the oh-so-helpful Aurora County weatherman, battered the windows of Quill Library, creating a comfortable white noise that nestled between the gaps of your headphones’ shoddy noise cancelling function.

You stretched your arms over your head and pulled your spine up toward the ceiling. That was another practice problem set completed, and yet, you still felt worlds away from where you wanted to be.

With your head raised, you made a cursory scan of your surroundings. In this area of Quill, the tables were slightly larger, big enough to fit four people comfortably, as well as any and all work those four people might find themselves tackling. You were this table's lone occupant, but there were other tables lining the window down the length of this wall of the library, too, all taken up as well. Midterm season made this place popular, no matter the time of day.

It only made sense then that when you turned your head in the direction of the hallway, you made direct eye contact with a pair of fellow students who were undoubtedly in search of an open table, as well.

Kim Hongjoong seemed to physically float at the sight of you—or rather, the sight of your nearly empty table. Seonghwa didn't so much as smile. (You had been seeing a lot of him recently.) The latter had no choice but to follow the former over to where you sat, their wet sneakers tracking over the grey carpet.

You shifted one ear of your headphones. “Hey?”

Hongjoong had his palms pressed together in a prayer position. “Please tell me no one else is sitting here.”

You were tempted to say that Seonghwa might have to go find alternative seating, but even then in this seating climate, that might be too harsh of a joke. “I'm doing well, too, Joong. How are you?” you teased him with a small smile. You made a flourishing gesture to the empty seats across from you. “Yeah no, be my guest.”

“Thank you,” he said, waving Seonghwa over before squeezing into the seat closest to the window. “And sorry, we just had the worst time going through the tables in the reading room. I had no hope.”

You and Seonghwa made brief eye contact as he slid into the seat across from you. “I figured by the defeat on your face,” you mused to Hongjoong. “I just got lucky 'cause my bioethics lecture got out early, so I thought I'd find a place to plant for the afternoon.”

Hongjoong bobbed his head as he rummaged for his iPad in his messenger bag. “Sounds like a plan. I'll probably only be here for a couple hours, really, and then I've got this club meeting to go to.” He nudged Seonghwa with the back of his hand, forcing the man to take out one of his earbuds. “Your plans: go.”

Seonghwa's eyes widened slightly as Hongjoong caught him off guard. His eyes darted to you, then back to his friend. “Uhh,” he said and scratched the side of his jaw, “not sure. I'll see how this goes.” He gestured to the notebook and laptop he'd just pulled out, the notebook cover labeled with a Post-It note that read Phys upside down.

“Yeah,” you drawled with a nod, eyeing him.

“Oh, Yn” —Hongjoong caught you before you moved your headphones back into place and you were lost to the world of fluid mechanics— “Seulgi's hosting a house party tomorrow night. Are you coming?”

Your face lit up with surprise. “That's a little last minute, isn't it?”

He shrugged with a sheepish grin. “You know her,” he replied helplessly. “I know a handful of people from the society will be there—plus, a lot of other people she knows. You should bring your housemates!”

“I dunno, Joong… I do have that midterm on Monday.”

“I already know you'll be studying all weekend,” he parried. “It'll just be for a few hours. You can swing by for a little, catch up, and then head home in time to get enough sleep to cram on Sunday.”

You abhorred that he knew your habits, sleeping and studying. Attending a house party the weekend right before a physics midterm was not a word to the wise, but if people from your society were going to be there, then perhaps they weren't too worried about their exams. It would be a nice, little break from all of the studying you'd been doing lately, as well as a reward for locking in.

Instead of giving Hongjoong a direct response, your eyes flickered to Seonghwa who was pretending like he wasn't listening. “Is he going?” you asked, jabbing the end of your pen in his direction.

“I'm right here,” he muttered.

Hongjoong shrugged. “Don't let a man stop you from having fun, Yn.”

Now that was a word to the wise. You felt your mouth pull into a smirk. “You are so right,” you said to him. “But I'll still have to let you know. If today goes well, then maybe you'll see me.”

A couple of hours came and went, and so too did Hongjoong. He rushed off to his club meeting, wishing both you and Seonghwa luck with your studying.

And then there were two.

You both continued to study independently and silently for a few more hours, coexisting in the same space of the library. At some point, the rain outside had quieted to a misty hush and the majority of the crowd had filed out to spend their Friday evening doing something less depressing.

By the pulsating at your temples, you figured your brain had enough for one afternoon. This session hadn't gone too terribly, you decided, as you drummed your fingers against your notepad. Your eyes lifted up to the man still seated across from you; Seonghwa's cheek was pressed against his fist as he scribbled something out into his notebook before checking it against his calculator.

He felt your flighty gaze, eyes ensnaring yours before you could look away again. “Need something?” he asked, voice slightly hoarse from lack of use.

“Not from you,” was your automatic quip.

He made a show of looking around at the sparsely-populated area of the library. “Well, then you must be looking at a ghost,” he said back with a saccharine sort of smile.

You wrinkled your nose at him before deciding to actually close the lid of your laptop. “I'm going to go now.”

“No one's stopping you.”

“You're not leaving?”

He cocked a brow at you, the hand with his pen stopping on his page. “Just because you are? What do you think I am—obsessed with you?”

The scoff fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, but the heat swarming your cheeks and neck also appeared without permission. “No one mentioned anything about being obsessed with me. I was just asking a question; it's a Friday night, after all.”

“Well, I'm currently on a date with physics.”

“Oh, so you do get action.”

Seonghwa smiled. “More than you, that's for sure.”

“And you say you're not obsessed with me.” You had no idea how the conversation unfolded in this direction, but you were throwing your things into your bag with fervor—anything to get away from him and whatever you were talking about now.

When you picked up your bag, you tucked the chair close to the table. Seonghwa kept his eyes on his laptop screen, cheek against his fist, pen tick-tocking against his finger.

You were only a couple steps away when you heard him say, “See you at the party.”

You whirled around with your mouth open in retort, but you didn't actually know what to say. How could five words evoke such a visceral reaction inside your chest? He heard your response to Hongjoong earlier; he couldn't just assume you would go.

You turned back around without saying anything, and you swore you heard him snicker under his breath as you left. You would not be going to that party, just to make a point.

So maybe you were going to the party.

In your defense, it was not your idea. You were doing it in support of your roommate and good friend Ronnie, who heard her current campus crush was going to be there; thus, the seven of you in the house were going to all attend for a few hours in solidarity.

“It's warm tonight” —a skirt flew at your face, faster than you could realize or catch— “so wear this. You've only worn it, like, what? Once?”

You sputtered as you whipped the skirt out of your eyes and mouth, your expression screwed up in disdain as Ronnie tore your half of the closet apart in search of a suitable top to match. “It’s not like I’m the one about to see my crush,” you said as you lifted the skirt up in front of you to inspect it. Indeed, you had only worn the simple, pleated black garment a total of one time, and you had forgotten it existed ever since.

Ronnie eyed up a big graphic tee in her hand, stripped it from its hanger, then tossed it at you.

“Veronica Shim, I swear to god—”

“Sue me for being nervous,” she squawked. She walked over and grabbed you by the shoulders. “I just need to busy myself before my hands shake so hard, they fall off.”

You peeled the T-shirt she had thrown at you off of your head. “I’m going to get dressed,” you promised, “and then I will let you do my makeup—”

“I love you.” Before you could respond, she was already halfway across the room again, tearing through your makeup box instead. When Ronnie was nervous, there wasn’t very much that could calm her down unless she was physically doing something. It was what made her such an adept physical media artist—the ceramics studio saw her face as often as the library saw yours. The bedroom you shared was covered from ceiling to floor in the origami she folded, from little paper stars to intricate flowers that had taken her days to make.

You were exceptionally fond of her, but if she threw another clothing item at your head, you might lose it.

In about an hour, the seven of you were piled into Lillian's minivan on the way to Seulgi's house. Each passenger, sans Lillian, had each taken a shot of soju Soyeon had found at the back of the kitchen pantry. Suffice to say, Ronnie was ready to actually talk to her crush and you were all prepared to have fun for the first time since midterms started.

You could already hear the music bleeding out from Seulgi's place, accompanied by the warm buzz of laughter and chatter. It was a smaller house at the end of a cul-de-sac a few blocks from where you lived. The driveway and surrounding streets were already chock-full of cars, so Lillian dropped everyone off in front of the house while she and Seeun went to find an open parking spot.

You, Ronnie, and Soyeon had your arms hooked together as Seulgi's housemate Irene let you in. The party was well under way—with it being a little past nine o'clock—and you could already spot some familiar faces in the crowd.

“Wow, it's hot in here,” you shouted over the addicting bass kick of some early 2000s song. There were far too many bodies shoved into the living room; in no way was this within the building’s occupancy capacity.

Ronnie squeezed your hand before letting go. “I just saw my friend Renjun from my design principles class!” she exclaimed, throwing her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I'm gonna go say hi.”

“Okay, have fun!”

Soyeon tugged you in the direction past the kitchen, toward the stairs. “Mingi just texted—apparently they're in the basement and they have tequila shots.”

“You had me at shots,” you replied back with a grin.

Soyeon let out a hoot of approval, and the two of you turned the corner to take the stairs down into the basement below. As you descended into the bowels of the house, you unconsciously tugged the hem of your skirt down. You were definitely not tipsy enough to be unaware of your flashing risk.

There was still a handful of people in the basement, but it was considerably less congested than upstairs. There was even a fan hoisted up into the nearby corner blowing a draft of wind—not cool wind, but wind nonetheless—down over the basement occupants. Closest to you were a few people surrounding a pool table, while the far end was outfitted with a relaxed layout of rugs, blankets, bean bags, and pillows for people to lounge about in. The latter was where your society members were, their voices and laughter already familiar to you.

Wooyoung was the first to notice yours and Soyeon's entrance. He waved his arm at the two of you, careful not to knock off a very flushed San from his other shoulder. “Oy! Look who finally decided to show up.”

“Had to wait for this one to get home and eat dinner first,” Soyeon said with a thumb pointed in your direction, her lips blowing a raspberry.

You threw her a look of betrayal. “If someone had just called me, I would have been home faster!” You made a cursory scan of the people currently present, eyes looking for no one in particular, or maybe just someone to sit next to.

You happened to make eye contact with Seonghwa at one end of the loosely-formed circle, his legs crisscrossed, hands braced behind him. Hongjoong was on one side of him, but the other side was occupied by a girl you did not recognize. She was not from the society and she wasn't someone whom you had seen at a social function before either.

Before your face could visibly show your confusion, you were tugged down next to Wooyoung.

A clear shot glass was handed over to you, equally clear liquid sloshing over the rim, and it came as a packaged deal with a roughly sliced lime wedge. “Here” —Wooyoung placed one in each of your hands— “you can finish San's shot.”

“I can finish it!” San cried from his other side, lips pouty and face red as tomato soup.

Both you and Wooyoung gave him the same expression. “No way.”

You took one for the team (San), and dunked the shot back, following it swiftly by the lime between your teeth. You grimaced at the initial burn, but it subsided the longer you sucked on the lime wedge.

“Yah, both Soyeon and Yn need extra shots,” Yunho hollered from his seat between Mingi and Lia. He grinned as he liberally poured two more shots, one in a teacup and one in a miniature beaker.

You took the lime out from your mouth. “Says who?”

“Says me!” Seulgi chimed in, clapping her hands. “Minimum two shots to stay in the circle—”

“Unless you're driving,” Jongho called out.

“Truuue,” Seulgi agreed with a nod in his direction. “So drink up, ladies.”

Who were you to argue with your host? You were already technically two shots in, thanks to your light pregaming, but you weren't about to complain. The shot glasses were passed around the circle to where you and Soyeon were seated, and you both dutifully paid your toll.

Just as you finished, you felt Wooyoung sling one of his arms over your shoulders. The movement seemed to make your world spin just a little bit more. “Guys, we should play Hot Seat!”

“Ooh, like the game we played in middle school?” Chaeryeong asked.

“But I don't want my seat to be hot,” San muttered, lips curving into a frown.

You cooed at him, reaching around Wooyoung to pinch San's cheeks together in one hand. “Oh my god, you're so cute. How many drinks have you had?”

(From across the circle, Seonghwa's nose wrinkled. He leaned over toward Hongjoong's ear, muttering, “He's not that cute, is he?” He had certainly thought it to himself a few minutes ago, but that was before you said it out loud.

Hongjoong turned his head, face contorted into pure incredulity. “You're… kidding, right?”)

San’s frown deepened as he slurred, “Only two.”

“And that's the way it's gonna stay,” Wooyoung declared, patting his friend on the head with pursed lips. “Personally, I think Hot Seat is befitting of our current situation. You know, apparently, we're supposed to get a heatwave these next few weeks?”

Soyeon tipped her head back in a groan. “Dude, I cannot take any more of this! I can't even tell if I'm sweating or if it's from the rain.”

“Tell me about it,” Seulgi grumbled. “At this point, we'll need to start planning for the postponed car wash fundraiser on top of the bracelet-making one.”

“Why are we talking business at a party?” Mingi cut in. He had one elbow resting on Yunho's shoulder while the other hand raised a red Solo cup of his poison for the night to his lips. “Let’s play Hot Seat.”

“Take a shot for every question you don't want to answer?” you asked, glancing around the circle.

Only murmurs of agreement met your ears, and someone chimed in with a suggestion of three questions per person.

As the one who proposed the game, Wooyoung had the honor of going first. The only issue was that Wooyoung was the closest thing to an open book out of the entire group; it was hard to find a topic he would feel hesitant to answer out loud. Wooyoung's turn on the hot seat slipped by as fast as a summer breeze, and the baton was passed onto you (to give San a fighting chance, of course).

