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[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]

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]

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 !!

perm. tags: @jaehunnyy @seomisaho @gaonashi @thecarnivaloflies @mars101 @sanbangchan @http-gyu @luumiinaa @starlightkwan @empire-x @kpopjackie @shakalakaboomboo @vernonburger @kangyeosanq @fluorescentloves @distvrbia @an-annyeoing-recs @ffenjoyerdazme @newworldwritings @hueningsgirl @ihynjae @mingtooth @eighteez-net / sunburn tags: @emmalabo @s0ngm1ng1

[jinjjaitsroughh]

the great valentine's heist - s.jy (part one)

𑣲 childhoodbsf! 심재윤 x f!reader

synopsis:  jake sim has been your best friend your entire life–even longer if you count the months spent in your mothers’ wombs. your moms (also best friends) have been hoping, praying, and not-so-discreetly begging for you and jake to be a couple for as long as you can remember. after eighteen years of dealing with it, you’ve had enough. you pitch your solution to jake: pretend you finally are a couple, only to prove the point of how you’re better off as friends. but as the line between what’s real and what’s fake blurs, you start to wonder… are you really?

content: friends to lovers, romcom, fluff, angst if you squint (half of it’s fake), idiots in love, fake dating, layla cameo! rain soaked jake scene, high school au, jake and reader are both seniors in hs and 18, nostalgia,  kys jokes, accidental cuddling, flowers, they don’t know how to be bad for one another lmao, mild language, reader is an overthinker, cheek kisses, real kisses, attempts at humor </3, some text messages, nicknames, they’re kind of really dumb and oblivious i’m sorry, avoidant attachment anxiety (oops), denial of feelings, but they get their crap together in the end i promise!! petty arguments, banter, falling asleep together, and other stuff i probably forgot to mention 

word count:  full fic: 32.4k pt1: 18.5k pt2: 13.9k

now playing ˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞: ruin the friendship by taylor swift, illusion by one direction, beginning middle end by leah nobel, valentine by laufey, you’re still the one by shania twain, pancakes for dinner by lizzy mcalpine, anyone by justin bieber, change my mind by one direction, i was made for loving you ft ed sheeran by tori kelly, mary’s song (oh my my my) by taylor swift, catching feelings by justin bieber, night changes by one direction

a/n: ohhhhh my gosh i'm so happy that this fic is finally done! i started writing this in JANUARY and was supposed to finish it by vday, so this is a very delayed release 😭 but i’m so excited to get to share this w you all. thank you soooo much for almost 500 notes on the teaser, that’s insane 🥹🥹🥹 anyway hope u enjoy ! 😛

“I don’t know why she doesn’t just break up with him already,” you say, venting your frustration. Your close friend Quinn and her boyfriend got into another fight, therefore meaning you got to deal with another week listening to how horrible he is.

“Love’s tough, man,” Jake says solemnly, scrolling mindlessly on his phone.

The two of you are posted up in his childhood bedroom, the same one where you once ran into the dresser and broke your wrist. You had been playing a very intense game of “rocket tag” (as dubbed by your six year old selves) and barrelled into his dresser in the dark. You felt that deafening crack of bone and immediately started crying. Jake came into the room a second later, first declaring victory as he laughed and tagged you on the shoulder, then kneeled down to ask you if you were okay, reassuring you that everything would be fine. That pretty much sums up the nature of your relationship.

You and Jake have been best friends since birth. Literally. You both had no say in the matter. Your moms have been best friends since high school, remaining just as close despite the odds in college and beyond. As years passed, weddings were thrown, and families expanded, your moms were over the moon to find out that their respective babies would be born exactly a month apart. Jake came first, kicking and screaming his way into the world with a fiery nature only he possessed. A month later you joined him, just as loud but with your own special attitude about you. 

Your first play date was when you were a week old. Jake’s mom brought him over to your house to meet you for the first time, she and your mom both ooh-ing and ah-ing as the two of you did nothing but wriggle next to each other on the floor of the playpen. They snapped a picture which is still framed today in both of your living rooms.

Since then, you’ve never known life without Jake. He’s always just been a known presence, like how there were always stars in the sky and always laundry to be done. There was always Jake. 

You’re currently lying on his bed, on your back with your legs propped up against the wall, your toes pointing toward the ceiling. He’s sitting in the rolling chair by his desk, one leg tucked underneath him, the other swaying the chair back and forth in a comfortable rhythm.

“Like you know anything about love,” you snort, breaking into a laugh. “Your one and only love was your girlfriend of one week in seventh grade.”

Jake looks up from his phone and frowns, his fist flying to his chest as if you stabbed him. “Don’t talk about Naomi like that. My heart never healed from when she dumped me in the hallway after geography.” He winces, then smiles and rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you’ve done any better.”

You scoff indignantly. “Excuse you. I had a beautiful, heated, loving relationship with Nick for one whole month in sophomore year.” 

“Right,” he drawls, “how could I forget? He cornered me after school and threatened me because he saw me get in the car with you when your mom picked you up. Asked me if I was trying to ‘swoop in on his chick.’” 

You purse your lips and sigh dramatically. “Man, he was the one.” 

“Whatever happened to Naomi and Nick anyway?” he asks, still not looking up from his phone. It’s now turned sideways, so you know he just started a game of FIFA. 

“I genuinely believe they’re dating now,” you say seriously. “I saw someone post something a while ago.”

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he looks up at you. “Seriously? Huh. Good for them.” 

“Randomest couple ever,” you comment. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Hm,” Jake ponders, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “Honestly, I think they’re a good match. She was always asking me to, like… ‘protect her’ or something. Like I could do much with the wide array of seventh grade muscles in my arsenal. Nick’s the guy for her.”

You guffaw, sounding like a chicken, sending Jake into his own fit of laughter. While you’re still trying to get ahold of yourself, his bedroom door opens and his mom pokes her head in. 

“Hey, kiddos,” she says with a warm smile on her face. “Just came to see if you guys wanted any snacks.” She looks from your comfortable lounging to the happy expressions on your faces. “You guys are just too cute,” she remarks, shaking her head. “Laughing like an old married couple.”

“Mooooom,” Jake groans, throwing his head back. “Don’t be weird.” 

You laugh again. “Thanks, Mrs. Sim. Don’t old married couples fight, though? Must be a sign we’re not meant to be.” You shrug defeatedly. Jake cackles. 

“Oh,” she tuts, pouting. “You guys just need to stop being so opposed to it and give in. It’s bound to happen someday.” 

Both you and Jake grimace at the same time at the suggestion of you two as a couple. 

“I’m good, actually,” you decline with a pained face. 

“No, thank you.” Jake actually fake gags. 

Your smile drops. “Okay, dude, I’m not that unappealing. Tone it down.” 

He nods in apology. “My bad, gang.” He turns back to his mom. “I think we’re good, Mom.” He smiles sweetly. “Thanks.” 

“Just call if you need anything,” she says before leaving the room. 

“Thank you!” you call out after her as you can hear her footsteps retreating down the stairs. “Your mom is the best,” you sigh. “I would marry you just so I could have her as my mother-in-law.” 

Jake just blinks at you. “Your love for me is so pure.” 

“Seriously, though,” you say, staring at the ceiling fan turn slowly. “Don’t you find it so funny how they’ve pushed for us to be a thing, since, like, literal birth? When are they gonna call it quits?”

“Have you met either of our mothers?” he questions like you’ve been replaced by a robot. “Never, that’s when.” 

“I don’t get why we’d ever risk ruining our friendship, you know?” you expand, still watching the propellers spin. “Like, imagine if we dated and were just the worst couple ever.”

Jake scoffs and leans back in his chair. “That’s probably what it would take for them to finally drop this whole thing.” 

A light bulb goes off in your brain. 

You sit up so fast you’re light headed, your blood flow not evening out yet. 

“That’s it!” you exclaim excitedly, a manic grin on your face. 

His brows furrow. “What’s it?” 

“That’s how we get them to stop,” you explain, planning it all out in your head. “We pretend that we’re finally a couple, but then we act so incompatible and just awful together that they’ll see we’re better off as friends.” 

His eyes flicker, a spark of intrigue burning behind them. “And we make them think that we are just so terrible together, even go through a nasty breakup right in front of them.” He’s now wearing an evil grin matching yours. 

“Exactly!” you fight the urge to scream. “Make it so bad that they never even bring up the topic of us dating again. Like they think we’re so traumatized but we’re still friends.” 

“Ooh-hoo,” Jake whistles out, low. “I love your twisted brain. When should we do it, though?” 

“Valentines.” You snap your finger when the thought comes to you, your brain now working overtime. “Think about it. The holiday of love?” 

His smile grows even wider, if possible. “We act like we have some big plans for the day, then royally screw them up.” He’s getting that crazy look in his eye that you know all too well. “It all goes down in flames.” 

You nod in enthusiastic agreement. “It’s perfect.” You can’t help but rub your hands together maniacally. “So how should we start?” 

“Well, Valentines is in what, like two weeks, right?” Jake asks. “I say we start dropping hints about it now, so that by the time the big day rolls around, we’ve got all this build up that we could crush.” 

You simply hum, nodding your head but zoning out. You’re scheming in that twisted brain of yours, as Jake called it. This will take strategic planning and diligent execution. It couldn’t just be a one and done type deal, you needed credibility. It had to be believable. 

“I’m gonna start saying like, ‘Oh my goodness, Mom, Jake looked so handsome today,’” you announce. Consider this the first phase of the plan. 

Jake snickers. “Are you serious?” he asks, fighting back another laugh. “Is that gonna work?” 

You groan and stare at him with tired eyes. “You have no idea how much my mom will freak out when she hears those words come out of my mouth. I kid you not, every time we come back from seeing you, she says something like, ‘Don’t you think Jake looked nice today?’ or ‘You two looked so good together, you’d make such an attractive couple.’” 

“Holy crap,” he mumbles, dragging his hands over his face, grinning like a little kid. “This is gonna be so much fun.” 

Before you go home that night, you and Jake agree to start setting your plan into motion. Operation Big Fake Date with Jake starts now. 

The name is a work in progress. 

Jake is very keen on it.

You are not. 

The first phase: laying the groundwork.

You descend down the stairs and go say goodbye to his parents before you leave as per usual. Jake follows close behind you, ready to strike when needed.  

“Bye, Mr. Sim!” you call out to his dad, who’s sitting on his favorite recliner in the living room. 

He smiles affectionately at you. “See you, Y/N. Always a pleasure to have you over.” He looks from you to Jake, like he’s in on a secret that you two don’t know about. He just chuckles to himself and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the sports game he was watching on the TV. 

Jake’s mom is sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of hot tea like she does every evening. You remember the first time you saw her like this. You were five years old and sleeping over at their house while your parents were out of town for a wedding. You and Jake were so excited about a two day long sleepover, you had barely bothered to say goodbye to your parents. He fell asleep in minutes, exhausted from all the playing you had done earlier in the day. 

You, on the other hand, tossed and turned for what felt like hours, unable to close your eyes. You missed your parents. You felt guilty for not saying goodbye long enough. What if they decided you were a bad daughter and didn’t want to come back? Your five year old brain was then racing with ridiculous scenarios in which you were disowned by your family, shattering your tiny heart.

Eventually you gave up, taking your blanket with you and waddling down the stairs, eyes puffy and hair a mess. Jake’s mom was sitting in the same spot with the same mug, reading a book. She caught you out of the corner of her eye, looking at your sniffling as you walked toward her. 

“Y/N, sweetie, what’s wrong?” she asked, looking at your sad eyes and red cheeks. 

You tried to tell her how you felt, but no words came out. Instead, you started crying again. 

She smiled at you with sympathy and moved off her chair toward you, crouching down to your height. “Hey, Bug,” she said, wiping your tears with the back of her hand. “Do you wanna come sit with me for a little bit?” 

You nodded through your tears and followed her to the couch, where she wrapped your blanket around you and cradled you on her lap. She just sat with you in silence, stroking your hair the way you like in a steady rhythm that made you sleepy. Your crying subsided, only a few residual sniffles coming out every now and then. 

“I miss mommy and daddy,” you whispered, burying your face in the crook between her neck and shoulder. 

“Aww,” she cooed, reaching up to rub your back soothingly. “I know, sweetheart. But they’ll be back before you know it.” 

You raised your head and looked at her with an intense stare for a toddler. “Promise?” you asked as you wiped your nose on your sleeve. 

She smiled down at you and lightly pinched your cheek, crinkling her nose at you. “Promise.”

You instantly felt at ease. You always knew you could trust Mrs. Sim. Soon after, you drifted off and fell asleep on her lap. Instead of returning you upstairs to Jake’s pull-out trundle bed, she stayed with you on the couch all night. 

Needless to say, you love her like she’s your own mother. 

“You heading out, Bug?” she asks when she sees you walking over. The nickname has still stuck even after all these years. 

It started when your moms had taken you and Jake out for a picnic when you were 5 months and Jake was 6 months. A ladybug landed on your nose and you just stared up at it, giggling. The moms started calling you their little lovebug, and eventually ‘Bug’ became your second moniker. There was once an incident where six year old Jake, wanting to be included too, pitched his own nickname idea: Worm. He doesn’t like talking about it. You still call him by it when you want to get on his nerves, which is fairly often. 

“Yeah,” you confirm, going to hug her goodnight. “It’s getting late and I think my mom wants me home.”

“Oh, please,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand. “You know you’re welcome to stay over any night.”

You smile, never failing to feel welcome in the Sim home. They’ve told you time and time again that you’re like an honorable additional child to them. Not to mention all the times Mrs. Sim adds in a sing-song voice, ‘Y/N Sim has a nice ring to it…’

“I know, I know,” you agree, “but I have some stuff to do at home. Besides, Jake is sick of me.” 

“Never,” Jake says from his spot against the wall. He’s leaning against it with his arms crossed, a smug but soft smile on his face. He grabs his keys off the hook and walks over to you and his mom, swinging them around on his pointer finger. “But your mom would prefer if you went home to clean your room.” 

“Shh,” you silence him, putting your finger up to his lips. “These deeds must not be thought.” 

He snaps his teeth to try and bite your finger, to which you speedily retract your hand and exclaim, “EW,” then flick him on the forehead. “Cannibal.” 

“Acquired taste,” Jake corrects, grinning to show off his fabulous smile and pointed canines. The four years he had braces surely paid off. “C’mon, let’s head out.” He gestures with his arm toward the door. “Get out of my house so I can go to bed.” 

You roll your eyes at him and hug his mom once more. 

She whispers in your ear, “You let me know if he annoys you too much.” She winks when you pull back. 

“You’ll be the first to know, trust me.” You force out a giggle, trying to look giddy yet shy. “But honestly… I’m starting to think he’s not that bad,” you whisper back. 

It’s comical how her eyes widen and her face lights up, as if all her dreams are coming true. 

“Anyway,” you perk up, acting normal again, “you’re right, we should go.” You grab him by the hand and drag him out the door, shouting a goodbye as you exit. 

“GOSH, Y/N, YOU’RE HOLDING MY HAND SO TIGHT,” Jake says, making sure he’s loud enough that his parents could hear him through the front door. You’re not even holding hands anymore, just putting on a show. 

“YOU KNOW YOU LOVE IT,” you shout at the same volume as you walk toward his car. Both of you then fake obnoxiously loud laughter before you get in. 

“Okay,” he whispers when the car doors shut. “That was good.” 

“Why are you whispering? They can’t hear us anymore, you bozo.” You look at him like he just spawned onto earth. 

“Leave me alone,” he complains, making a snarky face at you, “you can never be too safe.”

“Whatever,” you remark and get back on topic. “Yes, that was good. I can already picture your mom’s face behind that door.” 

Jake lets out a breathless laugh. “She probably went over to my dad and asked him to check on the savings account for our wedding.” 

“Oh, you guys have one of those too?” you say sarcastically. “Thought it was just me. It’ll be the event of the century.”

He just laughs again, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. He wordlessly hands you his phone to play some music. You’re always DJ when Jake drives. You go to your shared Spotify mix and play Illusion by One Direction. As he turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the driveway, you start cooking up the next part of your plan. 

“Phase one: part one is done,” you announce over the music. “Now we gotta start dropping hints to my mom.”

“Should we just do it now when I drop you off?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the road. “Like, I don’t know… we go in all lovey-dovey or whatever.”

“I like the way you think, Sim,” you commend. “We can work with that.”

You pull up to your house and Jake kills the engine. 

“You got it?” you ask him, making sure he knows the game plan.

“Got it,” he affirms. 

He walks you to your front door and the two of you enter, taking your shoes off at the entryway. 

“I’m home!” you announce, walking into the kitchen.

You find your mom hunched over the stove, taking out something out of the oven. She turns at the sound of your voice and smiles big when she sees you and Jake. 

“Hello!” she greets, removing her oven mitts and shuffling over to the two of you. 

She hugs you first and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek, then beams at Jake with open arms. He accepts the hug with equal enthusiasm. You smile to yourself watching them, knowing that Jake has just as special a bond with your mom as you do with his. She used to call him ‘her Jakey’, a nickname he somewhat grew out of once you guys reached high school. His heart still warms whenever it slips out, though. 

“Hey, Mrs. L/N,” he smiles into the hug. “Hope you didn’t mind me keeping this one out too late.” 

“You could keep her forever if you wanted to,” your mom teases, looking at you like she’s waiting for you to say something about it. Usually you would groan out a complaint and tell her to stop it, that things aren’t like that between you and Jake. 

Now, though, you try to hide a smile and look away, flustered.  Your mom’s reaction is identical to her best friend’s. 

“If only she’d let me,” Jake says back with a sigh. “I’m trying, trust me.” He winks at you, to which you blush and roll your eyes.

Your mom looks like she just won the lottery. 

“So, whatcha baking?” Jake changes the subject, peering over at the counter hungrily. 

You can tell your mom is trying to remain calm at the obvious development between the two of you. She looks like she’s in a trance before she snaps back into focus. “Oh! It’s your favorite, actually.” 

His eyes light up. “Nanaberry bites?” 

At her nod, Jake practically sprints over to the counter, pinching his fingers greedily while he feasts his eyes on the treats. Nanaberry bites were your mom’s specialty and Jake’s favorite snack since forever. They’re strawberry banana bread baked in mini cupcake tins, heaven in every bite. When Jake was still learning how to talk, he had condensed the name to ‘nanaberry.’ Everyone thought it was adorable and started calling them that, too. 

“Can I have one? Please?” he begs, mouth practically drooling. 

“Of course,” your mom says. “Just be careful, they’re still hot.” 

He plucks one from the pan and immediately stuffs it in his mouth, panting from the heat as it burns his tongue. “Ah, ah-“ 

You take a seat at the counter beside him. “She said be careful,” you chide, taking one for yourself and carefully tearing it in half so it releases some steam. You pop one half into your mouth. “Mm,” you hum approvingly. “So good, Mom.” 

“Thanks, Bug,” she says sweetly. “Why don’t you send some home with Jake? For his parents,” she offers. 

“Oh my gosh,” Jake whines through his mouthful of nanaberry. “You’re the best.”  

Your mom smiles at him lovingly and goes to get a tupperware container for him to take home. While her back is turned, Jake looks to you and raises his eyebrows with his hand in an OK symbol. You nod quickly and he pumps his fist in the air for a millisecond before your mom turns back around. You resume your content smile and Jake goes back for a second helping of nanaberry bites. 

“I was just on the phone with your mom,” she says to Jake while she places a few of the mini muffins into a container. “She said you two were on your way over here.”

You and Jake make eye contact and smile at each other knowingly. You can see your mom’s eyes nearly pop out of her head but pretend not to notice. 

She clears her throat and eyes the two of you, then starts speaking slowly, like she’s testing the waters. “You know, she said you were heading over because it was getting late and Jake was tired…” 

“Oh,” Jake remarks like he’s surprised by this. “Did she? I feel fine. Great, even.” 

“Really?” Your mom tries to act nonchalant about this fact, like she isn’t overanalyzing the situation. You see right through her. She just hums. 

“No,” you say to Jake. “Go home. I’m tired. Of you.” 

Jake’s jaw drops in fake hurt. “You wound me. I just wanted to spend some more time with you.” He pouts. 

You sigh and go over to him, grabbing him by the sleeve of his hoodie and pulling him up. “C’mon, Worm,” you say. 

“Hey,” he warns. “What did I do to even deserve being called Worm right now?” 

“You exist,” you simply state. 

Jake looks at your mom and points a finger at you. “She’s bullying me!” He grabs the container of baked goods before you start dragging him away from the counter. 

“You like it,” you object, still pulling him toward the door. 

Your mom’s boisterous laughter echoes throughout your house as you stop at the door. You drop his arm and stare into his eyes, setting into motion the next part of the plan. You pull Jake into a full hug, wrapping your arms around his waist as he wraps his around your shoulders. 

An important piece of information would provide helpful context here. You and Jake do not hug. 

You were physically comfortable with one another, obviously. There was no problem with the two of you being close. More often than not, you’d be found with Jake’s head on your shoulder or vice versa, sitting close enough that your arms touched, even holding hands was a casual occurrence. 

But hugging? 

That was crossing a line. 

You’ve both hated hugging ever since you were little. You thought it was uncomfortable and awkward, the way your bones would contort when Jake squeezed you too hard, how weird it felt to be flush against one another. He hated it just as equally. He didn’t like how sweaty your neck was as a kid, how your bony elbows would dig into his sides, or the way your chin would poke his shoulder. 

“Is she looking?” you whisper, your cheek pressed against Jake’s chest.  

“I think so,” he murmurs into your hair. 

After approximately 3 more seconds—long enough to mean something, not long enough to be obviously performative—you step back from him, peering up into his eyes. 

“Call me when you get home,” you tell him as he puts his shoes back on. 

“Of course,” he replies, smiling. He waves to your mom, who is watching you from afar, dumbstruck. “Goodnight! Thanks for the nanabread bites.” 

“Anytime!” she calls back to him. 

“Okay, now get out,” you say as you shove him out the door. “Bye!” You slam the door in his face. 

You turn around to see your mom standing there like she just witnessed a murder. Then her expression shifts from that of shock to a smug one. 

“So,” she asks casually, going to fiddle with some more baking stuff, “anything new going on?” 

You take a seat at the counter again. “With me?” You pause and pretend to think for a second. “Hmm, not really.” 

“So things with you and Jake are…?” She looks at you like she’s unsure if you’re going to giggle or go on your usual tangent about how you guys are just friends. 

“They’re… things.” Your noncommittal answer gives a hint of mystery, yet still the promise of something more. “Don’t you think he’s matured a lot recently?” You let your gaze drift to something across the room, eyes losing focus.

“How so?” she pushes a little further. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug your shoulders. “Lately he’s just been so… dreamy.” 

“Dreamy?” Your mom repeats, a satisfied smile slowly but surely making its way onto her face. You rarely ever called Jake anything better than ordinary looking. 

“Maybe he’s always been like this and I’ve been in denial,” you think out loud. “Maybe. It’s just… different.” A yawn overtakes you and you give in, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m tired. I’m gonna head upstairs,” you get up from your seat and give your mom a quick kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight. Love you!” 

“Love you, too!” she says back. You’re already halfway up the stairs. 

Once you’re safe in your room, you flop onto your bed and pull out your phone. You go to call Jake, but before you can, his contact pops up on your screen in an incoming call. Perfect timing. 

“Hey,” he answers when you pick up. You can tell from the audio quality and muted background noises that he’s still driving. “How’d it go?”

“Great!” you reply, excitement coursing through your veins. “I called you dreamy and she looked like I had just gifted her an all-expenses paid trip to the Bahamas.”

Jake cackles over the phone. “Awesome. I really think the hug sold it.” 

“Same,” you agree. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s already texted your mom about it. Are you almost home?”

“I’m pulling in now,” he says. You hear him park the car and turn the engine off, his phone disconnecting from the bluetooth. “The lights are still on.” His voice is clearer now. “My mom’s probably waiting for me to walk in so she can celebrate their prophecy coming true.”

You laugh because it’s true, then freeze when you hear a creak outside your door. Your mom. “I think I’m being surveillanced,” your voice drops to a whisper. “My mom’s outside the door.”

“Oh, I got it,” Jake says. The car door slams over the line and you can hear him walking the path to his front door. “Put me on speaker. I’ll put you on, too.” 

You do what he says, making sure your volume is maxed out. 

You hear him turn the doorknob and enter in. “Y/N,” he says at a loud but normal volume. “Hey. Just calling to let you know I’m home now.”

Catching on to his plan, you respond, “I’m glad, Jake. Thanks again for dropping me off.”

“Of course.” His voice echoes somewhat and you can picture that he’s passing through his living room. “Anything for you. Oh, hey, Mom,” he greets her briefly. “I’m on the phone with Y/N, do you need anything before I head to bed?” 

“Oh, no,” you hear her say in the distance, her smile evident in her voice. You can already see her sitting on the couch, smiling contentedly like all is finally right in the world. “You go ahead.” 

“Love you, Mom. Goodnight! So, Y/N, how do you feel about going out tomorrow?” With that, he barrels up the stairs to his room. “Okay, your turn,” he whispers into the phone. “Am I on speaker?”

“Yes.” You hold your phone up high so that the sound carries. “Go for it.” 

“I had a really nice time today, Y/N,” he says loud enough that he could be heard through the door. “I know this might sound weird but,” he breathes in and out. “I miss you already.”

“I miss you too, Jake.” You laugh softly. “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

“That’s so long from now,” he complains. “Like, twelve whole hours.” 

“Guess you’ll just have to wait it out, then,” you tease. 

He groans but then lets out a light laugh. “You’re killing me.” 

“That’s what I was born for,” you joke. Partly true, in a way. “You’ll never know peace as long as I’m here.” 

“If peace means a life without you, then I hope I never know it.” His words hang in the air over the line. You know that it’s just to play into your story, but you can’t help the warmth that settles in your chest when you hear him. Even if it’s performative, it’s sweet. 

You can’t let Jake know you think that, though. “You’re so sappy,” you say. “Somebody watches too many romcoms.”

That much is true. It’s not a widely known fact, but Jake is a romantic comedy enthusiast. He prefers the term ‘tenderhearted cinephile.’ His Letterboxd profile is impressive, stacked with films spanning across genres and decades. Ask him about the golden age of romcoms and you’ll be stuck for the next hour listening to him spew about the superiority of filmmaking in the 90s and 00s.

“I find them inspiring,” he defends. “They help me out with real life events.” 

You laugh which turns into a yawn. It’s been a long day of scheming and pretending to have feelings for your best friend. 

He hears it. “You falling asleep on me?” 

Reflecting on the rest of your endeavors, you think you have enough evidence for today. “I’m getting kind of tired,” you yawn again. “I think I’ll start getting ready for bed soon.” 

“Aw,” Jake says solemnly. “I wanted to talk more.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” you assure him. “I always do.” 

“Okay,” he relents, drawing out the vowels. “Fine.” 

“So…” you try and figure out how to end the call. “Goodnight?”

Jake then has a stroke of genius and pulls out the oldest trick in the book. 

“No,” he tells you. “You hang up first.” The cheesiest line spoken by lovesick teenagers worldwide. His romcom marathons have been leading up to this very moment. 

“No, you,” you tease back. 

He groans dramatically. “At the same time?”

“At the same time,” you repeat. 

“Okay,” he starts counting off. “Three, two, one!” 

You hit the red button to hang up. The call ends. A second later, you get a text notification from Jake. 

jakurrr:

was that good 

i felt like shakespeare bro 

you:

YES AMAZING 

the line about never knowing peace was golden 

jakurrr:

oh that 

i was talking about the whole ‘you hang up first’ bit 

i’ve thought the other thing for a long time actually 

you:

seriously? 

jakurr:

yeah

i think i had an epiphany in 8th grade 

you:

that’s actually adorable 

ru in love w me tell me now 🥹

jakurrr:

shut up ho

like i’d want ur stank self 

you:

KYS OMG

ion een curr fr 

jakurrr:

oh yeah?

if i’m gone then who’s gonna be apart of your little plan

you’d be bored without me

you:

man i hate you 

jakurrr:

😛

thought so

you:

wait lemme change ur contact name

for realism 

[screenshot] 

princess aegyo golden baby puppy sim jaeyun🤤🤤:

ARE WE DEADASS

BRO DO NOT NAME ME THAT 

you:

you’re no fun 

this is why we’re not together 

[screenshot]

how bout that 

jakey <3:

see that’s better 

NORMAL LOOKING

i’ll change urs too

[screenshot]

you:

i will not stand to be called

 ‘yn pookie wookie bear’ by ANYONE

r you serious 

jakey <3:

OBVIOUSLY THAT WAS A JOKE AS WELL 

[screenshot] 

this good??? 

You load the picture he sent. It’s a screenshot of your profile with the contact name ‘bug bite :).’ 

you:

STOPPP THATS SO GOOD

SAUR CUTE AUR EM GEE 

jakey <3:

are you mocking my accent 

you:

😐

so not everything is about you actually 

why do you even have an accent again 💔💔

#poser #notanaussienational 

jakey <3:

MY PARENTS HAVE ACCENTS??? 

you:

ok and 

they lived there they have an excuse 

you’re just attention seeking 

jakey <3:

i love you too 🫩 

you:

🥰

jakey <3:

ok but fr im actually BEAT 

i’m gonna go to sleep 

goodnight bug

you:

goodnight worm

jakey <3:

SHUT UP I WAS SIX 

you:

<3

i’ll lyk the next phase of the plan tmr 😈

You turn your phone off and go get ready for bed. Later, as you lay in your bed and stare at the ceiling in the dark, you feel so accomplished. Operation Big Fake Date with Jake was off to a spectacular start.

The next few days follow the same cycle. You and Jake hang out, act suspiciously close and unusually nice to one another, then linger around when you’re supposed to say goodbye. Rinse and repeat. Phone calls become a nightly occurrence as well. 

They span longer now, past the necessary sophistry and conversation constraints. Last night, you’d stayed on the phone for three hours ranking your favorite birthday parties of years past. He chose his 5th birthday as his top pick. It was a dinosaur themed slip-n-slide party with a volcano cake.  You chose your 12th birthday. It was simple but fun, a day spent at the pottery studio with your closest friends. Jake had made a frighteningly deformed excuse for a vase and gifted it to you, signed with his handprint. You keep it on your dresser still, changing the flowers when you remember to. 

Now that the foundation has been laid, it’s time to start making bigger moves. 

The second phase: building your credibility. 

“A movie night?” your mom asks when you bring up the subject. “You wanna have Jake over for a movie night?”

“Well, yeah,” you reply. “We do movie nights all the time.” Just two weeks ago, he was over to binge watch all The Hunger Games movies with you. It was a nearly 12 hour ordeal, going in chronological order from Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes through Mockingjay - Part 2. It took sheer willpower and four energy drinks to stay awake the whole time. 

“I know,” she says, well aware of the fact. “You’ve never asked before, is all.” 

“Just double checking,” you smile at her. “So, yes?” 

“Of course,” she answers, “You know Jake is welcome over anytime.” 

You clap your hands together. “Awesome, thank you!” 

You text him to come over around 6:00 and start planning your attack. Barricading the living room with fluffy blankets, big pillows, and enough snacks to feed a small country. 

At 5:50, there’s a knock at the door. You get up to get it, but your mom beats you to it. 

“Hi, Jake,” she greets him, probably bringing him in for a hug. You can’t see the door from your spot on the couch. “Oh my! These are beautiful!” 

You’re confused at what she’s talking about, but then Jake rounds the corner, holding a sizable bouquet of tulips in his hand. 

“Wow,” your jaw drops. “What are those for?” 

“For you,” he says, holding them out to you when you walk over. “Or,” he coughs, “for the vase. I figured it was time you switched the flowers out.” 

Your grin is huge as you take them from him. “Thank you so much. You didn’t have to.” 

“I know,” he smiles back. “But I wanted to.” 

“I’ll go put them in the vase real quick,” you tell him. “Be right back.”

When you come back from showing the flowers to their new home, Jake is sitting on the couch, scrolling on his phone. You take a seat next to him and check over your shoulder to see if your mom’s nearby. 

You lean in and whisper, “The flowers?! So good.” You fist bump him. “You didn’t tell me about it.” 

“I wanted to surprise you,” he whispers. “Thought of it after our call last night.” 

“Genius.” You nudge his shoulder and smile.  You lean back into the couch and tuck your feet in under you. “So,” you say regularly again, grabbing the remote. “What do you wanna watch?” 

“You planned this whole thing and don’t even have a movie picked out?” Jake smirks then stretches his arms so that one of them falls behind your shoulders. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he says with a wink.

You scoff playfully and go to shrug his arm off, but he tightens it around your shoulder. You give up the fight and relax, melting further into his side. Scrolling through movie options on the TV, you get to the romcom section and give Jake a knowing look. “Thoughts from the expert?” 

He looks thoughtfully at the screen, fist coming up to rest under his chin. “What are we thinking? Classic? More rom, less com? Sad ending? New?” 

“Classic. Not too old, though, relatively modern. More rom, less com. Happy ending,” are the requirements you give him. 

“Got it,” he says immediately, clicking through titles until he lands on the one he’s looking for. “Perfect.” 

You’re not surprised when you see what he’s picked. You should’ve seen it coming from a mile away. “Oh, of course.” 

“What?” he asks defensively, laughing. “It checks all the boxes! And it’s so good!” 

You can’t help but giggle a little. “I just can’t believe that To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before is still your favorite movie after all this time.” 

“That’s because it’s a timeless masterpiece,” he explains logically. “And I think it’s the perfect choice. We could watch it for inspiration.”

“For?” you question. 

He raises his eyebrows like it’s obvious. “Fake dating, hello?” He lowers his voice, “we’re basically the same as them. Take notes.” 

“Shoot, you’re right.” You reach for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. “Jake Sim, friend to women. Soft guy.” 

He scoffs. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re like, you know,” you pop a piece of popcorn into your mouth. “Soft. Considerate. Has a mental catalogue of romantic comedies. Drinks matcha with strawberry cold foam.” 

“God forbid a guy was raised right and has interests.” He grabs a handful of popcorn, shoving it into his mouth. “And elevated taste in beverages.”

“Classy,” you remark sarcastically, taking the remote from him and pressing play on the movie. 

He rolls his eyes and mumbles a comeback through his chewing. “Whatever,” he says after he swallows. “Let’s look coupley.” 

Agreeing with his suggestion, you turn and lean further into him, curled up so that you’re snuggled up even closer under his arm. Jake shifts further back, sighing comfortably as he crosses his legs and props them up on the coffee table. You’re close enough you can feel his breath hitting the top of your head. 

“This is good,” he whispers down at you. His hand starts absentmindedly tracing patterns on your upper arm.

You smile up at him and turn your attention back to the TV. You’ve watched this film about a million times, but it never gets old. Really, you’re the reason it’s Jake’s favorite movie anyway. You forced him to watch it with you in seventh grade and the rest is history. He was hooked. After that, the two of you watched the two sequels and the spin-off series together, offering every piece of insight and critique. 

Around the time Lara Jean and Peter go to the ski lodge, you feel your eyes start to get heavy. You glance at the clock on the wall. It’s barely 7:00. But between the soft illumination of the TV screen, the chill of the room, and the steady beat of Jake’s heart, you’re helpless to the lull of sleep pulling you under. I’ll just shut my eyes for a second, you think to yourself. That’s the last thing you remember before passing out. 

The credits roll and the sequel, P.S. I Still Love You, starts playing automatically. By now, Jake has noticed that you’ve gone quiet. He peeks down to see your face, only to be met with you knocked out cold, limp against his body. He finds himself smiling at your predictability. You always fell asleep on movie nights, no matter how hard you tried not to. He shifts slightly, trying to get more comfortable, and you let out a sigh, burrowing closer to him. His shoulder is aching from being in the same position for nearly two hours, but he doesn’t want to wake you. You look so peaceful. 

He tries to prop you up against the cushions, attempting to maneuver his arm out from behind your neck. He succeeds and you fall back against the pillows, toward the other end of the couch. Wanting to be more comfortable, he shifts his body so that he’s laying horizontally on the couch, resting his head on his arm. A couple minutes pass before you start wiggling on your side of the couch, tossing and turning. He’s about to laugh at you when you, still asleep, adjust your position, flipping around and ending up right next to him. It’s like even unconscious, your body knows he’s near, and therefore must be close to him. You’re now laid right next to him, your head on his chest. 

Jake chuckles lightly to himself at how clingy you are when you sleep. He considers waking you up, or moving you back, but just then, you shiver against him. It would just be plain heartless of him to banish you to the far end of the couch, cold and lonely, wouldn’t it? He reaches slowly for the blanket thrown over the top of the couch, careful not to move too much as to not wake you. He drapes it across the two of you, welcoming the warmth. You sigh contentedly, one arm coming up to lay across his chest, hand dangling off the couch. He accepts his fate as your newfound pillow and goes back to watching the movie, making a mental note to wake you up when this one ends. 

He doesn’t make it much further himself, though. By the time John Ambrose shows up, Jake can feel that familiar weight behind his eyelids. He doesn’t bother looking at the clock, but he knows it can’t be later than 9:00. Surely that’s still early enough for a quick power nap, right? Everything feels so serene at the moment. The dialogue of the movie has been reduced to background chatter. The fluffy material of the blanket that’s insulating him despite the coolness outside. You, your weight on top of him a comfortable reminder, grounding him. He lets his eyes close, just for a fraction of a second. Soon enough, he’s gone. 

You wake up first. Sunlight streams through the blinds of your living room, rays creating patterns on the carpet. The first thing you notice is that you are not in your bed. The second thing is that you’re rendered incapable of moving. There’s an arm wrapped securely around your shoulder. You look up and see Jake sleeping soundly, his breathing soft and even, his lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. He looks… beautiful. Golden beams washing over his face and his hair, mussed from sleep, falling over his forehead. Looking at him like this, you feel strange. Even though the room is warmer now and you have a blanket around you, you feel a chill run through your body. A weird, dull ache settles in your chest. Before you can decipher what this means or why it’s happening, Jake stirs, letting out a deep breath that turns into a yawn. You quickly put your head back where it was before, resting against his chest, and pretend to be asleep. 

You feel him lift his head to look down at you. As if realizing what position the two of you are in, he releases his arm from around you. You start shifting then, figuring that’s a reasonable event to cause you to awake. You push yourself from off him and sit up, rubbing your eyes. 

“Good morning,” you say groggily, followed by a yawn. “Did we fall asleep?”

“Guess so,” Jake replies, voice grovelly from sleep. “I didn’t mean to. I was gonna go home after the second movie. Sorry.” His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck.

You shake your head at him. “No, it was totally okay. I haven’t slept that well in ages, actually.” There was an abnormal assurance you felt last night. Like being next to him meant that sleep could truly be an escape, that nothing from the real world could infiltrate into your dreams. 

He smiles softly, glad to be of assistance. You just sit and stare at each other for a few seconds, brains still waking up. Jake then blinks and the smile falls from his face. 

“Ah, crap,” he says, turning and shuffling through the blankets and pillows, “I didn’t tell my mom I was sleeping over. Where’s my phone?”

You get up and start to help him look for it when your mom walks in. She’s holding her usual morning cup of coffee, taking a sip and looking at the two of you with nothing short of total adoration. 

“It’s fine,” she announces to you both, “I talked to your mom last night, let her know you’d be staying the night.” 

Relief washes over Jake’s face. “Thank you so much,” he says with utmost gratitude. “I was worried she might have my head on a stick.”

“She was fine with it,” she assured him. “Just said to let her know next time.” Your mom glances at the clock. “She’ll be here soon, actually.”

“My mom?” Jake asks in surprise.

Your mom nods, “She’s coming over for breakfast.”

You and Jake look at each other, and you know you’re both thinking the same thing. A perfect opportunity to forward your plan. 

“That’s great,” you proclaim, silently communicating to him with your eyes. Of course, he picks up on it.

“We’ve been wanting to talk to the two of you.” Jake finishes for you. “Together.” 

You swear your mom could almost drop her coffee cup and start doing backflips out of happiness. She knows what you’re getting at. It’s obvious. Wanting to appear composed, however, she simply takes another sip and hums in acknowledgment before disappearing into the kitchen again.  

When she’s out of view, you and Jake quietly high five, saluting your impromptu script. 

“That was good,” you mouth. “Quick thinking.”

“We work good together,” he mouths back with a quick smile. 

A couple minutes later, you hear the front door open. Jake’s mom strolls into the house, holding a platter of breakfast sandwiches like an offering. Your mom happily welcomes her and gives her a hug, making a comment about how delicious the sandwiches look. 

You then hear her murmur under her breath, “They’re over there,” and you know she’s referring to you and Jake.

You’re both still lounging on the couch, more similar to your placements from last night as opposed to this morning. Your legs are curled under you, your head resting on Jake’s shoulder while he props his feet on the coffee table again. You decided to finish the movie marathon from where you left off last night.

“So,” Jake’s mom greets as she walks into the living room. “How was the last minute sleepover?” She sits down on the arm rest of the couch. 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Jake apologizes. “I would’ve texted you if I had known.” 

“We just fell asleep,” you back him up. “It was an accident.” Neither of you make a move from your current position. 

She laughs at your scrambling up an explanation, ruffling his hair playfully. “You guys are fine,” she says. “You just fell asleep, right? We don’t need to talk to you guys about-“

“Oh, my gosh, Mom!” Jake exclaims, hands flying up to cover his ears. He’s steadily turning beet red. 

You feel your own face heat up at her words, growing worse by the second. 

She puts her hands up defensively. “I had to ask! Just making sure. You’re still our babies, we don’t need any shared grandchildren.”  She’s clearly enjoying how mortified you both are at this conversation. “Yet,” she adds with a mischievous look. 

Jake stands up so suddenly you jolt, falling away from him. 

“I, uh-“ his voice is an octave higher than usual. He clears his throat, “I need to brush my teeth. Excuse me.”

He speeds away to the bathroom, desperate to get away from this conversation. He kept a spare toothbrush at your house, anyway. 

His mom cackles at how flustered he got. “Goodness,” she sighs, leaning back in the recliner, “the way he reacted, you’d think he was raised by a nun.” 

You can’t help but laugh along with her, your momentary embarrassment fading fast. 

“Come,” she says, standing and offering her hand to you. “Let’s eat, Bug. I’m starving.”

You take her hand and walk to the kitchen, where your mom is arranging various breakfast foods on the table. 

“This looks amazing,” you compliment your mom. There’s a spread of pancakes, plates of fruits, and an impressive array of cereals displayed upon your dining room table. Your stomach rumbles at the sight, and you realize the last thing you ate was half a pack of sour gummy worms. Fourteen hours ago. You make an effort to stop yourself from drooling. “I need.”

“There’s eggs on the counter,” your mom offers as she plates the table. “Where’s Jake?”

“Brushing his teeth. Or wishing he was never born. Not sure.” His mom goes and grabs the utensils from the drawer, placing them next to the plates. 

You stifle a laugh and swallow it away. “Do you guys need any help?” 

Your mom nods toward the fridge, “Could you grab the milk and the orange juice?”

“Sure,” you reply, walking over to get the drinks. You set them on the table just as Jake reappears. 

He’s returned to his regular shade, the embarrassment now gone from his face. He does a once over of the table and throws his hand on his stomach. “Oh,” he groans theatrically, closing his eyes in exaggerated agony. “I’m literally gonna die. I’m so hungry.” 

“You say that every hour,” you point out blankly. 

He stops his little bit and narrows his eyes at you. “Yeah? And guess who always responds with, ‘ME TOO’? You do.” 

Your jaw drops at his accusation. “It’s called offering commiseration." 

“It’s called being big,” he corrects you. 

You gasp. “You-”

“Okay, children!” Jake’s mom interjects. “That’s enough going at each other’s throats for one morning. Let’s eat.” 

The two of you have an unspoken agreement to squash the argument, taking your seats begrudgingly. Neither of you are really bothered, you simply enjoy teasing each other. 

You’re seated next to Jake, your moms across from you. As you grab a pancake from the stack, Jake pours himself a bowl of Lucky Charms, filling it all the way to the top. 

“If you keep eating like that, you won’t make it past thirty,” you remark snidely. 

He doesn’t even look at you, continuing with pouring milk in the bowl. “Meaning I only have to spend twelve more years with you? God forbid.” He winks. “I’ll stop just for you.” 

In your head, you’re still amazed at how naturally he comes up with these things. “I’d hate for our time to be cut short. I’m not done with you yet, Worm.” 

Instead of fighting back about the nickname like he normally would, all Jake does is smile at you before shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. You go on eating your pancakes, carefully watching the moms in your peripheral vision. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see them looking at each other in astonishment. Just as they should. 

After you finish your plate, you clear your throat, looking at both of your moms. “There’s something Jake and I wanted to talk to you guys about,” you announce, setting your fork down. 

Your mom finishes chewing the strawberry she was eating, looking back and forth between you two. “What is it?” she asks, unsure. 

“Is everything okay?” his mom follows up, a mix of skepticism and excitement on her face. 

You look to Jake for support, to which he reaches up and grabs your hand resting atop the table. “It’s nothing like that,” he clarifies. 

“We just, um,” you pause, appearing nervous, keeping your eyes on Jake. 

“Y/N and I…” He looks at you again, gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, and looks back to your moms. “We’re dating.” 

Just as you’d suspected, both of your moms look as if they’d just been granted a million dollars each and solved world hunger all in one go. They’re both grinning from ear to ear, and Jake’s mom actually starts to cry a little. 

“Oh,” she sniffles, wiping at her eye with a napkin. “I always hoped you guys would end up together one day.”

Your mom energetically taps her on the shoulder. “Do you remember when we found out we were due around the same time? And we started making up all these scenarios about what our babies would be like together? Oh!” she exclaims toward you and Jake. “This was definitely my favorite one.”

“And here you guys were always fighting it,” his mom teases, wagging her finger at you both. “The two of you were inevitable.” 

“How long have you been dating?” your mom asks, extremely invested. 

“About three weeks,” you answer. Truthfully, it’s only been one week since you’ve embarked on your journey of fake romance, but you figure that duration of time is enough to be considered remotely legitimate. “We wanted to figure things out for ourselves first. But, we wanted to tell you guys, too.”

“We love you both so much,” Jake adds on, “and we knew that you’d be happy for us.” 

His mom guffaws, “Happy is an understatement.” She stands up from her seat and goes around the table, giving you and Jake a hug. “I love this. And you!”

You and Jake both chuckle and look at each other and smile, but it’s not because of what your moms think. You’ve just completed phase three: the reveal. 

That afternoon, after Jake and his mom leave, you go up to your room to decompress and think about the next stages of your plan. You’re laying on your bed, scrolling social media, when you get a message from your mom. 

mom ❤️‍🩹:

Took this while you guys were asleep.

Too cute not to share :) 

[photo] 

It’s a picture of you and Jake, presumably taken this morning. Jake is sprawled on the couch with you curled up against his side, your head on his chest. You’re both asleep, peaceful expressions on your faces. Your arm is slung over his torso, fingers unconsciously gripping at the neckline of his hoodie while his arm wraps around your shoulder protectively. It’s genuinely adorable. 

Your pulse picks up just slightly as you think about how that part wasn’t planned. You weren’t supposed to fall asleep, Jake wasn’t supposed to sleep over, and the two of you weren’t supposed to end up cuddling on your living room couch all through the night. But it just… happened. And you don’t regret it at all. 

you:

Awwwww 

Mom this is so cute 🥹 

mom ❤️‍🩹:

So so happy for the two of you 

Finally!!! 

Your heart stings a little seeing her message. Her genuine excitement. You feel bad for lying straight to her face, for letting her believe that you and Jake were really together. You catch yourself before it consumes you, shaking the feeling away. This was all for the better. You crush their hopes and dreams for good, they stop bothering you about it, and you and Jake get to stay together forever. Platonically. 

You don’t allow yourself to think about it further, instead opting to text Jake. 

you:

omggg bro 

my mom took a pic of us sleeping 

[photo] 

jakey <3:

WHOA WAIT

THATS SO CUTE 

we look like a real couple 🥹 

you 

LMAOAOAOAO 

RIGHT 

jakey <3:

i’m gonna make that my lock screen 💯 

you:

WAIT THATS SMART 

jakey <3:

😼 ik

[screenshot] 

fireeeee 

you:

total accident too

passing out on the couch was not apart of the plan lol

jakey <3:

didnt mind tho

:))))

You don’t know how to respond to that. You react with a heart emoji instead of an answer. You turn your phone off and toss it somewhere on your bed, looking around for something to do to clear your head. That’s when you see it. Your eyes land on the misshapen vase sitting on your dresser, newly filled with the fresh tulips Jake brought over last night. There’s a small white tag you hadn't noticed peeking out amongst the petals. Curious, you pluck it from the bouquet, holding it gently between your fingers. 

You unfold the miniscule piece of paper and read what’s written inside. It’s not a crazy monologue, or an obviously formulated over-the-top love note. All it holds is a simple message. 

to: Y/N

my favorite girl forever.

love, worm :)

And for some reason, it doesn’t feel like it’s a part of your joint scheme. It doesn’t feel like the dramatized and corny one liners Jake’s been spewing out for the past week. It just feels like him. Sweet. Simple. Easy. It possesses the casual, uncomplicated love you’ve shared your entire lives. The unspoken rule that no matter what, you would always have each other to lean on. 

It’s how Jake guarded you and your snail collection on the playground in first grade, shielding the fragile shells from your rowdy classmates, all because you wanted to give them a safe crossing to the bushes. It’s how when you reached your teens and your hormones caused you to find him the most annoying creature on earth, he fought the urge to scream right back at you. Rather, he asked his mom how to get you to stay his friend, focusing on keeping your friendship even though you pushed him away. It’s how he would listen to you rant for hours about whatever was bothering you and being able to read you like an open book. You needed advice? He’d give it. You simply wanted an open ear? He’d sit silent, nodding along with genuine attentiveness. It’s how despite the thousands of petty arguments you two have had, no matter how mad he was at you, he’d still drop everything in a heartbeat for you if you called him. It’s how just last week, he’d agreed in a millisecond to take part in your stratagem of romantic deceit, not an ounce of hesitation in his body.

Eight words, that’s all that he wrote. Because that’s all he needed to say, isn’t it? 

You’ve always known that Jake was a good guy. In fact, he was often deemed one of the best guys. The kind of guy who seemed to live life on easy mode: effortlessly social, naturally athletic, smart without trying to be. What you didn’t realize was how good he was to you, specifically. You know Jake loves you. You know you love Jake. Maybe, though, there’s something else you’re missing. Something that lies underneath, thrumming through your bloodstream.

You don’t text him about the note. You don’t allow yourself to count it as something viable, something real. You do, however, pin it on your bulletin board. That seems like a natural thing a girlfriend would do when receiving a cute note. It now hangs next to a polaroid picture of you and Jake from two summers ago, the last day of break before your junior year of high school. You were hanging out at your close friend Jungwon’s house, one last hurrah before classes started. You smile fondly thinking back on the memory.

It was elementary fun, intense rounds of Twister and heated rivalries in a game of Monopoly that lasted the whole night. You were surrounded by some of the people you love most in this world, but things were still getting loud. You slipped out to the balcony to catch a moment of silence, relishing in the feel of the cool night air on your skin. Jake found you soon after noticing you’d disappeared. He knew you and how you got in situations like this. He wasn’t overly concerned, just checking up on you like he always did. Spotting a camera someone had left outside, he nudged you for a picture. Tired from the socializing, you languidly rested your chin on his shoulder while he grinned for the shot. The flash went off, temporarily blinding you and making you both laugh. Once the photo developed, he gave it an approving look, then slipped it into your back pocket without another word. You sat out there together in silence, just enjoying each other’s presence until Heeseung called you back inside, announcing that a game of Apples to Apples would be starting up soon. Jake took your hand and you walked back in together. That’s just the way things were. That’s how they’ve always been. 

Seeing his note right next to the picture of you two eases something in your soul. It feels right, like that’s where both items belong. Together. 

You don’t really sleep that night, at least not as well as you did the night before. You more so drift in and out of consciousness, staring into the dark of your bedroom and then closing your eyes and seeing you and Jake. The fragmented dreams play in parts, a choppy slideshow of your friendship through the years. 

Three years old, playing in the dirt in your backyard. A few years later, riding scooters down his street as if trying to escape the imminent nighttime. Eleven years old, pummeling each other with snowballs in the winter. Thirteen years old, sitting on your roof while the sun slowly sank down beneath the trees. Seventeen years old, driving around in his car with the windows down, music blasting and wind blowing through your hair. 

You wake up tired, dazed, and groggy. Whatever it is that has ailed you lately, you need to get over it. You’re so close to completing your plan. You roll over with a groan, blindly feeling around for your phone. Checking your notifications, you see new texts from Jake, timestamped 45 minutes ago. 

jakey <3:

good morning mastermind 

so i was thinking 

today i should ask you to be my valentine 

like BIG 

like so obvious ykwim

wait dont reply

its gonna be a surprise 😛

Just then, there’s a clatter against your bedroom window. Maybe it was a stupid bird, you think to yourself. A second later, another clatter. Was that a rock? 

You go over to your window and slide it open, sticking your head out to see what’s going on. 

“Wait, no!” you hear in the distance. You end up narrowly dodging a flying pebble that was headed straight for your face. It lands on your floor with a clunk. 

“I’m so sorry!” Jake shouts from down below. He’s standing on your lawn, right beneath where your bedroom is. In his hands, he’s holding a large heart shaped box, a ladybug Pillow Pet, and another bouquet of flowers, roses this time. Attached to the front of the chocolate box is a paper sign with the words, YOU’RE THE ONLY LADY I WANT TO BUG scrawled across in thick black marker. 

You are genuinely rendered speechless, mouth agape, just staring at him standing there. 

“Can you, uh,” he shouts up again, “can you come down here?” 

You blink, your consciousness kicking back in. “Right,” you shout back. “Yeah, of course.” 

You leave your room and head downstairs, passing by your mom in the kitchen on your way to the front door. She’s sitting at the table, drinking her morning coffee.

“Is Jake out there?” she asks curiously. “I could’ve sworn I heard his voice.” 

“He is,” you confirm, still moving toward the door. “He asked me to come dow-” 

As you swing the door open, there in the doorway stands Jake in all his fabricated romantic glory. He’s there on your doorstep, arms still full of his offerings of love. 

“Hi,” he breathes out.

“Hi,” you echo, taking in all of the details close up now. You hear your mom gasp loudly somewhere behind you, but you don’t turn around. You keep your eyes on Jake. 

“So, I have a question,” he offers. “And I’m really hoping I know the answer already.” He takes a step closer. “Y/N,” he begins, “will you be my valentine?” 

You smile, nodding while you move closer to him. “Yes, Jake,” you say, taking the bouquet of flowers from his hand. “Of course I’ll be your valentine.”

He grins wide, pulling you in for a hug. He smells like roses and fresh laundry and just Jake. You let yourself indulge in the scent before pulling back slightly, your face inches away from his. He’s looking into your eyes, searching for acclamation from you. You nod your head in the slightest, confirming that it’s perfect. Jake then looks over your shoulder, prompting you to turn around, too. 

Your mom is beaming, smiling proudly while holding up her phone, recording the whole thing. “Adorable!” She puts the phone down. “Nicely done, Jake.” 

“Thanks for your help,” he returns sincerely. “I think it went pretty well, all things considered.” He flirtatiously nudges your shoulder, then sends you a wink. 

You turn to your mom. “You helped with this?” You thought that you were supposed to be the one making secret plans, not the other way around. 

“The moms and I conspired last night,” Jake confesses, not looking one bit guilty. “I wanted it to be perfect.” His eyes are bright, refulgent. He looks so happy. 

“It was.” Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, that tiny voice comes alive again. Imagine if it was real, it whispers to you. You tell it to shut up. “Thank you, Jake.” You’re impressed by all the effort he’s put in for a relationship that doesn’t actually exist. “Really. You didn’t have to do all this.” 

“I wanted to,” is all he justifies it by. That’s enough. “Here,” he readjusts his hold on the gifts. “I’ll help you put these up in your room.” 

You walk upstairs together in a charged silence. The moment your door closes, you start talking. 

“Jake. That was adorable.” You’re still amazed at how good it was. “The chocolates? The sign? The ladybug Pillow Pet? Even the roses, just… wow.” 

“Oh, that reminds me.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a singular pink tulip, holding it out to you. “Because I know these are your favorites. That matters more.” 

You melt. What the hell. 

You reach out to take the flower by the stem, your fingers brushing against his. “I really don’t know what to say.” You haven’t stopped smiling since you saw him. “This is amazing.” 

“It was pretty easy, believe it or not,” he expounds. “Every year, you buy these chocolates, whether you have a valentine or not. You truly are the only lady I want to bug, that just sums us up. And I remembered you used to have a ladybug Pillow Pet when we were kids.”

You pout at his thoughtfulness. “You remember that?” You hadn’t imagined that was even significant to him. 

“‘Course I do,” he says softly. “How could I ever forget Spotty Scotty?” He laughs, the sound carrying throughout your room. 

“Gosh,” you set the flowers down on your bed and replace their occupancy with the stuffed animal. It’s soft and plush. You run your fingers over the fur, silky to the touch. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. Not since-” 

“Since you lost Spotty Scotty on that road trip when you left him at a gas station,” he finishes for you. “You called me crying about it.”

You laugh lightly. “How lame,” you joke. “It was just a dumb stuffed animal.”

“Hey,” Jake interjects, warning in his tone. “No, he wasn’t. He meant a lot to you.” 

Thinking back on all the time you spent moping about after losing Spotty Scotty, the emotions you felt come flooding back. That, mixed with the sincerity behind Jake’s gift, makes your eyes start to burn. 

He sees it immediately, hands coming up to rest on the sides of your arms, thumbs smoothing comfortingly. “You okay?” he asks gently. 

“I’m fine,” you blink away the incoming tears and clutch the Pillow Pet a little tighter in your arms. “This just means a lot.”

He gives you a lopsided smile, like he totally understands. 

“Especially just for a fake Valentine’s proposal,” you add. You don’t mean it as a dig. It’s just the truth.

Jake falters for a fraction of a second. If you blinked, you’d miss it. His smile twitches and his eyes dim slightly, his thumb on your arm slowing down by a small measure. “Right.” His tone is flatter than it was a minute ago. He clears his throat. “So, now that we’re officially valentines, we should get started on how the actual day’s gonna go.” 

“Okay,” you agree, your emotional high steadily dwindling. “I was thinking we go for dinner at The Claw. I made a reservation last week.”

“Whoa, on Valentine’s?” Jake’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The Claw was one of the most popular restaurants in town, especially for couples and especially on Valentine’s. “Do I have to pay?” He’s half joking. He’s heard from his friends how expensive those entrees are. 

You stare at him, expression blank, for exactly one second, then roll your head about lackadaisically. “I thought about it, but I don’t want to make you-” 

“I was just kidding.” He cuts you off. “I don’t mind paying.” 

“Even though it’s for a date meant to be the downfall of our heavily falsified romantic relationship?” You tilt your head, waiting for him to backpedal. He doesn’t. 

 “Yes,” he maintains his position. “We want our moms to think we’re a bad couple. That doesn’t mean they also have to think I’m a bad guy.” He pauses. “How are we even supposed to get our moms there with us?”

“I have an idea.”

Fast forward to Wednesday, you and Jake are bustling about in his kitchen. Valentines is on Saturday, and you still have yet to confirm that your moms will be there with you at The Claw. Tonight is a regular dinner between your two families, a common occurrence, although the atmosphere has adjusted given that you and Jake are now “dating.” The first twenty minutes of dinner were spent reliving your most embarrassing childhood moments, listening to story after story. You tuned it out, instead focusing on feeding Layla, Jake’s family dog, under the table until you got caught. 

Both sets of parents are at the dining table, laughter over wine echoing through the house. They sent you and Jake to go retrieve the dessert from the fridge, giving you a quick moment to debrief your plan. 

“Got it,” Jake says, holding a plate of cheesecake in his hands as he kicks his fridge shut with the back of his foot. “Could you grab the extra plates?”

You navigate the kitchen seamlessly, knowing it like the back of your hand. You grab the plates from an overhead cabinet and place them on the counter. “I think we should ask them now,” you say under your breath. Your parents are out of earshot, but better safe than sorry. 

“Me too,” he agrees. “But, oh my gosh, I can already hear them making fun of us.” He winces, closing his eyes like he just had a vision of it happening. 

You laugh once. “Why?” 

“Because,” he explains, “it’s our first Valentines and we’re gonna spend it with our moms.” He lets out an airy laugh. “It’s funny.” 

“Hey,” Jake’s mom calls from the other room, “can you grab some fruits from the fridge? The cheesecake needs toppings.”

“Yes, Mom!” Jake calls back. He turns and opens the fridge again, standing there with his back to you while he looks for said fruit. “Who was your last valentine, anyway?” he questions over his shoulder. 

“Hm,” you ponder, leaning your forearms on the counter. “I mean, last year, Jungwon and I were valentines as friends. Does that count?” It wasn’t a big deal, you just bought each other candy and took a couple pictures together. 

“Sure,” Jake offers, still rummaging through the contents of his fridge, though now he’s accumulating a stack of fruit containers balanced on his forearm. “But, like, you guys weren’t really a thing.” He pauses. “Were you?” 

You can’t help but snort at his question. “Me and Jungwon? A thing? That’s a good one.” Sure, Jungwon was one of your closest friends, but your relationship was more akin to two evil homeless cats stalking the streets as opposed to lovers.

“Just asking, you never know what people really feel,” he defends, still turned around. “He used to have a crush on you freshman year, you know.” 

“I did know, actually,” you confess. “Jay told me about it in the science lab one day. He got over it a week later, though.” You laugh at the memory. “You know, I really never expanded my dating pool like I thought I would in high school. Middle school me would be severely disappointed.” 

“At least you’ve got a second, albeit fake boyfriend now,” he jokes. “That’s gotta count for something.” 

“I’ll put you on my extensive list of lovers, for sure,” you quip back. “What about you?” 

Come to think of it, Jake hasn’t had much of a dating life, either. Though definitely not for lack of interest. He was smart, funny, nice, and attractive (though you hate to admit it). Many of your friends have asked for his number, and you’ve given it, trying to play wingwoman. You’d never hear about it after that, though. Nothing ever progressed, it seemed. 

“What do you mean?” he asks further. 

“How come you haven’t had a girlfriend since seventh grade? I mean, it’s not like you haven’t had anyone interested.” You can recall a long list of girls that have fawned over Jake Sim. “I’ve seen the plethora of valentine cards spill out of your locker every year. Hell, I’ve even helped people write some of them.”

He turns around finally, balancing the stack of fruit on his arm. “I guess I never really thought about it,” he admits, like he himself is thinking about it for the first time. “I just wasn’t interested back. Nothing was wrong with any of them, they were really nice, it’s just,” he pauses for a second, thinking through his wording. “I could never see myself with any of them. Does that make sense?” 

You consider it. He’s always been a practical guy, so it makes sense he’d take the same approach to dating. Why waste time if you know there’s no point? “I guess,” you shrug. Then the thought comes to you, just out of plain curiosity. “Who did you see yourself with, then?” There had to have been a slip, a moment of weakness where he liked someone else. At least once.

“You,” he says simply and honestly without missing a beat. Without even looking up at you, he starts rearranging the fruit containers so he can hold them in one hand, the plate of cheesecake in the other. “Don’t forget the plates,” he adds like nothing happened. 

You don’t say anything, just move in a daze until somehow you end up back in your seat at the table. That feeling in your chest is back. Again. You ignore it. Again. 

“So, you two,” your dad addresses you and Jake, “what are your big plans for Valentines?” 

Jake swallows his bite of cheesecake and answers before you can. “We have a reservation at The Claw. Feels so fancy and grown up,” he laughs. 

“Well,” your dad says, “you guys aren’t little kids anymore. You’re eighteen now, heading off to college soon. Crazy to think about.” 

“Oh, don’t bring that up!” your mom scolds him, “I’ll start crying if we talk about it. It seems like just yesterday you were crying because you had diaper rash-“

“Okay, I think we’ve reached the limit on the nostalgia for today,” you interrupt, having had your fill of old stories. “We were supposed to go on a double date with some of our friends, but,” you wince. “Things aren’t going so well between them right now.” 

“Oh, no,” Jake’s mom says. “Always so sad when couples don’t work out. Just hurts everyone involved.” 

You and Jake look at each other, knowing exactly what the other is thinking. 

“Not that that would happen to you two,” his mom adds on quickly. “I think we all know you guys will last.” 

Neither of you can respond to that and keep a clean conscience. 

“Our reservation was for a party of four,” you get back to the topic of the date. “But since our friends canceled, we have no one else to go with.”

“We were wondering,” Jake starts casually, “if any of you wanted to come with us?” 

“Not that we want to ruin your Valentine's plans,” you quickly add on. “We know it’s an important night for you, too.” You bite the inside of your cheek, silently pleading. Please, please take the bait. 

“We would love to!” Jake’s mom accepts. Upon receiving a confused glance from her husband, she clarifies, “Not us,” she gestures between herself and your mom, “us.”

“Ooh, yes!” Your mom agrees, clasping her hands happily. “That sounds wonderful. I love The Claw.” She looks at you and Jake. “Are you sure you’re okay with us coming along? That wouldn’t intrude on your night?” 

“Not in the slightest,” you smile brightly. “We’d love to have you two there. It’ll be fun.” 

“Aww,” Jake’s dad teases. “Even though they’re bigger now, our babies still love their mommas.” 

Jake shoots you a look that says, Called it. He just nods his head. “Yes. And that’s not a crime.” He takes another bite of cheesecake, piling on the blueberries as garnish. “Sorry to steal your Valentines,” he atones to both your dads.

“Against you two, we never stood a chance,” your dad laughs. He has a point. You find it comical how quick your moms were to ditch their husbands for their kids. “But it’s okay. We can reschedule.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jake’s dad confers. “All that matters is that the ladies are happy. You’ll grow to learn that, someday.” 

“Yeah,” Jake says absentmindedly, sneaking a glance at you. “I’m sure I will.” 

The rest of the week comes and goes in the blink of an eye. Before you know it, it’s Valentine's eve, and you’re preparing both mentally and physically for the big day. 

Jake comes over in the evening, bearing another set of gifts—this time featuring a small heart-shaped piece of paper. When he hands it to you, you eye it curiously. You’re in your bedroom, your playlist of 90s love songs playing through a speaker providing an appropriate atmosphere for the upcoming holiday. You were in the process of getting everything ready for tomorrow–finalizing an outfit, double checking the reservation, doing some last minute room cleaning so you wouldn’t be grounded–when he knocked lightly on your door before entering. 

“Aww,” you coo, looking at all the detail on it. It’s a handmade valentine, cute and crafty like the ones you make in elementary school. Red construction paper cut into a heart, trimmed with lace around the edges and glitter glue embellishments. The top left corner reads, To: Y/N, From: Jake. It’s adorable and juvenile. “This is so cute!” You look up at Jake and see him eyeing you expectantly, like he’s waiting for you to say something else, to notice something.

When all you do is furrow your eyebrows slightly, he just lets out a breath and says, “Thanks. I thought you’d like it.” His eyes lose focus for half a second before he blinks. “So, tomorrow. What’s our game plan?” 

“I’m glad you asked.” You set the valentine on the corner of your dresser, right beside his vase full of the flowers he got you. “Our reservation’s at 6:30. You drive over here with your mom, but we take two cars to the restaurant, me and you and our moms.” 

Jake nods thoughtfully, his hand coming up to scratch his chin. “Sounds good. And how’s the sabotage gonna go?” 

“Okay,” you take a deep breath and grab both sides of his face. His skin is warm to the touch. “Jake, I need you to promise me something.”

He looks worried, like you’re about to tell him you murdered someone and need his help to hide the body. Not that he’d hesitate for even a second, if you did. 

“I need you to be the worst fake boyfriend ever tomorrow,” you tell him, your tone and face dead serious. “Whatever you’d want to do, whatever you think is right, you do the opposite. Can you do that?” In the background, Brighter Than Sunshine by Aqualung fades out, You’re Still the One by Shania Twain playing next.

He matches your expression and nods in earnest. “I solemnly swear, Y/N.” He rests his hands on your wrists, just holding, offering support. “I promise to be the worst fake boyfriend you’ll ever have.” 

You break out into a grin and spontaneously pull him into a hug. The urge just overtakes you. Even though you’ve never been a hugger, the past few weeks with Jake have made you rethink your stance on the matter. You’ve come to enjoy the physical closeness, the warmth, the way you can hear his heart beating steady under his chest. You get why hugs have gotten the reputation of this utmost wonderful expression of affection. It’s one of the most natural proofs of love. With how perfectly he can rest his chin on your head, how snugly you can nuzzle into his neck—it’s like you and Jake were designed to fit together like puzzle pieces. He initially freezes when you wrap your arms around him, still getting used to this version of you, but soon after melts into your embrace. He lays his cheek on your head and the two of you inattentively start swaying in a slow, comfortable rhythm, accompanied by the low noise of the song. 

“Do you think it’s actually gonna work?” Jake asks quietly. You know what he’s referring to. This whole plan, the unnecessarily elaborate scheme to get your mothers to stop bugging the two of you. 

“I don’t really know,” you admit to him. Truthfully, you’re not sure anything could enervate your moms’ certainty that you and Jake are meant for each other. “I hope so.” 

“Yeah, me too,” he says, but his voice is reserved, distracted. He pauses for a breath. “I’m kinda gonna miss this.” 

You hum in question, arms still wrapped around him. “Miss what?” 

“This,” he says. “Us.” That plain, simple word containing a multitude of meanings, lifetimes spent and countless reinventions of love. 

“There will always be us, Jake,” you tell him, although you understand what he’s getting at. This version of you together. “That won’t change, even after this is over.” 

“I know, I know,” he sighs from somewhere deep in his chest. “It’s just-” He cuts himself off. “Never mind. You’re right.” He holds you a second longer, then embraces you just a little harder before letting go, stepping back from you. “I’ll see you tomorrow. 6:00 PM sharp.” He smiles. With a fake salute and nod of his head, Jake leaves, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. 

read part two here!

taglist: @tinyteezer @betagalactose @simj4k3 @isa942572 @yunkivamp @reinmyheart @kopeg @vissnipherwifeey @littlesweettea-aine @jakesaverse @ikeufied @lotsafim @jaehyp @jvngw0nlvr @klowiishere @tvm-m-blog @zielyous @mhoonstruck @moonstrucksofie @lilscast @fluorjscent @hueningsgirl @fancypeacepersona @wobblymug

[jakedustry]

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝐍𝐎. 𝟖 - 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘𝐔

IN WHICH Kim Mingyu has been on your mind ever since he first joined the team. Not only is he attractive, but his gameplay makes it impossible for you to look away. You want to get to know him more than anything, only if everything wasn’t so complicated. Despite you thinking otherwise, Mingyu has nothing against you. But with you and Jake constantly hanging out, he has no reason to talk to his coach’s daughter. After all, you’ve always been just a little too out of bounds.

pairing » basketball player!mingyu x coach's daughter!reader genre » fluff, smut, lil angst featuring » other svt members, original characters, jungkook, lee heeseung, jake sim, nishimura riki

contains » alcohol consumption, some angst, basketball player!mingyu, coach’s daughter!reader, basketball terminology (nothing that would be too hard to understand tho), reader lives with her dad, no mention of reader’s mom, student!reader, reader in education, Mingyu calls reader Blue, age gap warnings » SMUT, dry humping, manhandling, body worship, oral (f. rec.), fingering, dirty talk, pathetic!dom!mingyu, soft!dom!mingyu, sub!reader, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, breeding kink, aftercare

word count » 32k

↪ izzy adds... happiest bday to my all time favorite <33 as some of you know I crashed out many times while posting this fic but hopefully all is good now!! Frankly, this fic is very me myself and I but I still hope you get to enjoy this as well <3 Huge shout out to @livmarauder for making this banner it's literally perfect and I cannot get enough of it

playlist | mingyu m.list

The buzzer echoes in your ears. You missed it. You fucking missed it. Doing your best to hide your disappointment, you continue pouring the beer. You can't be mad, not really. You were never supposed to see it either way. With the way your snack bar is stationed — having a view on only half the court unless you step out — it was never meant to be a place you'd watch the game from. But you still hate that you couldn't be a part of the win. You'll just have to live with having no idea what they are talking about once the players join you here.

But if you are honest, you have bigger problems at hand now. Because before you can even blink, the line in front of you is already much longer, everyone asking you for a drink. You'd love to be able to split in half at the moment. It's always like this, and yet you are never ready for it. Rush hour is every halftime and end of the match for you.

You wave your hand to your colleague so she can collect the money, quietly praying for the beer cooler to work faster. There's not much for Dae to do when everyone is waiting for a drink — your specialty. And as much as you love being at the drinks duty, you regret not switching with her every time this happens.

Handing out one beer after another, you listen to the chatters about today's game. There are lot of praises passed around, creating a smile on your face. You might have not seen most of the game, but you know the guys killed it tonight again. How could they not with their talents finally being put to use with their new coach? You might be biased, but you do think they'll take it far this year.

"Sunshine, can you also pour me one when you have time?" You look up to meet your dad's eyes, nodding.

"You'll have to wait," you shrug, softly pointing your head at the line. He nods, waving you off like he doesn't care at all, reminding you to take your time. You wish more people would be like this. At least your family if no one else. But your uncle is a prime example of the behavior your hate when you are already busy. He pushes past the line, handing you his empty pint. "Yeah, yeah," you mumble, placing it down and focusing on the people that came before him.

You're not sure how much time passes, but you sit down again eventually. Plopping down with a heavy sigh, you exchange a glance with Dae. She gives you a sympathetic smile, glancing at your dad who has the same one as he leans against the wall with his beer in hands. "It's going to calm down again now. They won't all be coming at the same time."

You hum back, stretching your hands above your head. "How did it go? Did you finally figure out the rotation?"

"Pretty much," he nods. "I liked how they played today so if it continues like this, we got the perfect core five."

"That's good," your smile grows. "If nothing, then the points show they've gotten better since you started training them."

He rolls his eyes but you see the smile tugging on his lips. You like seeing your dad like this. He's always been happy no matter what category he was training, loving it when he could see the enjoyment on his player's eyes, but there is something different about watching him coach a team full of adults who could really take it far if they want to.

"Let's not assume how the rest of the season will go." You peek over when you hear Jake's voice, a smile on his face. "Who says I won't replace Seungkwan and give us the well deserved win."

"Not if you keep avoiding working out," your dad reminds him and Jake just shakes his head, mounting to you that he is lying.

You chuckle, "right, right."

He steps forward, still smiling as he opens his wallet. "Could you give me two? Promised Heeseung I'll buy tonight."

"He doesn't stay for stretching after trainings but he stays to get drunk?" You shake your head as you take the cash from him. "You should keep an eye on that."

"At least he stays to drink with us and team bond. Nishimura doesn't even look me in the eyes before disappearing."

"I think he is intimidated by you, coach," Jake explains and your dad's eyes widen in the most your dad way you know. He somehow manages to look shocked as well as not surprised at all, offended but also making fun of the situation. You've seen this look a lot. With his eyebrows raised and arms crossed over his chest, he looks exactly the same as whenever you tell him about a dumb date you've been on. The amount of times he's been surprised at something the guys you went out with said or did is not something you could count on both hands. Every time, the conversation ends with the two of you agreeing that guys just need more time to mature.

"By me?" He questions and you laugh as you pour Jake his two beers. "Tell him he'll be running ten extra laps for that." All four of you laugh, including Dae who has far from knowing anything about basketball.

Your dad leaves after a short moment to talk with the rest of the coach staff and some of the players while Jake stays with you, chatting with Dae about their upcoming assignment. You try to listen in but your attention starts drifting elsewhere, the debate about the physics paper they have to submit passing by you completely. Zoning out, you stare at the nearest wall, thinking about anything but the situation around you. For the first time today, you get to turn off and not worry about whether you gave the right change or not.

You are glad Jake and Dae found something in common when you introduced them for the first time. If they didn't, you'd never be able to just shut off like this, worried it would get awkward and would try your hardest to keep the conversation going. But when they met for the first time and found out they share a physic class, all your worries disappeared as you watched them talk about their lessons. Both of them still rely on you sometimes but you'd say they are good friends now.

It's good knowing your friends are getting along.

"I love you so much," Heeseung sings as he comes into your sight, making you snap out of your thoughts. You blink up at him, seeing four more players behind him. The foam on his beer has already fallen off but he doesn't seem to care, taking his drink from Jake with a grin on his face.

"Can I get a better one if I also tell you I love you?" Seungcheol smiles at you and you shake your head, standing up again and getting four pints ready, assuming all of them are here for the same thing.

"You can try," you shrug, a smile tugging in the corner of your lips as well. It only makes his smile grow wider.

"Sure he could," Joshua wraps his arm around his shoulder. "If he wants to die while explaining to his coach why his daughter is suddenly pregnant and needs to leave school."

"Now now," you quickly interrupt him, your eyes widening. "Don't even joke about that."

"Exactly," Seungcheol joins you, shaking the younger man off him. "If I knock anyone up in the near future I'll assume it's your curse and what will you do then? I don't have the time or resources to raise a kid right now."

"At your grown age?" Heeseung pipes from the side, grinning through his drink. Seungcheol ignores his comment but you chuckle.

"And here I was going to give you a tip," he sighs.

"Yeah? What kind?" Dae tilts her head innocently and you have to hold back a laugh, handing all four players their drinks while the eldest pays for them while exchanging a few words with Dae that you can't catch. You think you're glad you don't by the way her ears turn red.

Everyone on the team has always been friendly with you. Whether it's because you sell them alcohol or that your dad is their coach, you have no idea. But it doesn't really matter. As long as they keep being nice to you, then you don't need to know. It still feels a little weird being a part of conversations like these with them as if it was completely normal, but you're trying to get over that. And honestly, with the captain's welcoming smile and kind words — despite his friends joking about him making you pregnant — it's all a lot easier.

You'd say you are pretty close with the team. You are able to hold small talks and they often hang out with you and Dae here after their games. So while you can't say you consider all of them your friends, you aren't strangers either.

Well, expect for one man on the team.

Possibly the only one you've ever wanted to be close with.

It was a year ago, you think. Around the time the previous season started. The team gained a few new players — including Jake and Riki who you'd say you are the closest to out of all of them — and your eyes immediately locked in on one of them.

Kim Mingyu, tall, tanned, and handsome, was impossible not to look at.

It only took one game and you were hooked, unable to look away from him whenever he was on the court and you had some time to watch. His smooth movements, the control he has of the ball, and the incredibly beautiful smile on his face when he scores a point all made you so much more interested.

But you never got to talk to him as you wished you would. Because right after the game ended, you saw him with the only person you didn't want to see him with — Jungkook. Watching the guy you have a silly little crush on laughing with your ex boyfriend might have been the best way to get you to turn around again and reconsider talking to him.

You have no idea what or if Jungkook ever told him anything about you, but with the way Mingyu never even tried to talk to you outside a few hellos and ordering unlike the rest of the team, you think it's safe to assume he doesn't think of you nicely.

You and Jungkook didn't exactly end it on bad terms, you just both had different views on things. All you wanted was to focus on your studies and to do something with yourself, while all he wanted was a family to settle with as soon as possible. At twenty, the idea of turning your life around to make a family with your boyfriend was wild to you. It was simply never supposed to happen. You never spoke badly of him after the breakup but you also never talked to him again, so you have no idea how he and his friends look at you.

It's as if you've manifested them, the two of them coming into your sight of view. Jungkook doesn't come closer but you see him standing in the hall while Mingyu walks over to you. "I'll take two, please." He only meets your eyes briefly before Seokmin tugs him into their conversation. You glance at him a few times as you pour the beers, watching the easy smile on his face. Despite knowing it's not going to happen, you can't help but admire him. He is so handsome, it's unfair to you. How are you supposed to not look at him when he looks like that?

You quote the price to him, just like you've done many times today. Your fingers brush when he hands you the cash and you feel like you're going insane, the nervousness you suddenly feel driving you crazy. As if it wasn't enough, he practically holds your hand in his as he takes the drinks from you. You have to look up at Jungkook to remind yourself this is nothing, that Mingyu thinks who knows what of you and it's only your own delusion making this into something that it's not.

He doesn't stay for any longer, saying his goodbye to the rest of the team and leaving to hang out with your ex. Dae nudges you and you take your eyes off him, offering her a brief smile. It's been like this for a year now, so why do you unconsciously keep hanging onto a thread of hope?

"Sunshine." You nod when you hear your dad's voice, taking his pint from him to pour him his drink. "Thank you. What are you all standing here for?" He nods towards the team, all of them holding their own beer. "Good game today but how do you want to bond the team together if you aren't drinking with us?"

"We were just about to join you, coach," Seungcheol grins. "How could we possibly afford to miss the president's drunk blabbing about our game?" Your dad shakes his head and Seungcheol sends both you and Dae a wave, saying his see you later before leaving with the team to join the coaching staff in their staff room. You're sure they'll be back for another round but for now, as soon as you hand your dad his drink and he leaves as well, you are left alone with Dae and the thoughts of how much you want Mingyu to talk to you.

When your dad told you you'll be home alone on the weekend because he's got away games, you found yourself questioning how far you're willing to go for a stupid crush. You always liked watching sports, but not to the point you'd come out of your way for them. If you were already coming to the game to sell drinks, then you wanted to watch as well. If you were hanging out with your friends and you happened to find a group of people playing street basketball, you'd watch as well. But you never went to watch a game in your free time just because.

Which is also why your dad was so surprised when you asked him to come with instead of enjoying the free house. Still, he wouldn't say no to you, not even if he wanted to.

Humming along to your playlist, you watch the road ahead as your dad drives. He follows Joshua's car, who's taking most of the bench players except for Riki who sits behind you. Your dad's way of taking revenge and trying to intimidate him, you're certain. It seems to be working since he hasn't said a word ever since you picked him up, looking into his phone the entire time. No doubt texting his best friend.

There are two more cars behind yours — Seungcheol's and Mingyu's. You feel bad a little. If you weren't going, they could easily fit into just three cars and everyone would be comfortable. Your dad assured you they were planning on driving four cars either way and there is no need for you to worry but you can't help it.

"Jake's asking if we can stop by the nearest gas station." It's the first time you hear Riki's words since you said hellos and both you and your dad glance at him. You see him swallow his nerves when your dad's eyes find his, unable to hold back your laugh. It's funny to see him so freaked out when you know your dad is the sweetest person you know. Most of the players know it too, you're sure. It's only a matter of time before Riki realizes it too.

"Will we be on time?" You ask, biting back your laugh.