“Well, this should be good,” you chuckled, hoping your nervousness didn't shine through too much. Maybe an additional shot would actually help you.

Soyeon's grin lit up her face. “Ooh, I've got one!”

“Oh no.”

“If Kim Hongjoong and Jung Wooyoung were each being dangled over a pit of lava—”

Both Hongjoong and Wooyoung jerked to life at the same time from opposite ends of the circle as everyone else erupted into laughter. “Now wait a second!”

“—who would you choose to save?”

You covered your smile with your hand and ignored Wooyoung's eyes burning two holes into the side of your head as best as you could. “Well, that's not fair; I need context!”

Soyeon shrugged. “To save the world, I guess.”

“To save the world?” You let it sink in. “Can't I drop both of them in?” you jested, guffawing at Wooyoung playfully shaking your shoulders and Hongjoong shouting his dissent from across the circle. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Hongjoong—you’re going in the pit!”

“I knew I was your favorite,” Wooyoung sighed and draped himself over your shoulders.

“Her answer was coerced!” Hongjoong flashed you a wry and petulant smile as Seonghwa placated him with a pat on his back. It said everything you needed to know: you would pay for this. “You should've taken the shot, Yn.”

“I've got a question” —Yunho cut in, and there was this boyish sort of smile on his face with an impish twinkle in his eyes. You knew him well enough not to trust that look— “do you actually hate Seonghwa?”

Half the group shot wide-eyed stares at Yunho, with Mingi shoving him in the shoulder, while the other half had their attention darting curiously between you and Seonghwa. There was a smile of disbelief that crawled onto your face as your immediate reaction; your sympathetic nervous system had jumped into high gear, as well, making your heart pound and palms sweat.

What kind of question…?

You tried not to glance in Seonghwa's direction. “Hate is a… strong word,” you drawled, dragging out the syllables of the latter half. Your fingers played around with the empty shot glass sitting on the rug in front of you, index tracing the rim.

“You’ve gotta answer the question, Yn,” Yunho prompted, the smile on his face only widening.

“Yeah, answer the question, Ln.”

That had your head turning. Seonghwa did not look away when you met his gaze, and you couldn't tell from this distance if that was pure stoicism in his face, or if there was something else hidden there. The blood in your veins thrummed, simmered. His tone was so annoying though. This question was so annoying. Who asked this kind of thing in a group setting, let alone when you were barely even drunk?

You picked up the shot glass and wiggled it in the air. “Pour me one.”

A group-wide groan erupted in this corner of Seulgi's basement, cleaving the tension wide open. You ignored everyone’s playful shouts of dissent, their urges for you to hurt Seonghwa’s feelings and bruise his ego with your honesty; you insisted on the shot, and because Yunho was a little butthurt, Mingi took over the role of Keeper of Tequila and poured you one.

You drained the shot with ease—better the bitter burn of fermented agave than the bitter burn of truthful words. (Maybe you just didn’t want to confront the very words you had already spoken, that ‘hate’ really was too strong in describing what you felt for Park Seonghwa.) It was the coward’s way out, but the night was still young and you were still in the hot seat.

The last question you were dealt was dutifully delivered by Kim Hongjoong, as was prophesied by your disservice to him in your earlier answer. He asked if you had really cheated during the Trivia Night three months ago about plant physiology. It had been a point of great contention back then, and it didn’t truly matter in the grand scheme of things; plant physiology night was “for fun,” but everyone here owned at least one competitive bone in their body.

As everyone leaned in, expecting a horrible scandal to be confirmed, you said, “No, but I know who did.”

The group howled once more—you wouldn’t be surprised if the goddamn neighbors could hear you all at this point—as they hounded you for answers. They were answers you wouldn’t give, however, because you had fulfilled your turn on the hot seat.

You leaned back onto your palms and the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly now that you were no longer in the spotlight.

A loud giggle cut through all the noise around you. From across the circle, the girl you did not recognize was laughing into her palm, Seonghwa's mouth still moving as he muttered something under his breath so only the people around him heard.

Your face fell. “He's not that funny,” you grumbled to Wooyoung, since Yeosang was busy answering a question on your left.

Your friend snorted loud enough that glances were thrown his way.

“Just admit you're mad you can't hear what he's saying,” he said to you, keeping his volume low enough this time so only you were privy to his words.

What an egregious take! It was hotter than hot, scalding even. “Why would I be mad that I can't hear him? If anything, I'm pissed he's right in my line of sight.”

Wooyoung only lifted a brow at you, his mouth curving into his cheek while he smirked, unconvinced. ‘Jelly,’ was what he mouthed at you in exaggerated movements.

You huffed and shook your head. No way you were mad or jealous.

Park Seonghwa was drunk. At least, he was pretty sure he was on the cusp of tipsy and drunk—inebriated would be an apt term. The room was spinning; that was one standout symptom he was experiencing at the moment. Dim, amber lights swirling with the faces and basement walls around him, voices he recognized. Hongjoong would have definitely added that he giggled way too much to be Sober Seonghwa. It was settled then: he was drunk.

“Guys, be honest with me” —that was San’s voice… no. No, wait. That was definitely Wooyoung’s. He swore he saw his mouth move— “who do we think is gonna get married first out of all of us?”

The group had dwindled down considerably following the conclusion to the game Hot Seat. Though the space taken up remained the same, the blob was far more deformed now. One could not call it a circle if they had even an ounce of integrity.

Seulgi lifted her beer bottle to her lips. “Not me,” she drawled with a snort.

“I think Lia,” said Soyeon.

There was movement next to Wooyoung, and Seonghwa watched you wag your finger in Soyeon's direction. Your head was on Wooyoung's shoulder, alcohol-induced drowsiness hitting you while it was making him think things. “Mmh,” you agreed, “but I raise you: Jung Wooyoung.”

Hongjoong loosened a sound from his lips that made Seonghwa giggle again. “Yah, now you're just doing it on purpose!”

“I can hype up my bestie, Kim!”

“Yeah!” Wooyoung chimed in. “Let her hype me up, Kim!”

“Alright, but,” Yunho said, mouth already stretched in a grin, “he couldn't even ask out his work crush, remember?”

Wooyoung's eyes shot wide open. “Oy—the work environment at Gap was just not confession-friendly! It was actually anti-romance.”

Cutting through Yunho's snickering, a slightly-flushed Mingi raised his fingers for his turn. “Let's not sleep on the real secret romantic, Mr. Choi Jongho.”

A murmur of agreement swept around the group as all eyes went to the only truly sober member of the blob. Jongho lifted his can of ginger ale to his lips for a small sip, but shook his head as he did. “I don't know where you're getting this misinformation from.”

“Wait, no! Mingi's right,” you piped up, even sitting upright to gesture with your arm at Jongho. (Seonghwa shifted in his spot, jerking as you moved. His inhibitions were… not in the building.) “You would totally be in a long term relationship for years and not tell anyone until you're sending out Save the Dates!”

“Exactly,” Seonghwa suddenly said, nodding his head. Oh—people were looking at him—did he say that out loud? He could agree with you sometimes; he just didn't often agree with you aloud. “What?”

Hongjoong blinked at him, his eyebrows scrunched together, lips parting slightly before he pursed them, as if deciding against whatever thought wanted to breathe air.

You were the only one not looking at him like he'd just sprouted another head. There was that familiar neutrality, a slightly warmer version of the crinkle-nosed brattiness that drove him up the walls.

“You guys are weird,” he muttered and flicked his eyebrows up, then took a swig out of the half-empty soju bottle parked between him and Hongjoong.

“What if I think Yn will get married first?” These were San's first, sober words since he had woken up from a brief nap; but considering what he said, maybe he hadn't quite reached sobriety yet.

Everyone's attention flipped to the opposite side of the group again, Seonghwa included. The question was cold gutter water that splashed over him from the street, and any haziness disappeared in an instant.

“No fucking way,” both you and Seonghwa said at once.

Time stilled.

Yunho reacted first, leaning his chin onto his fist. He used his other hand to gesture between you two. “Interesting. Explain.”

Seonghwa leveled his gaze with yours. "I'm not claiming anything. I just don't think she'll be the first to get married.” He clutched the bottleneck in his hand, the glass hanging midway between the ground and his mouth, his elbow propped on top of his knee while he watched your reaction.

“The feeling's mutual,” you replied tersely, a thin smile spread on your face. “What was it you said the other day? That you were on a date with physics?”

“Well, I definitely wasn't on a date with you.”

Out of Seonghwa's periphery, Hongjoong slapped his hand over his mouth.

There was a warm thrill beneath his skin as your eyes narrowed at him. “Funny, 'cause everyone here knows I would rather retake calculus than even think about going on a date with you.”

“I’m touched, Ln, really.”

“Oh, there they are!” Heads turned in the direction of the voice. It cut through all of the buzz and chatter down here in the basement. Seonghwa's mind was yet to be at its sharpest still, but he was able to recognize the familiar faces of two of your and Soyeon's housemates, Seeun and Lillian. They bumbled over, arms linked and faces flushed with the spirits they had consumed tonight. “Yn, Soyeon—we’re stealing you!”

“Recruiting,” Lillian corrected Seeun with a pointed cough. “We are recruiting you to take over the pool table over there.” She thrust an arm in the direction of the opposite end of the room.

Seonghwa took an absent-minded sip of his drink as your friends tugged you and Soyeon to your feet, then stole you away from the group and whatever this conversation had turned into. The conversation blurred into something about long-term relationships again, drifting further away from the initial marriage inquiry and to something more palatable for a bunch of young 20-somethings.

The liquid in his bottle was drained, then replaced by another. To hell with that physics exam on Monday, he supposed.

Hongjoong passed him a glance. “Are you… gonna slow down soon?”

“Maybe after this,” Seonghwa muttered with his lips at the bottle rim. His eyes kept on wandering over toward the opposite end of the room to where you stood at the pool table; and the more he drank, the harder it was for his consciousness to drag his focus back to the people around him.

Your laugh cleaved through any self-control he had left. He leaned back on one hand, catching how you tugged down the hem of your skirt with an instinctive motion, before taking the pool cue from one of the guys there—

“Hwa” —he heard his name, but his head was slow to turn. Seulgi was smiling at him, and maybe if he hadn't had this last bottle, he would have noticed the knowing tilt of her expression— “what about you?”

“Hm?”

“Anybody you're interested in?”

Seonghwa's skin warmed as if he had just been caught. “Not really,” he answered and straightened from his previous position. He resisted the urge to look, to reveal every single one of his cards with one, stupid look. How he managed to bite his tongue this time was a miracle, but if anybody asked him again, he might admit his answer would be “the girl in the skirt.”

When the Parks moved to your neighborhood in the third grade, your mom and Seonghwa’s mom became fast friends. The comparisons did not start immediately, but they were always there, lurking in the shadows of the upstairs hallways, in the whispers echoing from the kitchen when the “adults were talking.” There was almost an instant competition between your mothers on who could praise the other’s child best.

Subsequently, it was not uncommon to find yourself at your new rival’s house. Dinner or lunch or an afternoon snack was often offered at one another’s houses—oranges and peaches washed and sliced with precision, bikes abandoned on the wooden porch (your house) or at the side gate (Seonghwa’s house).

You had only ever been in Seonghwa’s room once, and that was seven years later, in the tenth grade. He was reluctant to let you into his safe space and you were reluctant to be in his space, but your mothers insisted, and their voices dropped into hushed tones as you both disappeared up the stairs in silence.

Seonghwa wordlessly opened the door to his room, and you were whacked in the face by the amount of things there: on the walls, filling the shelves, tucked away in boxes on the floor. It was an explosion of pop culture paraphernalia you were actually familiar with, but the one that was represented the most was—

“I’m more of a Star Trek person myself,” you said, leaning toward a fully-assembled Lego version of the Millenium Falcon.

Seonghwa hung close at your side, hovering, his arms crossed over his chest while he watched you carefully. “Nobody asked.”

You stuck your hand up at him with the Spock salute, index to middle finger and ring to pinky finger.

That drew a half-scoff, half-laugh from his mouth. He shook his head. “You’re such a nerd.”

“As opposed to…?” You straightened and put your arms out to gesture around you at his whole room. There were about a million weird things that tenth grade boys could be into, but there was a huge chunk of you glad that this was his chosen obsession. Star Wars or Star Trek, you would pick a nerd over a creep any day of the week. Not that you would pick him of all people…

“If you think I'm going to say you have a point,” he began.

“You don't have to say it,” you finished for him, turning to inspect the Tai Fighter on a lower shelf. “I already know that I do.”

You could hear him roll his eyes. He seemed to do that a lot. “Can’t believe you like Star Trek better.”

You snorted, twisting around to peer up at him from your squatting position. “What? You can't handle that I have a different opinion?”

“No, I just thought you'd have better taste,” he replied airily.

Something within you paused at that. Though only a flippant parry at your own quip, you thought to yourself how ironic it was that you actually preferred the Star Wars franchise over the Star Trek franchise.

The only reason you bantered with him about it and stood your ground playing the Devil's Advocate was to breach that obvious discomfort you both bore coming in here. Bickering between you was natural, familiar… and the truth behind your words that day would be something you swore you would never reveal to him ever.

“You’re trying to figure out what Seonghwa got on the exam, aren't you?”

You jerked your head to the forward direction and slid down in your seat, moving your pen back over your notebook. Seonghwa was seated on the far right side of the hall, whereas you and Soyeon were somewhere in the middle. There was no way you could see minute details from this distance, but you could certainly try to read his body language from here. “...No, I'm not.”

Soyeon flashed you a sidelong glance that spoke volumes on its own. “Yes, you are. Your eyes aren't very subtle, you know.”

“They're not?”

She snorted, the sound loud enough only to draw the attention of the person seated on her other side.