"We should be," you dad nods. "Let the others know as well. If they don't want to come with they can drive straight to the stadium but they better not get lost."

"Yes, coach," Riki nods eagerly and your lips form a straight line, your eyes closed as you do your best not to let the laugh out. Turning your head towards the window, you hide your smile behind your hand. You already know this will be a fun trip.

You all park in a line and Jake immediately rushes out, not bothering to look back once as he heads straight for the bathroom. Riki steps out as well, using the opportunity to breathe properly without your dad near. Shaking your head, you stretch your arms over your head, melting into your seat.

A knock on your window interrupts you and you glance to the side, your eyes widening when you see Mingyu leaning down besides you. Your dad rolls the window down and you want to curse him out for not keeping the barrier between you and him up. "I'm grabbing a coffee, do you want anything, coach?" He asks, his hands bracing the edge of the open window as he looks inside, and you can't help but watch his toned arms.

It's insane how invisible he makes you feel. You become one with the seat, looking down into your lap as your dad refuses his offer. A beat of silence passes and you look up again, finding Mingyu's eyes on you, waiting for your answer. "Oh," you breathe out. The feeling of invisibility disappears instantly. "Could you get me an ice coffee? I'll give you the money, wait."

He shakes his head, straightening his back again. "Don't worry about it," he brushes you off and leaves before you can argue further.

You pick your purse from the floor either way, finding your wallet. "He's not going to accept it," your dad says simply. You meet his eyes, tilting your head slightly. "I've tried before as well. He even bought me lunch one time last year when I was subbing for their assistant coach and he refused to take any money from me. I think he likes treating people."

"I don't want to owe him, though."

"You can give the money to me then and I'll do my best forcing it to him. If I fail, I'll just keep the money and we'll all be happy."

"Listening in on other people's conversation is not a great look, Lee," your dad warns him. Heeseung just smiles in return, copying Mingyu's pose from before and leaning down onto the window.

"Isn't it great when I overhear our opponents tactics, though?"

"You're terrible," you shake your head at him with a laugh.

"Tell me you use your time for better things as well. Like, for example, learning our tactics."

"You know I only do my best, coach," Heeseung assures him. "Which is why we've been singing out lungs out the entire ride." When your dad gives him an annoyed look, he clears his throat, immediately switching the playful vibe to a more serious one. "We'll focus on it for the rest of the drive." After one last look from your dad, he runs away again, mumbling something about starting to get it as he approaches Riki.

You scroll through your playlist, picking the songs for the rest of the ride as you wait. Jake comes back shortly after with a new hat, that you rather not question where he got from, and Mingyu right after him. He hands you your ice coffee and when you try paying him back, he dismisses you just like your dad said he would. A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you open the can, thanking him while Riki takes a seat in the back of the car again. You keep your eyes on the older man, your hands wrapped around the cold drink, cooling yourself at least that way when your entire body feels so hot.

You'd like to say you don't think about Mingyu. In fact, you'd love to be able to say thinking about the way he is best friends with your ex made you snap out of it and you weren't looking at him as anything other than one of your dad's players.

But you apparently have no control over your emotions because while your head tells you that's an enough reason for you to give up on the idea of him, your heart does the exact opposite and just keeps thinking about him the entire car ride.

With your music on and free time, it doesn't take much for you to start daydreaming. A certain basketball player who towers over you and has arms the size of your head keeps lingering in your mind, all sorts of scenarios taking over you. If your dad and Riki manage to exchange some words, you don't hear any of them. All you can focus on is how great you know you'd be together if only things were a little different.

Shifting in your seat to make yourself more comfortable, you force yourself out of it, staring at the road ahead instead.

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

It's a chaos as soon as you arrive at the stadium. While the guys go find their changing room — which you genuinely hope they'll be able to as the map at the entrance wasn't any helpful — your dad tries to convince the organizer to let him have two assistant coaches. It's not against the rules, you know that, so why is it that the opposite team's coach has so much trouble with letting you in?

"Okay," the organizer sighs. "We'll need to see your coach license and it won't be any problem. I'll talk it over with the Tiger's coach. As you said, the rules state up to maximum of eight extra people accompanying the coach and team members."

"Oh," you breathe out, panicking as you glance between the stranger and your dad. You do not have a coaching license. Why would you? You stopped being involved in this sport back when you were fifteen. Your dad realizes it as well. Deep down he knew trying to let you in on the bench was a bad idea since if anyone wanted to check, they'd know you have no previous experience. Still, he wanted to try in case he could have his little girl beside him during the game.

"To be honest, I think it'll be better if you just do it with Seojin. The two of you work well together and it'd be a chaos if there were three of us. I'll be watching from the audience," you smile, briefly stroking your dad's arm. Looking over at the organizer, you thank him again for trying to hard to make it work for you both.

"If that's what you guys want to do," he nods, pointing towards the audience entrance and telling you to go up the first stair you see. You nod, giving your dad a quick goodbye before disappearing into the hallway.

You need to hurry if you want to grab a good spot in the front. It's still early, forty minutes until the game officially starts, but people are already coming in and you don't want to risk a good spot. Not today when you already came all the way here to watch the team play.

Rushing through the hall, you don't pay attention to where you are going, accidentally bumping shoulders with one of the players. "Shit, sorry," you apologize quickly before glancing up, your eyes slowly trailing up his figure until they settle on the chocolate eyes you know so well.

Mingyu's eyes wander all over your figure as well as he shakes his head softly, assuring you it's okay. Look at where you are coming from and then back at you, he tilts his head in confusion. "Where are going? the court is the other way around."

"Ah. The audience— I'm going to watch from the seats."

He hums and you want to melt into floor beneath your feet. It's embarrassing. In the past year, you haven't talked to him outside of exchanging hellos and grabbing his order. You have no idea how you're supposed to talk to him like this, how to make it seem like you aren't an awkward loser. Even though, honestly, you might be.

A part of you wonders how he sees you. If your interactions today made his opinion on you final and he can now finally say with no trouble that you are weird and he's glad he never spoke to you before.

"Okay," he nods, and you swear you aren't imagining the emptiness of his words. Why even ask in the first place? You raise your head to find him looking at you, his eyes unlike his words the opposite of empty. You frown without properly realizing what you're doing, questioning why he is staring at you. "Your eyes," he points out, "they have a bit of yellow in them."

You blink up at him. Out of all the things you expected him to say, commenting on the color of your eyes was on the bottom of the list. "I…I guess?"

"Didn't you say you'd practice free throws before we finish changing?" Joshua calls as he nears the two of you, the rest of the team right behind him. Mingyu looks at them and takes a step away from you, naturally falling into pace with them and excusing how it's not his fault he couldn't even get on the court yet. You think you see him glance at you one more time before giving the boys his full attention but you're honestly not sure. It could be just your head playing tricks on you.

"Cheer loudly for us, okay?" Jake smiles at you as he passes you and you give him and encouraging nod, wishing them all good luck. The hallway gets empty again and you get back to why you found yourself here in the first place. You need to find good seats.

You sit right above their bench, second line. Most of the first line is already filled and you honestly don't want to be sitting between men your dad's age who have been eyeing you ever since you started wandering around the seats. So, you decide for a seat still close to the players but also comfortable. You'll just have to hope your luck isn't terrible and you won't find yourself squeezed between someone weird after all.

Your dad finds you with his eyes as soon as he orders for Seungcheol to lead the stretching, offering you one of his smiles. You return it, smiling at Seojin, his assistant coach, as well. He's been friends with your dad for as long as you can remember, and it's nice seeing them coach together now. Seojin has always trained the younger kids, teaching them the basics of basketball and how to handle a ball, but ever since the men's team has got a new coach, the entire staff needed an update as well. And from what you know, Seojin has always been on top of your dad's list.

"Is this seat taken?" You look up upon hearing a woman voice, relief washing over you immediately.

"Please, take it." She laughs softly, thanking you as she folds her jacket in her arms and sits down, resting her bag between her legs. She doesn't look much older than you. Twenty four if you had to guess. She is pretty, with her brown hair in a ponytail going down to the middle of her back, matching eyes gazing into yours and an adorable smile. You can imagine how easy it's for her to have guys folding at her feet. Especially if she is into their sports. "Who are you here for?"

"SK Knights," she answers, her eyes trailing the players on the court. "You?"

"Same," you grin, doing the same. "My first away game with them, kinda nervous," you joke and thankfully, she matches your humor, chuckling as she wishes you good luck. "I don't think I've ever seen you on their home games?"

"It's only been a few weeks since I started cheering for them," she explains. "I got interested when I saw them beat my brother's team. He hates them now, obviously."

"Obviously," you nod, unable to hide your smile. It's probably the excitement you feel from knowing you'll be able to talk about the game with someone similar to you and not a fifty year old man staring at your body instead of the game that makes you this giggly. You extend your hand out to her, your name falling off your lips.

"Bora," she shakes your hand with a smile. The two of you watch as Seungcheol controls the free throw drills before she nudges you with her shoulder, bringing your attention back to her. "So which one is it?"

"What do you mean?" You blink up at her.

"Oh come on," a knowing smile spreads on her lips as she eyes you up and down. "Sisters usually aren't that immersed into their brother's games — speaking from experience — so I crossed that option out. And that look in your eyes doesn't look like you're deeply analyzing the forms of the players or anything."

"Oh," you breathe out, glancing back at the court. Have you been looking at Mingyu without noticing? You did watch him and cursed a little under your breathe when he missed the shoot but were you that obvious? You quickly shake your head, getting the thoughts out of your head. There is no reason why you would be looking at him differently, you remind yourself. You have nothing to worry about. "The coach."

"The coach?" She blinks and you can tell she is surprised. "Well, you go girl then," she laughs quietly. "How big of an age gap is that?"

"God no! Not like that!" You interrupt her before her mind can wander further. "He is my dad. That's why I'm here," you finish your thought.

Bora sighs in what you could only classify as relief, "That makes so much more sense."

"And we have thirty years between us so please."

"Some girls are into that," she shrugs. "I couldn't but how am I supposed to know what your range is."

You think about it but don't answer her, your mind only coming up with the five years older player with annoyingly beautiful eyes and perfectly white teeth he shows every time he smiles. That seems like a reasonable difference. The last time your boyfriend was five years older than you it might have not lasted long but who ever said you are one to learn from your mistakes? You'll gladly try again and better if Mingyu lets you.

"Do you have a player you are here for? Or is it just the team in general?"

You watch her eyes flicker to the players, trying to follow her line of sight. But with everyone so close to each other right now, it's hard. "I think it was number twelve that caught my attention at first. But the entire team is great and I genuinely just want to watch a good game."

"Seungkwan?" Your eyes widen, less in a surprise and more in a pure excitement. Just based on what you know about him, you know he'd love her. But then again, who wouldn't? Looking at her, you might fall as well. "You should get his number after the game!" You encourage her. "You can come with me after and I'll introduce you."

"Please," she shakes her head, laughing. "I don't need his number. I'll be happy watching from the side lines and cheering the team on while my brother prays for my and their down fall. And if I were to get anyone's number tonight," she meets your eyes with a soft smile, "It'd be yours."

You shake your head at her as you pull your phone from your pocket, gladly handing it to her. Looking forward to all the games the two of you can watch together from now on, you are happier and happier you decided to join today's game.

The dopamine you feel as soon as the game starts is much bigger than you expected. The starting five is the same as at the last game — Seungcheol as center, Mingyu and Seungkwan as guards, and Jeonghan and Hansol playing forward. It worked last time, and with every inch of your body you hope it does today as well.

They had advantage last time, playing on home land, so if they work it out this time as well it'll mean your dad found the core five. Ever since he started coaching them two months ago, he kept on trying different rotations, trying to learn what worked together and what didn't. You watched him sit over his notes at home late at night sometimes and gave him your two cents when you had something to offer.

You were the one to point out how well Seungkwan plays when he has Hansol on the team with him, how relieved he seems knowing they have a strong defense that allows him to make risky plays. You're glad you did. They seem way more stable now.

You cheer for the team along with the rest of your section, frowning when they lose the ball, and raising your hands in the air when they score a point. It's incredibly loud around you but you don't mind, only focused on the play. Your dad has never been one to argue with referees or yell at his players about what they should do when they are in the zone, and that hasn't changed with the men. It's not your dad's voice that keeps echoing in your ears. But there one — two actually. Seungcheol leads his team on the court, with the help of Mingyu, who isn't scared to call for a ball or suggest a play.

Without having to see his face, you know your dad is proud. You know exactly what kind of look he has because the same one is on your face. There is a weird sense of accomplishment knowing they are doing well.

It's a close match, no one letting the other team get too far ahead. As soon as the gap widens more than they'd like, they pull a new move and turn it around again, leaving the entire audience in chaos. You watch with wide eyes, unable to take your attention off. This has got to be one of the best games you've ever seen. It makes sense why they play in the league now. While you were always a fan thanks to your little crush and one of your closest friends being on the team, it's moments like these that remind you the players aren't just hot but actually talented.

You know Bora feels it too, loud encouragements leaving her lips every time one of the Knights gets the ball. The team work is amazing, their passes perfect and shots clean. You can tell they are in a zone, likely only seeing the ball and the rest of the players on the court.

It's the second quarter that the opponents defense starts to be more aggressive, the referees having to stop the game because of fouls before you can comprehend anything. Luck seems to be on your side through, because every time they foul, it happens to be Mingyu they make contact with. Your smile grows more and more as you watch him take his place at the free throw line, knowing he'll make it without having to look.

If you know anything about him, it's that his cleanest shots are from the free throw line. You've never seen him miss in a game, but it's not only that. You know his stats. 98% success rate in free throws is fucking amazing. Based on the look on the opponent's faces as they take their positions, you know they realize it too.

He isn't missing.

Your section grows quiet as Mingyu dribbles the ball beside his leg briefly, getting the right grip of the ball before holding it in both hands. The ball leaves his fingertips and your eyes follow it eagerly, the loudest cheers leaving your lips when it goes straight in. Glancing at the score board, you high five with Bora when you see the 43:33. They made it to the ten point gap.

You seriously couldn't be prouder.

It's Riki's eyes you find first when the halftime begins. Jake joins him right after, both of them yelling at you how they hope you know they'd play way better if they were on the court before your dad dismisses them. You laugh, watching them get scolded over not knowing when to stop. It's all playful, they know it too, but it still must look heavy to everyone who doesn't know your dad personally. Thankfully, a lot of the people in your section have left when the second quarter ended to go to the toilet or buy drinks.

"You guys seem to be close," Bora nudges your shoulder and you roll your eyes with a scoff. Encouraging her to stand up, you both walk to the railing at the front, leaning forward and looking down at the players.

"We are close in age, it was natural," you explain, smiling at the two youngest

"If it isn't our two biggest fans," Seungcheol comes into view, offering you both a smile. "I'm pretty sure I could only hear your voices throughout the game." You doubt that's true but with the confident grin on his face, he could make you believe a lot. He looks around at his teammates to add to his words before he opens his mouth again, "Shouldn't we know the name of our biggest fan?"

Exactly what you expected. You shake your head at him as Bora introduces herself, praising their game play in the first half. You take the opportunity and scan the court with your eyes until you find what you've been looking at. You meet Mingyu's eyes briefly, smiling at him. A smile appears on his lips in return and it's impossible how weak your heart suddenly feels. Jesus. You need to get a grip.

His eyes don't stay on you for long though, the warm feeling in your chest leaving as soon as it came when he focuses his attention on Heeseung and calls him over so he'd practice passes with him. You're used to this, though. It'd be weirder if he kept his focus on you. You tear your eyes off him when Bora asks you if you want her to get you a drink and shake your head, joining her conversation with Seungcheol and Joshua.

Your eyes trail to number 17 every now and then, but you don't meet his eyes again until the very end of the halftime when you tell them all good luck.

You say your goodbye to Bora at the entrance after the happy win, your grin growing wider when you see her talking with Seungkwan before leaving, praising his game all over again. He seems frustrated, and you just know he'll be thinking about the interaction for a while. When he asks her if she'll be in the stands tomorrow as well, it only confirms everything.

"Let's go, we need to settle in," your dad calls for everyone to gather and they listen. The cars fill shortly after, Jake joining you this time so Riki won't be alone anymore. It's not like he was since you were in the car as well, but honestly, you enjoyed the tension between him and your dad too much to actually provide him some of the support Jake will by sitting in the back with him.

This time, your car leaves first. "We need to rearrange the rooms when we arrive," your dad reminds you and both of the guys peer up from their phones.

"Why?"

"I was booking for twelve, not thirteen. And I know since Seokmin ended up not coming today there is an empty bed, but it'd be uncomfortable having our only girl room with three men."

"Dad, I'm fine—"

You don't get to finish your sentence as he interrupts you. "It's uncomfortable for me."

You chuckle, shaking your head. "I'm okay sharing the room with the guys. We are all adults and I know them."

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about the most. We should switch our room with yours so she can room with me and Seojin," he suggests, glancing at Jake in the back through the rear view mirror. "Heeseung can go instead of Seokmin and the two of you will take our room."

"No," you stop him immediately. "Dad, I'm not sharing a room with you and Seojin. That'd be uncomfortable for me. Let me room with the guys instead. It's fine."

He hesitates and you can see all kinds of thoughts running through his head as he stares at the road ahead. "Okay," he finally sighs. First win of the night for you. "You can take my room with one of the guys, but I'm not having you stay in a room with three of them."

"Yes, sir," you laugh.

"Shall we room together?" Jake leans forward, holding onto the seat in front of him. You glance back at him, nodding without a second thought.

"Sounds good."

"Wait, does that mean Heeseung and I will be in the room alone or what?" Riki leans forward as well and your dad's grin widens. Oh good god.

"No. Heeseung will sleep in the four people room like I said. The room switch also still stands. Just this time, you'll be the one in the room with us and not my daughter."

You watch as Riki's face gets pale, holding back a laughter. You can practically see the curse on his lips, needing to look away to hold it in. Things may not be working out for Riki, but this is one of the funniest trips you've ever had.

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

Despite your dad's stare, Jake helps you carry your bag up to your room. You immediately jump on the closest bed, your arms and legs stretched out. "You wanted to room with me because you knew the room for coach staff would be the biggest one, didn't you?" You prompt yourself up to look at him and he laughs, dropping your bag besides your bed.

"Obviously. What did you expect? That I would want to share a room with three stinky men instead of enjoying my free space? Absolutely not."

You laugh as well, nodding. "Valid point."

"I'll go shower first, okay? I need to get all this sweat off me."

"Sure," you nod. "Go ahead."

"This is also what I love about this room," he says as he stretches his hands above his head, going to check out the bathroom. "I can just shower without waiting for everyone else to get it over with because they love to make things by age order."

"I hope you like using me to your advantage," you shake your head with a smile, taking out your phone from your pocket and looking at messages you missed while you were at the game.

"It's the best!" Jake yells before the bathroom door shuts behind him, the sound of the shower being turned on coming shortly after.

Jake has a towel wrapped around his waist when he comes back, apologies leaving his lips as he rushes to his bag to get a set of fresh clothes. You sigh heavily, ignoring his presence and continuing to scroll on your phone. He is gone again in a second anyway. He doesn't close the bathroom door fully this time, though, wanting you to hear him. "The guys have texted about wanting to go out for drinks. Do you want to come with? It'll be fun."

"Everyone's going?" You ask back and he agrees. Thinking about it for a moment, you go through all the possibilities of how tonight could go.

One, you get awfully drunk and embarrass yourself in front of everyone.

Two, you get awfully drunk and give into Seungcheol's joking and flirt back with him, all of it leading to one big, drunk, mistake.

Three, you get awfully drunk and call your ex just to ask him about what him and his friends think of you so you can know what your chances with Mingyu are.

Four, you get awfully drunk and confess your feelings to Mingyu, who will then turn you down and you'll spend the rest of the night heartbroken, not even wanting to come to the game tomorrow. Things will be weird, he'll talk to you even less than before, your dad will see that something is going on, and you'll have to explain to him what happen and feel embarrassed all over again.

Yeah, you don't think you want to drink tonight.

"I'll pass!" You call back at him. "I don't feel like drinking tonight."

He peers from the bathroom, fully dressed now. "Just come and don't drink then? I'd feel weird leaving you here alone while we are out having fun."

You wave him off. "It's okay. I won't stay here. I wanted to go out and explore the city a bit so you don't have to worry about that," you assure him. "You guys go have fun and I'll see you in the morning. Hopefully I won't be cleaning your puke by then."

"I promise you you won't," he laughs. "If you get bored and change your mind, just call me and I'll tell you where we are so you can come hang out, okay?"

"Okay," you nod.

Standing up from your bed, you reach for new clothes in your bag as well, going to steal the shower for yourself now.

You don't hear Jake leaving the room through your playlist, but when you come out again twenty minutes later, he is nowhere to be seen. You look at the time on your phone, deciding to go out as well and have something for dinner when you see the 7:53. It surprises you how fast time passes, but then again, it was a long game, and even longer settling into your hotel rooms.

It's only the end of March but the cold air has already been replaced. You brought a jacket with yourself in case you'd get cold but you don't think you'll be needing it after all. Walking through the quiet streets, you admire the city slowly. You've always loved exploring new places, so tonight is only looking more and more perfect. There is no rush, no one telling you to stop taking pictures of random stuff and just hurry so you can have dinner already, and you love that about it the most. You're glad you decided not to go for drinks with them tonight.

A part of you feels disappointed, the hope you still have for you and Mingyu lingering and telling you to go so you can get to know him more. But a bigger part of you knows you shouldn't. All your worries earlier were right, and you're not sure how you'd behave if the guys got you drunk. Kim Mingyu is hot when you are sober. You don't want to find out what you think of him when you're wasted.

Snapping a picture of a fountain you pass, you hide your phone in your pocket again when your eyes fall to a small restaurant nearby, the atmosphere pulling you in immediately. The only thing better than amazing food is amazing food with a nice vibe.

Jake and Riki both send you videos from the bar as you have your dinner, making you laugh out loud. One of the servers looks at you weirdly but you do your best not paying it any attention, refusing to let this good night be ruined by anything.

You take a different route on your walk back, checking your phone's map every once in a while just to make sure you aren't going in a completely different direction.

It's when you see an outside basketball court that you stop in your track completely, the urge to go and play growing with each second you're looking at it. It's still far so you can't see if anyone is there or not, but you surely hope there is.

It's been a while since you last played. Sure, there were PE lessons in high school and you'd play sometimes then, but it's been almost ten years since you played properly. You don't regret quitting back then, you still believe it was the right decision. Pushing yourself into doing something that was no longer fun would have only made you hate the sport, and you never wanted that to happen. You prefer this more — the feeling of still caring for the sport and wanting to play at times like these.

The sound of dribbles reaches you before you can see anyone. You debate texting Bora if she's free and doesn't want to come meet you so the two of you could play together, but as soon as your eyes land on the only person occupying the court, you rethink it. It would be fun to play with her and get to know her more, but if you're honest, you are more interested in playing and getting to know the person practicing free throws.

"I thought you guys went out for drinks," you say softly, trying not to scare him by suddenly breaking the silence you are sure he's gotten used to. Despite your attempt, you watch as he flinches when your voice reaches him, the ball changing trajectory and missing the hoop. "Sorry."

"No worries," he mumbles, jogging for the ball again. "They did go. I think Seungcheol said the bar was like five minutes from the hotel." You nod, awkwardly standing on the side as he comes back to the free throw line before locking his eyes with yours. "Wanna play?"

Before you can think it through, you are nodding, wanting nothing more. That's why you came here after all — to see if there was anyone you could play with. You surely didn't expect it'd be a league player but he'll have to do this time.

Mingyu watches you as you rest your jacket on a nearby bench before coming to him. He hands you the ball and steps aside so you can shoot as well. You seem nervous but he doesn't point it out, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. He takes the sight of you in as you stand at the line, trying to get into the same position you've seen him take many times during today's game. Your shirt rides up slightly but it's barely noticeable since a bit of your stomach was already revealed. You're wearing an off-shoulder blue shirt — a different style from the red tank top he saw you in at the game — that you tucked into what he assumes is your bra on one side, your jeans hugging your stomach unlike the baggy bottoms.

Your hair is the only thing still same, the brown locks reaching down your back. It's simple, and yet he can't help but think about how much he loves your outfit. Blue suits you.

The ball leaves your hands but doesn't go as you'd like, missing the hoop. You close your eyes shut in defeat, slowly trailing to pick it up again. "You need more power, Blue. Otherwise it was great."

You look over your shoulder when you pick up the ball, blinking at him confusedly. "Blue?"

"Oh," he breathes out, realizing he let the nickname escape. "That was just—" he hesitates as he takes a place at the free throw line again, extending his hands forward for you to make a pass to him. You do, giving him the ball and slowly coming to his side. "I noticed you wear it a lot, it kind of escaped."

It's you who is breathing out a quiet 'oh' this time, your heart doing weird back flips at the mention of him noticing what you usually wear. It's shocking since you always thought he avoided looking at you as much as he could. "I see."

His eyes find yours again as he takes a step to the left, encouraging you to come closer to him. He dribbles the ball besides him briefly before taking his position, letting you watch him from up close as the ball leaves his fingers again, this time landing in the hoop perfectly. You smile at the sight, unable to hide how you feel as he comes to stand under the hoop, passing you the ball.

You stand with the ball in your hands for a moment, trying to figure out what he's doing. "Come on, Blue. You just saw how it's done. You can do it too if you try. We aren't moving on until you make it in."

You knew you wouldn't need your jacket but now he just confirmed it. There is no way you'll get cold tonight when he makes you feel so hot, your entire body heating up over his words. Come on, Blue. Does he know you are crazy for him? If he did maybe he'd pay more attention to what he says. Playing with you is one thing, but trying to help you like this on top of giving you a nickname? He isn't fair to you at all.

You do your best aligning your arms perfectly, watching the hoop in front of you as the ball leaves your hands. As soon as it does, you know you missed. It felt wrong. Just like you thought, the ball falls short again. Mingyu catches the ball with ease, passing it to you right away. "Are you sure you want to be here all night? I'm not making it in. The hoop is too high."

"You are making it," he shakes his head. "What would your dad say if he saw you whining like this? The hoop is too high? Don't play dumb now." He tilts his head and it's the pretties you've ever seen him. With his dark short hair, a knowing raised brow, a comfortable sweats and a black tank, he is absolutely gorgeous. Maybe your crush on him isn't as little as you've been convincing yourself. You are obsessed. Obsessed with how he watches you right now, how he looks, and how he talks with you.

"I'm not playing dumb," you argue but still listen to him and try to get into position again.

"Then you're not as smart as I always thought you were."

God fucking damn it.

You are in no way Mingyu's strongest soldier, and he just keeps proving you that.

Shooting again, you get a better feeling than before. You miss again, but this time the ball at least hits the hoop. Maybe he is right and you can do this. "What happens when I get it in?" You wonder as he passes you the ball back.

You hold the ball under your arm while he thinks, waiting for his answer. "We move on to a real game. Match for ten points, hm?"

"I'm supposed to try to match a league player?"

"You came here to play, didn't you, Blue?"

You hesitate, averting your eyes from him. "This just seems like an unfair bet for you to jerk your ego," you mumble under your breath, shooting again. This one is terrible and you both know it but he doesn't say anything about it, simply passing you the ball again.

"It gets easier without all the complaining," he points out and you scoff, ignoring him as you try again.

It takes two more bounces off the hoop, but by your third try, the ball makes it in. You cheer loudly when it does, your hands raised in the air in celebration. Mingyu carries a similar proud smile on his face as he picks the ball again and dribbles over to you. "I knew I still got it," you scoff playfully, looking up at him to meet his eyes.

"Of course you did," he shakes his head, the grin never disappearing from his face. "With how great you are, you have no problem playing against me, right?"

A wave of nerves suddenly washes over you, your confidence dropping. You swallow, nodding, "Sure." Your voice comes out a lot quieter than you expected, the uncertainty clear as day.

"I'll give you five points to start, that's fair, isn't it?"

"Eight," you argue immediately and he raises his eyebrow.

"You need eight points difference to beat me?"

"If I need to beat you then I want to start with ten points right away otherwise I have no chance, but if playing for more than five seconds is what we want then eight points will do."

"You'll get seven. I can't underestimate you so much, what if I'd lose?"

"Then I'd need to tell my dad to reconsider your position on the team."

The atmosphere is easy, much more comfortable than you through the two of you would ever able to be. He steps behind the three point line, dribbling the ball around his leg while you watch him, trying your hardest to focus on the ball and not his face. Chasing after him, you do your best guarding the almost head taller man. It doesn't work, obviously, but both of you laugh at your attempts and that makes you feel a lot better than stopping him would.

He easily makes a point in and you rush in to get the ball. He lets you dribble to the three point line without guarding you, slowly walking to you only once you cross it to make your way towards the basket. As soon as he reaches you, you know you don't stand a chance. You knew he was big, but standing against him now, as he guards you so you don't get to the basket, he is fucking huge. Not only does he hover over you, you also feel like you suddenly grew smaller when he outstretches his hands, easily blocking both sides. You dribble back again, cursing quietly as you try to figure out a way around him.

The only possibility you see is trying to shoot from the three point line, but there is no way you're making that in. With how long it took for you to get the free throw in, a three pointer will seriously take all night — if you'd even manage to get it in then.

Is this how he wins his games? By intimidating his opponents until they run away and settle for the last possible option just to lose the ball? Fucker. An incredibly tall and handsome fucker. You never want to stand on the opposite side of the court against him again.

You try to run around him but he blocks you again, this time stealing the ball from you. He runs behind the line with ease, making his way past you even easier before dunking the ball in, scoring another point for himself. "I don't want to do this," you groan. He chuckles, passing you the ball as a small pay back. But it's no use when you won't be able to shoot anyway.

"Just try, hm? What's the worst that happens?"

"I embarrass myself in front of you," you mutter, not meeting his eyes as you try as he said, dribbling around him.

"In front of me? Who cares what I think," he shakes his head. "Just have fun, Blue. Play around, miss the shots or make them in, lose or win — it doesn't matter." He doesn't stand in your way this time, his eyes following you as you dribble to the basket before shooting your shot once you are close enough to confidently make it in. The shot is clean, the ball falling through the hoop perfectly. "What matters is that you keep that smile on your face and don't worry yourself with anything."

It's easy for him, isn't it? You want to argue that you can't possibly stop worrying about what he'll think of you but you stop yourself in time, realizing just how wrongly that conversation would go. Your best shot today is to just listen to his words and try to enjoy this as much as possible. Even if you do lose at the end.

You never went into this considering you'd win so it should be fine. You can have fun with Mingyu without worrying yourself with anything.

Once you let go, you feel a lot better. Laugh fills your ears — both your own and his — accompanied with the sound of the ball hitting the hoop and bouncing off. You stopped playing for points a long time ago, Mingyu easily scoring ten more points before you could get another one in. But because Kim Mingyu can't be anything if not perfect, he encourages you to keep trying, cheering you on as you keep trying to get around him to shoot. Eventually, you give up on trying to be perfect and just shoot from your spot. The ball won't make it and you know it, but he seems to believe in you a lot more as he turns around to watch the ball go.

Taking your chance, you run past him and catch the ball as it falls short, shooting again once you have the right grip. It's only then that he realizes what you did, rushing to you to stop the ball from going in. But he is too late, and the ball falls into the hoop before he can catch it.

"Yes!!" You yell loudly. "Did you see that?? I figured it out! I outplayed you for real!"

He laughs as he turns to face you, nodding. "I saw that," he assures you. "You did great, Blue."

Your cheeks heat up as soon as your eyes lock with his, his words making your heart do spins for the nth time today. It's incredible how he makes you feel, and how much more you want him to talk to you. He's always been attractive, but now, when you know you enjoy spending time with him as well, you are just so much more interested. It's been a while since you felt like this, and even then your feelings weren't as strong as they are now.

"Let's take a break," he suggests, motioning to the bench you laid your jacket on before. "I've got water in my bag, you should hydrate yourself." You nod, unable to argue as you follow him to the bench. Taking a seat on the edge, you watch him reach into his backpack, handing you his water bottle. You take a long sip before handing it back to him, prompting him to do the same.

You lean back in your seat, looking up at the night sky. The stars are much clearer from here than Seoul. Taking a seat besides you, he rests the bottle of water between you in case you want to drink again, following your line of sight.

"How come you didn't go drinking with them?" You wonder out loud.

It stays quiet for a second so you glance his way, finding him looking up at the sky. "Didn't feel like it," he shrugs when he feels your eyes on him. "I wanted to practice more and coach said there was a court nearby, so I found this." You hum back. "Why didn't you? I'm sure they asked you to join."

"Yeah, but I didn't want to get drunk in front of them," you explain. "Jake kept texting me to come join them after all but it didn't feel right." It didn't feel right to get drunk and confess my feelings to you, but you don't finish that sentence. After all, not going ended up being the better option. When else would you get a chance to play basketball with him?

"Jake is nice," he hums.

"Yeah," you agree, trying not to sound too confused. "He is great."

"How long have you been together?" Mingyu wonders next and you almost choke on your saliva.

"What??" His eyes shoot to you when he hears you coughing, quickly patting your back in an attempt to help. "We aren't together," you correct him as soon as you can breathe properly again. "We are friends. Just friends."

"Oh?" He blinks, a little confused. "I thought you guys— never mind."

"You thought we what? Does it look like we are together? God, do people seriously think that?" You groan and his lips curve up at your panic.

"No," he shakes his head. "I guess it was just me who thought so," a soft, almost disbelieving, chuckle leaves his lips. The realization slowly settles in, all the interactions he's seen you have with his teammates — the jokes and conversations — making much more sense now.

A beat of silence passes by as the two of you sit under the moonlight, watching the night sky together. "Can I ask something?" You break the quiet, too nervous to even look at him.

His eyes rest on you though, wondering what you're thinking about. "You just did," he teases, trying to ease the situation when he sees how anxious you seem. It doesn't help at all. You fidget with your fingers, trying to find the right words as your eyes fall down to your lap. Mingyu's eyes follow yours, his brows furrowing when he sees you playing with your nails. "Ask me away, Blue."

You're suddenly rethinking everything you did today; how you look, how you acted, how you played, even how you're sitting right now. Putting yourself out there is your least favorite thing. You usually don't mind having attention on yourself, at least not to the point where it would actually influence your behavior. But as you sit here now, wondering what goes inside Mingyu's head when he looks at you, you feel like throwing up as soon as the words leave your lips. "Why do you never talk to me?"

"What do you mean?" He tilts his head.

You still don't meet his eyes, staring holes into your thighs. "Like— the team talks with me after games or whatever but we barely say hi to each other," you quickly blurt out, unsure if he can even understand you. He sighs and you finally look up. "Is it because of Jungkook?"

"Jungkook?" His frown deepens. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"Is he not—" you stop yourself from finishing the sentence, cursing yourself mentally as you gaze into his confused eyes. Jungkook has nothing to do with it. He never had anything to do with it. You're not sure if that makes you feel better or worse. Why has he been avoiding you like the plague then?

"I didn't mean to avoid you," he assures you, his gaze dropping to your fingers again. You are still playing with them, but it's gotten better now. "To be honest, I didn't even think you noticed we weren't talking."

"I did," you mumble. "I wanted to talk to you."

"You did?" He questions and your cheeks heat up, nervousness washing over you again.

"You are part of the team and others talk to me so I just—" you quickly try to excuse it, hoping he doesn't notice how red your ears are. "I didn't want anything to be awkward between us, so I wanted to get to know you as well."

He chuckles, nodding. "I'm sorry I made you feel like it was ever awkward between us." His eyes soften as he looks at you, all your previous interactions crossing his mind. He understands why you could think he didn't want to talk to you or that he feels indifferent towards you, but that was never his intention. "I never had anything against you — actually I always thought you were pretty damn cool based on how the guys talk about you — but I didn't want to overstep because I thought you were with Jake and it could make him uncomfortable."

"I'm not with Jake," you remind him again.

He laughs, "Yes, I know that now."

"Okay, good. Just remember that."

"I will," he shakes his head in amusement, a smile on his face as he takes the sight of you in again — no longer fidgeting with your fingers and wearing a smile on your face.

He likes you like this much more. You are pretty when you are happy.

By the time you came back to your room last night, it was already midnight. You'd love to blame it all on Mingyu, but you didn't want to leave either. The longer you could spend time with him, the happier you were. The two of you played again — and this time he actually allowed you the advantage of eight points — betting on who'd reach ten points first. You lost, obviously.

You probably should have been sad you lost, but somehow, you were glad. Because losing and having to keep your word that the winner gets a wish, means you'll have to talk to him again. It means you'll have an excuse to talk to him and get to know him further. The fact you need to fulfill his wish is just a minor disadvantage.

The two of you walked back together, chatting about anything and everything that came to mind. You're not sure how much he remembers, but you told him a lot about yourself and he did the same in return, the questions you've always had for him slowly disappearing just for new ones to appear with every answer. You think it's safe to say you're interested him.

You're not sure when Jake came back to the hotel room, but it was long after you were already asleep. Luckily, he didn't throw up or anything, keeping his promise, but he still ended up hung over in the morning, whining your ears off.

"Is there anyone sober?" Your dad complains. "I don't have players to play with if you guys don't do something about yourself right about," he looks at the watch on his hand to add to his point, "now."

"We are all pretty much sobered up," Seungcheol argues. "My head does hurt though."

You laugh quietly as your dad contemplates his choices to be their coach. "Coach, me and Vernon stopped drinking before midnight, we are good to play."

"I also feel good," Riki pipes up.

"Nishimura, you'll see my daughter married before you play on the court," your dad deadpans and your eyes widen, unsure if you should question what he means by that or laugh at your friends misery.

"I didn't drink anything last night, coach," Mingyu joins the conversation and your eyes find him immediately. He stands with his hands in his pockets, dressed in comfortable gray shorts and a black graphic shirt, sunglasses sitting firmly on top of his head. Have you mentioned yet how attractive he is? Because if not, maybe you should get your laptop and start writing a book about it.

"Exactly why you're my favorite player," your dad snaps his fingers, visibly excited. "We can work with this. Okay, whoever can drive will drive, we'll stop at a gas station and everyone will try to sober up as best as they can. Only if I know no one will want to test you for alcohol is when I let you guys on the court."

A loud, "Yes, coach!" is heard from everyone, making you blink in surprise while Seojin besides you looks pleased, expecting nothing less from their team. When you see the look in his eyes, your eyes soften, a small smile tugging at your lips.

You settle yourself in the passenger seat of your dad's car, Jake and Riki right behind you again. You watch as Mingyu gets into his car, Seungcheol right behind him. Seojin drives Seungcheol's car this time, taking in Jeonghan and Heeseung, while Seungkwan drives Joshua and Hansol in Joshua's car. Every part of you wants to switch with Seungcheol and sit besides Mingyu, watch him drive and talk with him the entire ride, but there's no way you'd be able to do that with your dad around.

Fastening your seatbelt with a heavy sigh, you bring the attention of all three to yourself. Quickly shaking your head when you notice them, you brush them off, claiming you just sighed because you feel tired. As soon as your dad hums and focuses on the road again, you send Dae a quick text about how you'll need to talk with her about Mingyu when you come back before switching chats to the one with Bora you started last night, asking her to wait for you in front of the stadium when she arrives.

Jumping out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop, you join the guys, planning to buy yourself coffee and your dad a soda per his request. You swear it's not on purpose, that you have nothing to do with it, but as you walk you find yourself by Mingyu's side, the two of you trailing together at the very back.

"Hi," you smile up at him. His smile is gentle as he greets you back, his chocolate eyes finding yours with ease. You love his eyes. "Did you sleep well?"

"Surprisingly fell asleep shortly after showering," he nods. "The guys were a mess when they came back, though. Shua and Hee were singing for the entire floor to hear before Hansol and I shut the up." You chuckle at the imagine in your head. You'd love to see that as well. "It was little after three when they got back but they fell asleep as soon as their faces hit the bed so it wasn't too bad."

"How are they even functioning right now?" you ask, more curiously than judging them. Even though, considering the situation, you do hate it on behalf of your dad. Despite them winning the yesterday's game, they still need to do their best today, which is not something that can happen with half of his players under the influence. If anyone finds out, they could be in serious trouble.

"They are used to it," he shrugs. "Not to say they are alcoholics, but it's not the first time celebrations were like this."

"Do you usually no drink with them?"

"Oh no," Mingyu laughs as you enter the store together. "I drink with them way more than not. I just wasn't in the mood last night. And, to be honest, I did not want to risk having alcohol in my system for today's game. I want to be at my best today."

"When are you not at your best?" You mumble, taking a turn to the right immediately to browse the drinks they offer. Mingyu blinks at you curiously, your words repeating in his head. There are a lot of moments he could answer with, but he likes the fact you believe in him so much to think he does no wrong. If anything, it's a great motivation.

"Hand it to me," Mingyu encourages when you reach the counter to pay. You look up at him, eyebrows furrow in confusion as you hold the bottle of coke for your dad. You give it to him hesitantly, watching as he hands it to the worker for her to add it to his bill.

Your eyes widen immediately, "Wait, Mingyu, no, I'm buying that."

"It's fine. Did you want anything else?"

"Mingyu," you shake your head. "Stop buying me stuff every time we stop somewhere," you try your best to sound convincing, but by the lazy scoff that leaves his lips, you don't think you managed anything. "Can you please take it off? I'll pay for it myself. And I'll also get a latte please."

"Add the coffee as well. How much is the total?" Mingyu smiles innocently at the girl behind the counter. He really is no good for you. While you want to keep arguing with him, fight him that there is no reason for him to buy you drinks, the tingly feeling in your chest when he does stops you.

"Mingyu," you try once more.

His gaze drops to you, his smile widening. "Yes, Blue? Just accept the offer when I'm making it, okay? You can buy next time." You both know next time will look the same, that he'll fight you for paying again, but neither of you say anything about it. You sigh in defeat, nodding when the cashier asks you if she should ring him up with your drinks on as well.

"I think you misunderstood the terms of our bet," you mumble as you walk outside again, sipping on your coffee. "Since you won, I'm supposed to fulfill your wish. Not the other way around. There is no reason for you to be doing this."

Mingyu shrugs, not a single care in the world. "I know what we bet on. Trust me, I'll use my wish well when I figure out what I want. But for now, I'm simply bribing my coach by buying him and his daughter a drink."

"So this is what it's about?" You fake gasps and he nods, biting back a smile. "What would happen if he found out you're using me like this? Your good boy image would fall off."

"I don't need a good boy image when I am in fact a good boy," he sends you a wink that makes you feel like your heart will jump out of your chest before sending you off with a grin on his face, getting back to his car.

Kim Mingyu is so terrible for your health.

He is also, apparently, a good boy.

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

Your eyes land on Bora's figure as soon as you step out of the car. You're not the only one looking at her, though. Watching as Seungkwan takes the sight of your friend in with a smile on his face, you have to smile too. They might not know what awaits them in the future, but you can already seem them getting together and being happy. Seungkwan deserves this, and you root for him with everything you have.

"We'll go in first," you wave at your dad, locking arms with the brown haired girl waiting for you. "Let's pick good seats."

"Let's go," Bora nods eagerly.

You tell her about the guys' celebration yesterday and how your dad was pretty annoyed in the morning, not knowing who to send on the court without risking a penalty for a player under the influence. You leave out the fact Mingyu was the only one not drinking because he was with you, shrugging and saying that he probably just didn't feel like drinking when she asks. There is a somehow proud smile on her lips when you tell her that Seungkwan is one of the players ready to play today, making you roll your eyes. She's super obvious.

A part of you wonders if you look the same when you think or hear about Mingyu. If you wear a similarly adorable smile without even realizing. While you have a feeling you do, you hope it's not like this in your case. Because if it is, everyone probably knows what goes on in your head, and that's not something you want.

You find seats in first row this time. It's not that huge of a change from yesterday's game, but it still feels like you are a lot closer to the players. Your dad and his assistant coach are the first ones to appear on the court, quickly finding your seats before settling at their own bench.

"I saw this video last night, I wanted to show it to you, wait," Bora says as she opens her phone quickly, easily getting your full attention again. There is forty minutes until the official start of the match, and you spend the entire time talking with her, barely noticing other people come in and occupy the seats around you. You talk about things you have in common, what interests you, and she also tells you about her family and how she's been into the sport her whole life thanks to her brother. Explaining how you grew up around basketball thanks to your family as well, you bond over your experience all over again. You're convinced you'll keep this girl in your life as long as you can, and you just hope she feels the same about you.

The starting five is different this time, just like you assumed when you saw how Seungcheol was doing. You've seen worse before, but with how tired he seems and how he's been complaining about his head hurting, it makes sense for your dad to swap him out. What you didn't expect was for Jeonghan to be sitting this time as well. He looked fine to you, but who knows what your dad was thinking.

Mingyu, Seungkwan, Hansol, Heeseung and Jake all come onto the court along with five players from the opponent's team, Mingyu taking his place in the middle circle instantly, getting ready for the jump ball. With his tall figure, it's only natural for him to be doing it. Despite other players often being around his height as well, his jump ability gives him the needed advantage. You watch him from your seat, looking forward to the play he shows today.

Waiting for the referee to take position as well, Mingyu takes his time scanning the crowd. He looks at all of their fans, noticing the red color in the audience a lot more than the opponent's green. You matched color to his team today as well. Your jeans are black, the same ones you wore to the game last night, and your shirt red. It's not a bad look, the opposite actually, but it's not blue.

"On three." Mingyu snaps out of it, his eyes immediately flickering to the referee besides him. Nodding, he gets ready, briefly looking at his opponent before focusing his attention on the ball. He doesn't hear the count anymore, only jumping once he sees the ball being tossed in the air. His opponent is shorter than him this time but it doesn't stop him from jumping as high as he can, stealing the ball into his side. He hears your cheers from the side but he doesn't have the time to look, instantly running forward so they can score the first basket.

Becoming friends with a guy you've liked for around a year is not for the weak. It seems like the dumbest thing ever when you think about it, but that doesn't change the fact your heart skips a beat at any and every mention of him.

It was a follow at first. Once you told Dae about your weekend and how you played basketball with him late at night, she immediately encouraged you into messaging him, claiming you should strike the pot while it's still hot. You didn't have the nerve to text him yet, but you sent him a follow, one he returned in the span of a minute. Deep down you know it doesn't mean anything, but at the moment, when the following turned into friends, you couldn't be more excited.

You exchanged simple likes after, a smile on your face every time you'd watch the stories he'd post. It's mostly pics from the trainings or his friends, but a picture of him in the gym occasionally pops up and you're down bad for him again. Even with his forehead full of sweat and tired eyes, he is just as attractive as ever.

Mingyu can't give you a moment to rest, though. So as soon as you started getting used to his notification popping out every time you'd post something — because he apparently is the nicest person on earth and likes everything he sees — he found a new way to get you jumping up from your seat. After posting a picture of you and one of the little girls you met at your internship, holding the drawing she made for you, he popped into your messages for the first time, asking about it.

You spent the next two hours on the phone with him, talking about your internship and all the kids you've got to teach so far, as well as some other things you've manage to learn thanks to your classes. To your surprise, you don't feel nervous at all talking to him. Maybe it's because of the topic, or how excited you always get when someone asks you about teaching. He is eager with his follow up questions as well, reassuring you he truly cares every time he interrupts you to ask something that caught his attention.

When he interrupted your texting by calling you the first time, you almost didn't pick up at time, but the more you talk to him, the more at ease you feel. If you could pick one thing you like the most about him, it would be how important he makes you feel every time.

You stayed on the phone with him until he made it to the sport hall, hanging up only because he needed to change and start training.

Ever since then, the two of you somehow managed to turn your calls into something normal, usually at least texting a few times during the day if you weren't calling later. If someone told you just a month ago that you'd be talking to Mingyu on the daily, you wouldn't believe them. It's something you once dreamed of, so having it now still feels out of this world.

Smiling as you send him a quick message, laughing at the picture he sent of his spilled coffee. Turns out, Mingyu is the clumsiest person you know, stuff like these happening to him on the daily. From spilling drinks, to breaking stuff or bumping into things. You're honestly surprised he is still alive at this point.

He sends you a pouty selfie right after seeing your laughing emoji, your grin only widening. "That's a boy!" Your eyes widen and you immediately turn your phone off, turning around to see Jiho, one of the loudest kids you look after.

"A boy?" Jia peers up instantly, blinking at you curiously. She's adorable, every part of you wanting to tell her all about the boy in your phone when you meet her big brown eyes.

"A boy," you nod. "Just like Jiho is a boy, and like Sunghoon is a boy."

"No!" Jiho argues quickly. "That was a grown boy! Like my dad!" You know he probably doesn't mean it that way, but thinking about how he just compared his dad, who is in his late thirties, to your Mingyu, makes you laugh.

Your Mingyu. You like thinking about him that way.

Before you can blink, a small group of kids surrounds you, all of them looking at you as if you just introduced them something foreign. Awkwardly smiling at them, you search for your supervisor, begging her with your eyes to come and help you out. She just smiles at you from across the room, leaning against the wall in amusement. Taking a deep breath, you prepare yourself for the wave of questions about to come.

"Was that your husband?"

"I don't have a husband," you shake your head quickly, raising your left hand to show off that it's empty. "See this finger? What do we call this finger?"

"The ring finger!" Jooyoung yells immediately.

"Exactly!" You grin happily, proud of her for getting it right. "And since there isn't a ring on this finger, it means I don't have a husband."

"Then it's a boyfriend, right? My sister says she needs a boyfriend all the time!"

"The boy Jiho saw isn't my boyfriend either," you answer her question, trying not to get swayed by the idea. "He is a friend of mine. He is nice to me, which is why I like him so much and talk to him. You guys remember how we talked about friendships last week, right?"

Everyone around nods and you do as well. "Great. Can anyone tell me what a friendship is?"

"When two people share their toys together!"

"When we play together!"

"When we are nice to each other!"

"Yes, yes, precisely," you agree. "So how about you all gather your friends, and go play with them?" It works better than you expected. All the kids glance at each other before running off with a laugh, making you breathe out in relief. You're glad you managed to get out of it so easily.

"That was great," your supervisor, Mrs. Choi, says as she joins your side. Looking up at her from your chair, you offer her a brief smile as well. "You took care of it well."

"I'm sorry for being on my phone while working," you lower your head again with an apology. Truth is though, you don't regret it. You never regret texting Mingyu and learning what he's doing.

"At least say it like you mean it," she scoffs playfully, pulling out a chair besides you and sitting down. "It's okay if you answer some texts when you're not busy, just please don't let it distract you to the point you aren't paying attention to the children."

"I won't," you promise instantly. "It could have waited and that was my fault."

She shakes her head, brushing you off. "Back when I was your age, I also couldn't wait to answer the phone when a boy I liked texted me. And look at me now, I'm still doing the job and I married him," she points to her ring finger. "So believe me when I say I'm okay with you being on your phone from time to time."

"It's not like that," you try to argue, but by the knowing smile she wears you don't think she believes you. To be fair, you don't believe yourself either. Talking to him every day, constantly texting and laughing at things together, it's impossible not to hope for something more. It's incredibly easy to love Kim Mingyu.

"Darling, eyes are the one and only thing that doesn't lie."

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

"Blue."

You're fully convinced you'd recognize his voice anywhere. Looking up, your eyes widen when they meet the chocolate ones you fall in love with every day more and more. "Mingyu?" You blink confusedly, standing up and dusting your jeans off. Glancing at the kids — who are watching you curiously instead of focusing on their drawings — you debate what the right move here is. "What are you doing here?"

"That's him!" You hear Jiho exclaim, quickly grabbing Mingyu's sleeve and pulling him with your outside.

"Woah, woah, ask me out to a dinner first," he laughs but still follows you voluntarily. You don't answer him, not stopping until you are far away from everyone.

"What are you doing here?" You repeat your question, slowly letting go of him.

His eyes briefly fall to the piece of fabric you were holding until now, a move you notice and only makes you more confused. "I texted you but I don't think you saw my messages," he meets your eyes again, an easy going smile on his face as he fixes the gym back hanging on his shoulder.

Pulling out your phone from your pocket, you scan the new messages truly waiting for you. He asked when you finish and if you want to go home together, as well as sending you updates on his position so you know when to expect him. "Shoot," you mutter, apology written all across your face as you look up. He simply shakes his head, assuring you it's okay. "I'm sorry I didn't answer and you walked all the way here for nothing," you frown. "I have another hour left until I can leave."

"I can wait," he shrugs. "I don't mind."

"But—"

Mrs. Choi calling your name interrupts you and you peek over Mingyu's side to see her, quickly apologizing to her for rushing out like that. "It's okay," she shakes her head, a calming sign you saw from Mingyu just seconds ago. "Who may this gentleman be?"

"Kim Mingyu," he introduces himself with a grin, extending his hand forward for her to shake. She gladly does, the knowing smile of hers making you close your eyes in regret. "I'm sorry for interrupting like this. I thought I'd come by and walk her home."

"Oh, please, come inside," she encourages him and your eyes widen. Inside? You can't leave right now, she knows that as well. The kindergarten is opened until three and you just promised the kids you'll draw with them. "I can make you a cup of coffee and you can wait comfortably there. No need to wait outside."

"Mrs. Choi—"

She completely ignores you, nudging Mingyu in while talking about how grateful she is to have you here and is glad you won't have to go home alone. You sigh, watching their backs as they disappear in the door. This could go terrible. You do feel bad about keeping him waiting for you, but you also can't stop thinking about the fact he decided to come here and pick you up, not even batting an eye when he found out he has to wait an hour if he wants to go with you.

With your cheeks flushed and heart beating out of your chest, you quickly fix your hair before following the two of them back inside.

Mingyu is crouching down at the same spot you were when he showed up, a smile on his face and a pencil in hand as he helps Jooyoung draw on her paper. It's not the first time your body has reacted to Mingyu, but it certainly is the first time your ovaries are dancing this much, all because he is doing the same thing you love the most — teaching.

Good God.

"What are you guys doing?" You ask softly, your eyes flickering between the drawing and Mingyu as you gently pat Jooyoung's hair, your other hand resting on Gyu's back instinctively.

"This kind sir is helping me draw a flower," she explains and you laugh when his shoulder's tense at the name.

"Call me Mingyu, hm?" He smiles at her before shooting you a look for laughing at him.

"Mingyu sir," Sujin besides her smiles.

A snicker escapes your lips and you quickly hide your face behind your palms. "Looks like you are getting old, Mingyu sir," you tease, unable to stop laughing.

"Oh yeah?" He taunts, dropping the pencil in his hand on the table and pushing himself up, instantly towering over you. "I'm getting old? Aren't you little daring, miss?" He leans down, his face only inches from yours. It's hot. Is it only you who feels hot right now? Swallowing, you open your mouth in an attempt to answer, but no words leave your lips.

"Ew! Mrs. Choi, they are about to kiss!"

You've never taken a step back as fast as now, forcing more space between you when you hear the complain. You were not just about to kiss him. Definitely not. Just like you definitely aren't staring at his lips, and how it definitely isn't distracting you to the point you don't know where you're putting your foot. Your eyes widen as you step on something, losing your balance.

Fortunately, you don't hit the ground like you expect to. A strong arm wraps around your waist, catching you just in time. He looks panicked, his cheeks flushed and eyes wide as he stops you from falling. Exhaling in relief, he helps you stand on both of your feet again, ignoring all the groans and complains coming from the kids. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe out, trying to blink out of the shock and look anywhere but at him. "Thank you."

"I got you," he smiles again, slowly letting his hand fall back to his side.

You clear your throat, clasping your hands together as you look around the room, refusing to meet eyes with your supervisor, knowing exactly how she's looking at you right now. "Alright, guys! Who wants to have Mingyu give them a piggyback ride around the room?"

Mingyu stares ahead confusedly, wondering if he's heard you right. But when he looks at you and sees the smile on your face as you encourage the first kid to come forward, he can't complain about anything.

It's probably the most you've laughed in a while. Watching Mingyu get dragged around the room, all of the kids wanting to play with him, has you absolutely head over heels. It's adorable, he's adorable. Grinning at you every chance he gets, seemingly proud of how well he is doing, you fall for him again. You're sure a lot of the kids feel the same, refusing to let go of him even when their parents come pick them up. They only let go once he promises to play with them even more next time, and while deep down you know there won't be a next time, his words manage to spark hope in you as well.

"Thank you so much for today," Mrs. Choi smiles at Mingyu warmly, handing him back his sports bag. "The kids really loved spending time with you."

"I'm glad to not have been a burden," he smiles before glancing at you. "It was nice learning what it's like to take care of a group of children like this."

"Hopefully it's not the last time we are seeing you here."

"I hope so too," he nods and you bite back your smile, trying not to show how excited that makes you. "Let's get you home?" He tilts his head and you nod, unable to meet his eyes as you grab the rest of your stuff and say your goodbyes to Mrs. Choi, following him out.

You walk side by side, your hands sometimes brushing each other on the way. Neither of you pulls away though. You try to convince yourself it doesn't mean anything and that he probably doesn't even notice the electricity his touch sends through your body, but it's hard to believe it's all just coincidence. He has to feel something too, right? You don't want to get your hopes up, that's the last thing you'd want, but why would he be doing all this if it was only meant to lead you on?

"You really didn't have to wait for me," you mumble, your voice barely loud enough for him to hear. "I could have just called you once I was done or something. You didn't have to walk me."

"I wanted to," he states casually. "It doesn't bother me at all, Blue," he assures you when he sees the look in your eyes. "I wanted to walk with you so I did what I could to walk with you. Don't even think for a second that you are bothering me or anything like that."

He shuts you up immediately, your lips forming a straight line as you look down at the ground beneath your feet. How does he manage to mess with your head so easily? "You're too good to me," you whisper.

Shaking his head, he allows himself to lace his fingers with yours, careful not to freak you out. Your head shoots up immediately, your eyes finding his in surprise. "If there is anyone too good for someone, it's you, Blue." His eyes drop to your tangled fingers and you do the same. He's holding two of them, his large hands covering them fully. "Who else would sit on a call for hours with me and listen to my ramblings?"

You could name girls. You are certain if he wanted to, he could have any girl he wants doing the same. Loving Mingyu is easy for you, so why wouldn't it be for other girls? "Have I ever told you you confuse the hell out of me?" You slowly lift your eyes again, your expression a mix of happiness and fear. You watch something flicker in his eyes, something you can't name at the moment. It makes him drop your hand, though, and that's all you need to know.

Clearing his throat, he averts his eyes from you, "Let's go. I'm sure you have things you need to do instead of just standing here with me."

A part of you wants to argue with him and tell him that you don't care what you are doing as long as you are with him, but then you remember the look in his eyes and decide not to, nodding instead. "Yeah, let's go," you agree, not waiting for him to lead this time and simply stepping forward. It takes him a second to pull himself again but he catches up to you, doing his best to stay calm in the bothersome silence that embraces you afterward.

The walk isn't exactly awkward, but it doesn't feel nice either. You both feel it. While you gently kick the rocks under you, coming in terms with the answer you just got, Mingyu eats himself alive for his earlier reaction. It was far from what he wanted to do, but he can't figure out how to tell you what goes in his head. For now, he'll just have to hope you don't hate him too much after this.

Despite the way your last real interaction with Mingyu went, nothing much has changed. As soon as you closed the door behind you, finally able to breathe alone, you were convinced that was the end of what you managed to build together in the past weeks. You hated the idea of it, of not spending hours on the phone with him anymore and hearing his voice through out the day, or not being able to text him when something would happen, having to deal with it on your own.

But he never stopped interacting with you like before, constantly texting you and calling you at night to talk about your day. It almost made you feel like he didn't reject you back then.

Almost.

But truth is the memory crosses your mind every time the call gets quiet enough, every time you aren't busy focusing on something and your mind gets a moment to think. You still see his eyes clearly, the fear of what your words mean and the instant pull back when he processed it.

At times, you feel like you are losing your mind thinking about all the moments you thought meant something. They didn't, you need to remind yourself. Mingyu is the nicest guy you know, and even though you don't want to blame him, it's because of that that you're left feeling like this. Maybe if he wasn't so nice, if he wasn't so good for you, it wouldn't hurt this much to admit to yourself it isn't happening.

"You need to stop drowning in that pain," Dae's voice makes you snap out of your thoughts. You turn to face her, forcing a smile on and shaking your head gently. "He wasn't all that anyway," she waves her hand, trying to cheer you up. "If you ask me, Seungcheol — who has been flirting with you this whole time mind you — is much better."

You chuckle, your eyes following hers and locking on the very man you are talking about, his jersey sitting on top of a white shirt that hugs his biceps perfectly as he dribbles across the court before passing it to someone you can't see from your place. "It's all jokingly," you remind her. "You should know that the best, hasn't he been flirting with you? Like, actually flirting."

Her cheeks catch the color red and you already know the answer. "That's jokingly as well," she tries to brush you off. Raising an eyebrow at her, you eye her up and down. "Come on, you know him better than I do. Shouldn't you know he flirts with everyone? I don't need that."

"I do know that," you shrug. "But I still think he flirts a tiny bit more with you. Who knows, maybe if you gave him a shot, the two of you could have something great."

"Sure," she rolls her eyes at you. "Just like—" she stops herself before finishing the sentence, swallowing the rest of her words.

"Just like what?"

"Nothing," she blurts out quickly.

Narrowing your eyes at her suspiciously, you try to see through her. "Were you just going to mention my failed….whatever with Mingyu?"

"No!" She argues.

"You were!"

"I wasn't!" She raises her hands in the air, shaking her head so hard you think it'll cramp soon. "I was just, you know, talking faster than I think. I don't know what I was going to say."

"Sure," you sigh. It's okay if she was going to mention it. She'd only be voicing what you've been thinking anyway.

"Do you want to watch the game? It doesn't look like anyone will come anytime soon so let's just step out for a moment," she suggests, wanting to make you feel better. You hum, standing up from your place and following her out of the stand, settling at the entrance. You see the entire court now instead of just half of it, your eyes quickly scanning the score board before dropping to the players.

They are doing amazing as always. The score is sitting at 64:61, but you have no doubt they'll win. They are your favorite team after all. No matter what happened or still awaits you, your cheers for them won't change. You've been their fan all throughout last year while crushing on Mingyu as well, so why wouldn't you be now?

You watch the exact moment Hansol and Seungkwan get into it, running faster than before and getting past all the blockers with ease. Passing the ball around until they make it under the opponent's basket, it's all perfect. Cheering loudly, you watch as Seungkwan jumps in the air, the ball leaving his fingertips precisely. The ball makes it into the hoop, the score board switching to 66:61 in a second.

It's time to go into defense, but thankfully the guys don't lack there either. Hansol gets to work again instantly, doing his best not to let them get past him. Getting in the player's way, he blocks him until he steps out of the line, the referee's whistle ringing in your ears immediately.

There aren't many referee signs you remember, but the ball going out of the bounds is one of them. He points towards the sideline that was crossed, pointing out the violation of rule eight. Your dad tried to teach you these signs before, but all you ended up remembering was this one and the one for a player taking steps without dribbling. It wasn't like you necessary needed to know them when you were still playing.

Just like that, the ball goes to the Knights again, allowing them the opportunity to make another great play.

Dae besides you cheers when Seungcheol gets the ball, yelling tactics at his team. They are making Mingyu score. You've seen your dad planning enough to know what his words mean. So while the opponents might be confused on what their next move is, you know exactly who the ball is going to.

Seungcheol makes a low pass to Mingyu, who jumps without any hesitance, aiming at the basket before shooting the ball out of his hands, landing on the three point line again. You watch as the ball spins on the hoop, knowing exactly how to make the entire crowd tense. The whole court is silent as they wait if the ball makes it in or bounces off, until a loud cheer erupts in your ears again as the Knights gain three more points.

You watch Mingyu jog to the other side of the court quickly, getting ready to defend. His eyes find you briefly, but you quickly break eye contact, turning around on your heel and excusing yourself so you can go to the toilet. Dae doesn't question you at all, her eyes still glued to the game as you leave to the back.

Despite your heart aching when you look at him, you are still his biggest fan. You think you'll be for a while. Unless he plans to break your heart entirely.

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

Just like you thought they would, the guys won tonight. Celebrations were hard, especially on you with the amount of people needing a drink. But you managed, and an hour after the game finished, you are finally cleaning up.

"What about these?" You ask your dad, holding up the knifes and paper towels left here. There aren't any home games planned for the time being, so there is no need to be leaving your things here.

"Take them to our changing room, there is a box in the back for towels and things like this." Humming, you let him wash the counter as you walk around him, heading straight for the changing rooms. The men's changing room is still where it was when you grew up, remaining the only changing room dedicated to the team. Other teams usually just take whatever room is free when they arrive, including your children teams.

You stop right in front of the door, unable to walk inside when you hear the familiar voice. You don't know if they are changing at the moment or not, but you aren't risking it. Taking a step to the side, you settle besides the door, waiting for the guys to finish before you go put this away.

"Bora is amazing," you hear Seungkwan tell the guys and your lips immediately turn up into a smile. From what you know, they've been talking lately, and you love that they are getting along. The only other pair you need now is Dae and Seungcheol, but that might need a lot more effort than Bora and Kwan did. "She couldn't make it today but I can't wait to see her again next week at the ball."

"Are you two going together?" Seokmin question, the grin on his face obvious in his tone.

"Yeah," Seungkwan answers sheepishly and you cheer internally. You're just as happy to have Bora on the ball as he is. It's something you've been looking forward to for a while.

"What about you?" Jeonghan is asking this time. "Are you coming with Blue or are you both going on your own?"

"Don't call her Blue," Mingyu grumbles immediately. You suddenly feel like you are invading their space. You should go. You should go and act like you never heard anything.

Your feet don't move, though. Despite your head telling you to go, you stay glued in place, unable to leave. "Someone is possessive again," Seungcheol laughs.

"I'm not," Mingyu argues, clearly annoyed. "And she's going with coach, I think. We didn't talk about it."

"Why not?" Seokmin wonders. "You should just ask her to come with you. We all know you'll be together all night anyway. Ever since you started talking to her, you have been unable to be with anyone else."

"You're acting as if you mind," Joshua scoffs. "All his girls are falling at your feet now."

"I know! It's great!"

You should really leave. You aren't supposed to be a part of this conversation. If they knew you are outside the door, they wouldn't be talking like this.

"I don't get why you don't make it official," Jake shakes his head. "It's clear you like her, and we both know she likes you as well, so why are you hesitating so much?"

"Is it because of coach?" Riki adds another question.

"It's not like that," Mingyu finally huffs, the sound of a locker being slammed shut following right after. "We aren't like that. We are friends. That's all there is. We both feel that way, so can you stop saying things like this?" You swallow as you listen to his voice, the last bit of hope you have searching for any sign of him lying as he speaks. "Even if anything you guys think we have going on was true — which it's not — it's not like we'd ever be anything. We have a championship to win. I have a clear goal I need to reach. I can't have anything holding me back. Especially not my coach's daughter."

There goes the last bit of hope you had. It leaves out the window, your eyes closing shut as you take a deep breath. If his answer weeks ago wasn't enough for you, this certainly is. There is nothing between you and Mingyu. Never was and never will be. You are friends at best. Even though you aren't sure if you want that after tonight.

"What are you doing here?" Dae tilts her head confusedly and you finally push yourself forward, quickly walking to her.

"Can you put this inside?" You hand her all the stuff you are holding, only confusing her further. "There should be a box or something in the back. Or maybe the guys know if you ask them." Your eyes flicker all over her, unable to stay focused on one thing for too long. "I'm going back to the stand to check if we got everything and then leave, okay? I'll see you next Saturday at the ball."

"Wait—" She turns after you as you rush off, blinking into the empty space as your back disappears from her sight. You feel sorry for leaving so abruptly, but you need to get home and into your bed. You need to get as far away from Mingyu as you possibly can and do something with yourself so you can act like you didn't just overhear their entire conversation.

"Are you sure you want to be getting ready with me?" You ask again, eyeing Bora from your bed. "Aren't you going with Seungkwan?"

She brushes you off, "I told him we'll meet there. There is no need for us to come together, anyway. And, I want to get ready with you. Do you know how long it's been since I last went out with a girl who wasn't fucking my brother?" You shake your head at her, standing up to help her grab her things. "But if you think fucking my brother might help you stop looking so gloomy all the time, I'm pretty sure he is single at the moment."

"No, thanks," you laugh, hanging her dress on the open door of your room. "But if Seungcheol doesn't dance with Dae the entire night, offer it to her. She'll need it."

"I thought you said she doesn't expect anything out of it?"

"She says she doesn't," you correct. "But I know better than anyone she hopes he asks her out instead of just flirting with her all the time, trust me." Bora sighs, plopping down on your bed. "Don't give me those pitiful eyes," you warn her.

"How can I not? If you didn't want me to hate his guts, you shouldn't have told me what was happening with you and Mingyu. He's an ass!"

"He isn't," you roll your eyes. "I get him, really. It's fine. I never expected anything out of it in the first place."

"Liar," she calls you out. "I saw you when you were telling me about how he makes you feel. Which is even more of a reason for you to be mad at him. You can't just excuse him and act like what he said wasn't terrible. Who does he even think he is?" she huffs and you chuckle, shaking your head.

"Feel free to hate him all you want while I go take a shower, but I hope we aren't still talking about this when I come back so we can start getting ready."

"Yes, ma'am," she salutes, both of you laughing as you leave your bedroom to go to the bathroom at the other side of the hall.

As you stand in front of your mirror, Bora beside you, you feel happy for the first time in the last week. You feel pretty. Your hair falling in soft waves thanks to her help and your brown dress hugging your curves perfectly, you aren't his Blue tonight. You are just you. Your makeup turned out well as well, and you truly couldn't be more excited tonight.

Your cat, Snowy, seems to think the same as he rubs his head against your feet, all loving. You smile as you look at him before checking yourself again, making sure everything is perfect.

While deep down you don't think you look too different from your usual self, Bora certainly does. You are used to her hair being up and her clothes being sporty, so seeing her hair fall down the length of her arms and her body hugged by her purple dress is a blow. You already know Seungkwan will be falling to his knees when he sees her. She is perfect.

"Girls! Let's go!" Your dad calls from downstairs just in time. Bora nudges your side, picking her purse from your desk. You do the same, quickly collecting your phone and wallet before heading with her down. Your dad is already waiting at the door, a smile on his face as he watches you walk the stairs with your friend.

You know organizing this ball with the rest of the staff was hard, so it's nice to see him so happy now. Grabbing your jacket from the hanger, you pull it over your shoulders. "Let's go," you encourage with a smile.

It's not too far from your home, so you all walk together, enjoying the fresh air. The walk back will be perfect for sobering up. You can't wait to get drunk tonight. To be honest, you've been needing it. You need to get some alcohol into your system and enjoy your night freely without wondering what Mingyu is doing or who he's dancing with.

You avoided his calls all week and only answered his messages briefly, so you are hoping to keep that up tonight as well and have fun without him. It'd be great if he'd only leave your head fully and you wouldn't be thinking about him all the time.

You swear you don't do it on purpose. One second you are focused on something and your head is empty, but then you breathe again and he is everywhere, annoying every inch of your mind. No matter where you look, you see him. One night without drowning in pain is all you ask for tonight.

Giving the worker in the dressing room your jacket, you step aside as soon as you are done, waiting for Bora and your dad. You take a look around in the meantime, admiring the decoration. Everything is in the team colors, and it looks amazing with the lights. Red and black line the walls, balloons attached anywhere they could put them and the music from the main hall playing in your ears even out here.

"It looks awesome!" Bora exclaims as soon as you are all together again.

"It truly is," you agree. "You guys did a great job with the decorations."

"It was all the club president," your dad shakes his head. "He made this all happen. I don't think we would have been able to restore this tradition without him."

You can't remember when the last ball organized by the basketball club happened. It was definitely when you were still little, barely paying attention to these things. You are glad they decided to start planning events like these again. You'll have to praise the president for his hard work when you see him later.

"Let's find out table," your dad encourages.

Nodding, both of you follow him into the main hall. "And drinks right after," Bora whispers into your ear, making you giggle. Who cares if Mingyu likes you or not when you have your girls you'll be spending tonight with?

You do. You care. You absolutely do. Because as soon as Seungkwan shows up, he steals Bora from you. They both assure you they don't mind hanging out with you — Bora keeps asking you to stay with them on the contrary — but you know when you are being a third wheel. You'll be happy if they just enjoy themselves. You don't need them to keep you occupied.

You find Dae shortly after, linking your arms with her instantly as she leads you towards the bar, offering to buy the first drink. You don't tell her it's already your second one, grinning as she hands you a shot glass. You grimace as the liquid goes down your throat. Dae has a similar expression, settling the glass down on the bar again.

"Let's dance!"

"I'm not drunk enough for that," you shake your head no, making her roll her eyes.

"Just say you want another drink, no need to find excuses."

You giggle softly, "anything but what we just had please."

You stay near the bar with her, talking about anything that comes to mind while drinking together. You're both just mostly complaining about school, the other nodding in understanding. The only difference between your usual hangouts is the music playing in your ears.

"Have you told her yet about the terrible physics assigment we have for next week?" You look up when you hear Jake's voice as he joins Dae's side. She groans at just the mention of it, making you laugh. "What are you guys drinking?" He wonders, looking at the empty glasses in your hands. You were so busy talking you didn't have time to order another one yet.

"Are you buying?" You raise an eyebrow in question.

"No, but I'm sure you guys can just wink at Seungcheol and you'll have your drinks for the rest of the night secured," he smiles. "You both look amazing, by the way."

"Thank you," you and Dae chant in union, smile spreading on your lips. "You don't look too bad yourself," Dae shrugs and he fixes his tuxedo, suppressing his grin.

You shake your head at him, looking around the room to find the rest of his teammates. Seungcheol is standing with Jeonghan and Heeseung in the line, chatting about something as they wait for their turn to order. "Shall we try our luck?" You nudge Dae's shoulder, her eyes following your line of sight.

You leave Jake behind for now, making your way past the crowd to reach your new favorite players. To be fair, you think that'll be anyone who buys you drinks tonight. As long as that someone isn't Kim Mingyu. In that case, the person buying you drinks won't be your favorite. Not that you plan on letting him buy you any tonight either way. The only plan you have for tonight is to keep avoiding him and forget all about the pain you feel when you think about him with alcohol.

Heeseung whistles as soon as the two of you come into his sight, his two older teammates turning around instantly. Jeonghan offers you a warm smile while Seungcheol's eyes take their time taking all of Dae in. You have to fight back the urge to tell her you were absolutely right about him looking at her differently. While Seungcheol is known to be a flirt, getting girls anywhere he goes, there is a difference in the way he looks at them and your friend.

"Let me see a spin," he grins, raising his hands in the air for the two of you to hold and spin under. You brush him off, shaking your head. It makes him roll his eyes, but both of you know it doesn't mean anything. Just like you know it's not actually both of you he wants to see from the back. Dae doesn't give into his tactics either though, blinking at him innocently as she covers her ass with her hands and slowly turns around. All he can see is her hair, but he doesn't seem to mind that either. "Beautiful as always. The both of you."

"Think you can manage to keep it in your pants tonight, Choi?" Your eyes close shut at the familiar voice. You refuse to look his way, but even then you know there is a beautiful man towering over you.

Seungcheol raises his hands in defense, a lazy smile on his lips. "I was just about to buy them a drink. You don't possibly have anything against that, do you?"

There is a moment of silence before Mingyu grumbles a whatever, cutting in line and finding his place behind Heeseung. You don't acknowledge his presence, standing with your back facing him as you ask Seungcheol for a drink. You catch his eyes flickering between you and Mingyu in a question but you ignore it, pulling Dae into the chat instead.

As soon as you get your drink, you leave the group, heading towards Joshua, Seokmin and Jake, who you catch leaning against one of the tables. Dae follows you, leaving the four guys behind. Avoiding Mingyu means having to avoid some of his teammates at times as well, no matter how much you want to hang out with them.

"Your idea worked," you raise your glass for Jake to see, catching his attention as you join their table.

"Didn't even need to show him my ass," Dae smiles, making you chuckle at the memory of her spinning. "I call that a win."

"No idea why we got blessed like this but I'm glad we did," Seokmin grins, ear to ear.

"Where do you have Hansol and Riki? They are the only ones I didn't see yet," you wonder, looking around the place to prove your point.

"I haven't seen Hansol since we came either," Joshua shrugs.

"Who I've seen though," Jake starts, the smirk on his face telling you he knows something, "is Riki."

"He's with a girl, isn't he?" Dae reads right through him and Jake nods as he takes a sip of his drink. "I think I caught a glimpse of him before."

"He started talking to a girl as soon as we arrived. He wanted to dance and it worked. I left him then because I didn't want to third wheel," Jake explains. You immediately reach your hand to him, offering him a fist bump, saying you understand that quite well. "You know you don't need to third wheel tonight, though, right?"

"What do you mean?" You tilt your head, your eyebrow raised.

"I'm pretty sure there is a guy who is dying to talk to you," Jake points somewhere behind you and you turn around, your eyes widening when you see the group you left earlier. They are in the middle of a conversation and somehow, it's you who Mingyu has his eyes set on. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you quickly avert your eyes.

"We should go dance. You still want to dance, right Dae?"

She nods to your question and you look at the guys hopefully, needing to get out of here. "I'm not risking that," Seokmin shakes his head as he looks at you, his eyes flickering to who you can only assume to be Mingyu. "Seungcheol I'll gladly rile up, though. May I?" He extends his hand towards your friend, palm up. She giggles at his smile, holding his hand in hers and letting him pull her towards the dance floor.

"Guys," you plea, glancing between Jake and Joshua. They lock eyes together, neither one looking like they plan to dance with you tonight.

Jake meets your eyes again, debating what he should do. He is one of your closest friends and you'd like to think he won't let you down like this, but judging by his expression, you can't tell for sure. "Okay, wait here. I'll get you someone who doesn't have anything to lose by dancing with you."

"And what do you have to lose?" You grumble, annoyed. He is already gone, though.

"Don't take it to heart, please," Joshua offers you a comforting smile. "It's not like you did anything wrong, but we don't want to be the ones delivering the final blow. I'm not sure what happened between the two of you," he hesitates for a second, looking at the rest of his teammates, "but Mingyu has been ticked off since you stopped talking to him. It just feels like we are waiting for a bomb to go off."

You blink at him confusedly, your brows furrowing together. "And why would dancing with me have anything to do with it?"

Joshua gives you a knowing look, telling you you know exactly why that's connected. You open your mouth to argue and tell him that it's stupid, but no words come out. Thankfully, you don't have to look at his pitiful expression anymore though, your attention drifting away when you feel someone's hand settle on your lower back. You instantly relax when you see Seungcheol and Jake standing behind you, blinking up at them curiously.

"I told you I'd find you someone who doesn't fear the consequences," Jake shrugs when he meets your eyes.

"They are exaggerating," Seungcheol rolls his eyes.

"Thank you! I think so too," you nod.

Jake and Joshua exchange a look again but you don't pay it any attention, asking Cheol if he wants to dance with you. "I thought you wouldn't ask," he laughs, offering you his arm and tugging you away.

The music is loud in your ears as you sway your hips in the rhythm, laughing. Unlike Jake and Joshua, Seungcheol doesn't make you feel weird about the situation at all, acting as if nothing happened. He makes you laugh and forget about everything, doing exactly what you wished for tonight. You don't think about anything, only focusing on the man in front of you.

Seungcheol's arms stay on you, whether it's on your waist or simply holding your hands in his. You don't mind, barely noticing the touch. It doesn't feel like anything unusual or what you should be paying attention to. The two of you are friends after all.

You keep inching towards him due to the group of guys dancing behind you, trying your best to get further away from them so you wouldn't be bumping your ass into them every time you move. With the amount of space behind Seungcheol, there isn't much to do, the two of you naturally ending up close. You don't think anything of it, but Mingyu certainly can't say the same.

It's one thing for you to avoid him at all cost, but it's a completely different one to be climbing his friend's body while he is forced to watch from afar.

When Jake came to their group, wrapping his arms around Seungcheol while trying his hardest not to make eye contact with Mingyu, he already knew something was wrong. Turns out, everything was wrong. When Jake asked if Cheol would mind dancing with you because you are looking for someone who'd take you for a spin, he wanted nothing more than to interrupt their conversation and say he'll dance with you. Before he could, Seungcheol agreed and left with the younger one, leaving him there with Jeonghan and Heeseung.

Having to watch Seungcheol take your hand in his and lead you towards the dance floor has to have been one of the worst things he's had to see. Well, turns out it wasn't. Watching you actually dance with him and letting him touch you however he wants is much worse.

Gripping the glass of beer in his hands, he keeps his eyes on the two of you, completely ignoring the conversation Jeonghan and Heeseung are having beside him. He honestly could not care less about the training schedules in the upcoming week.

It hurt seeing Seungcheol take your hand and dance with you, but he could live with that. He could bear watching you dance with Seungcheol because you were having fun, and he would never wish to take away your fun. But now, you are just forced to squeeze together with him because the guys around you are being asses and he is sure it's making you uncomfortable.

So, logically speaking, he isn't ruining your fun anymore if you are already uncomfortable.

Plus, he really hates the sight of you and Seungcheol together. Somehow, he thinks if it was Jake in his place, he wouldn't care so much. Maybe because of the amount of times you made it clear to him there is nothing going on between you and Jake. He liked seeing you convince him so eagerly.

Seungcheol's hand slides down your back, resting dangerously low. There is a lazy grin on his lips as he talks to you, and it's the first time he's wanted to beat up his friend so bad. He can't see your expression since you are standing with your back to him, but he can see his friend's hand and that's all he needs. Even if he might be destroying your fun, he'll manage. He'll take whatever you throw his way, whether it may be your screams or punches. He'd much rather have you yell his ears off than continue watching you and his friends climb each other. At least then you'd be talking to him.

"Here, have this," he mumbles, handing his beer to Jeonghan. "I'm not drinking anymore."

Mingyu doesn't wait for his friends' response, not giving a damn if they are watching him or not as he makes his way through the dancing crowd, needing to get to you.

"Hey," he interrupts your giggles, his blood boiling for some reason at the idea of you laughing at something Seungcheol said. Both of you look his way, your big eyes staring right into his. It makes him feel a bit better about the situation for a moment, at least until you avert your eyes again. He wishes you'd look at him for longer than two seconds just once. He's been watching all night, unable to take his eyes off. It'd be nice to know you watch him too.

"Hey," Seungcheol slowly drops his hands to his side, wrapping one around Mingyu's shoulder. Mingyu sends him a glare, not playing with him at all. He snickers when he sees the serious look on Mingyu's face, taking his hand away again. "What are you doing here?"

Mingyu ignores him completely, only looking at you. "It's late, Blue."