The week had dragged by at a snail's pace, compared to the prior week and weekend. As soon as you were released from your physics midterm on Monday, it was as if the world set its playback speed at 0.5. Perhaps it was the swath of heat that had descended upon the city that made everyday double in length. With no more gray skies and buckets of rain, the inhabitants of Aurora County were left to not only the unbearable heat, but the wrath of the sun, too.

Unfortunately, now that midterm exams were mostly completed, all that was left to do was await the scores. The atmosphere in your biochemistry lecture this morning had been suffocating in despair over the scores released yesterday afternoon. As customary, your professor was taking the beginning portion of lecture to review exam statistics and frequently missed questions.

Soyeon grumbled under her breath as she pulled her tablet out from her bag. “I think he should have curved it more,” she grunted, logging into the class-wide polling system. “Those questions about the Krebs Cycle were so stupid.”

“Yeah, they were way out of left field,” you agreed. You hadn't done half bad on this past exam, but you weren't about to rub it in. It didn't mean you were the one who fucked the curve or anything; it only meant that you somehow ended up just a little above the average. Maybe those extra hours spent in Quill had been for something.

“Are you going to the meeting tonight?”

You shook your head, glancing between the screen and your own notes as you scribbled a big question mark in the margins by a note. “No, I picked up another shift at the tutor center,” you replied.

As today was Thursday, usually the society would hold a Trivia Night, but Seulgi had made the executive decision to meet about this weekend's bracelet-making event instead. It was a more relaxed meeting meant for celebrating the end of midterm exams, while chatting about any last minute details for the event. You had already informed Seulgi in advance that you wouldn't be able to make it.

Soyeon let out a low whistle. “Another one?”

“Yeah,” you said with a helpless shrug. “But it's to make up for the shifts I missed to study. Apparently, the Gen Chem classes still have an exam next week.”

“Damn. Sucks to be them.”

You grinned and shook your head. “As if we weren't them once.” There had been a time when the lot of you in your pre-health society treaded through the murky and dark waters of the general chemistry series. Venting about the ridiculously-convoluted lab procedures and steep exam curves were rites of passage, at this point.

As Dr. Chung, your biochemistry professor, continued on with his planned lecture for the day, you leaned your cheek against your fist, gaze drifting back over to the right side of the hall. At some point, you were only half-tuned into whatever Chung was saying; the rest of your attention was worlds away.

You hadn't seen Seonghwa after your sociology lecture yesterday, but then again, it hadn't been raining and you had to linger back to chat with your professor about a lecture topic. If he had passed through that alleyway again, he hadn't said anything.

Suddenly, the back of the head you were staring at turned over his shoulder.

He hit his target dead-on, and his eye contact made you shudder out of your daze. Seonghwa made an exaggerated face so you could see it from that distance. What?

You stuck your tongue out at him, then forced yourself to look forward at the board. (Though, that sixth sense you had could tangibly feel his eyes roll at you.)

When the lecture ended, you and Soyeon moved out of the lecture hall with the current of your peers. You were so engrossed in making sure you weren't walking into anybody, you nearly missed the man that fell into step beside you.

“What's your deal this time, Ln?”

You perked up in surprise at the sound of Seonghwa's voice and him. Where he was seated, he should have been clear out of the building by now. He must have hung back then. “I have no idea what you're goin’ on about, Park.”

One of his brows quirked upward at you as he shouldered the door open. “You are not getting away with burning two holes in the back of my head.”

“You know,” you said, feigning thoughtfulness as you tapped your chin, “maybe I can—”

Seonghwa peered around you at Soyeon. “What'd she want?”

“I’m not getting involved,” she declared. She raised her palms up at the both of you, shaking her head vehemently. Once you had all descended the stairs to the pathway below, she began stepping in the direction of her next course. “See you, guys!”

With Soyeon respectfully bowing out, it left you and Seonghwa. Again.

He looked at you expectantly.

“I just wanted to know how you did on the exam,” you said with as much nonchalance as you could muster. “No biggie.”

Seonghwa crossed his arms over his chest. “How did you do on the exam?”

“Fine.”

“Well, so did I.”

You nodded. “Cool. Good talk!” You swiveled on the ball of your foot and prepared to take off, but he was swift to latch onto the top handle of your backpack.

“Hold it” —he turned you back around just in time to catch the irritation cross your face— “are you going to the meeting tonight?”

He stopped you for this? “No, I'm working.”

Something flickered in his expression; it was nothing you could label clearly. It was probably just his initial surprise. “Oh. Sucks.”

You nodded again, mouth pressed together. “Yup. See you on Saturday for the fundraiser then.”

“Yeah, see you.”

How interesting that he cared to even ask that, you thought as you went off to your physics lab. Then again, one could ask that of any instance you or he inquired about the other’s movements. At some point, it had become some convoluted game of chess; though, the older the two of you became, the way in which you played the game shifted. It was less capturing the other's pieces to get to checkmate first, and more so flirting with the idea of check. No matter—any lingering curiosities regarding one Park Seonghwa was dashed away and replaced by the remainder of your day.

And just like that, it was Saturday.

The pre-health student society had managed to snag use of a local cafe space for the event, probably thanks to Seulgi’s friend of a friend working as a shift supervisor there. It was of a cozy-modern design complete with smooth, white countertops and furniture, cute character mascots painted on the walls, and complete with the all-encompassing scent of roasted coffee. A late Saturday afternoon found the place packed to the brim with students, not just for your event, but general college students milling by for a weekend treat. It seemed to attract even more people to the event itself though; poor Hongjoong and Taeyong were asked to run to the nearby craft store a few blocks over to purchase some necessary stock of thread and beads.

The cafe was alive with the buzz of chatter, the clanging of coffee-making, and the dull sounds of acrylic beads dribbling off the sides of tables. In all definitions, the event looked and sounded like a success.

“How does anyone do this for fun? Oh—shit—”

You wanted to jump off a roof. Or maybe stick your hand in that canister of boiling milk by the espresso machine ten feet behind you. Or just be anywhere but here. Across the small, two-seater table from you was a man you had only seen in passing and never properly interacted with. He was not a member of the society, so you could only imagine that he was a mutual friend of one of your society-mates. After this dreadful afternoon was over, you were going to find out who this man was connected to and—

“Can you catch that for me? Thanks.” Justin—your partner for the afternoon—took the beads from the center of your palm and squinted his eyes as he tried to string them on his piece of electric blue thread.

The issue wasn’t that he couldn’t make a bracelet for shit; the issue was far more personal than that. “Yeah, sure,” you said quietly, trying to ignore the fact that the pair right next to you kept sending glances over at your table. To make it worse, that very pair was Park Seonghwa and that girl from Seulgi’s party last Saturday. Your adept eavesdropping skills managed to pick up that she was vaguely connected to Seulgi through one group project they completed together in a freshman year dance class. (Why was it always Seulgi?)

You straightened, tying off the little loop you had made with a few seed beads. Maybe you should try making conversation again. “So, uhm,” you began, “you mentioned that you’re taking an econ class about… foreign markets?”

The guy nodded. “Yeah, Economics in Cold War Foreign Trade—it’s kind of interesting, actually.”

Oh. Economics wasn’t really your forte, but if he was passionate about this subject, then it would at least make for an engaging conversation. You can work with this, Yn. “Then I’d love to hear more. What’re you guys currently learning?”

“You know, like the drive of U.S. actions during the Cold War,” Justin said with a shrug, not really looking up from his bead struggle. “People always forget that a major part of our foreign policy back then was driven by this need to dominate global markets and defend against communism. I mean, sure there was that thing with Guatemala” —he paused his ramble and spared you a glance— “but you don’t seem like the type to be interested in that.”

Your hand movements paused, your facial features twitching into a confused smile. “I’m sorry?” What was that supposed to mean?

He looked at you again. “I just mean,” he said, “that you don’t look like the kind of person who would understand the nuances of that whole situation.”

For a pregnant moment, you just stared at him. Was he being serious? “You could… give context,” you drawled, curling back all of the rage slowly mounting up inside of you like a tea kettle. “That’s why I asked.”

“Oh.” Justin’s eyes darted back down to his hands and he let out a laugh, the kind of sound that someone made when they were uncomfortable. “There are just a lot of terms, y’know, that I’m not sure you would understand—”

Your eyes went to the ceiling for a second. “Okay, just stop,” you cut in and waved your hands in an accompanying gesture. Why was this fucking business major talking down to you?

The table descended into silence, and your counterpart mercifully shut his mouth. You didn’t know what was more embarrassing: hearing this man effortlessly shut down any will you had left, or that the only other people who were privy to this conversation was Seonghwa and his event partner. Their conversation was much lower in volume, but you’d overheard the occasional chuckle.

You resisted the urge to huff; this was the worst.

“Listen.”

You spoke too soon. When you glanced up from your beads, it was not at the man directly across from you, but the one who sat diagonal to you one table over. You swore he just rolled his own eyes.

Justin, stupidly, continued. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I don’t really go on dates with nerds—”

“Who said you’re on a date?”

“Who said we’re on a date?”

Both you and Justin whipped around to the table beside you. You could recognize that first voice even with your eyes closed and your body running on fumes. Incredulity, embarrassment, and perhaps even gratitude warmed the skin of your neck and face as you and Seonghwa made brief eye contact.

“Sorry?” Justin stammered. “This isn’t your business, dude.”

Your eye twitched again. He wasn’t even talking to you. “Hey!” You snapped your fingers at Justin like he was a dog, and at this point, that was an insult to dogs everywhere. “It isn’t his business, but he’s right. We’re not on a date, and the only reason I even put up with you was for the sake of my society’s event.” Not to mention that you were giving him the benefit of the doubt, something he clearly didn’t deserve.

“If it’s not a date, then why the fuck’s it called matchmaking?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes again before narrowing them into twin slits. “Didn’t you read the flyer, dude? We’re making fuckass friendship bracelets.”

Justin fumbled with the thread in his hands as he struggled to come up with an adequate retort. If your blood wasn’t still simmering from his previous statements, you might have laughed at the way his face flushed, flustered by the lack of support he was getting while Seonghwa backed you up. In his fidgeting, every single bead he managed to string over the past fifteen minutes escaped from their thread, skittering to the floor with the likeness of a thousand dust mites scattering from a sudden beam of light. “Fuck this,” he huffed, throwing down the sad piece of string onto the table. “Can’t believe I paid for this shit.”

He pushed out of his seat, the movement causing an ear-piercing SCREECH to tear through the cafe. A few curious and concerned eyes followed him as he stormed out of the establishment. You half expected him to trip over one of the fallen beads he hadn’t bothered to pick up. (If karma was real, that would have happened.)

Your gaze met that of Seulgi’s, who had been strolling around, socializing and monitoring people’s progress during the event. She hustled over, eyes wide as her head flicked between you and the door swinging open. “What happened?” she asked, not accusatory, but rather greatly concerned.

“He was a prick,” Seonghwa answered matter-of-factly while crossing his arms over his chest.

“He said some not-nice things,” you followed up. The steam in your ears was gradually dissipating, in turn, clearing your vision of your own ire. “Who’s friend was he?”

Seulgi frowned and stood with a hand braced on the back of your chair and the girl next to yours. “I could’ve sworn…” her voice trailed off as she scanned the room. Then a curse tumbled out from her mouth, a hand slapping against her forehead. “Goddamn it,” she said, “your partner was supposed to be Lee Jeno—you know, Taeyong’s friend? He sat down at the wrong table, ugh. JENO!”

You all turned. Across the cafe, a dark head of hair perked up from one of the tables, his eyes as wide as the bottom of a coffee pot from the sound of his name being barked out.

You grimaced. “Hey, Seulgi, it’s fine—”

Seulgi waved her hand. “No, no. I should have micromanaged him; he saw the letter J and went with it! My plan,” she groaned. Despite her initial dismissal, she did not go off to scold Jeno or bring him to his original assignment; she merely turned back around and pinched the space between her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Yn. This should have never happened.”

You nodded your head with pursed lips, unsure of what to say. “It’s not your fault, really.” One could not control the audacity that emerged from a man’s mouth.

“Oh my gosh, wait. Let me find someone else for you to sit with.”

“Seulgi” —Seonghwa’s voice drew your attention back to him— “she can just join our table. It’s fine.”

You startled and shook your head, glancing between him and your society president. Become the third wheel to Seonghwa and Sydney (that was her name, if you remembered correctly)? You would rather waltz into the oncoming traffic outside the door. Hadn’t you had enough social anxiety for today? “That’s okay! I really don’t think I’m up to doing this any longer. Can I just, like, monitor or something?”

Seulgi licked her lips. For a long beat, you truly believed she would refuse you. “Okay, yeah,” she said whilst nodding her head. She made a sweeping gesture with her hand as she took a step back. “I was just about to give Taeyong a break from the supply table, if you wanna do that.” How could you ever doubt your easygoing, existentially-exhausted senior?

You pushed out a sigh of relief. The chair legs scraped against the wood floors as you stood, sending any nearby beads tumbling further into motion. “Let me pick up these beads though before someone breaks a leg,” you joked.

“You don't have to—”

“Don't,” Seonghwa cut in and practically waved you away. “Just leave 'em. No one's gonna trip; we'll get them later.”

He sent you a pointed look at your balking and the sternness there sent your toes curling. It wasn't only firm, but you swore there was a tenderness there, too. It was an action not meant to boss you around but to remind you that you did not have to be the one to pick up some asshole's mess.

You gripped the back of your chair, then slowly rose from it, nodding. “Right,” you whispered.

Seulgi led you over to where Taeyong was, all the while apologizing profusely for Jeno's lack of literacy for his own name. You dutifully replaced the vice president at his post, falling into an easy rhythm of organizing beads into small, metal trays, keeping threads from knotting if they were returned, and doling out the appropriate materials.