You swallow hard upon hearing his voice, closing your eyes as if that'd magically make him disappear. Spoiler alert: it does not. "We should go home."

You frown, meeting his eyes. "We," you point between the two of you, "aren't going anywhere. I'm dancing if you haven't noticed. So if I'm going anywhere with anyone, it's Seungcheol."

"Blue," it comes out as a warning, only making you feel worse. He has no right to talk to you right now. He has no right to command what you do and who you do it with.

"I'm not going anywhere," you state, redirecting your attention to Seungcheol. "Plus, why do you even care?" you huff, resting your arms around Seungcheol's shoulders.

Mingyu's annoyance only grows. Pulling your hand away from the older man, he forces you to look at him again. As soon as he notices the look in your eyes he loosens his grip, allowing your hand to slip away. Fuck. He found another thing he hates more than being forced to watch you be so close with someone else. He absolutely despises how you look at him right now, like he is hurting you.

"Leave me alone, Mingyu," you beg him.

"Please just come with me, Blue," he pleads in return, completely forgetting about Seungcheol beside him. All he sees is you, everything else blurred together and forgotten.

"I don't want to," you whisper, your voice strained as you shake your head.

"Love," he tries again, desperate. His eyes widen as soon as he realizes what he just said, yours not doing any better. He shocks the both of you, but it seems to work as you slowly offer him your hand. He doesn't hesitate for a second, lacing his fingers with yours and tugging you away, as far from everyone as possible.

He only stops once you are standing outside and you slip your hand away again, hiding it behind your back. "I was having fun," you mumble, staring at the ground beneath your feet. "Do you hate me so much? Is that what this is about?"

"I don't like you having fun with Seungcheol of all people."

"Then let me go have fun with someone else!" You look up, locking eyes with him. You hate this conversation with every inch of your being, and you're sure it shows in your expression. You just want to go back and pretend this never happened, that you didn't just give in to him so easily again after everything. You were doing so good. So good. But he just had to ruin it again. He had to remind you he exists. "Since you can't even look at me all night, so why do you even give a fuck?"

"I wasn't able to look anywhere but at you tonight," he corrects you.

"Stop lying to me, dammit! I'm going back there, I'm having a drink, and I don't care if you like it or not!" You huff, turning around on your heel. You don't get a chance to walk away, though, his hand wrapping around your wrist and stopping you. It only takes him one swift tug to pull you flush into him, your hands landing right on his chest to stop yourself from falling.

"Please don't go," he begs again, his voice getting more and more desperate each time. You hate that you know it's coming from his heart, that he needs you to stay here with him and talk to him again. "Can't you just like me for the night, Blue?"

You'd like to blame it on the drinks you had tonight. You'd like to say you're hallucinating things by this point and this entire conversation is just a figment of your imagination, but you know damn well it's not. It's not even the alcohol in his system speaking and making him do dumb things. You hate him. You hate how easy it is for him to make you feel like this. Like you are on cloud nine.

You're lucky he can't see your face. Your cheeks are flushed, and most definitely not because of the liquor you had. You like him much more than he realizes, and you hate that as well. It'd be a lot easier if you knew how to pretend like you don't care, like you don't feel happiness when you are with him, and like his words don't effect you. But truth is, it never sucked more than in the past week when you were repeating his words in your head over and over again.

"Aren't you the one who doesn't have time for relationships?" You mumble. "Who would never date his coach's little daughter because it's not worth it?" You feel his arms stiffen on your back, the realization of what your anger is about settling in. You try hitting his chest, hoping to get him to answer, but your punch comes out more like a gentle nudge.

Tightening his hold, he embraces you in a warm hug. Pulling away from you, just enough to see you better, you are forced to look up at him, your eyes watery. "Is this what's been troubling you?" He asks, his voice gentle. He cups your face, his thumbs slowly stroking your cheeks. "What I said to the guys in the locker room?" He sighs heavily, every regret he felt in the past week regarding you in that little exhale. "I was stupid to think I could ever push aside my feelings towards you and focus on anything but those beautiful eyes of yours."

"Blue, my blue," he continues, refusing to break eye contact with you again. "This past week when you were ignoring me? Was so much worse for me than anything else I ever had to go through. I could not go a single minute without thinking about you, wondering what you are up to, and if someone else gets to enjoy your attention instead."

"That week fucking sucked," you complain.

A tiny smile appears on his lips, "Yeah," he agrees with a nod, his eyes dropping to your lips. "I'm sorry for being an idiot. I'm sorry you had to doubt anything and that I wasn't the one dancing with you tonight. But most importantly, I'm sorry for not realizing how important you are to me sooner." He finished his speech by leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You melt in his touch instantly, the softness of his lips on yours helping you forget about everything that was bothering you until now.

It's the first time a kiss makes you feel like this — as if the world peace just happened. It's the happiest you've been in a long time, and you cannot express how grateful you are it's with Mingyu of all people. You did think about the slim chance of going home with someone later tonight, but truth is, you couldn't bring yourself to smile at the idea of anyone other than him having you like this.

Mingyu cradles your jaw, tilting your head for a better access. You slowly glide your hands up from his chest, wrapping them around his neck. It's the best kiss you've ever had. Maybe because it's the one you've felt the most during. Jungkook was nice, but he could never compare to how much you love Mingyu.

"Don't go up there again," he whispers against your lips, only to kiss you again. "Stay here with me."

"It's cold here," you tease him, knowing you'd stay anywhere with him right now.

"I'll warm you up," he promises, his hands moving from your face down to your back, feeling your curves before resting on your ass, giving it a squeeze as his lips meet yours again. He needs to get in all the kisses he missed out on by convincing himself you were nothing more than a friend he cared deeply about. He doesn't think it'll be a problem. He is getting addicted to you already, unable to let you go. As much as he loves kissing you, though, he pulls back again. "Please."

You don't answer him right away, looking up at him. He's truly beautiful from up close. Have you mentioned that yet? You don't think you say it enough. The mole on his nose, the brown of his eyes, the lips, he is the definition of perfect. "I can't just leave," you sigh. "I came here with my dad, remember? He'll be looking for me."

"Can we please not talk about my coach while I'm getting hard," he groans, throwing his head back and exposing his Adam's apple. Oh yeah, he is gorgeous.

Your eyes drop down to his crotch, not even hiding it as you gaze at the boner. Oh-oh. "Oh yeah, let's not talk about him," you shake your head.

"My eyes are up here, Blue," he reminds you.

You nod, "I know where your eyes are, Mingyu."

His chuckle bubbles in your ears as he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Please, baby. Stay with me just for tonight. Tell your dad you'll stay with Dae and be with me. Let me catch up on what I missed."

Meeting his eyes again, you nod this time. Honestly, you want nothing more than to go with him. Not only because your core is aching now thanks to the outline you got to see through his dress pants, but also because you've been longing for this — to be able to be with Mingyu as more than friends. You want to kiss him all night long, cuddle until you fall asleep, and wake up with him still in the bed. You want to do all the domestic things couples do when they are in love.

A part of you also thinks you need to fully believe it's not just the heat of the moment for him. You need to see it happen with your own eyes before you truly believe there is a future and he won't change his mind later again, remembering where his priorities lay.

"My jacket and purse are still up there," you tell him and he nods instantly.

"I'll get them."

"I can go for it," you argue but he just pins you down with his look, showing you there is no way you are going anywhere right now.

"Please just stay here and look pretty for me, hm? I'll get it. I'll be out before you can start missing me."

That's not possible. You miss him all the time, even when he is right there with you. You don't tell him that, though. You need to keep his ego in check a little, take your time before you show him just how much you love him.

"Mingyu," you call as he jogs away towards the entrance. He turns to face you, his eyes finding yours curiously. "Don't let other girls see that boner, will you?"

He laughs, a sound so pretty you want to keep listening to it. "That's only for you, my love." He adjusts his clothes to prove his point before disappearing inside. You watch the door close behind him, his words echoing in your ears. Tonight will be a long night.

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

You are quite certain your driver hates you. Mingyu managed to not only grab your things, but also call a taxi and find Dae to beg her to cover for you. As he told you, she was dancing with Seungcheol at that moment, so he also had to apologize to him, only for him to brush him off and focus on the girl holding his forearms again. You told him you were glad Cheol got some sense and asked her for a dance as well, which only lead to Mingyu kissing you all over again because he didn't like you talking so much about his friend.

Jealousy looks good on him. So good.

Kissing him back, you held his hand on top of your thigh the entire ride, trying to ground yourself as to not ask him to fuck you right then and there in front of the driver. That'd be embarrassing.

But truth be, you wanted nothing more but.

Mingyu leads you inside his apartment, kicking his shoes off as soon as he steps inside. You bent down to undo your own heels, but he stops you before you can. Blinking up at him, you watch him confusedly before he hooks his hand around your waist and picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder as if you don't weigh anything. A yelp escapes your lips, a disbelieving laugh following right after as you frantically look over his apartment. His hands are wrapped around your thighs as he holds you in place, a clear goal in his mind.

You only get off him once you are in the bedroom, your back hitting the softness of his mattress. Prompting yourself up on your elbows, you watch him from his bed. It's the one place you dreamed about a lot before. It's so much better than you imagined, though. You're not sure if it's on purpose, or if he even realizes it, but his sheets are navy, his room decor matching it. His walls are white, lined with all kinds of pictures and posters of basketball players. If you were to explain his room in two words, you'd use blue and basketball. Your smile grows. It suits him.

Just like the suit he is wearing does. God. As he stands in front of the bed, his hair messy from when you ran your fingers through it as you kissed him in the car, you are unable to look away. "Why am I in my shoes still?" You tilt your head without breaking eye contact.

"Because they look so fucking good on you I need to look a bit more." He doesn't hide how hungry he is as his eyes scan your whole, from your ankles up to your face.

"They are uncomfortable, though," you complain and he doesn't hesitate any longer, climbing onto the bed to you, bending your knees and forcing them up. The bottom of your dress covers your view of him, making you frown. "Mingyu," you call, wanting to see him.

He hums, bringing one of your feet to himself, slowly undoing the heel and slipping it off. You stretch your leg out, clearing your view again. Pressing your foot to his chest, you watch as he wraps his hand around your ankle before dipping under the hem of your dress. He caresses your calf, eyes gazing into yours. Following the same process, he gets your other shoe off as well, releasing you of the pain.

"You look stunning tonight. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner," he presses a kiss to your ankle, looking up at you. You bite back a moan at the sight, shaking your head. "I should have done so many things earlier, I'm sorry."

You don't get a chance to answer before he is scooping you up and pulling you onto himself with ease, putting you right where he wants. This time a moan escapes you as you crash your lips with his, stranding his lap. He groans at your reaction, gripping your ass tightly and helping you roll your hips forward. "I'll make it up to you," he promises softly — a completely different feeling from how hard he grips your flesh. "I'll be so good to you."

His name falls off your lips as you rock your hips on top of him, chasing the well needed friction. "That's it, baby. Take what you need," he coos, lowering his lips to your shoulder. Brushing one of the straps holding your dress off, he replaces the fabric with his lips, pressing kisses to your skin. He needs to focus on something else. But it's hard when you moan into his ear so prettily. If it continues like this, he might as well come in his pants from how you ride his clothed erection.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him. His big eyes stare right into yours, nothing but want behind them. "So beautiful," he praises, pressing his lips to yours. He buckles your dress at your hips, sliding his hands under and gripping your ass again. His fingers toy with your thong, pulling on the fabric and making you moan. "Please tell me you wore this for me," he groans.

You nod frantically. Even though you didn't expect to end up here when you were getting ready, a part of you has been dressing in hopes of him getting to see for a while now. You'd like to convince yourself you wore it so no line would be shows on your dress, but that's not the only truth. If it were, you wouldn't have worn any panties at all.

Maybe that's what you should have went with actually. Right now, as your thong gets soaked in your wetness, definitely leaving a stain on his pants as well, you wish you would be bare.

His name leaves your lips in a desperate plea. You're not sure what exactly it is you are begging for, but you need him. In any way he gives you. He tilts his head, a teasing smirk on his lips. "What do you need, baby? Use your words."

"Need to come," you answer immediately, rocking your hips forward. It's not enough, though. You need more. "Can you please help me," you whine, your head falling to his shoulder, "Please, just this once."

He doesn't need to hear more, throwing you back onto the bed, a needy whine escaping you when you lose the friction entirely. He takes a second to take you in again, your dress bucked up at your hips and your lower half covered in only your soaked panties and stockings. He's going to lose his mind soon. Your messy hair sprawled all over his pillow, your cunt soaked because of him, your lips chanting his name, what could be better?

Settling himself between your legs, he spreads them apart, taking a good look at your pussy. It's embarrassing, your cheeks heating up. You feel hot all over, a shiver running down your spine as he rubs your clit with his thumb. "Just so we are clear," he tugs at the fabric of your stockings harshly, ripping it apart. "We aren't doing this 'just this once'," he states firmly. "I don't think I'll ever get you out of my system again."

You try to cover your pussy with your hands when he tugs at your thong, the fabric sliding between your folds. It's no use though, Mingyu simply shaking his head at your attempt before taking your hands away with his free one. He pins them above your head, taking the opportunity to kiss you again before lowering himself. "Be a good girl and hold them there, will you? I'll make you feel good in return." He waits for your agreement, watching as your nod eagerly.

Smirking, he hooks his fingers in your thong again, pulling it to the side this time. You can feel his breath on your throbbing clit, your hips thrusting forward on instincts. "Tell me what you like, Blue," he prompts as he gives a soft kiss to your clit. "How do you touch yourself?"

When he doesn't move again, waiting for your answer, you open your mouth. "Slow rubs at first," you mumble, raising your head to see him better. He presses two of his fingers to your clit, doing as you tell him. Fuck. It feels way better like this. You are convinced he can read your mind because he is doing exactly what you always do.

"How about here?" He circles your hole with his thumb, looking up to see your reaction. "Do you ever finger yourself?"

"Sometimes," you moan.

He hums back, replacing his fingers with his tongue, licking slow circles around it while his fingers nudge you open. He thrusts two digits inside, curving them in hopes to find your sweet spot. "God," you gasp instantly, clenching around his fingers at the pleasure.

"Not my name," he shakes his head slightly, his lips wrapping around the bundle of nerves and sucking, speeding his movements at the same time. Your head falls back, your back arching off the bed. It feels too good. Your orgasm quickly builds up, your moans filling the room. The sound is a pleasure to his ears, his cock twitching in his pants every time he feels you clench around his fingers or your hips thrust up against him. It's not an exaggeration when he says you're the best pussy he's ever eaten, every inch of his body craving more. If he could, he'd have you laid out on his bed like this forever, eating you as every course of the day.

Your hands shoot to his hair, keeping him close as you feel your orgasm approaching, needing to find that release. He let's you ride his face, his fingers still thrusting into you. It's only when you finish with a loud moan, your legs shaking around him, that he pulls them out, licking them clean while looking at you. "I was going to tell you how fucking good you taste, but where are your hands, baby?" You whine as you quickly pull them away, pinning them above your head, exactly like he put them before. "And to think I had plans with you," he shakes his head, trying to sound disappointed. "But girls who don't listen shouldn't get a reward, should they?"

You whine, shaking your head. You're not sure why, if you're trying to agree or argue with him. His voice makes you wet all over again, the fact you just came doing nothing to stop how much you want him. "Please, Mingyu," you beg, desperate to get more, just one more orgasm. "I'll be good. I'll be such a good girl for you."

Oh fuck me — is the only thing Mingyu can think about as he looks at you, his eyes rolling back as he listens to you. It's safe to say he is addicted. How could he not be? He seriously believes everyone who let you go before was an idiot, as much as he appreciates they did because now he gets to be the one seeing you like this. His Blue. Oh how he loves the sound of that. "How could I ever say no to you?"

Finally taking off your clothes fully, you lay in front of him naked, your eyes glued to him as he stands in front of the bed, undoing his tie. You've never seen anything more attractive. Dipping your hand between your legs, you rub your clit slowly. His eyes fall down to your hand instantly, enjoying the view as he takes off the rest of his clothes, peeling off layer by layer.

He takes his time, teasing you while you desperately finger yourself in a poor attempt to reach your orgasm again. It doesn't feel as good as when he did it, though. Your fingers don't feel like enough, sad whines leaving your lips. "Oh, baby," he coos, joining you on the bed. "Do you want one more that badly?" You nod, unable to answer with words.

You take your chance as soon as he is close enough, your free hand reaching for him, wrapping around his cock. You had no doubt he'll be big but getting to feel him for yourself makes it so much better. Rubbing your thumb over his tip, you blink up at him to see his reaction. "Blue, if you want me to fuck you tonight you need to stop or I'll come before learning how it feels like to have you on my cock."

Your eyes roll back at his words, your hand not doing anything to stop. You jerk him off slowly, your legs wrapping around his hips to bring him even closer. "My needy little girl," he shakes his head, leaning down to press his lips to yours. You stop moving your hand, only holding him now before he takes your hand in his and brings them up. "Play with your boobs for me."

Listening to him, you pinch your nipples with your fingers. "You're so beautiful," he praises, kissing your cheek before moving down. He presses a kiss to your neck, to your breast, to your arm, to your belly, even to your thigh. He doesn't kiss where you need him the most, though, only teasing your further. He wraps his hand around his length, slapping his tip against your clit a few times. His eyes flicker between your pussy, to your chest, and then your face, trying to remember everything about this moment as well as he can.

"Mingyu, please," you cry, squeezing your boobs while thrusting your hips forward. Chuckling, he reaches into his nightstand, pulling out a condom from the first drawer. Your quickly wrap your hand around his wrist, stopping him before he can open the wrap. "I'm, uh, I am clean. I haven't been with many people before. I'm not on birth control but I could," you avert your eyes from him, embarrassed now that you started talked. "I could get the after pill in the morning. If you want."

"Are you sure?" His eyes widen, his hand holding your chin instantly and making you look at him. "There is no pressure here," he assures you. "I'm perfectly fine with a condom."

You shake your head, biting your lower lip nervously. "I want to feel you."

"Fuck," he groans, throwing the condom somewhere on the floor as he steals a kiss from you again. "I've never fucked without one before," he whispers between kisses, absolutely drunk on you.

"But you would with me?"

"My love, you are the only girl I'd want to feel bare," he proclaims, aligning himself properly without breaking the kiss. You feel his tip slide into you, your mouth falling open at the sudden stretch. "I got you," he promises softly, brushing your sweaty hair out of your face while slowly thrusting into you.

He takes his time, not wanting to rush anywhere. You feel incredible.

You think the same way, your eyes rolling back as your walls wrap around his cock, feeling every one of his veins. You're starting to understand why people don't use condoms. You never imagined you'd go without one, considering you aren't on the pill, but you wouldn't change it for anything now that you know what it's like. If there is anyone you'd risk it for, it's Kim Mingyu either way.

His left hand slides down your sides, feeling every inch of your body. You are sweating, but so is he. "I love these curves," he tells you, squeezing any flesh he can find. "I love these lips," he kisses you to prove his point. "This brain of yours, these hands, this soul, this fucking pussy," he thrusts into you harshly, groaning at the same time. "God, I love you, Blue."

Your back arches from the bed, your moans growing louder. You don't think you can tell him now, not even sure if he means what he says at the moment, but it's exactly how you feel. You definitely love him, there is no questioning that. You'll tell him another time for sure. You'll tell him exactly how much he means to you once your mind isn't fully occupied by his dick.

You run your hands down his back, leaving your prints as you slide your hands down until you get to his ass, holding it as he thrusts into you. "I'm going to spill all over you," he groans between thrusts, his movements becoming sloppy as he gets close to his orgasm. "Fill you up so nicely, hm?"

"Yes," you gasp, nodding frantically. The idea itself makes your head spin, and while you are in no way ready to have a baby and definitely will get the pill in the morning, Mingyu filling you up with his cum just made it to the top of your to do list. Your heels dig into his lower back, making it impossible for him to pull away — which you both know he doesn't want to do anyway.

"Get you pregnant," he moans at the thought, caressing your belly with his hand, feeling himself thrust into you. "Fuck, you'd look so good with my baby."

"You want to put a baby in me?" You blink at him prettily, rolling your hips forward to reach your orgasm as well. He curses under his breath, claiming your lips in his. He doesn't need to say it because you can see it in his eyes that the answer is absolutely yes. God, how you'd love to have his kid in a few years. "So close," you moan as he pulls back, feeling your orgasm approaching.

"Me too, love," he tells you, running his hand down to your clit, rubbing circles around the sensitive bundle to help you.

It doesn't take much longer for the two of you to come together, Mingyu's cum covering your inside white just like he said he would. You're so fully, your breath heavy as you ride out your high. He lets you, holding you through it before pulling out, running his fingers through his hair to get the sweaty stands off his face.

"You did so well," he praises with a smile on his face, kissing you so lovingly you fall for him all over again. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you keep him close as you kiss him back, melting into his sheets. "Let's get you washed up, hm?" He nudges his nose with yours. You don't think words could ever express how he makes you feel. He makes sure all the doubts you could possibly have are gone, his gentle touch and words grounding you in the exact way you need.

You nod to him and he scoops you up with ease, one of his hands under your thighs and the other holding your back. Wrapping your arms around him, you hold onto him tightly while he carries you into his bathroom, sitting you on the edge while setting the temperature. "I'll get you some clothes. The water is warm enough so you can get in if you want. I'll be right back here." You nod, watching his naked butt as he leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind himself to prevent the warmth from escaping.

You take a look around his bathroom, around his products in the shower and the interior, smiling. It's exactly how you expected. No three-in-one shampoos or questionable laundry products but genuinely good stuff instead, fragrances and everything organized. You wonder if he realizes his towel is also blue. Chuckling, you turn around on the edge of his tub, slowly getting in. You let the water fill it up slowly, closing your eyes and letting yourself relax.

When the door opens again, Mingyu is still naked. Holding a shirt and a pair of his boxers in one hand, he loads the washer with his dirty sheets with the other one. You watch him from the comfort of his tub, leaning your chin on your arm. He's got an incredible body. Broad shoulders, pretty back, pretty ass and legs. He is absolutely perfect. He smiles at you, his grin full of genuine happiness. Returning his smile, you scoot forward to make space for him, waiting for him to join you.

He sits behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him. You lean back against him, closing your eyes again. "Thank you for being so great," you whisper into the silence.

He shakes his head, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

Mingyu helps you wash your hair as well as clean your whole body off, his touch nothing but gentle. He kisses you all over, whispering praises from the bottom of his heart. He wraps you in one of his shirts as soon as you're dried off, not wanting you to get cold. It's big on you, enough for it to be the only thing you could wear, but you reach for his boxers as well either way. He looks like a little boy who just got his birthday present when he looks at you in his clothes, needing to hold back not to take you all over again in his bathroom. He has to remind himself he'll have more time for that later, helping you sit on his washer instead so he could dry your hair.

The sheets are already changed when you leave the bathroom again — the reason he took a while before joining you in the bathroom, you assume. There are still blue, though, and it makes you smile. Falling into his bed, you feel on cloud nine instantly. He joins your side, letting you lay on his arm while he hugs you with the other one, embracing you in a hug. His blanket is warm enough to make sure you don't get cold during the night, but you can't say you would complain about his way of keeping you warm. Resting your head against his chest, you fall asleep to the soft sound of his breath, already looking forward to the next days you'll be spending together.

You love your boyfriend. You haven't been able to tell him yet, but you absolutely do. And now, seeing the flowers in your hands, you are sure to tell him the next time you see him.

There weren't any questions or doubts about where the two of you stood the day after the ball, Mingyu apologizing all over again in the morning over breakfast before asking you if you'd be his girlfriend. You couldn't say no even if you wanted to. He got you flowers as he walked you home later that afternoon, forcing you to come up with a bunch of excuses when your dad saw you holding a bouquet of tulips.

It's been a month since then, and it's now the third bouquet you received. It's lilies this time around, and they are absolutely beautiful. He had them delivered to you shortly before his training, after your dad was already out of the house thankfully. You have not been able to stop smiling since then, rereading the messages he sent you before he needed to go.

Who knew a twenty-eight year old could be so sappy? He is adorable, acting like a teen in love for the first time at times. But those moments are often quickly suppressed by him reminding you he is older after all, taking care of you in any and every way before you can even realize you're in need of something. From checking on you all throughout the day and sending you food when you don't have the time to make something for yourself, to making as much free time as possible for you. You see each other often, but it still doesn't feel like enough.

You sometimes just lay in his bed, studying, while he does his work out, or the two of you go out together, taking a stroll around as a form of break. He always knows what you need, and you're incredibly grateful to him for that. You haven't been able to see each other in the past week at all due to your schedule crash, but it's okay. You can't possibly complain when he is so in love he just sent you flowers just because he could.

Replacing your old peonies with the lilies on your bedside table, you smile before resting in your bed with your study materials, ready to dive into work again.

It's shortly past eleven when your phone starts blowing up. Frowning, you almost kick your cat off your bed as you turn around to shut it down. You were just about to fall asleep, finally in the right position, but someone just needed to make your night worse.

Or in this case, actually, better.

You peek one eye open to see if it's anything important, blinking confusedly at the bunch of messages and missed calls from Mingyu. You sit up straight, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hands before looking at your phone again. You don't even read what he said, immediately dialing his number to see what's going on.

It rings twice before it stops and his voice comes through, "Come open the door so I don't have to climb through the window like some fucking teenager."

You blink confusedly, his words slowly turning around in your head until they clock together. "You're here?"

"Not reading my texts anymore? Is this the 'I hate my boyfriend' I've seen around?"

"No!" You quickly shake your head as if he could see you, quickly getting from your bed. You don't bother sliding on your slippers, rushing out of your room barefoot. Snowy looks up to see what you're doing but doesn't follow you downstairs, staying in your bed.

Mingyu laughs on the other side of the phone while you run down the stairs, doing your best to stay quiet and not wake up your dad. You open the door, finally exhaling as you look at your boyfriend standing outside. His eyes trail down your figure, his smile widening as he takes the sight of you in. He hangs up the call without averting his eyes from you, enjoying the view you provided him.

It's only then that you realize what you're wearing — a baby blue tank with lacy lines and matching shorts. You clear your throat, stepping aside so he could walk in. "What are you doing here?" You wonder, covering your chest by crossing your arms over it.

He raises a questioning brow at that. "You do remember the fact I saw you with less on, right?"

"That's different, though," you mumble and he shakes his head.

"Would you rather I take it off then?" He crosses the space between you, closing the door on his way. Not waiting for your answer, he cups your cheek and presses his lips to yours in a greeting. "Hi."

"Hi," you smile. "I was just about to fall asleep. I almost didn't even know you were here."

"It's eleven," he states, as if you weren't already aware of that.

You shrug, "I was tired."

"I'm sorry for keeping you up," he finds another excuse to kiss you. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," you kiss him back, your hands falling down to your sides again before lacing with his. "Are you going to stay with me?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Always," you assure him.

Leading him upstairs again, you keep your hands locked as you walk through the hall. You are quick to lock your bedroom door just in case, not taking any chances. It feels weird sneaking around like this when you are a grown adult, but it's the only option you see at the moment. You don't want to be explaining to your dad you are dating his player just yet.

"There's my little guy," Mingyu lets go of your hand as soon as his eyes land on your cat sprawled out on your bed. You watch him lovingly as he pets his head, rubbing the top of his head. Snowy isn't the biggest people loving cat, and often takes time to warm up to others, so seeing him lean into Mingyu's touch makes you smile. It may be because of how tired he is, but you like thinking it's because he knows Mingyu is a good guy. "Were you keeping my girl company while I was busy? Yeah?"

"He seems to like you," you whisper, wrapping your hands around his waist from behind.

"Your family seems to do that, yes," he grins.

"Don't ruin it for yourself."

"I couldn't." Turning around, he stands face to face with you again, sitting on the edge of your bed and resting his hands on your sides. You stand between his spread legs, cupping his face as you gaze into his eyes. "Hi," he smiles again.

"Hi," you smile back, leaning down to give him a kiss. It's tender and sweet, conveying exactly how you feel having him in your room.

Mingyu's hands slide under your tank, needing to feel your skin on his fingers. You let him, melting into his touch instantly. You seem to do that a lot. In return, you slide your hands under his shirt as well. Unlike him, though, you take the fabric off, dropping it to the ground. "Take your pants off."

His smile turns teasing, his hands dropping to the waistband of his pants without a second of hesitation. "Do I get to see you naked in return or is it only you having fun tonight?" He pushes the pants to the floor and you roll your eyes.

You don't answer him, walking around him to the other side of the bed. You can feel his eyes on your ass as you walk, your smile growing. You lift the covers, sliding under them without another word, ready to go to sleep. Snowy gets up at the same time, looking offended as he jumps down. You chuckle at his reaction. You barely brushed him as you got into the bed, but he seems to have taken that as a hint to get off either way.

"That was mean," Mingyu complains, and you're not sure if he's referring to your cat or the fact you left him sitting in just his boxers, expecting something more.

"You should get used to it," you tell him simply, closing your eyes. You can't suppress your smile as he slides under the covers with you, his hands finding you instantly. He pulls you flush against him, your legs tangling with his.

"Good night, baby," he whispers, kissing the top of your hair. You relax in his hold, resting your head against his bare chest.

"Hey, Mingyu?"

"Hm?" He hums back without moving an inch.

"I love you."

You don't need to look at him to know he is smiling, his hold tightening.

"Hey, Blue?" You hum in response, knowing where this is going. "I love you."

♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝

You're the first one to wake up in the morning, which isn't a surprise to you. Mingyu likes to sleep in, just like he likes staying up late. You fell asleep almost instantly after, the last thing you remember being Mingyu's lips on your shoulder. You turned your back to him while trying to find the perfect position, and he immediately used that opportunity to brush aside your tank top stripe and kiss your skin all over. It was easy falling asleep like that. You couldn't guess when he fell asleep, but hopefully it didn't take him too long.

You slip from his hold, taking a minute to wake up properly as you sit on the edge of the bed. Mingyu is sleeping soundlessly, hugging the blanket. Snowy jumps up to join him as soon as you make the space for him, glancing at you briefly before cuddling up to Mingyu's side.

"You like him a lot, huh," you whisper, rubbing him behind his ears before standing up.

Your dad is already awake as well when you get downstairs. "Good morning!" You call to him, disappearing into the kitchen. You hear him greet you back from the living room, the sound of his favorite video game playing on the TV. You look through the cabinets and fridge, trying to figure out what you should make for breakfast. You have no idea when Mingyu will wake up, so it makes it harder to decide.

You eventually take out a few eggs and bacon from the fridge as well as the toast from the cabinet. You'll just wake him up when you come back up. Hopefully, he won't mind. You move around the kitchen while listening to your dad play his game, humming to yourself. There is still a huge problem waiting for you, but you're choosing to leave it up to your future self to somehow sneak Mingyu out of the house.

You finish planting everything, taking the two plates out of the kitchen with you. But because your luck apparently sucks, your dad is on his way to the bathroom at the same time, eyeing you confusedly upon seeing how much food you're taking upstairs.

"I'm really hungry," you blurt out quickly. "I didn't have dinner last night so I'm starving right now."

"Why didn't you put it all on one plate?" He questions, trying to understand your trail of thoughts.

You shrug, trying to stay as casual as possible. "I'll wash it later, don't worry." He simply shakes his head at you, brushing you off and going upstairs first. You feel the weight lift off your shoulders instantly, relief washing over you. That's one question out of the way. You jog up the stairs after him, disappearing in your room while your dad goes to the bathroom.

As if he could read your mind, Mingyu is already awake when you come in. He is sitting in your bed, his clothes still on the floor and Snowy still on his side. He has one hand on your cat, rubbing the spot behind his ears while scrolling on his phone with the other, his eyes lifting up when he hears the door closing. "Good morning," you greet him, crossing the room and handing him his breakfast.

"Good morning," he leans over to kiss you.

You sit between his opened legs, resting the plate in your lap. "I just had to explain to my dad how it totally makes sense I'm eating two portions," you sigh.

"Yeah? Did he believe you?" He wonders, taking a bite. "This is really good!" He signs.

You roll your eyes at his reaction. "Eggs," you remind him. "There is no way you just complimented the way I make eggs." Kim Mingyu, who is the greatest cook you know right after your dad. Yeah, right.

"What?" He shrugs. "I'm a simple man."

"You're an idiot," you shake your head, taking a bite yourself. "I don't think it even crossed his mind I might be hiding a boy in my room at my age, so I think we are good."

"At your age," he repeats with a laugh. "Do you feel old or something, baby?"

"I feel quite annoyed if you ask me," you nudge him with your feet, only for him to nudge you right back. Your morning is already filled with giggles and playful fighting as you eat your breakfast together, reminding you how much you love this man.

"I forgot to ask," the door of your rooms comes to an open, your dad's face falling into your vision. Right. "Did you get the message about Saturday's schedule—" he stops mid sentence as his eyes land on you and Mingyu in your bed, his bare chest on full display and his clothes on the floor. You close your eyes shut, regretting not locking the door after you came in.

You knew there was going to be a time he'd find out, you just didn't want it to be now. Truthfully, you liked having him just to yourself. Being able to live in this little bubble with just you and him without everyone knowing. Dae knows, of course. After covering for you the night of the ball, it was only natural for her to ask a bunch of questions, questions you didn't feel like lying about. Most of the guys probably have an idea as well, but that's all. Other than that, it was just you and Mingyu living in your own world, and you liked that.

"Yeah, Saturday, the, uh, men tournament. I got it. I said I'll be there," you answer as if nothing happened.

Mingyu clears his throat, glancing between you and your dad. "Good morning, coach." He sounds awkward, which you certainly don't blame him for. Closing your eyes shut, you run through all the possible worst case scenarios that could follow. You just hope he doesn't take it out on Mingyu and bench him for the rest of the season.

"Mingyu," he blinks, finally acknowledging his presence. "Do I want to know what you're doing shirtless at my house so early in the morning?"

"Having eggs?" He raises his plate to prove his point, looking at you for some sort of help when your dad's eyes stay locked on him. Mingyu sighs when your eyes tell him you have no idea what to do, deciding to take it into his own hands. "I came in last night because I missed my girlfriend, coach. I'm sure you know how busy her classes have been keeping her lately. I slept over, and I'm sorry for not saying hello earlier?" He offers a sheepish smile, one that might work on you but you're not sure will have the same effect on your dad.

"You looking to end your career anytime soon?"

"If I have any say then no, sir," Mingyu shakes his head instantly. "I want to keep playing."

"So no pregnancy leaves or anything like that?"

"Dad!" You yell immediately.

"What? I need to make sure one of my best players isn't looking to quit when we just gained him last year," your dad shrugs as if it was the most obvious thing.

"I'm not planning on doing that anytime soon," Mingyu assures him and your dad nods, his eyes briefly flickering between you and him before sighing. He turns on his heel, ready to leave the room again. You blink confusedly. That went a lot better than you expected.

"And Mingyu?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Wear your clothes, will you?"

It's cold today. The goose bumps on your arms only prove that. You regret not bringing something warmer with you as you stand in front of your shop, watching the game from the entrance before your snack bar. The only thing making it a little easier for you is the fact you catch Mingyu's eyes every once in a while, his smile widening every time he is reminded you are wearing his jersey number on your back.

Dae called you out on it as soon as you came in before the game started, teasing you the entire time. You couldn't even care. Not when you are this proud to be wearing his number on your back while he keeps winning all his games, getting closer to his goal.

The crowd is buzzing with excitement, cheering loudly for both teams on the court. You and Dae aren't far behind, screaming your lungs out as well. You were a little scared before when you saw the change in the core five, but Riki and Jake are doing perfect in the game so far.

People keep coming in and out, but Dae takes care of most of their orders, allowing you to keep watching the game. She excuses it with the fact you'll have more to do once the game is over, but you know deep down she's doing it because she simply wants to give you the opportunity to watch them.

"If it isn't the new Mrs. Kim." You glance at the customer beside you, offering an awkward smile. He used to play with your dad when you were little, but it's been so long you can't remember his name. "He is doing great today. I'm sure your dad is proud to have him in the family."

You clear your throat, glancing at Dae for some sort of help. She only gives you a look, one telling you she finds this just as weird. "We, uhm, definitely aren't at that stage yet," you shake your head, joining Dae behind the counter and taking your position. "I'll let him know you think he played well today, though. I'm sure he'll appreciate that."

He brushes you off, "No need. We are all waiting to tell the team ourselves how well they are doing once they win." There is no doubt in his voice about how today's game will turn out and it makes you smile. You know they'll take the win as well. Despite it being a tie right now, both teams at their best, you don't question them even for a second. "You should come with us later. I heard there is a ceremony drink ready for the team."

"I don't know if we'll be able to," you turn him down gently. As much as you'd love to go for a drink with the guys once the game is over, it's not like you can when you're behind the bar, being the provider of their alcohol. "Maybe next time."

You serve him a beer, waiting a bit after he leaves before going to watch the game with Dae again. 68:63 for the Knights. They scored four more points while you weren't looking, and it makes you so much prouder. They got this. Just five more minutes like this and they'll have their spot in the finale guaranteed. You cheer as loudly as before, if not louder.

Watching the game, you realize how much you truly missed the sport. You can't say you'd want to be in their spot again, but you love watching the game and cheering for the team, cheering for your boyfriend. It feels great.

The entire crowd erupts at the buzzer beater, all the guys running together to the center, huge grins and loud noises filling your ears. They won. 81:79. It was Seungcheol scoring the final two points, and you don't think you've ever seen Dae more excited about the game than at that moment. She's been learning the rules lately and understanding the principles more and more every time. And while she says it's because she realized it's more fun when you know what's going on, you know a certain captain has his hands in the sudden change.

You both clap as best as you can while the guys hug themselves, pulling your dad in as well. It makes you laugh seeing them practically drag him down. Your eyes flicker around all of them, trying to find the number 17 you're the most excited to see. You frown when you don't see his messy hair anywhere, standing on your tip toes in an attempt to see better.

Your vision is quickly clouded with the image of a red jersey though, your eyes trailing up his body until they finally lend on the chocolate eyes you love so much. "Hi," he smiles sweetly, all sweaty and his hair sticking to his forehead.

"Hi," you greet him back, unable to hide your smile.

"That's my number you're wearing," he points out, his grin as big as yours.

"Oh? This thing?" You turn around to show him your back with his name on it. He's seen the jersey many times already, but his reaction never changes. "I just threw something on."

"The prettiest shirt ever," he crosses the space between you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pulls you in for a kiss. By the sounds around, there are already people coming in to order a drink, but he doesn't care at all, keeping you as close as he can. "My name looks perfect on you."

"I've been told," you giggle, your palms pressed against his chest. "Pretty sure someone told me just last night."

"Must have been a genius," he hums, his hands sliding down to your ass and giving it a tight squeeze as he kisses you again, just because he can.

"Celebrate on your own time." There is a slap coming to Mingyu's shoulder, one you know is encouraging as soon as your eyes land on Bora.

"I can't. I'm too impatient," Mingyu argues, offering Bora a soft smile. You tap his chest with your palm, bringing his eyes to yours again. He sighs when he realizes what you want, stealing one last kiss from you before taking a step back.

"Go celebrate with your team, this is big for all of you," you nod your head towards the rest of the guys still on the court.

He doesn't even glance their way, keeping his eyes on you. "I was celebrating with my team before I was interrupted." You roll your eyes at him despite finding him adorable.

"Ignore his corny ass," Bora shakes her head, but the smile on her face as she wraps her arm around your shoulders tells you just how much she loves this for you as well. "There is a line of people waiting for a drink, and I'd love to use my friend card and cut in line, so hurry."

You laugh with her as you walk to the bar, glancing over your shoulder at Mingyu once more. He is still watching you, so you take the opportunity and pull your head to the side, showcasing him the name on your jersey once more. He is right, you also think Kim looks great on you.

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[lac4ygal]

WHAT THE MOON REMEMBERS

— y.jw

‎ꫂ᭪݁ PAIRINGS. Yang Jungwon x Female Reader

‎ꫂ᭪݁ GENRE. Reincarnation AU | Soulmates | Historical Fiction | Angst with Happy Ending | Romance | Tragedy | Multiple Timelines

‎ꫂ᭪݁ SUMMARY. Across seven lifetimes you and Jungwon find each other again and again. Every time, the pull is undeniable. Every time, he promises that he’ll find you in the next life. But the moon has watched you love and lose each other over and over for centuries. This time, can you finally break the cycle? Or is your love destined to be eternal and heartbreaking in equal measure in every sense of the world?

‎ꫂ᭪݁ WORD COUNT. 30.6k

‎ꫂ᭪݁ WARNINGS. explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), penetrative sex, oral sex (m and f), praise, first time, loss of virginity (m and f), major character death multiple times, war and military themes, depictions of violence, descriptions of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, tuberculosis, cancer, drowning, war, building collapse, themes of grief, car accident and hospitalization, terminal illness, strong language, emotional distress, references historical traumas

‎ꫂ᭪݁ PLAYLIST. What The Moon Remembers

‎ꫂ᭪݁ LAC4YGAL NOTE. this broke me to write them loosing each other over and over but the final life is so precious. it took me ages to figure out how I wanted to go about this idea but I think I maybe nailed it??!! listen to the playlist as you read; it adds so much more! reblogs, likes, comments and feedback are always appreciated and keep me writing. I hope you love this as much as I did writing it, enjoy!🤍

‎ꫂ᭪݁ TAGLIST. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips (just ask to be added to perm taglist lovelies)

‎ꫂ᭪݁ MY MASTERLIST.

1770 — Jungwon’s POV

The pain is what wakes him. It’s everywhere— his chest, his side, his leg— a white-hot burning that makes breathing feel like dragging shards of glass through his lungs. Jungwon tries to move and immediately regrets it, a groan escaping through clenched teeth.

“Easy.” A voice cuts through the haze, soft but firm. “Don’t try to sit up yet.” He forces his eyes open, squinting against the dim candlelight. The ceiling above him is canvas, stained and sagging. A medical tent, he realizes slowly. The smell hits him next— blood, infection, unwashed bodies, death. He’s in a field hospital.

The battle. Right. There was a battle. He remembers musket fire, smoke so thick he couldn’t see three feet ahead, the screaming of men and horses. He remembers pain exploding in his chest, the ground rushing up to meet him, thinking this is it as the world went dark. But he’s not dead. Apparently.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, soldier.” Jungwon turns his head— slowly, because even that hurts— and sees her for the first time.

She’s young, probably close to his age, with tired eyes and capable hands currently wringing out a cloth in a basin of water. Her dress is simple, stained with blood that he hopes isn’t all his, and her hair is pulled back in a practical bun with loose strands escaping around her face. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “How bad is it?” he manages, his voice rough and unfamiliar.

She glances at him, and something flickers in her expression— pity, maybe, or resignation. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. Musket ball to the chest, missed your heart by maybe an inch. Another in your leg. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“But I’ll live?” He tries for a smile. “You’re not just keeping me comfortable while I die, are you?”

“That depends entirely on whether infection sets in.” She wrings out the cloth and moves closer, pressing it gently to his forehead. It’s blessedly cool. “And on whether you follow my instructions and rest instead of trying to be charming.”

“I can’t help being charming,” Jungwon says. “It’s a curse.”

Despite herself, she almost smiles. Almost. “Save your energy. You’re going to need it.”

Over the next few days, Jungwon learns three things. One: Getting shot hurts significantly worse than he’d imagined, and he’d imagined it would be pretty terrible.

Two: Field hospitals are hell on earth— the sounds of men dying, the smell of rot and gunpowder, the constant stream of new wounded being carried in on stretchers.

Three: The nurse— he learns her name eventually, after asking three times because she keeps deflecting— is the only good thing about being here.

She tends to his wounds twice a day, changing bandages with gentle efficiency, checking for signs of infection. She brings him water when he asks, broth when he can stomach it, and occasionally reads to him from a battered copy of poetry she keeps in her apron pocket when the nights are long and he can’t sleep through the pain. “You don’t have to do that,” he says one night, when she’s been reading for nearly an hour.

She looks up from the book, candlelight catching in her eyes. “Do what?”

“Stay with me. I know you have other patients.”

“The others are sleeping.” She marks her place with one finger. “And you’re the only one who actually appreciates poetry. Most of the men just want me to write letters to their wives.”

“Do you do that?”

“When they ask.” Her voice softens. “When they can still speak clearly enough to dictate.” The implication hangs heavy between them. When they’re not too far gone.

“Will you write a letter for me?” Jungwon asks. “If it comes to that?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “It won’t come to that. You’re going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’ve been doing this for two years. I know who makes it and who doesn’t.” She meets his eyes, fierce and certain. “You’re going to make it.”

He wants to believe her. God, he wants to believe her. “When I do,” he says, emboldened by fever or stupidity or both, “I’m going to take you on a date. Dinner, dancing, the whole thing.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now— a real smile that transforms her whole face. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to.” He reaches for her hand, and after a brief hesitation, she lets him take it. Her fingers are cool and steady against his. “I’d like to know everything about you.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Maybe. But I still mean it.” She squeezes his hand gently before pulling away to return to her rounds. But the next night, she comes back. And the night after that.

They talk, in those stolen moments between her duties. He learns that she’s a farmer’s daughter, that she learned nursing from her mother, that she came to the war because her brother was fighting and she wanted to help. He tells her about his life before— the apprenticeship he left behind, the family he hasn’t seen in months, the future he’d planned that seems impossibly distant now. “What will you do?” she asks one night. “After the war?”

“If we win? I don’t know. Go home, I suppose. Try to remember what peace feels like.” He shifts carefully, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. “What about you?”

“The same, I think. Go home. Try to forget all of this.” She gestures vaguely at the tent, the rows of wounded men, the ever-present specter of death.

“I won’t forget you,” Jungwon says quietly.

She looks at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. “You should. It would be easier.”

“I don’t want easier. I want—” He stops, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“What do you want?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

You, he thinks but doesn’t say. I want you. I want to survive this. I want to take you dancing like I promised. I want a future where we’re not surrounded by death and blood and the smell of gunpowder.

“I want to see you smile again,” he says instead. “Like you did the other night. A real smile, not the one you give the patients.”

She does smile then, soft and sad. “You’re a foolish man, soldier.”

“Jungwon,” he corrects. “My name is Jungwon.”

“I know.” She stands, smoothing her apron. “Get some rest, Jungwon. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Close enough.”

The days blur together. Jungwon’s strength slowly returns— he can sit up without help now, can eat solid food, can even stand for a few minutes at a time with support. The wounds are healing, she tells him, better than expected. No infection. He’s lucky. He doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he’s been given a second chance and doesn’t know what to do with it. “When can I leave?” he asks one morning.

She’s changing his bandages, her touch gentle but impersonal. “When you can walk unassisted. When the doctor clears you. When there’s somewhere for you to go.”

“Will you miss me?” He’s only half-joking.

“Terribly,” she says, but there’s something true underneath the sarcasm. “Who else will I read poetry to at midnight?”

“You could read to the other patients.”

“They don’t listen like you do.” She finishes with the bandage and sits back. “There. You’re healing well. Another week, maybe two, and you’ll be back to fighting shape.” The thought of going back to battle makes his stomach turn. Going back to the killing, the chaos, the constant fear. But what choice does he have? The war isn’t over. His unit will want him back.

“What if I don’t go back?” he asks quietly.

She looks at him sharply. “They’d call that desertion.”

“What if I don’t care?”

“Jungwon—”

“I could stay here. Help with the wounded. I’m no good as a soldier anyway— I got myself shot in the first real battle.”

“You’re talking nonsense.” But her voice is gentler now. “The fever—”

“I’m not feverish. I’m just…” He trails off, struggling to articulate the feeling. “I’m tired. I’m tired of war. I’m tired of watching boys die. I’m tired of pretending I’m brave when all I want is to go home.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches out and takes his hand, holding it between both of hers. “You are brave,” she says firmly. “Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you human.”

“I don’t feel brave.”

“No one ever does.” She squeezes his hand. “But you’re still here. You’re still fighting. That takes courage.”

He looks down at their joined hands, her fingers small and delicate against his calloused palms. He wants to tell her that she’s the reason he’s still fighting, that the thought of seeing her each day is the only thing that makes the pain bearable, that he’s started imagining a future that includes her in it. But before he can find the words, she pulls away and stands.

“Rest,” she says. “I’ll check on you later.” He watches her move through the tent, stopping at each bedside, offering water or adjusting bandages or simply sitting with the men who have no one else. She’s good at this, he realizes. Good at offering comfort in a place where there’s so little of it to be found. He wonders if she knows how extraordinary she is.

That night, she comes to his bedside with her book of poetry, like she has every night for the past two weeks. “Can’t sleep?” she asks, settling into the chair beside him.

“Hurts less when I’m distracted,” he admits. “And your voice helps.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It got you to stay, didn’t it?”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she opens the book. “Where did we leave off?”

“The one about the soldier and his love,” Jungwon says. “The sad one.”

“They’re all sad.”

“Read it anyway.” She does, her voice low and melodic in the quiet tent. Around them, men sleep or moan in pain or whisper prayers to gods who seem very far away. But in this small circle of candlelight, it’s just the two of them.

When she finishes, Jungwon doesn’t want her to leave. “Stay,” he says. “Just a little longer.” She should say no. She should check on the other patients, get some sleep herself, maintain the professional distance she’s supposed to keep. Instead, she stays.

“Tell me something,” he says. “Something real. Not about the war or medicine or any of this. Tell me about you.”

She’s quiet for a moment, considering. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Anything. What makes you happy?”

“Small things,” she says eventually. “The first warm day of spring. Fresh bread. The sound of rain on the roof.” She pauses. “My mother’s garden. She grows roses, and in summer the whole house smells like them.”

“That sounds beautiful.”

“It is. Was.” Her voice catches slightly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again.”

“You will,” Jungwon says with more confidence than he feels. “This war will end. You’ll go home to your mother’s roses. You’ll—” He stops, because he doesn’t know what her future holds. He barely knows what his own does.

“What about you?” she asks. “What makes you happy?”

He thinks about it. “Music. My sister plays the pianoforte, and sometimes in the evenings we’d sing together. And stargazing. There’s something about looking up at the stars that makes everything else feel smaller, more manageable.”

“I like that,” she murmurs. “The idea that we’re small. That all of this—” she gestures vaguely “—is small in the grand scheme of things.”

“Do you think the stars care about our little human wars?”

“I doubt it.” She tilts her head, considering. “But maybe the moon does. It’s closer, more personal. Maybe it watches us and remembers.”

Something about those words sends a shiver through him, though he couldn’t say why. “The moon remembers,” he repeats softly. “I like that.”

She stands then, and he feels the loss of her presence acutely. “Where are you going?”

“Just to the window,” she says. “I want to show you something.” She crosses to the side of the tent and opens the canvas flap that serves as a window, tying it back to let in the night air. Cool autumn wind rushes in, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and distant rain.

And there, hanging low in the sky, is the moon. Full and bright and impossibly beautiful. “Oh,” Jungwon breathes. She returns to his bedside, and together they look out at the moon in silence. “It’s lovely,” he says finally.

“It is.” She’s still gazing at it, her face soft in the silvery light. “When I was young, my mother used to tell me that the moon was a guardian. That it watched over travelers and lovers and anyone who needed guidance in the dark.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know. But I like the idea of it. That something up there is watching. That we’re not alone.”

Jungwon reaches for her hand again, and this time she doesn’t pull away. They sit like that for a long moment, hands clasped, looking at the moon. “Do you think the moon remembers us?” he asks suddenly.

She turns to look at him, confused. “What?”

“The moon. Do you think it remembers us? All the people who have looked up at it, throughout all of history?”

“That’s…” She trails off, searching for words. “That’s a strange question.”

“I know. But do you think it does?”

She considers it seriously. “Maybe. Maybe it keeps track of all the stories. All the lovers and soldiers and lost souls who’ve ever gazed up at it.”

“Then it will remember this,” Jungwon says quietly. “Remember us. This moment.”

“Why would this moment matter?”

“Because I want it to.” He squeezes her hand gently. “Because someday, when this is all over, I want to believe that something in the universe will remember that we were here. That we mattered.”

She’s looking at him with such tenderness that his breath catches. “You matter,” she whispers. “To me, you matter.”

And then she leans down and kisses him. It’s soft, gentle, over almost before it begins. But when she pulls back, they’re both trembling. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says.

“I’m glad you did.”

“Jungwon—”

“When I’m better,” he interrupts, “I’m going to take you dancing. Like I promised. And I’m going to kiss you properly, somewhere that isn’t a hospital tent that smells like death.”

She laughs, and it sounds like tears. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m in love with you.” The words hang in the air between them, bold and terrifying and true. She doesn’t say it back. But she doesn’t let go of his hand either.

“Rest,” she says eventually, her voice unsteady. “You need to rest.”

“Will you stay?”

“For a little while.” She stays until he falls asleep, her hand in his, the moon watching through the open window.

For three more days, things are good. Better than good. She still maintains her professional distance during the day, but at night she comes to him with her book and her gentle hands and occasionally, when they’re alone, her lips.

He’s getting stronger. Can walk the length of the tent with only minimal pain. The doctor says another week, maybe two, and he’ll be fit enough to rejoin his unit. Neither of them talks about what happens then.

On the fourth night, something changes. Jungwon wakes in the middle of the night to find her beside him, like always. But something’s different. He feels… off. Feverish, maybe, though his skin is cool to the touch. “You should be sleeping,” she murmurs, noticing he’s awake.

“Couldn’t.” He shifts, and pain lances through his chest. “Feels different tonight.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere. I don’t know.” He tries to sit up and finds he can’t. “I think… I think I’m more tired than I realized.”

Concern flashes across her face. She places her hand on his forehead, checking for fever. “You’re not warm.”

“I know. I just…” He trails off, struggling to explain the feeling. Like something inside him is winding down. Like a clock running out of time. “Stay with me?”

“I’m here.” She takes his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. That’s good.” He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “Can you open the window? I want to see the moon.” She does, and the silvery light spills across his bed.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just like before.”

“Just like before,” she agrees, but her voice is strained.

“I want you to know,” Jungwon says slowly, each word taking effort, “that these past few weeks have been the happiest of my life.”

“Don’t.” Her voice breaks. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I mean it. Getting shot was the best thing that ever happened to me, because it brought me to you.”

Tears are streaming down her face now. “Jungwon, please—”

“Listen.” He squeezes her hand with what strength he has left. “If I don’t make it—”

“You’re going to make it. You have to make it. You promised me a dance, remember?”

“I remember.” He smiles, and it costs him. “But if I don’t… if something happens…”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“But if it does.” He’s fading, he can feel it, like sand slipping through fingers. “I need you to know that I’ll find you in the next life.”

She’s sobbing now. “What are you talking about? There is no next life, there’s only this one, and you’re going to be fine—”

“I’ll find you,” he says again, and he means it with every fiber of his being. “However long it takes. Whatever it costs. I’ll find you.”

“Jungwon—”

“Promise me you’ll remember. Promise me you’ll look for me too.”

“I promise,” she chokes out, even though she doesn’t understand, even though she thinks he’s delirious. “I promise.”

“Good.” His eyes are getting heavy. “That’s good. I’m just going to rest for a minute. Just… just a minute…”

“No, stay awake. Please stay awake. I need to get the doctor—“ But she can’t bring herself to let go of his hand. Can’t bring herself to leave him, even to get help.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not afraid.”

“I’m terrified,” she admits.

“Don’t be. I’ll see you again. I know I will.” He looks at her one more time, trying to memorize her face. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Did I tell you that?”

“No.”

“Well, you are. And I love you. I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” she sobs. “I love you, please don’t go—” But his eyes are already closing, his hand going slack in hers. “Jungwon? Jungwon!” She’s screaming for the doctor, for anyone, but she knows it’s too late. She can see it in the stillness of his chest, the absence of breath. He’s gone.

She collapses over him, sobbing, and outside the moon continues its silent vigil, remembering everything, bearing witness to yet another story of love and loss.

In the morning, they’ll take his body away. They’ll bury him in an unmarked grave with dozens of other soldiers whose names will be forgotten.

But she’ll remember. She’ll remember his smile, his promises, the way he looked at the moon and asked if it remembered them. She’ll remember for the rest of her life. And somewhere, somehow, the moon remembers too.

1850 — Your POV

The wedding is beautiful in the way that expensive things often are— beautiful and cold and utterly devoid of warmth.

You stand at the altar in a dress that cost more than most people earn in a year, ivory silk and French lace that weighs you down like chains. The church is full of people you barely know, friends of your father’s mostly, society figures who’ve come to witness the union of two respectable families. You don’t look at the man beside you. Your husband. The word feels foreign, wrong.

The ceremony passes in a blur. You say the words when prompted, mechanical and hollow. I do. I will. Till death do us part. Death seems very far away.

When it’s over, when you’ve signed the papers that make you his property in the eyes of God and the law, you’re ushered into a carriage for the journey to his— your— estate. And you still haven’t looked at him properly.

“Are you well?” he asks quietly as the carriage lurches into motion.It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to you all day. His voice is pleasant enough, polite, carefully neutral.

“Quite well, thank you.” Your own voice sounds distant to your ears. “And you?”

“Well enough.” Silence descends again. You stare out the window at the countryside rolling past, green and lush and utterly indifferent to your misery.

This is your life now. Mrs. Yang Jungwon. Wife to a man you’ve met exactly three times before today— once at the engagement announcement, once at a chaperoned dinner, and once in passing at a social function where you’d exchanged perhaps a dozen words.

You know almost nothing about him except what your father told you: good family, substantial fortune, respectable reputation. A suitable match. No one asked if you wanted to be suitably matched.

The estate, when you arrive, is massive and imposing. Gray stone, manicured gardens, the kind of old money grandeur that’s meant to intimidate. It works. “Welcome home,” Jungwon says as he helps you down from the carriage. Home. The word rings hollow.

The staff is assembled to greet you— housekeeper, butler, lady’s maid, cook, and various others whose names you immediately forget. They curtsy and bow, welcoming the new lady of the house, and you smile because it’s expected.

“Mrs. Choi will show you to your rooms,” Jungwon says. “I imagine you’ll want to rest after the journey.” Your rooms. Separate rooms. Of course.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Mrs. Choi, the housekeeper, is a stern-faced woman in her fifties who leads you up a grand staircase and down a long hallway to a suite of rooms that will be yours. Bedroom, dressing room, private sitting room. All decorated in shades of cream and gold, elegant and expensive and utterly impersonal.

“Dinner is at eight,” Mrs. Choi informs you. “Ring if you need anything.”

And then you’re alone. You sink onto the bed— your bed— and stare at the ceiling. This is it. This is your life now. You’ll live in this house with this stranger, produce heirs if you can manage it, and grow old in separate bedrooms. You don’t cry. You’re too numb for tears.

The first weeks of marriage establish a pattern. You see Jungwon at breakfast and dinner. The meals are formal, served in a dining room far too large for two people. Conversation is stilted and polite. He asks about your day. You ask about his. Neither of you says anything of substance.

At night, you retire to your separate rooms. He’s made no move to consummate the marriage, and you’re grateful for it. The thought of that kind of intimacy with a stranger makes your skin crawl.

You fill your days with the expected activities of a lady of the house— consulting with the cook about menus, reviewing household accounts, receiving calls from neighbors who want to inspect the new bride. It’s all terribly boring.

Jungwon seems equally miserable, though he’s better at hiding it. He spends most of his time in his study, managing the estate or whatever it is men do in their studies. Sometimes you hear him playing the pianoforte in the music room late at night, melancholy pieces that drift through the halls like ghosts. You don’t disturb him.

A month passes. Then two. You’re reading in the library one afternoon when he finds you there. “I’m sorry,” he says, hovering in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s your library.” You close the book. “You can hardly intrude.”

“I suppose.” But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he moves closer, looking at the spines on the shelves with genuine interest. “What are you reading?”

You show him the cover. “Byron.”

His eyebrows rise. “Not the usual choice for a lady.”

“I’m not the usual lady.”

“Clearly.” And for the first time since the wedding, he almost smiles. “I like Byron too. Though I prefer Wordsworth.”

“Wordsworth is lovely, but Byron has more passion.”

“Passion is overrated. Give me quiet reflection any day.”

“That sounds desperately boring.”

“Perhaps I am desperately boring.”You study him properly for the first time. He’s handsome, you suppose, in a classical way. Dark hair, serious eyes, the kind of refined features that look good in portraits. But there’s something sad about him too, a resigned quality that mirrors your own feelings.

“Why did you agree to this?” you ask suddenly. “The marriage. If you didn’t want it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “How do you know I didn’t want it?”

“Because you’re as miserable as I am.”

He doesn’t deny it. “My father arranged it. Said it was time I settled down, secured the family line. I’m the only son, so…” He trails off with a shrug.

“So you had no more choice than I did.”

“No.” He meets your eyes. “I’m sorry. For both of us.” It’s the most honest conversation you’ve had.

“We’re rather pathetic, aren’t we?” you say. “Two people with everything anyone could want, absolutely miserable.”

“Quite pathetic,” he agrees. And then he does smile, small and wry. “But at least we have good taste in poetry.” It’s not much. But it’s something.

After that, things shift slightly. You start having breakfast together in the smaller morning room instead of the formal dining room. The conversation is still careful, but less strained. You discover he has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard. He discovers you have opinions about things women aren’t supposed to have opinions about— politics, philosophy, the appalling state of labor conditions in the factories. “You’re very radical,” he observes one morning over tea.

“And you’re very traditional.”

“Not by choice.”

“None of us are anything by choice, apparently.” He laughs at that, and the sound surprises both of you.

You start spending time together outside of meals. Reading in the library simultaneously, taking walks around the grounds, playing cards in the evening. It’s not romance, but it’s companionship. Friendship, almost.

You learn things about him. That he wanted to be a physician but his father forbade it, said it was beneath their station. That he plays the pianoforte to calm his mind when he can’t sleep. That he has nightmares sometimes, though he won’t say about what.

He learns things about you too. That you wanted to attend university but of course that was impossible. That you’re terrified of thunderstorms. That you once punched a boy who tried to kiss you without permission, and your father was furious but your mother was secretly proud. “I would have liked to meet your mother,” Jungwon says one evening.

“She would have liked you.” You pause. “I think she would have been glad I ended up with someone kind, at least.”

“Kind seems like damning with faint praise.”

“It’s more than most women get.” He can’t argue with that.

Three months into the marriage, something changes. You’re coming back from a walk in the gardens when a thunderstorm rolls in suddenly, violent and loud. You make it to the house but you’re soaked through, trembling not from cold but from fear.

Jungwon finds you in the entrance hall, dripping water onto the marble. “Are you alright?” He’s at your side immediately, concerned.

“Fine. Just— the storm—” Thunder cracks overhead and you flinch badly. Without thinking, he pulls you against him, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. It’s just noise.” You bury your face against his shoulder, embarrassed by your fear but unable to help it. He’s warm and solid and he smells like sandalwood and old books.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his waistcoat.

“Don’t be.” His hand moves in soothing circles on your back. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”

You stay like that until the worst of the storm passes, wrapped in his arms, feeling his heartbeat steady against your cheek. When you finally pull back, you’re both acutely aware of how close you are. His hands are still on your waist. Your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “I should change,” you say quietly. “Before I catch cold.”

“Yes. Of course.” But he doesn’t let go immediately.

“Jungwon—”

“I know.” He steps back, dropping his hands. “I’ll have Mrs. Choi draw you a bath.”

That night, you can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be held by him. How natural it seemed. How much you didn’t want him to let go. This is dangerous territory even though you’re married to him. But you can feel yourself falling.

After the storm, you can’t seem to go back to polite distance. You start sitting closer together when you read. Hands brushing when you pass the teapot. Long looks across the dinner table that make your pulse race.

One evening, you’re playing the pianoforte— badly, you’re the first to admit— and he comes to sit beside you on the bench. “May I?” he asks.

You slide over to make room. He begins to play, something soft and lovely that you don’t recognize. His hands move over the keys with practiced ease. “That’s beautiful,” you murmur.

“It’s Chopin. Nocturne in E-flat major.”

“Play it again?” He does, and this time you watch his hands instead of the keys. Beautiful hands, long fingers, careful and precise.

When he finishes, he doesn’t move away. “You’re staring,” he says softly.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He turns to look at you, and his face is very close to yours. “I stare at you all the time.”

Your breath catches. “You do?”

“Constantly. I thought you’d noticed.”

“I… no. I didn’t.”

“Well. Now you know.”

The air between you feels electric. You’re very aware of his thigh pressed against yours on the bench, the warmth of his body, the way his eyes drop to your lips. “We should—” you start.

“Yes,” he agrees. Neither of you moves.

“This is madness,” you whisper.

“Probably.”

“We barely know each other.”

“I know.” His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “But I’d like to. Know you, I mean. If you’ll let me.”

“Yes.” The word comes out breathless. “Yes, I—”

He kisses you. It’s soft at first, tentative, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, and the kiss deepens. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“I should go,” you say, even though you don’t want to.

“Stay.” His forehead rests against yours. “Please stay. I know we didn’t choose this. I know we started as strangers. But I…” He pulls back to look at you. “I’m falling in love with you. Is that insane?”

Your heart is pounding. “If it is, then I’m insane too.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel something unlock in your chest. Permission to feel this. Permission to want. “Come with me,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Where?”

“To my room. If you want. We don’t have to— I just want to be near you.” You should say no. This is too fast, too sudden, even though you’re married and have every right. But you take his hand.

His bedroom is larger than yours, decorated in deep greens and dark wood. Masculine and elegant. The bed is massive, four-poster, imposing. “Second thoughts?” he asks, seeing you hesitate.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” You laugh nervously. “I’ve never… that is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to…”

Understanding dawns on his face. “Ah. Your mother didn’t—”

“She died before we could have that conversation.”

“I see.” He moves closer, taking both your hands. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I want to.” And you do. God help you, you do. “I just… don’t know how.”

“Neither do I, really.” At your surprised look, he shrugs. “I’ve had opportunities, but I never… it didn’t feel right. With anyone else.”

“And this feels right? With me?”

“Everything feels right with you.” He kisses you again, slow and sweet, walking you backwards until your legs hit the bed. You sit, and he kneels in front of you, looking up with such tenderness it makes you ache. “We’ll figure it out together,” he promises. “And if you want to stop at any point—”

“I won’t.” You cup his face. “I trust you.”

What follows is gentle and awkward and lovely. He helps you out of your dress with shaking hands, fumbling with buttons and laces until you’re both laughing. You help him with his waistcoat, his shirt, until you’re both down to undergarments and the laughter has faded into something heavier. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes, looking at you in your chemise.

“So are you.” He’s all lean muscle and smooth skin when he strips off his undershirt. You reach out to touch his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm.

“Nervous?” you ask.

“Terrified.” But he’s smiling. “You?”

“Same.”

He lays you back on the bed, covering your body with his, and for a moment you just look at each other. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too.”

The first touch of his skin against yours makes you gasp. He’s warm and solid and careful, so careful with you. “Tell me what feels good,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw, your neck.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then we’ll find out.” His hands are gentle as they explore your body over the thin chemise. Learning the shape of you, the places that make you shiver. When he brushes over your breast, you arch into the touch.

“There?” he asks.

“Yes. There.” He does it again, more deliberately this time, and pleasure sparks through you. His mouth follows his hands, kissing across your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts still covered by fabric.

“Can I…?” He tugs at the hem of your chemise. You sit up enough to let him pull it over your head, and then you’re bare before him. For a moment, he just looks.

“Stop staring,” you mumble, fighting the urge to cover yourself.

“Can’t help it.” His voice is rough. “You’re perfect.” His mouth finds your breast, tongue swirling around your nipple, and you cry out at the sensation. He takes his time, lavishing attention on both breasts until you’re squirming beneath him.

“Please,” you gasp, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for.

“I’ve got you.” His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, coming to rest on your thigh. He pauses there, giving you time to object. You spread your legs instead. “God,” he breathes. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

His fingers find you, exploring carefully. You’re wet, embarrassingly so, and he makes a sound low in his throat. “Is this alright?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

He strokes through your folds, learning what makes you gasp and moan. When he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex, you nearly come off the bed. “There,” you pant. “Right there, please—”

He circles your clit with careful pressure, watching your face as pleasure builds. His other hand is braced beside your head, supporting his weight, and you can see how much this is affecting him too— the flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils have blown wide.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “So responsive.”

One finger slides inside you and you clench around the intrusion. It’s strange but not unpleasant, a fullness you’ve never felt before. “Okay?” he asks.

“More. Please, more.”

He adds a second finger, working them in and out while his thumb continues its maddening circles on your clit. The pleasure builds and builds, tension coiling low in your belly. “I think—” you gasp. “I think something’s happening—”

“Let it happen. I’ve got you.”

His fingers curl inside you, hitting some spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and you shatter. Your back arches, a cry torn from your throat as your cunt pulses around his fingers. He works you through it, gentle and steady, until you collapse back against the bed.

“That was—” You can’t find words. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” He’s grinning now, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “Did you like it?”

“I think I might die if we never do that again.” He laughs and kisses you, and you can taste your own arousal on his lips.

“Your turn,” you say when you can speak again.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You reach for the fastenings of his trousers. “Show me?” He helps you strip him of the last of his clothing, and then he’s bare before you. His cock is hard, flushed and leaking, and you’re struck by how vulnerable he looks like this. You wrap your hand around him experimentally, and he hisses. “Too much?”

“No. Perfect. You’re perfect.”

You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him in your hand, the way his hips buck when you twist your wrist just so.

“I want—” He breaks off, breathing hard. “Can I be inside you?”

“Yes.” You’ve never wanted anything more. “Please.”

He positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He’s shaking. “This might hurt,” he warns. “I’ll go slow.”

He pushes in gradually, giving you time to adjust. There’s a pinch of pain as he breaches you, and you grip his shoulders.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.” He goes deeper, inch by careful inch, until he’s fully seated inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, bordering on too much, but underneath the discomfort is something else. Something that feels right.

“Okay?” he grits out, clearly struggling to hold still.

“Okay. You can move.”

He does, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. The pain fades with each stroke, replaced by a building pleasure. You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he hits something inside you that makes you moan.

“There,” you gasp. “Just like that.”

He finds a rhythm, steady and deep, his hips rolling against yours. One hand slides between your bodies to find your clit again, and the combined sensations are almost too much. “You feel so good,” he pants. “So perfect. Like you were made for me.”

“Maybe I was.” You’re babbling now, lost in pleasure. “Maybe we were made for each other.”

“Yes. God, yes.” His thrusts become more urgent, less controlled. You can feel him getting close, his cock swelling inside you, and you clench down deliberately. “Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m—I’m going to—”

“Do it. Inside me.”

He does with a broken moan, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you. The feeling of his cock pulsing, the warmth flooding you, pushes you over the edge again. Your cunt clenches around him as you come, milking him through his orgasm. He collapses beside you, pulling out carefully, and gathers you into his arms.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there, sweaty and satisfied and stunned by what just happened. “That was—” he starts.

“Incredible,” you finish.

“I was going to say ‘better than I imagined’ but incredible works too.”

You laugh and press a kiss to his chest. “You imagined it?”

“Constantly. For weeks. I was going mad with wanting you.”

“You could have said something.”

“And risk you thinking I was some beast who only wanted you for that?” He strokes your hair. “I wanted you to choose me. To want me back.”

“I do.” You look up at him. “Want you, I mean. All of you. Not just the physical parts, though those are very nice.”

He grins. “Very nice?”

“Exceptional. Earth-shattering. Is that better?”

“Much.”

You settle against him, content in a way you’ve never been before. This wasn’t what you expected when you walked down that aisle three months ago. You thought you’d be trapped in a loveless marriage, going through the motions for the rest of your life. Instead, you’ve found this. Found him.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too.” He kisses the top of your head. “My wife.” The word doesn’t sound wrong anymore.

The next few months are the happiest of your life.

You and Jungwon are inseparable. You spend your days together— riding, reading, walking the grounds. The nights are for other things, learning each other’s bodies with increasing confidence and creativity. You make love in his bed, in your bed, once daringly in the library. He learns all the ways to make you fall apart, and you learn what makes him lose control. It’s intoxicating, this intimacy. This partnership.

“I can’t believe I thought I’d be miserable,” you tell him one morning, wrapped in his arms after a particularly energetic session.

“I can’t believe I almost let you sleep in separate bedrooms for the rest of our lives.”

“What changed your mind?”

“That storm. Holding you.” He pulls you closer. “I couldn’t pretend anymore that I didn’t want this. Want you.”

“I’m glad you stopped pretending.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Do you think we would have found this eventually? If not for the storm?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe we would have stayed strangers forever.” You trace patterns on his chest. “I’m grateful we didn’t have to find out.”

Winter arrives, bringing cold rain and early darkness. Jungwon has been coughing more lately, but you don’t think much of it. Everyone gets sick in winter. But it doesn’t get better.

One morning in late December, you wake to find blood on his handkerchief. “It’s nothing,” he insists when you confront him. “Just a cough.”

“That’s not just a cough.”

“I’ll see the physician if it makes you feel better.” It doesn’t make you feel better. Especially when the physician comes and takes one look at Jungwon and his face goes carefully blank.

“Tuberculosis,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” The word hits like a physical blow.

“How long?” you ask, because Jungwon seems incapable of speech.

“Impossible to say. Months, perhaps. Maybe a year with rest and good care.” A year. Maybe.

After the physician leaves, you find Jungwon in the library, staring out the window at nothing. “We’ll get through this,” you say, taking his hand.

“Don’t.” His voice is hollow. “Don’t pretend this is something we can fix.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m fighting.”

“There’s nothing to fight.” He turns to look at you, and there are tears on his face. “I’m dying. And I finally—” His voice breaks. “I finally found something worth living for.” You pull him into your arms and let him cry.

The next months are a cruel inversion of your happiness. You care for him as he weakens, watching helplessly as the vibrant man you love fades into someone pale and frail.

He tries to stay strong for you. Jokes when he can manage it, reads to you when he has the breath, makes love to you when his body allows it though you tell him he doesn’t have to.

“I want to,” he insists. “While I still can. While I can still make you feel good.” Those moments are bittersweet. Tender and desperate, both of you trying to memorize every touch, every sound.

By spring, he’s confined to bed most days. You spend hours sitting with him, reading or just holding his hand. One night in April, you open the window to let in the fresh air. The moon is full and bright, hanging low in the sky. “Beautiful,” Jungwon murmurs from the bed.

You return to his side. “The moon?”

“Everything.” He’s looking at you, not the sky. “You’re beautiful. This life we built, however brief. Beautiful.” You take his hand, fighting back tears.

He turns his gaze to the moon, a small smile on his lips. “Do you think the moon remembers us?”

The question is strange, out of place. “What?”

“The moon. Do you think it remembers us? All the people who’ve looked up at it throughout time?”

You don’t understand why he’s asking this, but you answer honestly. “I’d like to think so. That all our stories, all our love, is remembered somewhere.”

“Good.” He squeezes your hand weakly. “Then it will remember this. Remember us. How much I love you.”

“Don’t.” Your voice breaks. “Don’t talk like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I have to.” He’s struggling to breathe now, each word an effort. “Have to tell you. In case… in case there’s something after this.”

“Jungwon—”

“I’ll find you.” He says it with utter conviction. “In the next life, if there is one. I’ll find you. However long it takes.”

Tears are streaming down your face. “Don’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But I don’t think I have a choice.”

You climb into the bed beside him, careful of his fragile body, and hold him as gently as you can. “I love you,” you whisper. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” His breathing is getting shallower. “Thank you. For making me happy. For letting me love you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.” He’s fading, you can feel it. “You saved me. From a life of duty and emptiness. You gave me joy.”

“You gave me the same.”

He smiles, peaceful despite the pain. “Then we’re even.” His eyes close.

“Jungwon?” Panic claws at your throat. “Jungwon, don’t—”

“Just resting,” he murmurs. “So tired.”

“I know. But stay with me. Please stay with me.”

“Always.” His grip on your hand is so weak now. “Every life. Every lifetime. I’ll find you.” Those are the last words he speaks.

He dies as the sun rises, the moon fading into daylight, and you’re left holding an empty shell of the man who taught you what love could be. You don’t leave his side for hours. Can’t bring yourself to let go.

When they finally take him away, you return to the window. The moon is gone now, but you look up at the sky anyway.

“Remember us,” you whisper. “Please remember us.” Somewhere in the vast indifference of the universe, maybe it does.

1912 — Jungwon’s POV

The ship is bigger than anything Jungwon has ever seen. He stands on the dock in Southampton, neck craned back to take in the sheer scale of the RMS Titanic, and feels impossibly small. Four massive funnels reach toward the sky, the hull gleaming white and black in the April sun. Unsinkable, they’re calling it. The ship that even God himself couldn’t sink.

Jungwon doesn’t believe in unsinkable ships, but he believes in new beginnings. America. That’s where this floating palace is headed, and Jungwon along with it. He’s got a third-class ticket, everything he owns in a single worn suitcase, and hopes for a job in New York that might actually pay enough to live on.

England has nothing left for him— no family, no prospects, no future worth staying for. So: America. And the Titanic to get him there.

The third-class gangway is crowded with people like him— immigrants, workers, dreamers. The smell of unwashed bodies and cheap tobacco mingles with salt air. Jungwon shoulders his suitcase and joins the queue, shuffling forward slowly.

“Papers,” the officer barks when Jungwon reaches the front. He hands them over— passport, ticket, health certificate. Everything in order. The officer barely glances at them before waving him through. And then he’s aboard.

The third-class accommodations are exactly what he expected— cramped quarters, narrow bunks stacked three high, thin blankets that smell of mothballs. He’s sharing the cabin with five other men, none of whom speak English. They communicate in gestures and broken phrases, sorting out who gets which bunk. Jungwon ends up with a middle one. It’ll do. It’s only four days to New York.

He leaves his suitcase on the bunk and goes exploring. Third-class passengers aren’t supposed to wander into the upper decks, but the ship is massive and the crew can’t be everywhere. Jungwon has never been good at following rules.

He climbs stairs, follows hallways, nods politely at stewards who eye him suspiciously but don’t actually stop him. The ship is a maze of opulence and machinery— plush carpets giving way to metal floors, crystal chandeliers to bare electric bulbs.

He finds his way to the Boat Deck, where the lifeboats hang in their davits and the ocean stretches endless in every direction. The ship has pulled away from port now, Southampton shrinking behind them. The coast of England is a gray line on the horizon. Goodbye, he thinks. Good riddance.

He’s leaning against the railing, breathing in cold salt air, when he sees her. She’s first class— that much is obvious from the dress alone. Pale blue silk, cinched waist, a hat that probably cost more than his ticket. She’s standing near the stern with a man in an expensive suit, and even from a distance Jungwon can tell she doesn’t want to be there.

Her posture is stiff, uncomfortable. The man— her husband? fiancé?— has his hand possessively on her elbow, gesturing at the horizon like he owns it. She nods along, dutiful and detached.

And then she turns her head, just slightly, and her eyes meet Jungwon’s across the deck. The world stops. It’s not love at first sight— Jungwon doesn’t believe in that. But it’s something. Recognition, maybe, though he’s never seen her before in his life. A pull, deep in his chest, like a hook catching and refusing to let go.

She holds his gaze for three heartbeats. Four. Five. Then the man says something and she looks away, the moment broken. Jungwon should leave. Should go back to third class where he belongs, forget about the beautiful woman in the blue dress. He doesn’t.

He sees her again that evening in the third-class general room. Which is impossible, because first-class passengers don’t come down to third class. Ever. It’s practically a law.

But there she is, hovering in the doorway, looking around with wide eyes at the crowded, noisy space. Someone’s playing an accordion, children are running underfoot, people are drinking and laughing and speaking in a dozen different languages. She looks completely out of place and utterly enchanted. Jungwon makes his way through the crowd toward her.

“Lost?” he asks. She startles, turning to look at him. Up close, she’s even more beautiful— dark eyes, delicate features, a strand of hair escaping from beneath her hat.

“I—” She glances behind her, nervous. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Probably not. Want to stay anyway?”

A smile tugs at her lips. “Maybe. Just for a moment.”

“Come on.” He offers his hand. “I’ll give you the grand tour. It’ll take about thirty seconds.” She laughs and takes his hand.

He shows her the general room, the modest dining area, the stairs leading down to the berths. She asks questions— where is he from, where is he going, what does he hope to find in America. He answers honestly, charmed by her genuine interest. “What about you?” he asks. “What brings you to third class?”

“Curiosity. And…” She hesitates. “Escape, I suppose.”

“From what?”

“A man with too much money and not enough imagination.” She says it lightly, but there’s bitterness underneath. “My fiancé. He thinks he owns me.”

“Does he?”

“Not yet. The wedding isn’t until we reach New York.”

Something cold settles in Jungwon’s stomach. “You don’t want to marry him.”

“No. But I don’t have much choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Not for women like me.” She pulls her hand from his, wrapping her arms around herself. “I should go. He’ll notice I’m gone.”

“Wait.” Jungwon doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he can’t let her leave yet. “What’s your name?” She shouldn’t tell him. It’s improper, dangerous even. But she does anyway. And Jungwon commits it to memory like a prayer.

They keep running into each other. Or rather, she keeps finding excuses to slip away from her fiancé and come find Jungwon. It’s reckless and stupid and neither of them can stop.

She comes down to third class when she can, staying for stolen minutes in hallways and quiet corners. They talk about everything— books, dreams, the lives they wish they could have. She tells him about growing up in a gilded cage, groomed from birth to marry well and look pretty. He tells her about growing up with nothing, fighting for every scrap.

“I envy you,” she says one night. They’re on the aft deck, hidden from view behind a lifeboat. It’s late, most passengers asleep. The stars are brilliant overhead.

“Envy me?” Jungwon laughs. “I have nothing.”

“You have freedom. You can go anywhere, be anyone. I’ve never had that.”

“You could. Come to America with me. Really with me, not with him.”

“Don’t.” But she doesn’t move away when he steps closer. “Don’t give me hope for things that can’t happen.”

“Why can’t they?”

“Because I’m engaged. Because he’d ruin you if he found out. Because—” Jungwon kisses her. It’s impulsive and foolish and she should push him away, should slap him, should run back to her fiancé and forget this ever happened. She kisses him back instead.

It’s desperate and messy and perfect. His hands in her hair, her fingers clutching his shirt. Four days they’ve been on this ship and it feels like a lifetime, feels like they’ve known each other forever.

When they break apart, they’re both breathing hard. “Come to my cabin,” he says. “Please.”

“I can’t—”

“I know. But please. Just tonight. Let me have tonight.”

She should say no. She should walk away while she still can. “Yes,” she whispers instead. “Yes.”