As the event passed on, you could feel the side of your head tingle, a phantom ache. When one was burned by the sun, the target area of skin often felt distinctly hot and irritated upon touch. You glanced up in the direction of said sun, catching only the movement of Seonghwa's head as he engaged in conversation with Sydney across from him.

You feigned a look away, watching from the corner of your vision as his stare touched you once more. An abrupt bout of tightness flared up in your chest, nerves inflamed and sensitive. Why was he looking over here so much? It had to do with what happened.

For the remainder of your time, you kept your eyes to yourself and tried to ignore the instincts compelling you to meet his gaze.

By the time Seulgi and Taeyong brought the event to a close, the sky had already fallen to darkness, the merciless sun sinking beneath the fold of Earth's horizon. You and the other members of the society made quick work of cleaning up all your messes—it turned out that nearly every table had spilled a handful of beads at some point. You felt a little less horrible about your own situation.

You grabbed your bag from the employee's room in step with Soyeon. “Oh my gosh, wait I have something to tell…” your voice trailed off, vision snagging on the person heading for the exit door. A lightbulb clicked on in your head. Right.

“I'll meet you at home,” you promised her with a hand grazing her shoulder. There was something you needed to do first.

Soyeon's brows twisted at your actions, but she sputtered a good-natured laugh anyway. “Okay? See you at home.”

“Yo—Park! Wait up,” you called after his retreating backside, his body nearly completely over the threshold of the cafe door.

Seonghwa paused in the doorway, angling slightly to watch you catch up to him and keep the door open. “What’s up?” he asked before letting the door fall behind the two of you.

The evening outside was temperate, comfortable. Though the heat remained, it was no longer stifling like its sister, Daytime. Rather, the warmth settled over your skin as a thin shawl with no breeze interrupting. By many definitions, this was a perfect summer’s night despite it still being in the midst of spring. The streetlights flickered to their ‘on’ positions, painting the pavement a nostalgic sodium-orange up and down the university district.

You fell into step beside him and his pace slowed slightly as the two of you walked in the northerly direction toward your separate houses. “I just,” you began, the words needling at the back of your throat like an itch, “wanted to say thanks—for speaking up for me back there.”

Seonghwa glanced at you briefly. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his cargo pants, keys clinking against his thigh with each step he took. “Oh. Well, it was kind of the bare minimum, and that dude was being a class A jackass, so…” his voice trailed off as he took a hand out to rub the back of his neck. He stole another glance at you. “Are we cool? I mean,” he amended, “are you okay? What he was saying was just” —he pushed out a sharp exhale— “not nice, as you said before.”

You pursed your lips in memory of Justin’s words to you. “Yeah, I don’t know. Of course, it struck a nerve at the time, but it was more so that I couldn’t believe that he was actually saying those words.” You laughed, the sound coming out breathy and incredulous. “He was not only stupid, but blatantly ignorant. He was entitled, insensitive, and a fucking piece of shit.”

“I won’t argue with any of that.”

“You better not,” you jested.

You nearly stopped in your tracks. Was this the first time that you and Seonghwa were conducting a conversation of this nature, ever? Of course, both of you had your share of asshole run-ins, but you were never close enough to really have a meaningful conversation about any of it—not the awful people in your lives, not the way your moms made you unofficial rivals, and not the fact that neither of you could get over yourselves for two seconds. It had to be that you were seeing him way more often this quarter compared to every other quarter. Yes, that had to be it.

The silence between you two became too comfortable. The warmth in the air was too comfortable. The oscillating distance between your bodies as you walked side by side was too…

You cleared your throat. “I would choose a nerd over a douchebag any day of the week,” you mused in an attempt to keep the conversation alive. Anything but whatever this was.

Seonghwa released a sound that was akin to a laugh or a choke; you couldn’t tell. “Right,” he murmured. He fiddled around in his right-hand pocket for a moment, and you could hear the fabric rustling. Then it stopped, his head turning away from you like he was changing his mind. “Not to agree with you three times in one day, Ln, but same.”

“High score?” you chimed in weakly.

He faced you again, the amber warmth of the streetlight becoming his backlight, a halo. You couldn’t see his expression clearly with the shadows in the way, but maybe there was a smile there that beheld a softness you didn’t want to believe in. “Yeah, sure. High score, you dork.”

There were moments in time when you decided to be a good person. Objectively, it was more accurate to describe yourself as a good friend—or if one wished to be even more particular—a doormat. Case in point: agreeing to run a phone down to the college’s natatorium when that very building was a good forty-five minute walk from your house on the opposite side of campus. If you took the bus, it might shave your estimated time of arrival down to twenty minutes, or increase it up to an hour, depending on the bus line. Even worse, temperatures were pushing the mid-nineties in Fahrenheit, and the phone's owner was none other than Park Seonghwa.

You were doing this for Mingi and the chocolate chip muffins his mom made—at least, that was what you were telling yourself.

The bus beneath you rattled and squealed with every stretch of road it traversed. Rather than cutting through campus itself, it made a grand loop around its perimeter, catching the students and faculty who were forced to trek to the further reaches of campus rather than its heart. You fiddled with the phone in your hands; his case was a chrome silver vinyl plastic mimicking a quilted fabric. It was an interesting choice, one that you yourself wouldn’t have made, but in your heart, you knew it certainly encompassed his tastes. You scrunched your nose up as you turned it around and the screen lit up, sensing the presence of a face in front of it.

The device didn’t accept your face ID, of course, but you were left staring at the notifications on it. There were one or two text messages from names you vaguely recognized, a message from some group chat labeled “PSYCH202,” and a notification from some mobile game. A thought popped into your head, and you slipped your own phone out from your pocket, weighing the two devices before you.

What were you called in his contacts?

Ding! —Your head shot up and your body jerked in reaction to a particularly rough pothole in the road. “Next stop: East Paradigm and New World Street.”

You twisted in your seat to yank the yellow cord hanging along the side of the bus, eliciting a softer ding! to echo throughout the vehicle, followed by the words STOP REQUESTED displayed at the front.

It was a sign, you decided, to not try your little experiment.

When the bus came to a teetering stop at the E. Paradigm and New World stop, you called out a thanks to the bus driver before taking off in the direction of the natatorium. There was a paved pathway that broke off from the main road and bordered by smartly-trimmed bushes. It wound down the hill, and framed the glorious face of the KQ University indoor pool perfectly. Its wave-like rafters created a lengthened dome akin to the back of a seashell. Between the sandstone frame were pieces of cerulean blue-tinted glass to compliment the off-white building. You did not often find yourself in this area of campus, but you couldn’t deny that the natatorium was a spectacle of its own.

There was a slight pang in your chest, something like nostalgia or bittersweetness—resonating and heavy. It came with that distinct, sinking feeling in one’s stomach of “what could have been.”

You entered into the front doors of the natatorium and sighed at the swath of air conditioning that fell over you. Curiously, there was no one stationed at the reception desk; your original plan had been to drop off his phone here and head out, but with no one present for you to hand it to…

“Great,” you muttered under your breath and made your way to the doors that led deeper into the building.

When you swung open this set of doors, however, your body seemed to deflate at the utter weight of damp, all-encompassing heat in the inner pool chamber. You heard in the winter, when the weather was frigid and snow littered the ground, the floors and pool water in here were actually heated. Why they did not think to turn off the heat during a goddamn heatwave was beyond you. The grander space reached high above your head with the most appropriate acoustics to echo the sounds of water splashing, whistles shrieking, and voices chattering. You brushed a hand through your hair as sweat already began to bead on the back of your neck—you had only been in here for two seconds.

Where the hell could he be? You scanned the immediate area, eyes darting to any male with dark hair and a punk attitude.

According to intel you’d gathered from friends over the years, Seonghwa worked as a lifeguard here. It made logical sense; he was a member of your high school swim team, but was not particularly interested in swimming competitively in the collegiate league. Lifeguarding was not only a good way to continue swimming, but it also provided him with an income and a Basic Life Support certification.

“Hey, you’re Yn, right?”

You blinked, turning to find a shirtless man walking up to you. He had dark hair, too, but none of that so-called punk attitude you were searching for. His abs though… You coughed and fixed your eyes firmly on his face… his bright, smiley face. “Do I know you from somewhere?” was what came out of your mouth instead of something intelligent.

To his credit, he only chuckled. “Kind of,” he said with a sheepish grin, “I’m Mingyu. I don’t know if you remember me, but I went to Pledis Academy.”

You rifled through the files of memories in your brain, referencing the name, the face, and the school. His face had grown more mature since you last saw him, but he was definitely no longer the scrawny swim star you remembered. Recognition flooded into you and a smile stretched across your face. “Oh, shoot! I do remember you, Mingyu, oh my gosh. How have you been? You look” —you regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth, and you awkwardly trailed off. Of course, he looked good, but that was not why you were here. Get it together!— “great,” you finished, clutching Seonghwa’s phone with both of your hands now.

Mingyu laughed again, ducking his head as he swept a hand through his hair. “Oh, thanks—and you, too,” he swiftly added. “I can’t believe we haven’t bumped into each other all these years.”

“Yeah, that’s crazy,” you agreed, nodding your head. “It’s a pretty big campus.”

“Right? But you’d think we’d see each other at least in passing or at parties,” he said. “I don’t know why I never saw you out with Seonghwa.” Mingyu froze, as if someone had just pinched him (probably his own conscience). “Are you two still—I didn’t know if you were still together or not—”

Your smile hardened into an awkward rictus. There were plenty of people who misunderstood yours and Seonghwa’s relationship, but Mingyu? He knew you both from your high school days, when you were undoubtedly more hostile toward one another. You were suddenly reminded of your primary purpose for being here. “Oh, uh, we were never together or anything,” you drawled. Before Mingyu or you could fully let the mutual uneasiness settle into the grooves and heat of this room, you piped up, “Speaking of: have you seen Seonghwa around? He left his phone” —you lifted the silver-quilt case up as evidence— “at a friend’s and I was asked to deliver it.”

“Ah!” Mingyu’s tell-tale signs of discomfort erupted right in front of our eyes, everything from his adorable stammering to the physical turning of his body as he searched for a way out of this conversation. “Rightrightright! I forgot that Yunho sent me a text as a heads up; it completely slipped my mind.”

The expression on your face softened in sympathy. “It’s all good,” you assured him. Your brows twisted together, though, as you walked back his words. “Yunho told you? I didn’t know you knew each other.”

He bobbed his head in an affirmative. “Yup. We met through Hwa in freshman year, actually.” Mingyu swiveled over his shoulder and leaned closer to you so he could point out the far end of the pool. “He should be over there.”

Oh, easy.

You followed Mingyu’s line of sight toward the far end of the pool, and had to catch your own jaw before it dropped. Nope, not so easy.

As a former member of your high school girl’s swim team, you were no stranger to seeing people come out of a pool; but one thing you had concluded about it was that there was no person on earth who could get out of a pool completely elegantly. So then why the fuck were you gawking at the way Park Seonghwa had just appeared out of the water? As soon as his dark brunet head broke the surface, he was brushing the water out of his eyes and sliding one hand over his face to drag any remaining liquid out of the way. The pool water slipping off the slopes of his muscular back gleamed in the clear sunlight that shone through the glass panels far above as he swam freestyle over to the edge of the pool.

You hadn’t even realized that he had something clutched in his hand, something that he was swift to pass over to a little boy and his mother crouched at the poolside. He nodded and smiled as the mother spoke to him, her hand tapping her son’s shoulder, likely to thank Seonghwa for his service.

With the mother and son pair walking off, he braced his hands against the warm pool deck and pushed himself up and out of the water. Pool water cascaded down each crevice and slope of his body, catching on the folds of his swim trunks and his stomach muscles, before smacking against the concrete. He easily swept a foot onto the deck to stand up, and he brought his hands up over his face and through his hair again.

His gaze lifted from the weight of yours, and you wondered why the hell the temperature of the room just shot up ten degrees.

“Oh, he’s seen us,” chirped Mingyu as you pointedly looked away. He began to wave at Seonghwa with that beam so akin to a golden retriever. “Hwa! Look who’s here!”

Yeah, I think he’s seen who’s here, you thought to yourself while mustering up your pride and swallowing everything else in your mouth down. What the hell was wrong with you? You’d seen drenched, shirtless guys before—you were freaking standing next to one already! Granted, he wasn’t drenched, but you had also witnessed Seonghwa in the pool plenty of times in high school. You needed to get a grip—

“Well, this is a surprise,” he said when he was within earshot. Droplets of water continued to run down the surfaces of his body and leave wet footprints in his wake. Seonghwa eyed you with the stoicism you were used to, one that almost broke you out of your flustered state. (It had to be the heat and humidity in here. It had to be.) He inclined his chin at you and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m guessing Mingi or Yunho sent you.”

“Yup.” You thrust out your arm to give him his phone. “It was for the chocolate chip muffins Mingi’s mom makes.”

Seonghwa’s eyebrows lifted, unimpressed. He didn’t take the phone. “Yeah no, I didn’t think you did it out of the goodness of your heart or anything,” he drawled and turned away. “You’re gonna have to hold it for a few more minutes, though; I need to dry off before I electrocute myself.”

You made a face at his back, and with a wave to Mingyu, you strode after him. “Hello? Dude, you know that’s not how it works.”

“Do educate me, Ln,” was his flippant response. He went straight for a small alcove in the far left wall, one with two doorways facing each other—a women’s and a men’s locker room. You halted abruptly when he did, his hand pressed against the door to the men’s side. He sent you a look and his mouth was curved in a half-smirk. “This is the locker room, by the way. If you want a peek, I think you should ask first.”

You could have choked on your own oxygen. “I—I knew that! And I didn’t want a fucking peek, you perv.”

He merely laughed and disappeared into the locker room.