His cabin is empty— his bunkmates still in the general room, drinking and playing cards. Jungwon locks the door behind them, and for a moment they just stand there, looking at each other. “We don’t have to,” he says. “If you don’t want—”

“I want.” She’s already working at the buttons of her dress. “Help me?”

His hands shake as he helps her undress, revealing layers of silk and lace and finally, skin. She’s beautiful, all soft curves and pale flesh, and he can’t believe this is real.

She undresses him too, fingers fumbling with buttons and buckles until they’re both bare. The cabin is cramped and cold, but neither of them cares. “Have you—” he starts.

“No. Have you?”

“No.” They laugh, nervous and giddy, and then he’s guiding her to the narrow bunk, covering her body with his.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmurs, kissing her neck.

“You won’t.”

He takes his time, exploring her body with hands and mouth. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her arch into his touch. When he slides his hand between her thighs and finds her wet, she moans. “Jungwon—”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He strokes her clit, watching her face as pleasure builds. She’s gorgeous like this— flushed and wanting, all artifice stripped away. When she comes apart under his fingers, he feels like he’s witnessing something holy.

“Inside me,” she pants. “Please, I need—”

He positions himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her wetness. “This might hurt,” he warns.

“I don’t care.” He pushes in slowly, feeling her stretch around him. She winces and he freezes.

“Don’t stop,” she grits out. “Keep going.” He does, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside her. The feeling is overwhelming— tight and hot and perfect. He has to hold still for a moment, fighting the urge to move.

“Okay?” he manages.

“Okay. More than okay. Move, please—” He does, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. Finding a rhythm, careful and deep. Her legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Like that, just like that—”

The bunk creaks beneath them, the sound embarrassingly loud in the small cabin. But Jungwon can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is this— her body beneath his, the way she’s looking at him like he’s everything.

“I’m close,” he warns. “I need to—”

“Inside me. Don’t pull out.”

“But—”

“I don’t care. I want to feel you.” That’s all it takes. He buries himself deep and comes with a groan, spilling inside her. The feeling of his cock pulsing, of his release filling her, pushes her over the edge. She comes around him with a cry, her cunt clenching and fluttering. They collapse together in the narrow bunk, sweaty and satisfied and stunned by what just happened. “I love you,” she whispers against his chest.

“I love you too.” He kisses the top of her head. “Come with me. To New York. Leave him and come with me.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. We’ll—”

“Shh.” She presses a finger to his lips. “Let’s not think about tomorrow yet. Let’s just have tonight.”

So they do. They make love again, slower this time. Learning each other, memorizing every touch. And afterward, they lie tangled together, talking in whispers about impossible futures.

Through the porthole, the moon hangs low over the water, full and bright. “Look,” she says, pointing. “The moon.”

Jungwon follows her gaze. “It’s beautiful.”

“Do you think the moon remembers us?” she asks suddenly. “All the people who’ve looked up at it throughout time?”

The question is strange, but somehow it doesn’t feel strange. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I just… I want something to remember this. Remember us. In case—” She stops, shaking her head. “Never mind. I’m being foolish.”

“You’re not.” He pulls her closer. “And yes. I think the moon remembers. I think it’s watched a million love stories just like ours.”

“This isn’t a love story. Love stories have happy endings.”

“Ours will too.” He says it with conviction he doesn’t quite feel. “We’ll make it work. We’ll—”

She kisses him, cutting off the words. They make love once more, desperate and clinging, like they’re trying to fight off the dawn.

When she finally leaves, slipping back to first class before sunrise, Jungwon lies in the bunk that still smells like her and tries not to think about losing her.

The next day, April 14th, dawns cold and clear. Jungwon doesn’t see her all morning, all afternoon. He walks the decks, hoping for a glimpse, but third class and first class might as well be different worlds.

By evening, he’s restless and frustrated. He shouldn’t have let her go. Should have convinced her to stay, to run away with him right then.

He’s in the general room after dinner, nursing a beer and trying not to think about her, when the ship shudders. It’s subtle— a grinding sensation, a slight lurch. Most people don’t even notice. But Jungwon feels it in his bones, a wrongness that makes his skin prickle. Around him, the conversation continues. The accordion plays. Children laugh. But something is wrong.

It’s another twenty minutes before the crew starts coming through, telling everyone to put on life belts and head to the Boat Deck. Their voices are calm, almost casual. Just a precaution. Nothing to worry about. Jungwon doesn’t believe them.

He grabs his coat and joins the stream of people heading upstairs. The corridors are crowded, confused. Why are they doing this? It’s freezing outside. The ship is fine. But when Jungwon reaches the deck, he sees the ice. Chunks of it, scattered across the forward deck like broken glass. And the ship— the unsinkable ship— is listing. Tilting forward, just barely, but

Crew members are uncovering lifeboats, their movements quick and efficient. Women and children are being loaded first, separating families, causing chaos. Jungwon scans the crowd frantically, looking for her. There are hundreds of people on deck now, maybe thousands. First class mixing with second and third, all the careful social hierarchies breaking down in the face of disaster.

He pushes through the crowd, searching. She has to be here somewhere. She has to— there. She’s near one of the lifeboats, her fiancé gripping her arm. She’s arguing with him, trying to pull away, and Jungwon’s heart seizes. He fights his way toward her.

“—not getting in without you!” she’s saying, tears streaming down her face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her fiancé snaps. “The ship is sinking. Get in the boat.”

“I won’t leave you—”

“You will if I tell you to—”

“Let her go.” Jungwon doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s hard, angry, nothing like the gentle tone he used with her last night.

The fiancé turns, sees him, and his face twists with contempt. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who actually cares about her. Let. Her. Go.”

“You’re that third-class rat she’s been sneaking off to see.” The fiancé’s grip tightens on her arm and she winces. “I should have known. Guards!”

“Stop it!” She wrenches free, stumbling toward Jungwon. “Stop it, both of you!”

Jungwon catches her, steadying her. Up close, he can see the terror in her eyes. “The ship,” she whispers. “It’s really sinking, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then we need to— we have to—“ She looks around wildly at the chaos, the lifeboats being lowered, the growing tilt of the deck.

“Get on a boat,” Jungwon says. “Now. While there’s still room.”

“Not without you.”

“There’s no room for me. Women and children only.” He cups her face, memorizing her features. “Please. Get on the boat.”

“No. No, I won’t—” Her fiancé grabs her again, and this time he’s stronger, more forceful. He drags her toward the lifeboat despite her struggles.

“Jungwon!” she screams. He tries to follow but a crew member blocks his way.

“Back, sir. Women and children only.”

“That’s my—” But what is she? Not his wife. Not even really his lover, except for one stolen night. “Please, she needs me—”

“Step back or I’ll have you removed.”

Through the crowd, Jungwon watches helplessly as her fiancé forces her into the lifeboat. She’s fighting, crying, calling Jungwon’s name. Their eyes meet across the distance. I love you, he mouths. The lifeboat starts to lower.

“NO!” She’s leaning over the edge, reaching for him. “Jungwon, please! PLEASE!” But the boat drops away, down toward the black water, and she’s gone.

Jungwon stands frozen, watching the lifeboat pull away from the dying ship. She’s safe. That’s what matters. She’s safe.

The Titanic groans beneath his feet, the bow sinking lower. Around him, people are screaming now, the reality of the situation setting in. Not enough boats. Not enough time. He’s going to die here. The thought is strangely calm.

He makes his way to the stern, which is rising now as the bow sinks. The deck is tilting at a dangerous angle, people clinging to railings, crying and praying. Jungwon finds a spot near the back and looks up at the sky. The stars are brilliant, the moon nearly full. Beautiful.

He thinks about last night. Her body beneath his, the way she said his name. The plans they made that will never happen now. “I’ll find you in the next life,” he whispers to the moon, to the stars, to whatever might be listening.

The ship shudders violently. Somewhere below, something breaks with a sound like thunder. The stern is rising higher now, nearly vertical.

People are jumping, falling, screaming as they plummet into the icy water. Jungwon holds on, watching it all with strange detachment.

This is how he dies. Not in a fight, not of old age, but here on a ship that was supposed to be unsinkable, thinking about a woman he knew for four days. The ship breaks. He feels it— the hull splitting, metal screaming as the bow tears away and sinks. The stern bobs for a moment, and Jungwon thinks maybe, maybe—

Then it goes down. The water is so cold it stops his heart. He tries to swim but his limbs won’t cooperate, the freezing temperature shutting down his body piece by piece. Around him, people are screaming, thrashing, dying. He stops fighting.

As the water closes over his head, his last thought is of her. Of dark eyes and soft skin and a single night that felt like forever. I’ll find you, he thinks again. I promise. I’ll find you. The moon watches as he drowns.

In the lifeboat, she’s still screaming his name. Her fiancé tries to restrain her, tries to calm her down, but she’s hysterical. She saw the ship break. Saw it go down. Saw hundreds of people disappear into the black water. Including Jungwon. “He’s gone,” her fiancé says, not unkindly. “I’m sorry, but he’s gone.”

“No.” She’s shaking her head, denial and grief warring in her chest. “No, he can’t be. He promised. He said—” But she can’t remember what he said. Only that it felt important. That it felt true.

They’re rescued hours later by the Carpathia. She and her fiancé are wrapped in blankets, given hot soup, processed like cargo. She goes through the motions, numb and hollow.

Her fiancé tries to comfort her, tries to pretend the last four days didn’t happen. They’ll still marry when they reach New York, he says. Put this tragedy behind them. Move forward. She nods because she doesn’t have the energy to argue. But she knows the truth. She died on that ship too. The woman she was, the woman Jungwon made her feel like she could be— that woman drowned in the Atlantic. What’s left is just a shell.

On the Carpathia’s deck that night, she looks up at the moon. The same moon that watched them make love, that heard her ask if it would remember.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please remember him. Remember us.” The moon offers no answer. But somewhere, somehow, she thinks it heard.

1969 — Your POV

June 15, 1969 Dear Diary, I hate that I’m starting this like some teenage girl, but Mom gave me this journal and said writing might help. Help with what, I’m not sure. The fear? The waiting? The bone-deep terror that comes with loving someone who’s about to go to war? Jungwon got his draft notice today. He came home from the post office with this look on his face— not surprised, exactly, but resigned. Like he’d been waiting for this moment and now it’s finally here. First son. That’s what the letter said, like that explains everything. Like being born first means you’re obligated to die first too. We’ve been together for two years. Two perfect, beautiful years. We met at a protest, of all places— both of us marching against this stupid war, and now he has to go fight in it. The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking tragic. He leaves in eight weeks. Sixty days. That’s all we have left. I don’t know how to do this. How to count down the days until I lose him. How to smile and be strong when all I want to do is scream. But I’ll try. For him, I’ll try.

You remember the day you met him with perfect clarity. August 1967. Washington D.C. The March on the Pentagon. You’d gone with friends from college, piled into someone’s beat-up Volkswagen van with hand-painted peace signs on the sides. The whole drive down you’d sung protest songs and shared joints and felt like you were part of something important.

The crowd was massive— thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands. You’d never seen anything like it. Everyone young and angry and alive, waving signs and chanting. “Hell no, we won’t go!” “Make love, not war!” The energy was electric.

You’d lost your friends somewhere in the chaos. Didn’t matter— you were swept up in the crowd, moving with the mass of bodies toward the Pentagon. The police were there in riot gear, a wall of shields and batons, and the crowd pressed forward anyway.

That’s when you saw him. He was near the front, dark hair falling in his eyes, wearing a denim jacket covered in pins and patches. He was shouting something at the police line, passionate and fearless, and you thought: I want to know him.

When the police charged, everything descended into chaos. People running, screaming, tear gas filling the air. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Someone grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the worst of it. It was him.

“Come on!” he shouted over the noise, tugging you through the crowd. You ran together, lungs burning, until you were several blocks away. Safe. You collapsed against a building, coughing and laughing and high on adrenaline.

“You okay?” he asked, looking you over with genuine concern.

“I think so. Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely back toward the chaos.

“Couldn’t leave a fellow revolutionary to get trampled.” He grinned, and it transformed his whole face. “I’m Jungwon.” You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was memorizing it.

You spent the rest of the day together. Found your respective friends eventually, but kept gravitating back to each other. Talking about the war, about politics, about music and books and dreams for a better world. He was smart and funny and so passionate about everything he believed in. By the time you had to leave, you’d given him your number. He called three days later.

Your first date was at a coffee shop in Greenwich Village, the kind of place with poetry readings and folk music and cigarette smoke thick in the air. You talked for six hours straight, until the owner kicked you out at closing.

Your second date was a concert in Central Park. Simon and Garfunkel. You sat on a blanket and he held your hand and you thought you might be falling in love.

Your third date ended in his tiny apartment in the East Village, with his hands in your hair and your legs wrapped around his waist and the certainty that this was it. This was everything.

Two years later, you’ve built a life together. It’s not much— a small apartment, mismatched furniture, more books than shelf space— but it’s yours. You work at a bookstore. He’s in his second year of college, studying literature because he loves it even though his parents think it’s impractical.

You go to protests together, make love to Motown records, cook dinners that are more ambition than skill. You talk about the future— maybe moving to San Francisco, maybe joining a commune, maybe just existing in this little bubble of happiness forever.

And then the draft notice came.

June 20, 1969. We went to the recruitment office today to see if there was any way out of this. Deferment, conscientious objector status, anything. There isn’t. The officer— this smug asshole with a crew cut and a flag pin— looked at Jungwon like he was dirt. Said being a first son means he has a duty to serve. Said if he tries to dodge, they’ll find him. Said a lot of boys would be grateful for the opportunity to serve their country. Jungwon didn’t say anything. Just nodded and took the papers and walked out. I wanted to scream at that officer. Wanted to tell him that this isn’t service, it’s murder. That we’re sending boys to die in a jungle halfway around the world for a war nobody even understands anymore. That Jungwon has already served— served the cause of peace, served humanity by refusing to hate people he’s never met. But I didn’t say anything either. On the way home, Jungwon finally spoke. He said he was scared. That’s all. Just those two words. And then he started crying, right there on the subway, and I held him while strangers pretended not to notice. I’m scared too. Terrified. But I can’t let him see that. Only fifty-two days left.

July 4, 1969 Independence Day. The irony isn’t lost on us. We went to a protest in the park instead of watching fireworks. Smaller crowd than usual— a lot of people are getting tired, I think. Tired of marching and shouting and nothing changing. The war keeps grinding on. Boys keep dying. But we went anyway. Held our signs. Chanted until our throats were raw. Afterward, we walked home through the city. It was late, past midnight, and the streets were mostly empty. Jungwon stopped suddenly and pulled me into an alley. He said he wants to remember this. Us. Me. Before everything changes. And then he kissed me, deep and desperate, and we made love right there against a brick wall. It was reckless and uncomfortable and perfect. When we got home, we stayed up until dawn making love again, slower this time. Memorizing each other. Thirty-eight days.

The countdown is torture. Every morning you wake up and think: one day less. One day closer to losing him.

You try to make the most of the time you have left. You go to all your favorite places— the coffee shop where you had your first date, the record store where you spent hours flipping through albums, the park where you’ve had a hundred picnics. You take pictures, filling up two whole rolls of film. You cook elaborate dinners and stay up late talking about everything and nothing.

And you make love constantly. In your bed, on the couch, in the shower. Sometimes slow and tender, sometimes urgent and desperate. Like you’re trying to fit a lifetime of intimacy into a handful of weeks.

Jungwon is quieter now. More withdrawn. You catch him staring at nothing sometimes, lost in thoughts he won’t share. “Talk to me,” you beg one night after he’s been silent through dinner.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I keep thinking about all the things I’m going to miss. Stupid things, like… the way you hum when you’re cooking. Or how you always steal my coffee even though you have your own. Or the sound of rain on the window when we’re in bed.”

“You’ll come back.” You say it fiercely, like conviction can make it true. “You’ll come back and we’ll have all of that again.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Don’t say that—”

“We have to talk about it.” His voice is gentle but firm. “We have to acknowledge that I might not come home.”

“I can’t.” Tears are streaming down your face now. “I can’t think about that. If I think about that, I’ll fall apart.”

He pulls you into his arms, holding you while you sob. “Then don’t think about it. Just… remember that I love you. That I’ll always love you. No matter what happens.”

“I love you too. So much.” You make love that night with tears on both your faces, holding each other like you can physically stop time if you just hold tight enough.

July 28, 1969 Two weeks. That’s all we have left. Jungwon is trying to act normal. Going to classes, seeing friends, pretending like everything is fine. But I see the cracks. The way his hands shake sometimes. The nightmares that wake him up gasping. I asked him last night what he’s afraid of. He said dying but also coming back as someone else. If he comes back at all. I said you don’t die, you’ll come back and you’ll be exactly who you are now. But honestly, I don’t know if that’s true. How could anyone go through war and come back unchanged? We had sex three times today. I’m getting sore but I don’t care. Every time feels like it might be the last time, so we keep reaching for each other. This morning he went down on me for what felt like hours, making me come twice before he even took his cock out. Then he fucked me slow and deep, whispering how much he loves me, how beautiful I am, how he’s going to remember every second of this. I rode him after, taking my time, watching his face as he fell apart beneath me. He came inside me and I thought: let me get pregnant. Let there be some piece of him that stays even if he doesn’t come back. I didn’t say that out loud. It would terrify him. Fourteen days.

August 7, 1969 Five days. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t think about anything except the calendar counting down. We went to Woodstock yesterday. Or tried to— the traffic was so bad we only made it halfway before turning back. But we could hear the music in the distance, see the crowds. It felt important somehow. All these people gathering to celebrate peace and love while the world burns down around us. Tonight we’re staying in. Just the two of us. I don’t want to share him with anyone else. Not now.

You spend the last five days in bed. Not the whole time, obviously— you have to eat, use the bathroom, occasionally answer the door when friends come by to say goodbye. But mostly, you stay in bed. Making love. Talking. Sleeping tangled together. Trying to memorize the feeling of his body against yours.

“Tell me about after,” Jungwon says on the third-to-last night. “When I come back. What are we going to do?”

“Everything.” You trace patterns on his bare chest. “We’re going to do everything we’ve always talked about. Move to California. Live in a commune. Grow our own food. Make art and music and love every single day.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“We’ll get married. Nothing fancy— just us and a few friends and maybe some wildflowers. I’ll wear a white dress and you’ll wear your denim jacket with all the pins.”

He laughs. “Very traditional.”

“We’ll have kids someday. Two or three. We’ll teach them to question everything and fight for what’s right and love fiercely.”

“I want that.” His voice cracks. “I want all of that with you.”

“Then come back to me. Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I promise I’ll try.” It’s not the same as promising to come back, but it’s all he can give.

You make love again, slow and reverent. He worships your body with his hands and mouth, making you come on his tongue before sliding inside you. You move together in perfect rhythm, years of practice making you instinctively know what the other needs. When you both finish, you lie there in the afterglow, holding each other. “I love you,” he whispers. “More than anything in this world.”

“I love you too. Come back to me.”

“I will. I swear I will.”

August 11, 1969 Tomorrow. He leaves tomorrow. I don’t know how to write this. Don’t know what to say that won’t sound trite or desperate or completely inadequate. We spent today doing normal things. Had breakfast at our favorite diner. Walked through the park. Went to the record store and bought the new Dylan album even though we can’t really afford it. Tonight we went up to the roof of our building. It’s illegal but no one cares. We brought a blanket and a bottle of wine and lay there looking at the stars. The moon was almost full. So bright I could see every detail of his face. Do you think the moon remembers us? Is what he’d asked me. I didn’t fully understand the question. He continued with how all the people who’ve looked at it, do you think the moons remember them and their stories? I said I didn’t know. He said how he wants it to remember us, remember this moment incase he doesn’t come back. I told him that it will, and I will, how could I forget him? We made love on that roof under the moonlight. It was cold and uncomfortable and the most beautiful thing we’ve ever done. Afterward, lying in his arms, he said it: if he doesn’t make it back that I should know that he’ll find me in the next life, no matter how long it take, no matter the cost. I told him he’s coming back to me in this one. He kissed me instead of arguing. And we made love again, desperate and clinging. We didn’t sleep. Stayed up all night holding each other, watching the moon travel across the sky. He leaves in six hours. I don’t know how to let him go.

The morning is gray and cold, unseasonably cool for August. You help him pack, though there’s not much to take. A small duffel bag with some clothes, toiletries, a few photos. He tucks the pictures carefully into the side pocket— one of the two of you at that first protest, one from a party last year where you’re both laughing at something, one from last week where you’re just looking at each other. “So I don’t forget,” he says quietly.

“You won’t forget.”

“No. But just in case.”

The bus station is crowded with other boys shipping out, their families crying and saying goodbye. You see mothers clutching sons, girlfriends sobbing into boyfriends’ shoulders. Everyone trying to be brave and failing. Jungwon holds you until the very last second. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Come back to me.”

“I will. I promise.” He pulls back to look at you, memorizing your face. “Wait for me?”

“Always. Forever. I’ll wait forever if I have to.” One last kiss. Deep and desperate and tasting of salt from tears— yours, his, both. And then he’s boarding the bus with all the other boys in their too-new uniforms, and you’re standing on the platform watching it pull away.

He’s at the window. You can see him pressed against the glass, one hand flat against it like he’s reaching for you. You raise your hand in a wave. And then the bus turns the corner and he’s gone. You stand there for a long time after, staring at the empty street.

Someone touches your shoulder— another girl who just said goodbye to her boyfriend. She’s crying too. “They’ll come back,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. “They have to come back.” You nod because you can’t speak. But you’re not sure you believe it.

August 15, 1969 I’m at Woodstock. Finally made it. I came alone. Couldn’t stand being in the apartment without him. Everything there reminds me of Jungwon— his books still on the shelf, his jacket hanging by the door, the sheets that still smell like him. The festival is chaos. Mud everywhere, people as far as I can see, music blasting from the stage. It’s overwhelming and beautiful and exactly what I need. I’m not really here, though. Part of me is still on that bus station platform. Part of me is wherever Jungwon is right now— boot camp, probably. Learning how to kill people. I hate this. I hate all of it. But I’m here, in the mud and the music, because he would want me to be. Because this is what we believe in— peace, love, community. All the things we’re trying to build while the government tears them down. I’m going to survive this. I’m going to wait for him, and when he comes home, we’re going to build the life we talked about. I have to believe that.

September 3, 1969 First letter from Jungwon arrived today. I was so excited I almost ripped it opening the envelope. ‘My love, Boot camp is hell. They wake us up at 4 AM and work us until we drop. Everything is shouting and pushups and running until I want to puke. They’re trying to break us down, turn us into soldiers. Turn us into killers. I don’t know if I can do this. But I think about you every night. About your smile, your laugh, the way you look when you first wake up. About making love on our roof under the moon. Those memories are the only thing keeping me sane. I miss you so much it physically hurts. Miss your voice, your touch, the way you steal my coffee. Miss everything. I’ll write as often as I can. Tell me about your life. What you’re reading, where you’re going, who you’re seeing. I need to know that the world I’m fighting for (even though I don’t believe in this war) still exists. I love you. More than words can say. Forever yours, Jungwon’ I read it five times. Then I went into the bedroom and cried into his pillow.

September 20, 1969 I’m writing letters every day. Sometimes twice a day. I tell him about everything— the bookstore, protests I go to, albums I buy, books I read. Stupid mundane things that probably bore him, but he asked for them so I write. His letters come sporadically. Sometimes I get three in one week, sometimes nothing for two weeks. When they arrive, I devour them. He’s trying to stay positive, I can tell. But I read between the lines. The exhaustion. The fear. The slow erosion of the person he was. He finishes boot camp next month. Then he ships out. To Vietnam. I can’t think about it. If I think about it, I’ll lose my mind.

October 12, 1969 He called today. Five minutes on a pay phone before shipping out. His voice sounded different. Harder. Older. He told me he loves me, and that no matter what happens I need to remember that. I said I love him too and to be safe, to please be safe. And then the line went dead. That was eight hours ago and I can’t stop crying.

October 30, 1969 Letter from Vietnam. ‘My love, I’m here. In the jungle. In the war. I can’t tell you where exactly (they censor that) or what we’re doing (they censor that too). I can tell you it’s hot and wet and everything smells like rot and fear. I can tell you I think about you constantly. That your letters are the only good thing in this place. That I keep your photo in my pocket over my heart. I can tell you I’m terrified. Not of dying— though I am scared of that— but of becoming someone you won’t recognize when I come home. If I come home. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t write things like that. You need hope, not my fear. I love you. I love you. I love you. Stay safe. Live your life. Don’t put it on hold waiting for me. All my love, Jungwon’ I wrote back immediately: My love, I will always wait for you. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what you’ve seen or done or become. You’re mine and I’m yours and nothing changes that. Come home to me. All my love, forever.

The letters continue. Back and forth across an ocean, across a war. Sometimes they’re full of mundane details— what he ate, what you did that day. Sometimes they’re deeper— fears, hopes, dreams for the future. You live for those letters. They’re proof he’s still alive, still him, still yours.

November 15, 1969 Haven’t heard from him in three weeks. I tell myself it’s fine. Mail is slow. He’s busy. He’s in the jungle where there’s no way to send letters. But the silence is deafening.

December 1, 1969 Five weeks now. I called his parents. They haven’t heard anything either. I’m trying not to panic.

December 10, 1969 Letter arrived today. Thank god. Thank god. ‘My love, I’m sorry for the silence. We were in the field— weeks in the jungle, no communication with the outside world. I wrote you letters every night but couldn’t send them. I’ll mail them all now so you’ll get a flood at once. I saw combat. Real combat. I can’t describe it. Won’t describe it. Just know that I’m okay. Physically okay, at least. The guys in my unit are good men. We take care of each other. That helps. I miss you so much I dream about you every night. Dream about being home, about holding you, about a life where there’s no war. Soon. I’ll be home soon. I love you endlessly, Jungwon’ Six more letters arrived over the next week. All written in the jungle, some barely legible, all filled with love and longing. I’m holding onto them like lifelines.

January 1, 1970 New year. New decade. I spent it alone in our apartment, drinking cheap wine and reading his letters. This year, he comes home. He has to.

The months blur together. Winter turns to spring. Letters arrive sporadically, sometimes cheerful, sometimes dark. You write back religiously, filling page after page with your life, your love, your hope.

You go to protests but your heart’s not in it anymore. You work at the bookstore. You see friends. You exist in a state of suspended animation, waiting.

The nightmares start in March. You dream of jungles and gunfire and blood. You dream of Jungwon dying in a thousand different ways. You wake up screaming, reaching for him, finding only empty sheets. You stop sleeping well.

April 20, 1970 Eight months since he left. I saw a news report today about casualties. The numbers are staggering. Thousands dead. Thousands more wounded. I couldn’t watch. His last letter said his unit was moving to a new position. He couldn’t say where. Couldn’t say what they’d be doing. I haven’t heard from him since. It’s been two weeks.

May 5, 1970 Three weeks. I’m trying not to think about what that might mean.

May 12, 1970 Four weeks. I called his parents again. Still nothing. I’m losing my mind.

May 20, 1970 Letter arrived today. But it’s not from him. It’s from his commanding officer. ‘Dear Miss, It is my duty to inform you that Private Yang Jungwon was killed in action on April 28, 1970, during combat operations in [REDACTED]. Private Yang died bravely, serving his country with honor. He was well-liked by his unit and will be deeply missed. Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss. Respectfully, Captain Haruma, United States Army’ I don’t remember the rest of that day. I don’t remember screaming. Don’t remember collapsing. Don’t remember the neighbors breaking down the door because they heard me and thought someone was being murdered. I remember waking up in a hospital. Sedated. Numb. I remember his mother crying on the phone saying that he’s coming home. But he’s not coming home. Not really. Just a body in a box.

May 25, 1970 They buried him today. Military funeral. Flag-draped coffin. Gun salute. The whole terrible ceremony. I couldn’t look at the coffin. Couldn’t accept that he was in there. That the man I loved, love— vibrant and alive and so full of passion— was reduced to a body in a box in the ground. They gave me the flag. Folded into a perfect triangle. I wanted to scream at them. Wanted to throw the flag back in their faces and demand they give me Jungwon instead. But I just stood there, numb, while they lowered him into the ground. After, I went home and found a letter. Tucked into my mailbox. From him. Dated April 27. The day before he died. ‘My love, If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I wrote this just in case. Just in case the worst happens and I don’t get to say goodbye. First: I love you. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love another person. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. The brightest light in my life. Every moment with you was a gift. Second: This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. Don’t torture yourself with what-ifs. We had no control over this. Third: Live. Please, live your life. Don’t spend it mourning me. Find love again if you can. Be happy. Make art. Change the world. Do all the things we talked about doing together. And finally: I’ll find you in the next life. I don’t know if there is a next life, but if there is, I’ll find you. I’ll find you in every lifetime. This isn’t the end. It can’t be. I love you forever, Jungwon P.S. - Remember the moon? How I asked if it remembers us? I hope it does. I hope something in this universe remembers that we existed, that we loved each other. That our love was real and true and worth something, even if it was brief.’

I can’t write anymore. Can’t see through the tears. He’s gone. The love of my life is gone. And I don’t know how to survive this.

The journal entries stop after that. The pages remain blank for months, then years. You keep the journal, but you can’t bring yourself to write in it. Can’t put into words the emptiness, the grief that never quite fades.

You do what he asked. You live. You finish school, get a job, move to San Francisco like you always planned. You go to protests, make art, try to change the world in small ways. You even date again, eventually. Nice men who try to understand why you sometimes go quiet and distant, why you can’t quite let them all the way in. None of them are him.

On the anniversary of his death, you go to the cemetery. Place flowers on his grave. Tell him about your year. “I’m trying,” you whisper to the headstone. “I’m trying to live like you asked. But god, I miss you. Every single day, I miss you.”

The wind rustles the leaves overhead. The sun shines. The world keeps turning. And you keep living. Because that’s what he wanted.

But part of you— the best part— died in a jungle halfway around the world on April 28, 1970. And you’ll never get it back.

2001 — Your POV

September 11, 8:32 AM

Jungwon kisses you goodbye at the elevator, quick and chaste because you’re at work and even though everyone knows you’re married, PDA in the office is frowned upon. “See you at lunch?” you ask, adjusting his tie even though it’s perfectly straight. It’s just an excuse to touch him.

“Can’t. Meeting with the Lehman team goes until two.”

“Dinner then. I’ll cook.”

He grins. “You mean you’ll order takeout and pretend you cooked.”

“I resent that. I’m an excellent chef.”

“You burned water last week.”

“That was one time!” You swat his arm, laughing. “Okay, fine. I’ll order from that Thai place you like.”

“Perfect.” He kisses you again, properly this time, not caring who sees. “I love you.”

“Love you too. Don’t work too hard.” The elevator dings and you step inside, waving as the doors close. Jungwon watches you disappear, then heads back to his desk on the 101st floor of the North Tower.

You and Jungwon have been married for three years, together for five. You met at Cantor Fitzgerald— both of you ambitious young traders trying to make a name for yourselves in the cutthroat world of finance.

The attraction was immediate. The love took a bit longer, but not much. He proposed after a year and a half, on the roof of your apartment building under a full moon. You were married three months later in a small ceremony in Central Park, just family and close friends.

Working together has its challenges— you’re competitive by nature, and sometimes that bleeds into your relationship. But mostly it’s good. You understand the demands of each other’s jobs. You can decompress together about difficult clients. You commute together, have lunch together when schedules allow, go home together. Your entire lives are intertwined. You love it.

You step out of the elevator on the 96th floor— your department is a few floors below his— and head to your desk. The morning is already chaotic, phones ringing, traders shouting, the energy that makes you love this job. You’re reviewing overnight reports when your phone rings. “Trading desk.”

“Mrs. Yang, it’s David from IT. We’re having some issues with your workstation remotely. Would you mind coming down to the 78th floor so we can take a look?”

You glance at your computer. It seems fine, but IT knows better than you. “Sure. Give me five minutes?”

“Perfect. Thanks.” You grab your phone and ID badge, tell your supervisor you’ll be back in fifteen, and head for the elevators.

The elevator ride down takes less than a minute. You step out onto the 78th floor— it’s quieter here, mostly administrative offices and IT. David meets you in the lobby. “Thanks for coming down. This should only take a minute. Just need to check something in the server room.”

You follow him down the hall, chatting about weekend plans, completely unaware that you have eight minutes left in the world as you know it.

8:46 AM

Jungwon is on a conference call when the building shakes. No— not shakes. Lurches. Like the entire structure has been hit by something massive. The lights flicker. Someone screams. The windows on the north side explode inward in a spray of glass and fire.

The conference call drops. Alarms start blaring. People are shouting, running, diving under desks. Jungwon’s brain struggles to catch up. What the hell just happened?

“Everyone stay calm!” His manager is shouting to be heard over the chaos. “Proceed to the stairwells! Don’t use the elevators!”

Jungwon grabs his phone and jacket on autopilot, joining the stream of people heading for the stairs. The office is in chaos— papers everywhere, computers sparked and smoking, the smell of jet fuel and burning. Jet fuel. Oh god.

He dials your number as he’s moving, pressed against a hundred other bodies trying to evacuate. It rings once. Twice. Three times. “Jungwon?” You sound confused. “What’s happening? We felt something down here—”

“Where are you?” His voice is urgent. “What floor?”

“78th. I’m with IT, they needed to—”

“Get out. Right now. Don’t go back to your desk, don’t grab anything, just get to the stairs and get out of the building.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Something hit the building. High up. There’s fire and—” He’s being pushed into the stairwell now, the crowd surging around him. “Just get out. Please.”

“I will. Where are you?”

“101st floor. I’m in the stairwell. I’m coming down.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll meet you outside.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Be careful.” The line cuts out as he enters the stairwell. No signal.

The descent is a nightmare. Hundreds of people packed into a narrow concrete shaft, everyone trying to move at once. It’s hot and dark and the smoke is getting thicker with every floor.

Jungwon tries to stay calm. Tries to breathe through his shirt. Tries not to think about what happened, about the fire above him, about the fact that he’s 101 floors up and the only way out is down. He tries your number again when he hits the 95th floor and gets signal for a moment. No answer. Again at the 90th floor. No answer.

The stairwell is moving so slowly. People are crying, praying, helping those who can’t move as fast. The woman in front of Jungwon is heavily pregnant and struggling. He helps support her weight as they descend. “My baby,” she keeps saying. “I can’t—my baby—”

“You’re going to be fine,” Jungwon tells her. “We’re all going to be fine. Just keep moving.” He doesn’t know if he believes it.

At the 85th floor, his phone rings.“Jungwon!” You’re crying. “Oh god, Jungwon—”

“I’m here. I’m okay. Where are you?”

“I’m outside. I got out. But Jungwon, they’re saying—” Your voice breaks. “They’re saying a plane hit the building. A passenger plane. It flew right into the tower.”

His blood runs cold. “What?”

“It’s on the news. It’s everywhere. And—” You’re sobbing now. “Another plane just hit the South Tower. Jungwon, this isn’t an accident. This is—”

“I know. I know. Listen to me—I need you to get away from here. As far away as you can. Go to Brooklyn. Go to your sister’s. Just get away from Manhattan.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“You have to—”

“NO.” Your voice is fierce through the tears. “I’m not leaving you. I’m staying right here until you come out.”

“Baby, please—”

“Don’t. Don’t ask me to leave you. I won’t do it.” He wants to argue but he knows it’s pointless. You’re the most stubborn person he’s ever met. It’s one of the things he loves about you.

“Okay. Okay. I’m at the 85th floor. I’m coming down as fast as I can.”

“How fast is that?”

“Slow. There’s a lot of people. But I’m moving. I’m going to make it out.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” He stays on the phone with you as he descends. 80th floor. 75th. 70th. You talk to him the whole time. Telling him about what you’re seeing outside— the smoke, the emergency responders, the crowds. Telling him you love him. Begging him to hurry.

“I’m trying,” he says. “I’m trying.”65th floor. The building shudders. Different from before. More structural. The stairwell sways and people scream.

“What was that?” You sound terrified. “Jungwon, what was that?”

“I don’t know. The building just— it felt wrong.”

“You need to move faster.”

“I am. We all are. It’s just— there’s so many people—” 60th floor. The smoke is getting worse. People are coughing, struggling to breathe. Some are collapsing. Other people are helping them, but it’s slowing everything down.

Jungwon’s legs are burning. His lungs hurt. But he keeps moving. “Talk to me,” he says to you. “Tell me about something good. Distract me.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Our honeymoon. Our first date. Anything that isn’t this.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is steadier. “Remember our honeymoon? In Italy, that night in Venice? We got lost trying to find the hotel and ended up at that little square with the fountain?” He does remember. The moon reflecting off the water. Your hand in his. The way the whole city felt like a dream.

“And you asked me if I thought the moon remembered us,” you continue. “All the lovers who’d stood in that square over the centuries.”

“Did I say that?”

“You did. You said you wanted the moon to remember us. To remember our love story.”

55th floor. Jungwon is crying now, though he’s not sure when that started. “I still want that.”

“It will. The moon will remember us. I know it will.”

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If I don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that—”

“Listen. Please. If I don’t make it, I need you to promise me you’ll keep living. You’ll find happiness again. You won’t spend the rest of your life mourning me.”

“Jungwon—”

“Promise me.”

“I can’t. I can’t promise that. You’re my whole life. You’re everything.”

“Then promise me you’ll try. That you’ll at least try.”

You’re sobbing. “Okay. Okay, I promise. But you ARE going to make it. You have to make it.”

50th floor. He’s halfway. He’s actually halfway. Maybe he will make it out. “I love you,” he says. “More than anything in this world. You know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too. So much. So much.”

45th floor. The woman in front of him collapses. Jungwon and another man help her up, support her weight between them. She’s gasping for air, barely conscious. “Keep going,” Jungwon tells her. “We’re almost there.” 40th floor.

“I’m at 40,” he tells you. “Less than halfway now.”

“You’re doing so good. You’re almost out.”

“How’s it look out there?”

“Bad. Both towers are burning. There’s debris everywhere. But the firefighters are here. They’re going in to help people.”

“Good. That’s good.” 35th floor.

His phone is dying. Battery at 15%. “My phone’s almost dead,” he tells you.

“No. No, you have to keep talking to me.”

“I will. As long as I can. But if we get cut off—”

“We won’t.”

“But if we do, I need you to know—”

“I already know. I know you love me. I know we’re going to grow old together. I know we’re going to have babies and a house in the suburbs and a dog. I know all of it because you promised me.”

“I did promise you that.”

“So you have to keep that promise. You have to get out of there and come home to me.”

30th floor. Battery at 10%. “Do you remember our wedding vows?” he asks. “I meant every word. Every promise. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”

“Me too.”

25th floor. “I can see the end,” he says. “I can actually see the bottom of the stairwell. Maybe ten more floors.”

“Oh thank god. Thank god.”

20th floor. Battery at 5%. The building shudders again. Violently this time. The stairwell groans.

“Jungwon? JUNGWON?”

“I’m here. I’m still here. Something’s wrong. The building—it doesn’t feel stable.”

“You need to run. Right now. Run as fast as you can.”

“I am. We all are.”

15th floor. The lights go out. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in red. People are screaming, pushing, panicking.

“Stay calm!” Someone is shouting. “Everyone stay calm!” But no one is calm. Everyone can feel it— the building is dying. 10th floor.

“I’m at ten,” Jungwon gasps into the phone. “Almost there. Almost—” The building lurches. Metal screaming. Concrete cracking.

“JUNGWON!”

“I’m okay. I’m still moving. Five more floors.”

5th floor. “I can see the lobby. I can see the exit. I’m going to make it. I’m actually going to make it.”

“Run. Don’t stop. Just run.” He does. The last few floors are a blur— feet pounding stairs, people streaming into the lobby, firefighters directing everyone outside.

Jungwon bursts out onto the street and the sight is apocalyptic. Both towers burning. Debris everywhere. Ash falling like snow. But he’s out. He’s alive. “I’m outside,” he gasps into the phone. “I made it. I’m out.”

“Where? Where are you?”

“West side, I think. Near—” The sound drowns out everything else. A roar like the end of the world. Jungwon turns and looks up. The South Tower is collapsing. “Oh my god,” he breathes.

“What? What’s happening?”

“The South Tower. It’s— it’s coming down.”

And then the cloud hits. Debris and dust and smoke racing down the street like a tsunami. People screaming, running, diving into buildings. Jungwon runs.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, just away from the cloud, away from the collapse. His phone is still clutched in his hand, your voice tinny and distant.“Jungwon! JUNGWON!”

“I’m here! I’m still here!” He ducks into a building— a store, doors standing open. The cloud follows him in, filling the space with choking dust.

He can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except hold the phone and hope. And then, gradually, the worst passes. He’s alive. Covered in dust, coughing up gray ash, but alive. “I’m okay,” he says into the phone. “I’m okay. The South Tower collapsed but I’m okay.”

“Oh thank god. Thank god. Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Some store. I can’t see anything. There’s dust everywhere.”

“Stay there. Stay inside until the dust clears. I’m coming to find you.”

“No. Don’t. It’s not safe.”

“I don’t care. Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t KNOW where I am—” His phone dies. “No. No no no—” He tries to turn it back on but it’s dead. Completely dead. He has no way to reach you. No way to tell you he’s alive. All he can do is wait for the dust to clear and try to find you.

You’re running. Your phone went dead ten seconds after his did, and now you’re sprinting through the chaos toward where you last heard him— west side of the North Tower. The South Tower is gone. Just gone. A pile of rubble and smoke where a building used to be.