You were left to your own devices in the diabolical humidity of the inner natatorium. Absent-mindedly, you lifted your hand up to feel the back of your neck, the sides of your face, before swearing at the warmth just beneath your skin. With Seonghwa deserting you to dry off and, hopefully, put on a goddamn shirt, (all for a phone) you found something to entertain yourself. There was a bulletin board tacked on the wall between the doors littered with a myriad of posters and flyers and schedules. A section of the wall was dedicated solely to a set of polaroid pictures of each individual staff member, Seonghwa included. (It was a decent picture of him—decent.) This seemed to be a trend for all the businesses associated with and surrounding the school.

Your eyes roved over the media with mild interest, tucking knowledge of an intermediate level water aerobics class held on Saturday mornings, and noting the old flyer for lifeguarding auditions forgotten on the board. As the summer break crept up on all of the students, faculty, and inhabitants of the university town, the pool here needed to prepare by training a new class of lifeguards.

Faintly, you heard the door to your left yawn open, then close with a soft thump. “Thinking of brushin’ up some skills?”

You glanced over at him before turning your attention back to the poster you were reading. There was a light blue towel draped over one shoulder, his bare chest barely covered by a black tank top, and his dark hair still appeared slightly-mussed, the strands arranged in artful chaos. “Nah,” you said, “just curious. I'm not here much.”

“I know.” He stepped closer and stood beside you, sharing your view of the board.

The heat from his skin radiated against your arm and you fought the urge to lean toward him. Why would you want to go closer to more warmth anyway? You cleared your throat, passing his phone between you two a second time. “You should be glad I don't show my face here a lot. I might embarrass you in your own element,” you jested as he finally accepted his device from you.

A low chuckle slipped from his mouth. “You think you're so funny, huh?” he mused.

You were one breath away from whipping back something smart—or something stupidly obvious like “Because I am”—until his body casted a shadow over you. Sunlight had no choice but to gleam around the sides of his head and broad shoulders. Your breath caught in your throat, prey in a metal trap, as he leaned closer. (Prey had more survival instinct than you, at this moment.) Every contraction of your thoracic cavity was shallow and strained, lungs filling with the scent of him, all chlorine and sweat and musk.

“What—”

“Do it then,” he murmured, mouth level with your ear, “embarrass me.”

Then he grabbed the clipboard from behind your head and straightened as if nothing happened.

Your mouth went dry, and you swallowed to hopefully regain some of your dignity. What the hell… The words that you so easily wielded in his presence had retreated to the recesses of your brain, tucking themselves behind the featherlight weight of his breath at your ear and the heat of his gaze. Cowards.

Seonghwa cocked a brow at you as he flipped past one of the sheets of paper on the clipboard. “I know I’m pretty to look at, but don't you have places to be?”

Fuck, did you have places to be? “Right,” you drawled, making a show of squinting one eye at him. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of your face from your hairline, and his eyes lifted from the clipboard momentarily. You instinctively swiped the droplet away; you needed to get out of this infernal torture chamber. “Bye, I guess. Also, keep an eye on your fuckin’ phone, dude. This is the only time I’m playing Delivery Girl.”

He leaned against the alcove wall as you began walking away, his arms folding over his chest. “Yo, Ln.”

You threw him a look over your shoulder. “What is it now?”

“What time do you work until tonight?”

The question nearly had you running into some kid in an inflatable duck floatie. Your eyes widened as he swerved around you, and you parked yourself to the side of the room, as far away from the edge of the pool as you could. Your face contorted into confusion. “Who wants to know?”

Seonghwa said, “Hongjoong does.”

“Then Hongjoong can text me like a normal person?” A frown etched itself onto your face. You had no quarrel with Hongjoong, even if he sustained the tiff between you from last Saturday’s party. It was strange, though, that Hongjoong would think to get this little tidbit of information through Seonghwa of all people. Weird connections were being drawn in your head, and you weren’t sure what to make of them. “Whatever. Tell him that I get off at nine.”

He sent you a small salute before hooking the clipboard back into its place on the wall. “Aye-aye.”

You shook your head as you walked off, careful to avoid any wet puddles left in the textured concrete. Today was strange, to say the least; it had to be the heat.

You spoke too soon. The day only grew weirder.

“Good evening, Aurora County! Seems to me like we’re not quite out of the woods with this summer storm.” There was a crackly laugh cutting through the decade-old speakers in your earbuds before Aurora County’s favorite (and only) weatherman continued, “We’ll be braving another bout of showers tonight, and then it should be clear skies and beach weather here on out ‘til June—”

“—and then he said to me, ‘I don’t really go on dates with nerds!’” you recalled in a voice that was deeper and more stupid-sounding than your normal voice. Your hands gesticulated in time with your narration, fingers waving around to overstate the complete absurdity of it all.

Kim Doyoung, your senior and the tutoring partner who got stuck with you on this late, rainy night shift, twisted his facial muscles into the dictionary definition of disgust. You wondered what one had to do to gain facial flexibility the way Doyoung could scrunch up his entire face like so. “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way!” you exclaimed and threw your hands into the air. The movement ripped your earbuds from your ears, and you discarded the wires in a haphazard heap on your laptop keys. There was no use in keeping quiet; at this point, the two of you had Quill Library all to yourselves, unless you counted the student librarians chained to their reception desks in the lobby. “And you know what’s crazy? Guess who was sitting right next to us.”

Doyoung’s eyes were so wide, you could see your reflection in the whites of them. “Who?”

“Seonghwa—and that girl from Seulgi’s party on Saturday!” At this point in the evening, Doyoung was caught up on all of your so-called “lore” from this past week. You nodded your head with vigor when he started slapping his leg. “Exactly. And when this asswipe says his piece, both me and Seonghwa say at the same time, like, who said this was a fricking date? Then, Justin starts getting on Seonghwa’s case, for some reason, and I snap at him. He says some bullshit about why it was called matchmaking if this isn’t a date, and Seonghwa reminds him that the flyer actually says ‘friendship bracelets’ instead.” You gestured with your hand, adding, “Of course, with more snark.”

“But of course,” Doyoung replied with a downturned mouth. He took a sip from his thermos, wincing at the steam wafting out of its mouth. How that coffee was still scalding after four hours was a mystery to you. “Wait, so Seonghwa spoke up for you?”

“Yup,” you said. You leaned your cheek against your fist as his question fully digested. “I guess it’s a little strange to think about, considering what you already know about our relationship. I mean, we kind of talked about it afterward and it felt weird to actually agree on things, for once.”

In an action that nearly had your eyes bulging out of your head, you watched Doyoung return his thermos to the table and place his hand on your shoulder. “Yn, I might need to hold your hand while asking this…”

Dread was the weight of an iron anchor sinking in your gut. It festered there, rusting, and it took far too much energy to haul it up out of the water. You grimaced, glancing at the hand on your shoulder, then back at him. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t you think you guys could actually get along if you got over yourselves?”

You blinked at him. “Is this a genuine question?”

His expression dropped into a deadpan in time with his hand slipping off your shoulder. “Yes, and I want a genuine answer.”

“Ah.” You scratched at your jaw, then reached over to pause the video that you abandoned earlier. You were tempted to make the joke of how The Emotionally-constipated Doyoung was actually prompting an emotionally intelligent conversation, but the thought dashed away as you fell into the gravity of his question. “Sincerely? Yeah.”

It had never been a question of whether you and Seonghwa could get along; it was simply that the dynamic between you had been tainted from the start.

You saw the lines of his face and the curve of his posture soften. “Then why don't you?”

You pulled your eyes away from him at the sensation of heat crawling up your neck. That was embarrassment in tangible form, your nervous system coming up to bat. “It’s complicated,” you said, and quickly tacked on, “and that's not a copout answer. It legitimately is like” —your mouth shut. How were you supposed to articulate this in a way that someone outside yours and Seonghwa's history could understand? “When we were younger, I couldn't see him as anyone but the person my mom thought was always better than me. It… screws with you, y'know? And it's not fair to Seonghwa or me that that is how we grew up looking at each other, but—I dunno. Our dynamic has always been like a cat fight and it feels weird if we're not at odds.”

“Because being each other's competition is what feels natural.”

Your head dipped. “Yeah.”

Doyoung loosened a sigh from the back of his throat and he shifted in his seat. “And you've never… thought about being friends with him? Bonding over that mutual pressure?”

“Not really,” you confessed. “When you're a kid who just wants your parents to be proud, you do what you have to. There were moments I saw him as someone other than the physical rendition of all my mother's expectations and my nightmares, though. I mean—we still grew up together.” There was a laugh, and then your voice dropped off a cliff. You sat stock-still for a moment and let the epiphany swallow you whole.

Your counterpart allowed the silence of realization to engulf you. Seonghwa was your mirror image in more ways than not. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that you were both just kids at the time, and that ultimately, you had grown up together. (But now you were older. Would you continue to look at him and see the past, or could you make room for the man he was growing into?)

In the corner of your eye, you spotted movement. Both you and Doyoung turned to the entryway of this area in the library, and it was as if the universe was about to call you out on your thoughts.

Doyoung looked back at you with wide eyes. “Speak of the Devil,” he whispered, head whipping back in Seonghwa’s direction, then to you.

You wanted to slap your hand to your forehead. “Please be chill,” you groaned quietly to him. Over Doyoung’s shoulder, you watched Seonghwa quietly take a seat on the outskirts of the seating area, furthest from where yours and Doyoung’s table was. Wait, wasn’t it Hongjoong who asked what time you got off work tonight? You peeked over at the time in the corner of your laptop—8:24PM. Huh.

For a minute or two, you and Doyoung simply let the clock tick away in silence.

Then there was a nudge at your arm. “Go ask him if he needs help.”

You jolted. “What? He doesn’t need help—trust me,” you hissed back. “He already took Gen Chem in freshman year and passed with flying colors.”

“I hate that you know that.”

Oh. You pursed your lips together. “Yeah, me too.”

Doyoung sighed and it was loud enough to echo against the high ceiling. He spun your chair around and practically shoved you out of it. “You've been deployed, Yn.”

“This is abuse of power,” you muttered, but gathered your body, ego, and all other accompanying parts, and rounded the table. You could not comprehend why your heart rate began to crescendo with each footstep you took in Seonghwa's direction. There had never been this kind of hesitation before—an uneasiness of suddenly being aware of too much—only an insistent balking to interact with the bane of your childhood.

Seonghwa didn't look up until your shadow sliced over his notebook page. It almost made your eyes twitch. “Funny seeing you here,” he drawled as he leaned back in his seat to peer up at you.

You arched both of your brows, unimpressed. “There is a distinct lack of Kim Hongjoong, I see,” you said and gestured around at the nearly-empty room.

“Yeah, well, he had a conflict.”

You rolled your eyes and slid into the seat across from him. “You could've just asked me. Y'know, like a normal person.”

“Sure I could've, Ln.”

“Anyways,” you muttered, scratching your head and then gesturing behind you in Doyoung's direction, “my senior's tasked me with seeing if you need help with anything. I told him you probably don't, because this is a general chemistry tutor session and—”

“Soyeon says you got full marks on the Krebs Cycle portion of the midterm.”

The words that just spilled out of his mouth were experiencing a traffic jam when entering your brain. When did he and Soyeon talk about that? Why would Soyeon tell him that? And why would he—it hit you.

Your face must have said it all, because Seonghwa was already taking up a defensive position by folding his arms over his chest. “Don't make a big deal out of this.”

You pressed a finger to your lips. “I'm not,” you swore, then lowered your hand to lace with the other over the table. You were telling the truth, as surprising as it was for both you and Seonghwa. In your youth, you would have been flooded with jubilation at the news that you excelled where he underperformed. But as you sat across from him in the harsh library lighting, you felt nothing but a light ‘Oh.’

You were expecting the warm satisfaction in your chest, the smug contentment making your fingers jittery. Those sensations never came.

Not so important after all, huh?

The side of his cheek shifted like he was biting the inside of it. “So no snarky remarks? No celebrating?”

Were you really so bad? You shrugged. “If that's what you want, I'll provide it. But—you know…” you trailed off in thought, an absent-minded laugh tumbling out. “I don't think we've ever admitted to each other our shortcomings directly. They've only ever been told to us through other people.”

Seonghwa's arms uncrossed, expression softening. “Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded. “It's cool that you came to me for help, though. I think I had a dream about this once—”

“Don't push it, Ln.”

A grin split your face just then—a true moment of jubilation—and you could have sworn something flickered across his own face.

You didn't push it. Instead, you and Seonghwa hunkered down in the corner of the room for the next couple of hours breaking down the target section. In the quiet, abandoned floor of Quill Library, rain drummed against the windows plastered with the dark night. At some point, Doyoung excused himself to head home, leaving you and Seonghwa beneath the grating overhead LEDs and the scratchy handwriting on the notebook passed between you.

The clock hands struck about ten o'clock when you decided to call it quits. Rain continued to batter the streets of the KQ University campus, and you stood beneath the large, stone archway that led into the library, watching the glow of the lights from inside scatter across the drenched cobblestones.

Seonghwa yanked his jacket hood over his head. “Hey, come on, I'll give you a ride home,” he said to you, nudging your arm with the back of his hand before gesturing to the left.

You were not about to argue when it was pouring rain at ten o'clock and you were without an umbrella.

The two of you crashed into your corresponding sides of the car, breaths fogging up the windows and mirrors, seats and backpacks and skin damp from either sweat or rain. You shook any errant droplets out of your hair as Seonghwa cranked the engine on. His phone connected to the car radio the moment he began backing out from his parking space, and the vibrant instrumentals of a Bruno Mars song came grooving out of the speakers.

Seonghwa turned the volume down, and you leaned back in your seat and watched the streetlights blur like watercolors against the car window.

“Thanks, by the way.” The glow of the stoplight was crimson red across his face. “I found tonight really helpful.”

You pursed your mouth as you traded glances with him. “Yeah sure, man,” you said. “I'm glad you found it helpful. I think I'm just surprised you even—I dunno—asked me of all people.”

He passed you another glance as his visage turned bright green with the traffic light. “You know I respect you, right?”

“Are you okay?” you blurted out. “Like are you dying or something?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes so hard, you were sure he could see his brain up there. If he wasn't driving, you knew he would be hitting his head against the steering wheel. “Good grief, Yn, I'm trying to be sincere.”

You coughed, shrinking down in your seat. “And I'm being sincere too,” you retorted. “We haven't been this civil toward each other since—”

“Never?” he offered.

“Yes,” you said. You shared yet another look before he returned his eyes to the road. Your own gaze went to the lone C-3PO figurine on his dash and you balled up your hands in your lap, wondering how they had gotten so clammy. “I—respect you, too.”

“How badly did it hurt to say that?”

Your head whipped around. “Now who's being the insincere one?”

Seonghwa chuckled and the corner of his mouth curled up. “Touché,” he said. “I’m being serious though. I wish…”

You swallowed as you stared out the front windshield. It didn't take a therapist to fill in the blank: I wish we hadn't started off how we did. I wish we grew up differently. I wish we had grown up as friends.

The car tires crunched slowly over the rainy gravel outside of your house a few minutes later. The front windows still emitted a warm, familiar light from within, signalling to you the consciousness status of some of your housemates. The windshield wipers continued to thunk, thunk, thunk away at the ceaseless rain against glass as you prepared yourself to cross the driveway without cover.

You stopped just as your fingers curled around the door handle. “By the way, isn't your guy missing his guy?” you asked, wagging a finger in the direction of C-3PO. You were, of course, referring to R2-D2, the blue and white droid renowned for its resourcefulness and adorableness.

Seonghwa shifted in his seat, eyebrows lifting in pleasant surprise at the question. “Oh,” he said, “well, I guess I just haven't found the right moment to get him.”

Ah. You tugged the door open. “‘Night then,” you chirped, and flashed him with the Spock salute.

“You're such a fuckin’ nerd, oh my god—”

You threw your head back in a cackle as you slammed the car door, then bolted for your front porch.

In the eleventh grade, you bombed a Science Olympiad competition. The Science Olympiad was a high school organization you had been a part of since the moment you stepped foot onto campus in freshman year. As a junior, you were a seasoned professional, an ace card in the deck, a valued player in the roster—until you fumbled every event at this specific meet.

To your credit, most of your teammates also met failure or mediocre success; but that was not something your mother cared about.

Park Seonghwa knew this fact like the back of his hand. He had recognized the sheer panic in your eyes during each event, the harried nature of each attempt to reconcile your mistakes mid-event, the defeat and anxiety pouring out of you in energy that could not be contained in that high-tension ball you called your body.

The bus ride home had been dead silent. The car ride in his mom's car was filled only by the muffled sounds of the world passing by. The worst part was seeing you at school the day afterward. You didn't only look exhausted, you looked sapped—of energy, a will, everything. He never said anything; he didn't have the heart or the balls to.

When the clock hit four on the dot, marking the beginning of after school practice, Seonghwa gathered in room A08 along with the rest of your teammates. He barely tuned into whatever the president was saying because your seat across the room was empty and they were taking roll call.

“I'll go look for her,” he offered as soon as your name was called. His stomach twisted into a painful knot, knowing. Maybe you weren't friends, but it didn't mean he couldn't try to save you some dignity. Seonghwa was already up and out of his seat before anyone else could acknowledge or offer assistance.

There were a myriad of possible places you could be and he would check all of them, barring the girl's bathroom. You had to still be on campus, though, because he saw your bike still locked up when he passed by. You would not have gone home at this hour—at least one of your parents would be home, thus, making it the last place you wanted to be. Minutes flew by as he zipped around different spots on campus. He peeked into other open classrooms, asked your band friends if you were in any parts of the music building, and ducked into alcoves around school grounds. The couple of times he called your number, it went to voicemail immediately; there was no point in trying to text you.

When he reached the swimming pool on the far end of campus, his hopes were not high. He had even broken a sweat, the skin beneath the collar of his hoodie warm and damp from perspiration. You had quit the girl’s swim team last year after an incident with the asshole coach, and it didn’t make much sense that you would hide here of all places. Seonghwa was in no place to judge you for quitting, but your parents miraculously accepted it as long as you took up another extra-curricular. From what he heard, you were tutoring now.

As he stepped foot onto the barren, outdoor pool deck, he paused just as he opened his mouth to call out your name.

The sound of a gasp cleaved through the air—not a gasp of surprise, but a gasp for air. A broken sob rattled after it, followed by another, and another, a cascade of ruin and emotion that no one needed a label for.

Seonghwa froze in place. The distinct feeling that he was intruding swept over him. What if it’s not her, he thought and slowly crept closer, toward the sound. He would make sure that you—or whoever it was—was alright.

But as he took his measured steps, he spied a familiar head of hair around the furthest corner of the locker rooms building. He recognized the red stripe running down your track pants, the pair that you wore on Thursdays when you had your racquet ball class. Your shoulders trembled like a city on a fault line, a fissure in the earth that was once the unbreakable resolve he knew you to possess.

He had never seen or heard you cry before, let alone like this—like every single pressure point had conspired together to finally make you crack. He despised it, hated it. Out of all the people he knew, he never believed you could be broken.

Seonghwa backed away. He didn’t make his presence known to you and he would never bring it up again. This was your private moment; he was probably the last person you wanted to see. He made his way back to the meeting room with a discomfort filling up his chest, and that presented itself outwardly as solemnity.

His teammates all glanced up at his return, and the president asked, “Where is she?”

“She’s fine,” Seonghwa replied while sliding back into his seat. “She just needs a minute.”

“But we have to tighten up on practice—”

Seonghwa’s expression hardened. “Give her. A Minute.”

The president’s mouth snapped shut, and nothing further was said on the matter. However, fifteen minutes later, heads turned again to watch you stumble into the classroom while wiping your cheek, your eyes no longer red and your breathing back to normal. Seonghwa tried not to stare as you muttered out an apology and took your seat across the room from him. You shouldn’t have to apologize, he thought.

He tried not to flinch when he remembered what your crying sounded like; tried not to let the anger he harbored at your mother fester into his own tone when he spoke; and tried not to mention at all that he had caught you at a moment of weakness, because if there was anything that would make you feel worse, it would certainly be that.

There were many things you could read about Jeon Soyeon. After living with her for a solid three years and suffering a glorious amount together through the trenches that were pre-medicine weedout classes, one might say you forged a bond only few could relate to. It was one of the primary reasons you believed that she had been itching to ask you something for an entire week.

You broke away from the lineup of dish detergents on the shelf before you, their rainbow of labels plastered with claims of killing 99.9999999% of grease molecules on your dishes to varying degrees of truthfulness. “Alright,” you said, whirling on your friend and roommate, which caused her to freeze up like a deer in headlights. “Just spit it out already.”

Soyeon’s hands lifted in surrender. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not make me resort to unsavory methods.” The bright white LEDs above your head washed the entire store in their light, illuminating the company’s specific shade of red plastered on the walls to contrast the white of everything else.

“It’s just that…”

“Uh-huh,” you muttered, turning back to the shelf to pluck your house’s choice of dish soap from the shelf. The translucent blue liquid sloshed inside with a slightly higher viscosity than water, but looser than hand soap. You dumped the bottle into the red basket hanging from your arm filled with the other items you and Soyeon were tasked with retrieving by your housemates.

“Doyoung told me that Seonghwa came to the tutor center during one of your shifts last week.”

You paused in the middle of the aisle, then recovered your stride and continued out into the main walkway. Was everybody talking to everybody but you, all of a sudden? “Yeah,” you drawled, sending her a narrowed-eye look from over your shoulder, “and by the way, I can’t believe you told him that I got the entire Krebs Cycle section right.”

Soyeon deadpanned at you and fell into step beside you as you began to wander in an aimless direction around the store. “In my defense, he asked first! I had a feeling about his score, and you know that I’m not gonna miss out on a chance to brag about my friend, so I told him about just that section.”

In truth, you weren’t upset that Soyeon disclosed this information to Seonghwa. Of course, it would have been different if you hadn’t done as well on that section, but it ultimately led to that strangely civil evening between the two of you. Since then, there had been two weeks’ worth of society gatherings and Trivia Nights, all of which passed by relatively normally, excluding the fact that the jabs you and Seonghwa exchanged were a little less biting. Not that anyone had pointed it out yet though.

You made a turn into one of the many toy aisles in this section of the store. “So what about the tutor center?” you asked, beelining to the Lego sets on the shelves.

“Getting you guys to talk about your feelings about each other is like pulling teeth,” she groaned behind you.

“I mean, a straightforward question helps,” you mused. (‘Straightforward,’ you advocated for, until someone like Jeong Yunho asked you the most straightforward question known to man and you declined to answer in exchange for a tequila shot.) You shoved your hands into the pockets of your shorts and eyed the Lego replicas of real life items: a typewriter, a flower vase, a human-sized Boba Fett helmet—

“Well, have you ever thought that you’re projecting your attraction for Seonghwa as a dislike for him instead?”

Your hand came to a stop. (Was there a tequila shot you could drink now?) What was with everyone asking you about your relationship with Seonghwa lately?

“See!”

“No, no, no—I can answer this! I can answer this,” you spluttered out defensively. You could see Soyeon bracing her hands on her hips next to you while you maintained your focus on the number of Lego bricks labeled on a box. “I can’t believe I’m being interrogated in a Target shopping aisle,” you muttered under your breath, blowing an errant piece of hair out of your eyes.

“Okay, I don't think I've ever thought of it in that way. Maybe there's some cognitive dissonance there with associating him with a lot of the negative things in our past, but—I don't know! He’s… sure, I think he is an objectively decent guy, but he’s not my type.” When you faced Soyeon, she had her arms crossed this time, an eyebrow arched. “I’m guessing you don’t agree,” you huffed.

“I really don’t want to bring up your Hinge history” —you opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but she held up her hand to stop you— “and I won’t. But consider that maybe your obsession with the two of you being in the same league has a deeper meaning than simply his being the bane of your childhood. Like, you guys have so much common footing, and I’ve gotta be honest, girl—you look at him and talk about him a lot.”

Your mouth curved into an elongated frown. You didn’t look at him ‘a lot,’ right? Not so much that it was obvious… right? If anything, the reason you looked at him so much was because—well, even you couldn’t come up with a bullshit excuse for that one. If you supposedly couldn’t stand the sight of him, then why were your eyes always drawn to him like a magnet with the force of the Earth’s poles? Even gravitational acceleration could not beat the speed at which you found him in a crowded lecture hall.

The loud buzzing of a phone tore through the white noise buzzing from the overhead lights. It made you jump out of your skin, and you fumbled around in your pockets to take out your phone.

The caller ID glared up at you like the universe’s favorite joke: Park Vader.

Soyeon peered over your shoulder and snorted. “I forgot you called him that; you’re such a dork, Yn.”

“What?” you lamented. “I thought it was clever, ‘cause he was my sworn enemy!”

She shook her head to herself as she turned around and walked a straight line out of the aisle. That left you alone with the buzzing phone in your hands, the caller on the other side undoubtedly waiting, too. You couldn’t remember the last time you received a phone call from him. Was it that one time you lost half the group during a society outing? Or was it high school graduation when he couldn’t find where his parents had gone?

You brushed those thoughts aside and accepted the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, are you free right now?”

“Uhh yeah,” you dragged out, peering around you for anyone in the vicinity. You kept the call off speaker despite no one being near. “Did you need something?”

The sounds of paper flipping and crinkling met your ears through the speaker. In your mind’s eye, you imagined him propped behind his desk and rummaging through his notebook graffitied with ballpoint pen. “That question about which substrate the antagonist functions most closely to…?”

Your brain flicked on its lights and you mentally rifled through the files labeled with ‘Biochemistry.’ Something caught your eye at the other end of the aisle, and you tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder. “Oh,” you said, “it’s succinyl-CoA because the compound inhibits the formation of citrate. The other options can be involved in the inhibition of the Krebs Cycle, but ultimately, succinyl-CoA is the only one that’s involved with the actual condensation into citrate.”

A sigh erupted from his end of the call, his breathy tone tickling at your ear and making you think of the goddamn natatorium. He was quiet for a second as you scoured the shelves lined with Lego figurines of characters from movies. The dull scratching of his ballpoint pen was loud enough for his microphone to pick up; it was a soothing sound.

“I probably could have known that from straight-up memorization, huh,” he finally said.

You removed a box with an R2-D2 figurine from its hook. “Maybe,” you conceded. “You can only memorize so much until it gets to a point, y’know, where knowing the basics and applying them is more useful than committing every little detail to memory.” Five bucks? This tiny thing should be two dollars maximum, you thought, but tossed it into the basket anyway.

He must have heard the resounding crash of weighted cardboard and gravity, because he was quick to pipe up, “Where even are you right now?”

“Target,” you answered simply. “Soyeon’s somewhere around here, too.” The statement was paired with a swivel of your head—wherever she had wandered off to, you hadn't a clue.

“Oh, did Seulgi make you guys go get stuff for the car wash thing tomorrow?”

“Nah, this is all Lillian's doing,” you replied with more mirth than resentment. “Errands in exchange for coming to support us by bringing her minivan tomorrow.”

An indignant sound crackled into your ear. “That's gotta be cheating.”

“Sorry, that I have friends, Park,” you quipped back, snickering. “Get ready to have your ass handed to you.”

“By you? Not a chance.”

You hummed absentmindedly, dallying toward the end of the aisle to begin your search for your friend. “Not by ‘chance,’” you corrected, “but by the army of our girls in bikinis.”

“Is that including you?”

You made a face. “Duh. Wait why—”

A chuckle resonated through your ear, the heat from your phone meshing with the warmth in your cheek. “See you and your bikini tomorrow, Ln.”

“Seonghwa, what the—” He hung up.

Your face ignited as you ripped the phone out from between your ear and shoulder. As expected, the End Call screen grinned back up at you. There was no way you heard what you thought you heard… but then again, there had been the pool before that, and the other car ride way before that…

Soyeon appeared from around the corner with her phone facing upward as if she herself was just on a call with someone. She peered at you curiously, her brows crinkling together. “Are you okay?”

“I think Seonghwa's been flirting with me, Soyeon,” you said. The phone was still hot in your hand. His goddamn contact was still on the screen.

She raised her hands up to the ceiling as if in prayer. “Oh, thank Mother Seulgi, you're finally awake.”

Seulgi's cul-de-sac was busier than Greek row during Rush.

Perched up high in her second story bedroom window, you could breathe in the expanse of bodies milling about, the cars slowly rolling into the dead-end street, and the dozens upon dozens of buckets and sponges piled high with mountains of soap suds. The pre-health society's car washing fundraiser was well under way, even beneath the scathing wrath of the late spring sun.

“Good morning, Aurora County!” you heard the weatherman's voice carry through one of Seulgi's roommate's radios in the house. They were probably holed up in their room down the hall, deep in a cat nap and unaware of the party around them. “Well, it's gonna be another hot one today. Temperatures are looking to soar to the mid-nineties and hundreds by late afternoon. Make sure to stay hydrated and apply that sunscreen, folks!”

You had been finishing up with some preparations inside the house while everyone else was busy getting the event started. You might have missed the moment everyone tore off their shirts and hosed the first car, but there was plenty of time for one more.

Every conversation that had transpired last night replayed freshly in your mind as you sped down the stairs and out the front door. If you were to be wholly honest, you weren't sure where your head was. This was new to you—the idea that the tension between you and Seonghwa could be anything but a rivalry. Your pulse throbbed at the junction of your throat and jaw, your palms clammy as the midday sun roasted you from even the shade of the porch.

“Yn! Get your butt down here!” came Chaeryeong's shout, her arm flailing around to beckon you over to the Chevy SUV at the mercy of her water gun.

Soyeon cupped her hands around her grinning mouth: “And take that shirt off before I do it for you!”

You let out a loud laugh, descending the porch step by slow step, teasing your fingers at the hem of your T-shirt. “Don’t any of you have manners? Where's my 'please?’”

“Please” —your head whipped over to find Wooyoung lounging in a nearby lawn chair, his shirt unbuttoned and splayed out on either side of him, eyes boasting a pair of heart-shaped glasses, and shooting you a toothy grin— “take your shirt off. For me, of course, and definitely not for anyone else.”

You guffawed, fully amused. “For you, and only you, my friend.”

“That is the goddamn spirit—oop! Gotta go!” Wooyoung rocketed out of the chair as Seulgi came barreling out of the garage fifteen feet behind him, a menacing scowl fixed on her face and a slipper raised over her head.

“Get to work, Jung Woooyoung, or so help me!” Seulgi huffed as she stood on the lawn just before you, hands braced on her jean short-clad hips. She turned halfway toward you. “Ready to rake in some money, Yn? Taeyong and the boys have gotten a headstart, but it won't help them for long,” she said, the grin on her face filled with more teeth than sportsmanship.

“Yes, ma'am,” you chirped dutifully.

She pointed in the direction of a cobalt blue sedan rolling into the lot near the entrance of the cul-de-sac proper, where you saw Lia already stationed. You sent her a salute, stole a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses off a nearby table, and jogged across the street toward Lia. The latter gladly welcomed you to the area she affectionately called “The Griddle,” thanks to the fact that she was in the flat, open expanse of the street. Her only reprieve was the big, floppy sun hat crowning her head and maybe the clipboard tucked under her arm.

She waved over the sedan to an open spot in front of one of the other houses, and to your surprise, as they rolled down the window, you were met by a familiar face.

“Long time, no see, Mingyu,” you greeted pleasantly, leaning over the window sill. You nodded in hello to the guy sitting in the passenger seat, as well.

Mingyu beamed with a kind of boyishness that made you nostalgic for high school, a rare feat. “Hey, Yn,” he said. “My friend Seungkwan and I thought we'd come to support.”

Seungkwan, the passenger, waved to you with a bright energy. “Nice to meet the girl Mingyu hasn't stopped talking about.”

“Aish—shut up, dude!” Mingyu stammered, cheeks darkening from his friend's exposé.

You giggled, the sound spilling out of your mouth from the slight second-hand embarrassment and feeling a little flattered. Sure, Mingyu was good-looking and seemed like a regular Prince Charming, but you weren't sure he was someone you were interested in at this moment. (Or was exactly your type, as Soyeon would say.) Your smile was cordial, bordering on polite. “Ah well, thanks for coming out to show your support. We really appreciate it.”

“Of course!” he was quick to recover. “Do you guys want us to sit outside and wait, or…?”

“Either is fine,” you said with a shrug and took a couple steps back toward Lia. You needed to locate a bucket and sponges and maybe even a hose before you could get started. “Make yourselves comfortable, guys.”

You shimmied your way over to Lia's side. “Hey, is there any extra soap and water around here?”

Lia hissed through her teeth and tapped her chin with the back of her pencil. “Ooh,” she murmured, “you know what? Let me find someone who can get you that—”

“I got it, Lia.”

Your heart palpitated, your lungs seized. For some reason, his voice sounded rough around the edges, and there were only so many instances when you could use heat as an excuse for delusions like this. You swore to god that Park Seonghwa just appeared out of nowhere, setting two buckets of sudsy sponges at your feet, but not before peering at you through long lashes with the intention to make you feel warmth from a source other than the sun.

His shoulders were already well bronzed in his tank top, the fabric loose to give his skin room to breathe. He carded a hand through his damp hair and looked you up and down. “I was promised a bikini.”

You blinked, and for a moment, you nearly forgot who you were. The attitude came zipping back in a second. “Actually, you were promised a proper beating.”

“I could deal with that, too,” he drawled back, arms braiding across his chest.

(Lia quietly excused herself, likely to go run off in Soyeon and Seulgi's direction with the freshest of news. It was almost too easy to give you both privacy; how obsessed did you have to be with one another to forget that the world continued on when you were together?)

You flashed him a saccharine smile and bent slightly to pick up the buckets he’d delivered. “Well, thanks for the stuff. I'm gonna go clean Mingyu's car now.” Before he could even process what you said, you were already walking yourself back in the direction of your assigned car. Somewhere behind you, you registered the sound of Yeosang calling out for Seonghwa to help with a new car coming in.

When you reached the sedan again, you set the buckets by the driver’s side, the car now left to its own devices while Mingyu and Seungkwan loitered on the curbside nearby.

“Yn, d’you need help?” Chaeryeong jogged over in her sandals and flipped her hair over her shoulder with a big grin on her face. The water gun she wielded earlier had disappeared.

“Definitely,” you said back, nodding. You took the heart-shaped glasses off and handed them to her. “Hold these, please.”

Your fingers once again met the bottom hem of your T-shirt. A familiar sensation warmed at the side of your head akin to a light burn. Your eyes wandered in the direction of the stare that seared into you, and your pulse throttled up against your skin when you made eye contact with Seonghwa from across the street. He had the door of his newest vehicle propped open and half his body drenched from chest to waist already, but he halted any activity as if he sensed what was about to happen.

You didn’t know what was wrong with you, but you held his stare while you tugged your shirt up and over your head. Immediately, your skin breathed a sigh of relief at being freed from the fabric incubator that was your cover-up. You tossed the garment onto the side of the road where a drink cooler had been left.

Chaeryeong suddenly coughed and leaned toward you, passing the sunglasses back into your hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Seonghwa look so intense.”

That phantom burn continued to flare against your head. You stole a quick glance back in that direction, your heart rate rocketing when you caught the way his eyes flickered over the expanse of exposed skin framed by a baby blue bikini top.

“Then you should see how locked-in he gets when doing exams,” you joked to Chaeryeong. It was a pathetic attempt at dismissing the fluttering in your stomach.

She shot you a look, her mouth pursing. “No, girl, I think he wants to do you like one.”

If there was one way to get you to shut up with haste, it was that. Your jaw snapped shut before it could fully unhinge. No way. Nowaynowaynoway—you hiked your sunglasses up on top of your head to push your hair out of your face. All of a sudden, you were hyper-aware of the presence across the street from you; and for the first time, it wasn’t because you were solely looking to school his ass at something. When had you become so conscious about him looking at you?

You forced the thought to the back of your mind; in fact, you shoved it under a mental floorboard, hammered it in with a mental nail, and draped a mental rug over it. There were more important things to deal with at present and who were you if not a champion of absolute focus?

It truly proved to be a challenge for your mental faculties. As the late morning simmered into high noon, you and your society-mates must have cleaned about a few dozen cars. If the pre-health society did not collect at least a couple thousand in donations by the end of the day, you would declare your retirement. The heat was beginning to wear on you and everyone else, the sun’s rays beating down from above while the hot asphalt beneath discharged heat waves, completing a proper assault on two fronts.

You swiped the fat droplet of sweat rolling down the side of your face with your arm, despite it mixing with the layer of perspiration already settled atop your skin. You, Soyeon, and some of the other girls just finished up with a fraternity brother’s dirt- and dust-slicked truck, and were making your way back toward home base.

Soyeon slumped one of her arms around your shoulders before her head came tumbling down next. “Man, the tan lines we’re gonna end up with are going to be diabolical,” she whined. “And right before summer, too! What am I supposed to do in a backless dress and my body’s in three different shades?”

“I don’t know, but you’re still hot regardless of how many shades your body is,” you mused back with a cheeky grin. The two of you stood within range of the front lawn sprinklers, which had been so graciously activated by one of Seulgi’s housemates. You had already spotted some of the boys making full use of the cool water when they took their break earlier.

“Have I ever told you I love you?”

You chuckled and patted her head, your movements sun-soaked and lethargic. “Love you, too, babe.”

A high-pitched yelp pierced the air and the sound echoed against the surrounding houses of the cul-de-sac. You and Soyeon tracked the noise to the boys’ side of the street, where Wooyoung was scrambling away from the group like his ass was on fire, his hair and body dripping wet. The culprit, it seemed, was Yunho, of all people.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, “who let Yunho have the hose?” A small chuckle left your throat as you watched the chaos unfold. The wicked, toothy grin slathered over Yunho's face was enough to tell anyone in the vicinity that he meant Business.

The trajectory of the hose spray continued on down the line before it reached the side of a black four-wheeler. Someone shouted from behind the trunk, before Seonghwa and Hongjoong emerged, their bodies sopping wet from head to toe.

“Yah! Jeong Yunho,” Hongjoong cried with a shaking fist before flicking off the water from his arms and legs.

But your attention fixed upon the man next to him with the magnetism of an MRI scanner to a slab of metal. You couldn't rationalize how the world slowed, but when Seonghwa yanked the black tank top—drenched and clinging to every crevice of his body—over his head, it definitely happened in slow motion. He shook out his dripping wet hair and scooped it backward and out of his face with one hand.

Your head whipped away before he could notice you were watching—or drooling, for that matter. (What was wrong with you? You swiped at the corner of your mouth to thumb away the saliva there.) If anyone asked, the reason your face and neck were so warm was because of the burning ball of plasma reigning over your heads.

You heard your name being called out from your left, and you and Soyeon waited for Seulgi to come to a stop by you both. “Hey, what's up?” you asked her.

There was a clipboard in her hand, similar to the one Lia had been holding onto earlier. “You remember where my laundry room is, right?” When you nodded an affirmative, she continued, “Would you mind doing me a huge favor and grabbing a stack of the smaller towels on the rack in there?”

“Oh, I'll go with you,” Soyeon piped up.

Seulgi made a sound that had both you and Soyeon freezing in place. A beat of silence passed between them, almost like telepathic communication.

“I just remembered” —Soyeon gave your shoulder a squeeze and began stepping away in the direction of a nearby cooler— “I was gonna go restock some of the coolers with White Claws. Sorry, Yn!”

“Thanks, Yn!” Seulgi chirped. “Remember that the laundry door has a weird lock—”

You sent her a thumb's up. “I remember,” you assured her, then made your way up the porch steps. You shook your head with a scrunched nose. That was… interesting.

The laundry room was infamous for its dysfunctional locking mechanism. You and the girls from the society had plenty of slumber parties in this house, and thus, knew very well that the laundry room in the basement would slam shut and jam on the inside. There was always a little doorstop to keep it open, but at times, the house's occupants would remove the doorstop if one of the machines were running.

You wormed your way through Seulgi's house toward the basement entrance, cutting beneath the stairs and into the house's foundation. The small fan blew out over the room with a gentle and low breeze, and afternoon sunlight poured in through the slim windows.

The laundry room door was tucked away on the far side of the room, and you paused just outside the door. Huh. It was closed.

Carefully, you pulled it open and peeked inside. No machine was running. You yanked the cord by the door to turn on the small strip light overhead; you couldn't spot the Ditto Pokémon doorstop either.

“Don't be stupid,” you muttered to yourself, and closed the door while you went around the basement to look for a replacement doorstop. You made a loop around the basement and checked the cabinets by the pool table, eyeing a folded chair shoved in haphazardly with the pool cues.

The chair was chosen, and you propped it open between the door and the doorjamb, preventing yourself from being locked inside. “Why is this door so goddamn heavy,” you pondered aloud, scrutinizing the way the weight of the laundry door pushed the folding chair until it was flush against the doorway.

Whatever. That would be fine for now.

You clambered in through the opening and went straight for the rack at the furthest end of the room. How many towels was Seulgi asking for? If it was the small ones, it might have just been for drying the cars, perhaps…

Your thoughts slowed as the sound of footsteps resounded against the basement stairs. You glanced upwards, then back toward the door.

Thunk, thunk, thunk—then, “Ln? Yn, you in here?”

Brows crossing, you straightened. “Seonghwa?”

Sure enough, Seonghwa's head of damp hair appeared through the opening. His gaze flickered from the chair between the door and the wall, then back up at you. “Seulgi said you might need help.”

“Oh.” So she didn't want Soyeon helping, but now Seonghwa was down here? There was something fishy going on… You turned back to the rack. “I mean, it's just towels.”

“Is there not a lot of them? She said there was a lot.” There was a soft shuffling sound, followed by a hollow clank as the chair was moved.

Shit. You whirled around, eyes widened as you watched him slip inside and set the chair aside. “Waitwait—don’t let it” —SLAM— “close!” A screech loosened from your throat as the wood vibrated from impact behind Seonghwa.

Your counterpart, to his credit, stood stock-still with his eyes blown wide. If he were a bunny rabbit, his ears would have been pressed flat against his head. “There… was a reason that chair was there, huh,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yes,” you sighed deeply. You dragged a hand down your face as you racked your brain for a solution. “It's fine. You didn't know about the door.”

“I'm sorry, I—that’s so stupid. Why haven't they called their landlord about this?” He rattled the doorknob to no avail, pink dusting his cheekbones as he tried to find some imaginary way out of the laundry room.

“Do you have your phone on you?”

Seonghwa patted his pockets, then groaned. “Fuck,” he swore, raking a hand through his damp hair, “I took it out of my pockets earlier because I didn't want it to get wet.”

Dread curdled in your stomach and you leaned your hip against the drying machine. “Same here.”

The two of you averted gazes as the reality of your situation sank in. Your only hope was the fact that both Seulgi and Soyeon knew of your whereabouts and were bound to come looking for you should you not turn up in a reasonable amount of time. For a moment, you tilted your head back and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. Out of all the people you could have gotten stuck with, of course, it would be Park Seonghwa.

Your conversation over the phone last night sparked in your head, along with the stares you had been exchanging all day. You glanced over at him, his bare back now pressed against the door as he stared at the floor in thought; but he raised his head to meet your eyes. “What?”

“Can you—can I ask you a question and will you answer honestly?”

He stared at you for a moment, then ducked his head. “Yeah, sure. Shoot.”

“Have you been… flirting with me?” As soon as the question left your mouth, you wished so badly to reel it back in. Oh, the utterly horrified tightening in your chest—was this a physical symptom of embarrassment?

The room was quiet enough to hear the muffled sound of the outdoor speakers driving their sound waves through the ground. You really hoped he didn't laugh. You wouldn't laugh if he confirmed it, but if he laughed, you would probably just about die of embarrassment. (But maybe you were willing to risk that. If what Soyeon talked to you about last night had any grounds, maybe there was a small part of both of you that was misinterpreting everything.)

Seonghwa's posture tautened and he pulled his shoulders back as if bracing himself. “Maybe I have been.”

“Oh.” You had not been expecting such a straightforward answer.

He seemed to register your daze in a certain way, and he began moving toward you. “Is that an issue for you?” he asked lowly, his head tilting to the side while he eyed you.

You cleared your throat, shook your head. “No,” you whispered.

“It's not?” he murmured. He was closer now, close enough that if you extended your arm, your fingers would press up against the broad expanse of his chest. “So you're not uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable? I wouldn't say uncomfortable,” you babbled as he took another step closer. “It's just that I'm not used to hearing something like that from you, addressing me—”

“So you're saying I should do it more often?” Seonghwa's lip twitched with the ghost of a smile. “To get you more used to it, I mean.”

When did this become an interrogation of you? Didn't you ask the first question? (Had he always been so close? You'd never seen abs this close before.) “Okay, stop!” You pressed your hands to his clavicle bones, and despite realizing you were touching the firm and bare flesh of his chest, you did not remove your hands. “What are we doing?”

He cocked his head to the side, eyeing you. The smile stopped ghosting you and curled up into his cheek. “We're having a conversation about flirting, Ln. Do keep up.”

You couldn't help yourself from rolling your eyes. It was like holding a lighter under a fuse, and you yanked your hands away from him as if you’d just been burned by a hot stove. “I'm flustered, not stupid!” you sputtered, fumbling desperately for an ounce of dignity because it had never been this easy for Seonghwa to get you like this, right?

“I never said otherwise,” he said, chuckling. His chin inclined at you, hands bracketing on either side of your body upon the washing machine your back dug into. “You’re a smart girl. What do the combined symptoms of dilated pupils” —his finger tapped the bridge of your nose— “rapid pulse” —another tap by your carotid artery on the underside of your jaw— “and shallow breathing” —a graze over your sternum— “suggest in this specific context?”

The answer materialized in your throat as a lump and you forced it down. Your eyes strayed to his mouth, unable to help yourself, but this action was swiftly mirrored by the man in front of you. In all the years you knew him, you had never seen him from this proximity before—you never let yourself. (Had his lips always been so pink?) Any attempt at closeness was always replaced by an exchange of barbed wits.

Your brain did the only thing it knew how to when it came to him. “God, you're such a fucking nerd,” you spat, then grabbed his face and kissed him.

He made a sound against your mouth—surprise, by the way his feet stumbled, knees knocking against yours and the washing machine—then recovered, leaning into you with purpose, hands finding purchase on the bare skin of your waist to yank you closer.

You decided he made the faint remnants of Coors Light on his tongue taste sublime. You suddenly couldn't get enough of it. Your arms hooked around his neck, fingers burying themselves in the hairs at his nape. Every cell in your body was geared toward this man, and this man only—your air exchanging with his, pulses pounding near in sync.

For once, your brain wasn't thinking. It wasn't thinking about what was happening outside that door, it wasn't thinking about how long you might be stuck in here, it wasn't thinking about ways to get out of here. Why would you want to get out of here? The heat conducted between your bodies could power the goddamn street for all you cared; the sensation of firm muscle against your stomach was enough to send you spiralling.

Seonghwa cupped the side of your jaw and coaxed your head back, your mouth further open. “Holy shit,” he rasped, voice worlds past Gone, then devoured you whole.

Holy shit, indeed. A whimper tumbled out from the back of your throat as you were pressed harder against the metal of the washing machine. Your mouths seared against one another like a brand, soft and breathy sounds seeping out from between you two, indistinguishable. Out of all the people in the world, how did kissing this man feel this right? Were some people just meant to ruin your life—ruin you—in more ways than one?

When you broke for air, his lips chased yours briefly, the string of saliva a physical attachment between you. For a moment, it was only heavy panting, eyes shut, noses bumping one another.

Reality did not settle like the hot humidity of summer on skin; it rolled in with the impending doom of thunder clouds. Literally.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM—a herd of stomps shook the walls around you, then were quickly followed by knocks so horrendously violent, one might believe that there was a murderer on the other side. “Yn, Hwa? Are you guys alive in there?”

Why would they have the decency to knock? Hands went to Seonghwa's chest and you forced some space between you two. You avoided his stare as you furiously fixed your hair and willed your mouth to look anything but kissed. “Yeah, will you open the damn door, Yunho?”

The laundry room door was hauled open, and on the other side was a handful of familiar faces, all quirked into curious expressions as they peered into the small space. They took in both of your appearances—no one needed to say anything.

“Towels,” you said aloud, your brain finally toggling on. You whirled back toward the back shelf and began loading your arms with the small towels Seulgi had asked for. (There was a sense prodding at the back of your mind that she never really needed them, but you would choose to do anything rather than confront the decision you just made.)

Seonghwa called your name as you passed by. Your lips burned as you continued walking.

Seonghwa's head no longer housed a brain, but a film projector constantly rewinding and playing a specific, 15-minute cut.

The fundraiser had long since concluded with Seulgi and Taeyong comparing values to determine that the girls had indeed raised more money. Everyone was free to return home, or loiter around Seulgi's house like a bunch of freeloaders. Some, like himself and Hongjoong, decided to dip back home for a quick shower and a nap, then return in time to meet everyone back here for a movie.

You were not one of the people who returned.

He sat in the driver's seat of his car, a beaded bracelet warming in his palm. Every time he rewound the past, he came to similar conclusions: he egged you on, but you kissed him first. He reciprocated the kiss and he was sure you seemed into it. Maybe he had been wrong.

No matter what Hongjoong said to soothe his ego, Seonghwa was still left with this pit in his stomach. Should he not have touched your relationship? Since that night at the library, there had been less distance between you; he had been making progress. He needed to talk to you about it, perhaps apologize. You initiated the kiss, but you were allowed to change your mind. You were allowed to be swept up by the heat of the moment.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When he opened them, he loosened his jaw with a sigh, tossed the bracelet into the cupholder, and replaced it with his keys. Go home, sleep on it, call her tomor—

The passenger side door opened and shut. The car filled with light notes of jasmine and bergamot and pear—the smell of summer and you.

He couldn't comprehend what was happening before you clunked something onto the dashboard next to his C-3PO. He blinked; it was a Lego figurine of R2-D2. (There went his steady heartbeat.)

You stared at the figurine you had placed, your hands settling into your lap. Your hair was still slightly damp, and the amber streetlight right outside your window casted a diabolically divine glow across your profile. “I thought it was time the spot was filled,” you said.

Seonghwa glanced between R2 and you. “Ah,” he replied, swallowing, “thanks.”

“I've always liked Star Wars better than Star Trek,” you blurted. “I just kind of… said all of that that one time because you seemed so on-edge about me being in your space.” You shook your head and picked at the skin on your fingers. “I don't know why I'm saying this.”

His brows furrowed slightly at your confession. This whole time… Why were you saying this now? The epiphany hit him in the chest, a blunt force that might have sent him stumbling if he were standing. There were so many layers to this confession. He looked at the R2 and C-3 figurines again; the pair was finally complete.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he inquired with a voice barely audible. It was one thing that you never outwardly judged him for his love of Star Wars or Legos, but it was another thing entirely that you claimed to be a Star Trek fan and allowed him to tease you.

“I convinced myself it was right for the time,” you said. A beat passed. “I'm sorry for basically running away earlier,” you continued on quietly. “I know I'm the one who kissed you first.”

“You don't need to apologize for that,” he murmured. “It all kind of happened really fast, and you know, it's okay if you didn't really mean it.”

Your head turned to look at him now—really look at him. He couldn't help but meet your gaze as opposite poles of a magnet did without fail. “I meant it. I don't know what it means, but I meant it. And I—liked it. A lot.” The latter was uttered with such fragility, such vulnerability; it was cupping a snowflake in your palms and hoping the natural heat of your body did not melt it.

(You had gone home earlier this evening to wash up and laid in bed with the taste of him taking up residence on your tongue. Staring at the ceiling had lost its appeal after the first hour, and it took the efforts of both Soyeon and Ronnie to drag you out of your mental prison.

“Did you like it?” they'd asked. “And don't say no just because it's Seonghwa and you have an ego; be honest with yourself.”

You sat there before them—scared, nervous, and embarrassed—but without a doubt in your mind as to the answer.)

Seonghwa wondered if you could hear the thrashing of blood in his ears like he could. He wondered if your heart pounded as vigorously as his did, if your mouth burned with the phantom of his, if you were confused by how you had gone on so long not seeing who was in front of you this whole time. (Because if he was being honest, you were the measure no one has been able to compare to in his head, in any capacity.)

“I liked it a lot, too,” he said. He would not let that snowflake melt, at least not by your hands alone.

Your eyes glimmered with silvery as they widened. “Oh.”

Seonghwa offered you a small smile, then cleared his throat as he remembered something. His eyes went to the discarded bracelet in the cupholder, and he fished it out with a sheepish wince. “I, uh, made you this awhile back” —he deposited it into your waiting palms— “'cause you weren't able to finish your own bracelet at the event.” Seonghwa had been fidgeting with that thing in his pocket that entire evening.

“So that's what you had in your pocket during the walk.”

He startled. “You noticed?”

The corner of your lip tilted upward into a semblance of a smirk. You scoffed. “I notice everything about you,” the words slipped out of your mouth before you could catch them.

The weight of them rested heavy upon both of you, but not uncomfortably. Seonghwa relished in the sudden way you avoided his eye contact, and he decided that one embarrassing line could be traded for another. He let out a small laugh. “I just chickened out because it sounded stupid to give it to you and say I wished we could start over.”

God, why did that still sound stupid? Everything coming out of his mouth was stupid. It was impossible to have a do-over with so much history between you two, but… wasn't it worth a shot?

You absentmindedly rubbed at the arrangement of beads and artful knots along the thread, your mind seemingly far away. He had made you a friendship bracelet, or was it a do-over bracelet, or was it far more complicated than either or those? “I don't think we could ever start over.”

His heart plummeted into his stomach. Right. Rightrightright.

“But I wanna try whatever this is.” You wrapped the bracelet cord around your wrist, looping it and tightening it to the perfect circumference. “I think we owe ourselves that much.”

A smile, so gentle and tender like the spring breeze, blossomed on his face. It was gladness in physical form. You couldn't help but break into a similar expression, and the thought occurred to him that you must have always had that smile. How could you know so much about each other and yet, nothing at all? What were you supposed to do with so much history?

It was a lot like layers of skin peeling away from a healing sunburn. All that damage caused over the years might take just as long to turnover, but who were either of you if not up for a challenge?

Not bad for a couple of nerds.

a/n: they tied for first place in the "who will get married first" debate by the way. pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed !!

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