And the North Tower is still burning. Jungwon’s tower. He made it out. He told you he made it out. He’s alive somewhere in this nightmare and you’re going to find him.

You’re pushing through crowds, screaming his name, looking for his face in a sea of ash-covered people who all look the same. “JUNGWON!” No answer. “JUNGWON!” The dust is thick. You can barely see ten feet ahead. But you keep moving, keep searching.

You’re maybe three blocks from the tower when you hear it. That sound again. Metal and concrete and the world ending. You look up. The North Tower is collapsing. “No,” you whisper. And then you’re screaming. “JUNGWON! JUNGWON!”

The tower comes down in a cascade of destruction, floor after floor pancaking, the cloud of debris exploding outward. You’re too far away. The cloud won’t reach you here. You’re safe. But Jungwon. He said he was on the west side. Near the tower. He was right there.

“No. No no no no no—” You’re calling his phone but it’s going straight to voicemail. Again and again and again. “JUNGWON! PLEASE! JUNGWON!”

People are grabbing you, trying to pull you back, away from the disaster. You fight them. “My husband! My husband was there! I need to— I have to—”

But there’s nowhere to go. The entire area where the towers stood is gone. Just smoke and rubble and death. You collapse on the pavement, screaming into your dead phone. He was right there. He made it out and he was right there and now— now the building is gone. And so is he.

They find Jungwon’s body three days later. He’d made it out of the building. Made it almost two blocks away. But when the tower collapsed, the debris cloud caught him. A piece of falling concrete, the medical examiner says. He died instantly. You identify him at the morgue. His face is peaceful, covered in dust. Like he’s sleeping. You don’t cry. You can’t. You’re too empty.

At the funeral, they play the voicemail you left him after the towers fell. The one where you’re screaming into the phone, begging him to answer, telling him you love him. You don’t remember leaving it.

You don’t remember much of anything from those first few days. The city buries thousands. You bury your husband. And then you have to figure out how to keep living.

Ten years pass. You never remarry. Never even date. How could you? Jungwon was your whole life. Your whole heart. You move out of New York. Can’t stand to be in the city where you lost him. You end up in a small town in Vermont, working at a library, living a quiet life.

Every year on September 11th, you visit the memorial. Stand at the reflecting pool where the North Tower used to be, looking at his name etched in bronze. YANG JUNGWON. You trace the letters with your fingers and remember.

Remember his laugh. His smile. The way he kissed you goodbye that last morning. Remember the phone call. His voice getting weaker as he descended. The way he said “I love you” one last time before his phone died. Remember standing in the street, watching the tower collapse, knowing he was gone.

At night, you look at the moon and think about what he said. About the moon remembering love stories. “Do you remember us?” you whisper to the sky.

The moon doesn’t answer. But you hope it does. Hope that somewhere in the universe, someone remembers that you loved him. That he loved you. That what you had was real and beautiful and worth something, even though it ended too soon.

You survive twenty more years. Never stop missing him. Never stop loving him. When you die at 65— heart attack, quick and painless— your last thought is of him. I’m coming, you think. Finally, I’m coming to find you. And maybe, somewhere, the moon remembers.

2026 — split POV

Jungwons POV

Jungwon is running late. He overslept— stayed up too late studying for his anatomy exam, his alarm didn’t go off, and now he’s sprinting across campus with his backpack half-open and his shirt probably on inside out.

Pre-med is killing him. Everyone said it would be hard, but no one mentioned it would be “survive on three hours of sleep and questionable dining hall coffee” hard. He rounds the corner by the library at a full run, checking his phone to see just how late he is to his 9 AM lecture—

And crashes directly into someone. The impact is total. Books go flying. Papers scatter. And Jungwon’s coffee— his precious, desperately-needed coffee— explodes all over the person he just barreled into. “Oh my god,” he gasps, stumbling back. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” He looks up and his brain short-circuits.

It’s a girl. A beautiful girl in a white shirt that is now completely drenched in his coffee. Dark hair falling around her face, wide eyes, an expression of pure shock. And the second their eyes meet, something in Jungwon’s chest cracks open. He knows her.

He doesn’t know her— he’s never seen her before in his life— but he knows her. Knows her the way he knows his own heartbeat. Knows her in a way that makes no logical sense but feels more real than anything he’s ever experienced. “I—” His voice doesn’t work. He tries again. “I’m so sorry. Your shirt—”

She’s just staring at him. Not angry, not upset. Just staring like she’s seeing a ghost. “It’s okay,” she says finally, but her voice is shaky. “It’s fine. I just—”

They’re both still frozen, standing in the middle of the path while other students flow around them. Jungwon forces himself to move. He shrugs out of his hoodie— thankfully he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath— and holds it out to her. “Here. Please. I’m so sorry. Take this.”

She looks at the hoodie, then back at him. “I can’t—”

“Please. I ruined your shirt. It’s the least I can do.” Slowly, she takes it. Their fingers brush and Jungwon feels electricity shoot up his arm. What the hell is happening?

She pulls on the hoodie— it’s too big on her, sleeves hanging past her hands— and something about seeing her in his clothes makes his heart do a weird flip. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m— uh. I have a class. I should—”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “Can I get your number? So I can pay for dry cleaning. Or replace the shirt. Or—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. Please. I feel terrible.”She hesitates, then rattles off her number. He types it in with shaking hands. “I’m Jungwon, by the way.”

“I know.” Then her eyes widen. “I mean— I don’t know. You just— you look like a Jungwon.”

That doesn’t make any sense, but he smiles anyway. “And you are?”She tells him her name, and Jungwon commits it to memory like a prayer.

“I really am sorry,” he says again. “About the coffee.”

“It’s okay. Really.” She’s backing away now, but she keeps looking at him. Like she can’t quite make herself leave. “I should go. I’m late.”

“Me too. But—” He doesn’t want her to go. Can’t explain why, but the thought of her walking away makes him feel panicky. “Can I text you? About the shirt?”

“Sure. Yeah. That’s fine.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll— I’ll text you.”

“Okay.” She finally turns and walks away, and Jungwon stands there watching her go, his heart pounding for reasons he can’t explain. He’s never believed in love at first sight. Thought it was bullshit, something made up for movies and romance novels. But something just happened. Something big and important and completely inexplicable.

He doesn’t know what. But he knows, with absolute certainty, that he just met someone who’s going to change his life.

Your POV

You make it to class five minutes late, wearing a stranger’s hoodie, your heart racing. What the hell was that? You’ve never believed in fate or destiny or any of that romantic nonsense. You’re a history major, you deal in facts and evidence and things that can be proven.

But when you locked eyes with that boy— Jungwon— something shifted in the universe. You knew him. Know him. Even though you’ve never seen him before in your life. And the way he looked at you— like he knew you too. Like he’d been waiting for you.

You slide into your seat in the lecture hall and your best friend Mina immediately notices the hoodie. “Whose is that?” she whispers.

“Some guy’s. He spilled coffee on me.”

“And gave you his hoodie? That’s very chivalrous. Is he cute?”

You think about dark eyes and messy hair and the way his hands shook when he typed your number into his phone. “Yeah,” you admit. “Really cute.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Your phone buzzes. Unknown number: Hi, this is Jungwon. The coffee disaster guy. Just wanted to make sure I got your number right. And to apologize again. I really am sorry about your shirt.

You smile despite yourself and type back: It’s fine. Really. The hoodie is very comfortable.

Keep it. It looks better on you anyway.

Your heart does a stupid flutter: I should probably return it at some point.

How about tomorrow? I could buy you coffee. To replace the shirt.

You shouldn’t. You don’t know this guy. He could be anyone. But you’re already typing back: Tomorrow sounds good.

Perfect. I’ll text you details. And again— really sorry.

Stop apologizing. It was an accident.

Still feel bad.

Don’t. I’m fine. Great, even. I got a free hoodie out of it.

Ha. Fair point. See you tomorrow?

See you tomorrow.

You put your phone away and try to focus on the lecture. But all you can think about is tomorrow. About seeing him again. About why the thought of it makes you feel like you’re coming home.

Jungwon’s POV

Jungwon changes his outfit three times before leaving his dorm. “You’re being ridiculous,” his roommate Jake says, sprawled on his bed playing video games. “It’s just coffee.”

“It’s not just coffee.”

“It’s literally just coffee. You’re meeting a girl you spilled coffee on to buy her coffee to apologize for the coffee. It’s coffee inception.”

“Shut up.”

Jake grins. “You like her.”

“I don’t know her.”

“But you like her.”

Jungwon doesn’t answer because the truth is yes, he does like her. Has been thinking about her non-stop since yesterday. Can’t explain it, can’t rationalize it, but it’s true. He settles on jeans and a simple black shirt, checks his hair one more time, and heads out.

They agreed to meet at the campus coffee shop— ironic, given the circumstances— at 2 PM. Jungwon arrives ten minutes early and immediately regrets it because now he has to stand around looking awkward.

He’s checking his phone for the third time when he sees her walking up. She’s wearing casual clothes— jeans and a sweater— and she’s carrying his hoodie, neatly folded. Her hair is down today, falling past her shoulders, and Jungwon’s brain goes momentarily offline. “Hi,” she says, smiling.

“Hi.” He sounds like an idiot. “You came.”

“I said I would.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Get it together, Yang. “Should we go in?”

They order coffee— she gets a vanilla latte, he gets an americano— and find a table by the window. For a moment, they just sit there, both suddenly shy. “So,” you say finally. “Pre-med, right? I saw your anatomy textbook when you dropped everything.”

“Yeah. First year. It’s brutal.”

“I can imagine. I’m history. Much less brutal.”

“History’s cool. What kind of history?”

“All kinds. But I’m focusing on American history right now. Specifically the 20th century.”

Something flickers in Jungwon’s chest at that. He doesn’t know why. “That’s really interesting,” he says. “Any particular reason?”

You shrug. “I like understanding how we got here. How the past shapes the present. Plus the 20th century was just… a lot. Wars, social movements, technological revolution. It’s fascinating.”

“Do you think the past matters? Like, do you think we’re shaped by history or do we shape ourselves?” The question comes out more philosophical than he intended, but you don’t seem to mind.

“Both, probably. We’re products of our time, but we also have agency. We can make choices that change the trajectory.” You pause. “Why? Do you think the past matters?”

“I think…” He’s not sure how to articulate this. “I think sometimes the past isn’t really past. I think sometimes it echoes forward. Into the present.”

You’re looking at him with this intense focus, like he’s said something profound instead of just vaguely poetic nonsense. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I think that too.”

The conversation flows easily after that. You talk about classes, about campus life, about your respective hometowns. Jungwon tells you about wanting to be a doctor since he was a kid, about the pressure from his parents but also his genuine love for medicine. You tell him about your love of research, about wanting to be a professor someday, maybe write books.

Two hours pass without either of you noticing. “I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, checking your phone. “I have a study group at five.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Jungwon stands when you do, not ready for this to end. “Can I walk you?”

“Sure.” You walk across campus together, the conversation never stopping. It’s easy with you. Comfortable. Like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

When you reach your building, you turn to face him. “Thanks for the coffee. And for not being a serial killer.”

He laughs. “Thanks for giving a clumsy pre-med student a chance to apologize.”

“It was a good apology.” There’s a moment where you’re just looking at each other, and Jungwon feels that pull again. That inexplicable sense of knowing you.

“Can I see you again?” he asks. “Not as an apology. Just… because I want to.”

You smile. “I’d like that.”

“Friday? There’s a film festival on campus. Foreign films. Probably boring to most people but—”

“I love foreign films.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

His heart is going to beat out of his chest. “It’s a date then?”

“It’s a date.”

He walks away grinning like an idiot, and when he checks his phone later, there’s a text from you: Had fun today. See you Friday :)

He stares at the smiley face for an embarrassingly long time before responding: Me too. Can’t wait. And he means it. He genuinely can’t wait to see you again. Which is crazy. He barely knows you. But it doesn’t feel like barely knowing you. It feels like coming home.

Your POV

You and Jungwon are dating. It’s not official-official— you haven’t had the “what are we” conversation— but you’re together constantly. Study dates that turn into actual dates. Late-night conversations that stretch until 3 AM. Stolen kisses between classes. It’s fast. You know it’s fast. Mina keeps asking if you’re sure about this, if you’re not rushing into things. But it doesn’t feel fast. It feels exactly right.

You learn things about him: that he’s terrible at cooking but makes excellent coffee. That he stress-cleans before exams. That he has nightmares sometimes and won’t talk about them. That he looks at the moon when he’s thinking.

He learns things about you: that you hum when you’re concentrating. That you steal his coffee even though you have your own. That you’re afraid of thunderstorms. That you’ve always felt like you’re searching for something you can’t name.

Tonight, you’re in his dorm room— Jake is conveniently gone for the weekend— sprawled on his bed while he attempts to study for biochemistry. “This is impossible,” he groans, throwing his highlighter at the textbook. “Why do I need to know the Krebs cycle? When will I ever use this as a doctor?”

“When you’re explaining cellular respiration to a patient, obviously.”

“That will definitely happen. Constantly.” You laugh and roll onto your stomach, watching him.

He’s wearing glasses tonight— he usually wears contacts but he ran out— and they make him look unfairly adorable. “You’re staring,” he says without looking up from his notes.

“You’re pretty.”

“I’m not pretty. I’m ruggedly handsome.”

“You’re pretty.”

He looks up, grinning, and tackles you onto the bed. You shriek with laughter as he pins you down, his weight warm and solid above you. “Take it back,” he demands.

“Never. You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

“Terrible. The worst.” But he’s smiling as he says it, and then he’s kissing you, and your brain shuts off. You’ve kissed before— many times over the past six weeks— but it still feels new every time. Still makes your heart race and your stomach flip.

His hand slides under your shirt, fingers skimming your ribs, and you arch into the touch. “Is this okay?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Yeah. Yes. More than okay.”

Things heat up quickly after that. Clothes coming off, hands exploring, breathless whispers in the dark. You’ve fooled around before— heavy petting, getting each other off— but you haven’t gone all the way yet. Tonight feels different. “Do you want to?” Jungwon asks, pulling back to look at you. “We don’t have to. There’s no pressure. I just—”

“I want to.” You cup his face. “I want you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He kisses you deeply and reaches for his nightstand, pulling out a condom. “I’ve, uh. I’ve never actually done this before.”

“Me neither.”

“So we’ll figure it out together?”

“Together,” you agree. What follows is awkward and sweet and perfect. He’s gentle, careful, constantly checking if you’re okay. There’s fumbling and nervous laughter and moments where you have to adjust and try again.

But when he finally slides inside you, when you’re joined completely, it feels right. It feels like coming home. “God,” he breathes, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel amazing.”

He moves slowly at first, finding a rhythm, and the pleasure builds gradually. It’s not earth-shattering— first times rarely are— but it’s intimate and meaningful and when you both finish (you first, then him shortly after), you feel closer to him than you’ve ever felt to anyone.

After, you lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied and happy. “That was…” Jungwon trails off.

“Yeah.”

“We should probably do that again sometime.”

“Definitely.” He laughs and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You settle against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling utterly content.

“Hey,” he says after a while. “Can I ask you something weird?”

“Always.”

“Do you ever feel like… like we’ve done this before? Not the sex,” he clarifies quickly. “Just… this. Us. Being together. Like we’ve been here before.”

Your heart skips. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Really?”

“Really. I can’t explain it. But from the moment we met, I felt like I knew you. Like we were supposed to find each other.”

“Me too.” He’s quiet for a moment. “My roommate thinks I’m crazy.”

“My roommate thinks I’m rushing into things.”

“Are we? Rushing?”

You think about it. Six weeks is fast. But it doesn’t feel fast. It feels inevitable. “I don’t think so,” you say. “I think… I think sometimes you just know. When something’s right.”

“Yeah.” He tightens his arms around you. “I think you’re right.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and you dream of things you can’t quite remember when you wake. Battles and hospitals and sinking ships. A jungle. A burning building. And through it all, his face. Always his face.

You’re officially together by December. Boyfriend and girlfriend. You changed your relationship status on social media and everything.

Mina has stopped asking if you’re sure and started asking when you’re getting married, which is ridiculous because you’re only twenty-one, but sometimes you look at Jungwon and think yes, that one, forever. Which is insane. You’ve only known him for three months. But it doesn’t feel like three months. It feels like always.

It’s winter break now. Most students have gone home, but you and Jungwon both stayed on campus— you have a research project, he has lab work. Which means you basically have the whole university to yourselves.

Tonight, you’re at his apartment (he moved off-campus this semester) cooking dinner together. Or rather, you’re cooking while he sits on the counter and provides commentary. “You’re going to burn the chicken,” he observes.

“I’m not going to burn the chicken.”

“The pan is smoking.”

“That’s just—” You check the pan. It’s definitely smoking. “Okay, fine. You do it.” He laughs and hops down, gently moving you aside to take over. Within minutes, he’s rescued the chicken and gotten everything under control.

“I thought you said you couldn’t cook,” you accuse.

“I said I’m terrible at cooking. Doesn’t mean I can’t do basic stuff. I just prefer not to.”

“So you’ve been letting me struggle this whole time?”

“I like watching you try.”

You swat him with a dish towel and he catches your wrist, pulling you against him. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi yourself.” He kisses you, slow and sweet, and you melt into him. Three months in and he still makes your knees weak.

Dinner is actually good— turns out Jungwon can cook when properly motivated. You eat on his tiny balcony despite the cold, wrapped in blankets, watching the city lights. “I have something for you,” Jungwon says when you’re both finished eating.

“It’s not Christmas yet.”

“I know. But I saw this and thought of you and I couldn’t wait.” He pulls out a small wrapped box from his pocket.

“Jungwon—”

“Just open it.”

You unwrap it carefully. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a tiny moon pendant. “Oh,” you breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

“I know you love looking at the moon. You always point it out when we’re walking at night. And I just… I wanted you to have something that reminded you of…” He trails off, looking embarrassed. “This is cheesy, isn’t it?”

“It’s perfect.” You kiss him. “Help me put it on?” He fastens the necklace around your neck, his fingers gentle on your skin. The pendant rests just below your collarbone, catching the light.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, but he’s looking at you, not the necklace.

That night, you make love in his bed, slow and tender. You’ve gotten better at it over the past few months— learned what each other likes, how to move together, how to make it good for both of you. When you’re both satisfied and drowsy, you curl up against his chest.

“I love you,” you say. It’s the first time either of you have said it. You’ve been thinking it for weeks, but you weren’t sure if it was too soon, if it would scare him off.

Jungwon goes very still. Then he tips your chin up so he can see your face. “You do?”

“Yeah. I do. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says it like a revelation, like he’s just discovered something amazing. “I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Scared. Didn’t want to freak you out.”

“You could never freak me out.”

“Good to know.” He kisses you again. “I love you. So much. More than I knew was possible.” You fall asleep in his arms, the moon pendant warm against your skin, and everything feels perfect.

Your POV

Spring semester is brutal. You’re both drowning in work— your senior thesis is due in two months, Jungwon is applying to medical schools and studying for the MCAT. You still see each other every day, but it’s different now. Stressed. Tired. Neither of you sleeping enough.

One evening in late March, you’re both in the library, sitting at the same table but working on separate things. You’ve been here for six hours. Your eyes are burning, your back hurts, and you’re pretty sure you’ve read the same paragraph seventeen times without retaining any information.

You glance at Jungwon. He’s hunched over his biochemistry textbook, highlighter in hand, looking exhausted. “Break?” you suggest.

“Can’t. This exam is in two days and I’m nowhere near ready.”

“You’ve been studying for weeks. You’re ready.”

“I’m not. There’s still three chapters I haven’t reviewed and—”

“Jungwon.” You reach across the table to take his hand. “Take a break. Ten minutes. Please.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but then he sees your face and sighs. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

You both step outside into the cool spring air. The campus is quiet— it’s almost midnight, most people are asleep or partying. You find a bench and sit, and Jungwon immediately slumps against you. “I’m so tired,” he mumbles.

“I know. Me too.”

“When does it get easier?”

“I don’t think it does. I think we just get better at handling hard.”

He laughs weakly. “Philosophical.”

“I’m a history major. We’re all secretly philosophers.” You sit in comfortable silence for a while. The moon is visible through the trees, nearly full.

“Look,” you say, pointing. “The moon.”

Jungwon looks up, and something crosses his face. Something you can’t quite read. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly.

“Makes me think of the necklace you gave me.” You touch the pendant, which you wear every day. “Do you ever wonder if the moon gets lonely? Just hanging up there, watching everyone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it’s comforting. Being able to witness everything. All the love stories, all the lives, all the history.” There’s something strange in his voice. Something distant.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Just… sometimes I get this feeling. Like I’m supposed to remember something important but I can’t quite grasp it.” He shakes his head. “Ignore me. I’m sleep-deprived and saying weird things.”

“I get that feeling too sometimes.”

He turns to look at you. “You do?”

“Yeah. Especially when I’m with you. Like there’s something just out of reach. Something I should know.” You’re both quiet, staring at each other, and the moment feels heavy with meaning you can’t articulate.

“Weird,” Jungwon says finally.

“Yeah. Weird.” You go back to studying, but the feeling lingers.

—

It happens on a Tuesday.

You’re driving back from the library— late night, you stayed to finish a research paper. You’re tired, ready to collapse into bed. The light is green. You’re sure it’s green. You start through the intersection and— impact.

The car hits yours from the side, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world spins. Your head slams against something. And then everything goes dark.

Jungwon’s POV

Jungwon is in his apartment, half-asleep on the couch with a textbook on his chest, when his phone rings. Unknown number. He almost doesn’t answer. “Hello?”

“Is this Yang Jungwon?” A woman’s voice, professional and careful.

“Yes?”

“This is Mercy General Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for—”

His blood turns to ice. “What happened? Is she okay? What happened?”

“There’s been an accident. A car accident. She’s alive, but she’s unconscious. You should come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Jungwon doesn’t remember the drive. One minute he’s in his apartment, the next he’s running through the hospital corridors, demanding to know where you are. They lead him to a room in the ICU. You’re there, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Your face is pale, bruised. There’s a bandage around your head.

“Oh god,” he breathes.

A doctor intercepts him before he can reach you. “Mr. Yang?”

“How is she? What happened?”

“She was hit by another vehicle. Traumatic brain injury, some internal bleeding. We’ve stabilized her, but she’s in a coma.”

“A coma.”

“Her brain is swelling. We’re monitoring closely. The next 24-48 hours are critical.”

Jungwon sinks into a chair, his legs giving out. “Can I—can I sit with her?”

“Of course.”

He pulls a chair to your bedside and takes your hand. It’s cold. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. You have to be okay.”

The machines beep steadily. Your chest rises and falls. But you don’t respond. Jungwon sits there for hours. Days. He leaves only when forced, only for bathroom breaks and when the nurses make him eat something.

He talks to you. Tells you about his day, about stupid things happening in his classes, about how much he misses you. Begs you to wake up. On the third day, your eyes open.

Your POV

You wake up slowly, consciousness returning in pieces. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Beeping sounds. The smell of antiseptic. Hospital. You try to sit up and pain lances through your head.

“Hey, hey, don’t move.” A familiar voice. Warm hands gently pushing you back down. “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. You were in an accident.”

You turn your head— slowly, because it hurts— and see Jungwon. And suddenly, you remember everything. Not just this life. Not just Jungwon the pre-med student you’ve been dating for nine months. You remember everything.

1770. A field hospital, a dying soldier, promises whispered under candlelight. 1850s. An arranged marriage that became real love, tuberculosis stealing him away. 1912. The Titanic, stolen moments, his face disappearing into chaos. 1969. Vietnam, journal entries, a letter written the day before he died. 2001. September 11th, a phone call, watching towers fall.

Five lifetimes. Five times you’ve found each other. Five times you’ve lost each other. And now this. Now here. You gasp, tears streaming down your face. “You,” you sob. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

He looks confused and worried. “What? Hey, it’s okay, you’re probably disoriented—”

“I remember,” you say desperately. “I remember all of it. The hospital in 1770. Our wedding in 1850. The ship. The war. The towers. I remember, Jungwon. I remember everything.”

He goes very still. “What did you just say?”

“I remember. All the lifetimes. All the times we found each other and lost each other. The moon— you always asked if the moon remembers us. And you always said you’d find me in the next life. And you did. You always did.”

Jungwon is staring at you, his face white. “How do you—” His voice breaks. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I was there. I was there every time. And so were you.”

“I thought I was crazy,” he whispers. “I’ve been having these dreams since I was a kid. Different times, different lives, but always you. Always the same person. I thought they were just dreams. Just my brain making up stories.”

“They weren’t dreams. They were memories.” You’re both crying now, holding onto each other like you’re drowning.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Jungwon says. “My whole life, I’ve been looking for you. And when I saw you that day on campus, I knew. I knew it was you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it sounded insane! How do you tell someone you just met that you’ve loved them for centuries? That you remember dying in their arms in a field hospital in 1770?”

“You remember that?”

“I remember all of it. Every lifetime. Every death. Every promise I made to find you again.” He cups your face. “And here you are. You’re finally here and you remember me.”

“I almost died,” you realize. “That’s why I remember now. Being so close to death triggered the memories.”

“I don’t care why. I’m just glad you do.” He kisses you desperately. “I love you. I’ve loved you for lifetimes. Literal lifetimes.”

“I love you too. In every life, I’ve loved you.” You hold each other, crying and laughing and trying to process the impossible truth: you’ve lived before. Multiple times. And every single time, you’ve found each other. And every single time, you’ve lost each other.

“Not this time,” Jungwon says fiercely, like he can read your thoughts. “This time we’re not losing each other. This time we get our happy ending.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’m not letting you go. Not for anything. We’ve waited too long. Suffered too much. This time, we’re keeping each other.” You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him. But you’ve believed before. And it’s never been enough.

Six Months Later - Your POV

You recover from the accident slowly but completely. The doctors call it a miracle— the brain injury should have had lasting effects, but somehow you’re fine. You know it’s not a miracle. It’s something else. Something to do with the lifetimes, with the universe giving you another chance.

You and Jungwon are inseparable now. Not in the cute couple way— in the “we’ve literally died and been reborn six times to find each other” way. You talk about the past lives constantly. Comparing memories, filling in gaps. He remembers things you don’t. You remember things he doesn’t. Together, you piece together the full story.

“In 1770, you promised me a dance,” you tell him one night.

“Did I?”

“You said when you were healed, you’d take me dancing. But you died before you could.”

“Then I owe you a dance.” He stands, offering his hand. “May I have this dance?”

There’s no music, but he pulls you into his arms anyway, swaying with you in the middle of his living room. You rest your head on his chest and close your eyes. “This is nice,” you murmur.

“Better late than never.”

“Only about 250 years late.”

He laughs. “I’m nothing if not punctual.”

You dance until you’re both tired, then collapse on the couch together. “Do you think it will happen again?” you ask quietly. “Do you think we’ll lose each other?”

“I don’t know.” His arm tightens around you. “But even if we do, I’ll find you again. I always do.”

“That’s not comforting. I don’t want to lose you again. I don’t want to go through that pain.”

“Me neither. But if I had to choose between loving you and losing you, or never loving you at all? I’d choose loving you every time.”

You know he means it. Across five lifetimes, through wars and sickness and disasters, he’s chosen to love you every single time. “Marry me,” you say suddenly. “We’ve wasted enough time across enough lifetimes. Let’s not waste any more.”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely serious. I love you. You love me. We’ve loved each other for centuries. Why wait?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Okay. Yes. Let’s get married. Let’s do it right this time. Let’s build the life we’ve never gotten to have.”

You kiss him, laughing and crying at the same time. “When?”

“Now. Tomorrow. Next week. I don’t care. Whenever you want.”

“Next month,” you decide. “Small ceremony. Just us and a few friends. Nothing fancy.”

“Perfect.”

You get married in October, in a small ceremony in Central Park. You wear a simple white dress. He wears a suit. Mina and Jake are there, along with a handful of other friends. The officiant asks if you have your own vows.

“I do,” Jungwon says, taking your hands. “I’ve loved you in more lifetimes than most people get to experience. I’ve died loving you. I’ve been reborn to find you. And every single time, choosing you has been the easiest decision I’ve ever made. This time, I’m choosing you for the rest of this life. However long that is. I’m choosing you every day, in every way. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I will always love you.”

You’re crying. “I promise to love you for the rest of this life and whatever comes after. I promise to remember. I promise to choose you, just like you’ve chosen me, across time and space and whatever separates us. You’re my home. You always have been.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He kisses you, and it tastes like forever.

Fifteen Years Later

You’re both in your fifties now. Jungwon is a successful cardiologist. You’re a tenured professor with three published books. You never have kids. It’s a choice you make together— you’ve lost each other too many times, you can’t imagine bringing children into that uncertainty. 

Instead, you pour your love into each other, into your careers, into making the world a little bit better. Jungwon volunteers at free clinics. You mentor graduate students. You both donate to causes you believe in. Your lives are full and meaningful and happy.

One evening, you’re both at a gala for Jungwon’s hospital. Fancy clothes, fancy food, schmoozing with donors. It’s not your favorite thing, but you do it for him. During the dancing portion of the evening, he pulls you onto the floor. “Remember when I promised you a dance in 1770?” he says, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours.

“You mean the dance we had in your apartment about twenty years ago?”

“That was a down payment. This is the real thing.”

You laugh and let him lead you around the floor. He’s a good dancer— you both are, after years of these events. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask quietly. “Choosing me? Building a life with someone who carries all this history?”

“Never. Not for a single second.” He pulls you closer. “Do you?”

“No. But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. If we’d been normal people. If we’d met in just this lifetime and didn’t carry all that weight.”

“We wouldn’t be us. All those lifetimes, all that loss— it made us who we are. It taught us to appreciate what we have. To not take a single moment for granted.”

“That’s true.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too. In this life and every other.” 

You’re not sure what the future holds. You’re not sure if the two of you broke the cycle. But right here, in 2026, is all that matters. You found eachother after seven lifetimes.

And no matter what, the moon will be watching. The moon always watches. And the moon always remembers.

[zreamy]

YOU ON MY MIND, YOU ALL THE TIME

only two years post-debut, NAPE are the band to beat, and you might be the only woman in london whose heart races in a bad way at the sight of their guitarist—your ex-boyfriend, jay. 

pairing ✩ jay park x fem!reader

genres: band au, exes to lovers, smut, fluff, angst | warnings: minors dni, reformed evil guy jay, set in london (#SCOTLANDFOREVER), so many english people (#SCOTLANDFOREVER), yn is #GoingThroughIt #Confused, hoseok is the bus driver, BLATANT PLAGIARISM OF SONGS BY EXISTING ARTISTS SORRYYYYYYYY | word count: 37,699

playlist: lover, you should've come over by jeff buckley ✩ puddles by not for radio ✩ eventually by tame impala ✩ where do broken hearts go by one direction ✩ 505 by arctic monkeys ✩ no control by one direction ✩ stateside by pinkpantheress ✩ you da one by rihanna ✩ change your ticket by one direction

from zo: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASAHICORE !!! wow u are 23.25 now! amazing. youngest person ever. happy reading to everyone else and go wish asahicore a happy birthday rn. AS ALWAYS SHARE FEEDBACK OK LMK WHAT U THINK !!!

BACKSTAGE WITH NAPE ON THE ‘NO WAY BACK’ TOUR.

By: Daydream Mag. Photographs by: Heeseung Lee, Jay Park, Jake Sim & Sunghoon Park.

4:02 P.M. SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2025. PARIS: If you’re one of NAPE’s four members, how do you spend the hours before the final show of your sold out tour? By sleeping, calling your mum, watching YouTube mukbangs, or taking film photos of your bandmates doing any of the above.

In broken Frenglish, guitarist, Jay, plays tour guide for the green room they’ve made home over the course of their three day concert at the iconic Le Trianon. “Did you know that Rihanna played here?” he asks, eyes wide as he swats away Sunghoon’s camera. “And Kesha, and Fifth Harmony? So many legends and now we’re here—crazy downgrade.”

This same eager, mildly insecure, energy permeates the green room as the band discuss highlights from the last two months on the road — riding a beer bike in Manchester, seeing the Eiffel Tower at midnight — and express how much they wish the tour could last forever. “Performing is the absolute best part,” Jake says between slurps of cup ramen he brought with him from London. “We’re always trying to find local pubs to play in because we can’t get enough.”

“That’s where it all started anyway,” explains their half-asleep frontman, Heeseung. “Playing in pubs, busking in Zone 5 shopping—

“Well, well, well,” Aeri says, appearing over your shoulder and catching you in the act. “If it isn’t Little Miss NAPE-hater drooling over a two-page spread.”

A chill runs down your spine and you couldn’t have dropped the magazine quicker if you tried. At your feet, it clatters with a flinch-inducing thud that rings throughout the deserted entrance of your local twenty-four hour Tesco. Neither you nor Aeri make any move to lift Daydream Mag’s summer 2025 issue from the speckled tile, so from its glossy cover, the face you’ve come to loathe gazes up at you through lidded eyes.

You scoff, affronted by the very suggestion. “I’m not you, Aeri. I wasn’t drooling.” And even if you were drooling, it certainly would not have been over Jay Park and his band of idiots. “It’s a four-page spread, by the way.”

“Same difference.”

Over Aeri’s shoulders, the sun’s first rays are threatening to shine through the glass on what is already an obscenely hot day for September. Dye slips from her damp hair down her face like blood, staining her white collar red, and you watch as she takes a picture of the magazine on the floor between your feet and hers before picking it up. She posts the picture to her story with one of NAPE’s songs playing and tags them so they can eventually see it and repost. They’re always doing that—reposting things fans tag them in. Satisfied, Aeri puts the magazine back in its place on the shelf, between Interview and the last copy of Dazed that has a photo of NAPE’s bassist and drummer laying together on the cover like something from a CEO yaoi. You have no idea how or when they got so popular.

Finally, leaving the band behind, you and Aeri loop your sweat slick arms and move through the aisles. You sniff and review scented candles; browse the books on the shelves, sharing thoughts on the ones you’ve read; and pick up snacks with Clubcard discounts, all on the way to find the one thing you came for at this time of night: salted caramel cheesecake cookies. Along with the rest of the internet, Aeri’s boyfriend has been raving about them since he tried them two weeks ago, and the three of you have been on high alert ever since. You even reached out to Somi’s little cousin, Riki, whose ex-girlfriend has a friend that works here to see when they’d be back in stock.

She told him to kill himself.

This is why, when you finally see them — fully stocked and still warm in their bags — you gasp. Understandably, when Aeri tries calling her boyfriend, he doesn’t answer, but you take as many as you can carry and run for the self-checkout.

Under the purple sky, you and Aeri walk all the way home, carrier bags in hand. It takes a lot not to eat all thirty cookies as soon as you cross the threshold, but, in an exercise of immense self-control, you leave them in the bread bin, and bid your flatmate goodnight.

Love her as much as you’ve come to, you often find yourself wishing it was some incredible story that brought the two of you together. A great tale of intertwined fates and instant connection. Instead, you found Aeri on spareroom.co.uk and when you deemed each other harmless enough, you signed the lease and moved in. It took a few months for you to shake off your anxiety and say more to her than, how did you sleep? but you got there in the end, and almost one whole year down the line, this flat and Aeri feel more like home every day.

As the working world’s alarms go off, you get into bed, showered and fresh-breathed, where sleep is reluctant to find you. One hundred counted sheep later, you give up and open Twitter. Now, you are mature enough to know better than to engage with content you know you’re not going to like—you’re not a critic. But… you are a hater. While NAPE haven’t yet brought forth the next strain of fandom-induced illness — à la Bieber Fever or One Direction Infection — they’re inescapable if you use the internet in any capacity. Profiles in magazines, Spotify playlist covers, constant viral concert clips: sweat-sheened skin and lidded eyes, long, thick ring-clad fingers strumming guitars or stroking mic stands. The tattooed back of their frontman populates hit tweets and Instagram Reels alike.

It’s not like you’re immune to attraction or allure. You have eyes. Eyes that widen at the sight of Sunghoon flexing his arms or Jake biting his lip. At Jay and his perfectly mussed hair that sits right at the junction of neat and messy. His two silver hoops in each ear. His dimpled cheek. How he sings with his eyes closed. The scar on his nose that you can only really see up close or when the light hits it just right. Keeping up with things like this is important because if you’re going to be a hater, you’d like to at least be an informed one. This is why, when you search for them on Twitter and the first tweet that comes up is the link to NAPE Catch Each Others Lies | Teen Vogue, you click with no hesitation.

It’s weird seeing them in motion like this, comfortable and joking around. Not singing. They’re decked head to toe in smart casual. Loose blazers and tailored trousers, fake glasses and neatly parted hair, smart shoes and polo shirts. Even though it’s different to their concert outfits and doesn’t really match what seems to be their vibe — evil-demon-fuckboy-rockstar — it suits them, highlighting their oddly perfect proportions.

From this video, you learn that Jay doesn't know any of their birthdays, Jake uses Sunghoon’s deodorant, and Sunghoon has never fallen asleep during rehearsal. Heeseung is also there. When the video ends, you fall asleep without a hitch, fresh linen and sweet dreams pulling you under.

Until you force open your heavy eyes to the sound of your phone ringing at eight o’clock—you slept for exactly two hours. It’s Aeri’s boyfriend. You can’t even speak when you answer, letting out a grumble instead. “Welcome to the land of the living, sweetheart!” he chirps, sounding much too awake for your liking. “Care to open the door?”

“Come back later.”

“But your breakfast will be cold later.” There’s a poutiness to his voice that would irk you if your hungry ears didn’t perk up at the sound of breakfast.

Turning over under the covers, you lean up on your elbows. “What’s for breakfast?” you ask slowly.

“Toad’s.”

To you — and the rest of London’s Gen Z population — Toad’s is the breakfast spot. At seven a.m. every day, there’s a queue that wraps around the corner. They recently issued a statement to request that customers stop selling their spots in line. Tired as you are, the thought of eating Toad’s without having lined up thrills you so much that you run straight to the door and fling it open. There stands Heeseung, a cup-holder in one hand and several paper bags in the other. A pair of sunglasses keep his bleach-fried hair from his forehead.

“You look nice,” he says, smiling as you step aside to let him in.

Smoothing out your hair with self-conscious palms, you inspect your face in the mirror beside him, seeing the crust lining the corners of your puffy eyes. “We are not close enough for you to speak to me like that,” you tell him, leaning into your reflection to clean yourself up a little.

Though you’re joking, mostly, Heeseung and Aeri have only been together for two months, and as her close friend, he should be on his best behaviour around you for at least the rest of his life. He frowns, apologising sincerely as he holds out one of the red and white paper bags. “Can I interest you in a forgive me choux vanille?”

The words make your heart race in your chest as you give a reverent nod, taking the bag from him.

“There’s, like, four of them in there—all yours.”

You have seen fanpages for these choux vanilles, you have been close to starting one yourself, and here, now, on a random Tuesday morning, standing in your hallway with NAPE’s frontman, you hold in your trembling hands a bag of, like, four of them. Later in life, when the time comes, you will name your firstborn after this man, probably.

“Heeseung,” you say softly. “Speak to me however you like.”

He laughs at that, as if he hasn’t just made your whole week. The soft sound breaks you out of your stupor and you help him carry all one million things he brought. “How’d you even get all this?” you ask over your shoulder, everything is still warm, perfect. “What time did you get there? What time did you even wake up?”

Heeseung follows you into the kitchen, his footsteps light against the hardwood. “Will you think I’m a prick if I say I’ve been up all night?” His question surprises you as you take in the sight of him once more—he is the picture of wakefulness with his bright eyes and glowy skin.

“Ah.” You set the goods on the counter, nodding as you take a picture of his haul. “Rockstar life, huh?”

A smile spreads over his lips as he rolls up his sleeves, tattoos appearing from under the white cotton, oddly sheepish. For an artist of his — their — size, with his — their — visibility, there’s a certain meekness to Heeseung that you thought was an act at first, but now you’re not so sure.

“Not even,” he mumbles, looking down at the dark worktop and describing the epitome of rockstar life. “We had this party thing in Soho, but it was dead so we went round this guy’s flat instead, and he stays proper close, as in the line goes by his front door—one of Jongseong’s friends…”

Whether Heeseung knows you’ve stopped listening at the mention of that name is anyone’s guess, but suddenly, your long-awaited Toad’s matcha tastes like nothing and your blood pumps thickly through your body. Loud in your ears. It’s one thing to anticipate seeing or hearing about him — watching that video before bed or bracing yourself for posters plastered in stations and around the city — but like this, so casually, from the mouth of your one person in common, it still shakes you up.

“Whoa.” He waves his large palm in front of your face. “You alright?” Concern creases his eyebrows.

An attempt at a light-hearted laugh stumbles from you. “Just sleepy.” A long, ungraceful moment dawdles by as he studies you, performing some form of assessment that you’re sure you’ve failed.

“Same, honestly,” he finally agrees, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?”

You nod, watching as he makes his way to Aeri’s room and snapping your neck in the other direction when he looks over at you. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Perfect!” you call out over your shoulder, all but sprinting to your bedroom.

In the privacy of your four walls, you sink into the chair at your desk and eat your steak, brie, and mushroom toastie. Half of it anyway, the thought of Jay is too distracting to enjoy it fully. You open Instagram before you even realise, hitting the search button and typing pzzong without a second thought. Eighteen hours ago, he made a post. A photo dump: his guitar in his lap, a blurry sunrise, a gym selfie with Sunghoon’s naked back in the mirror, a video of a lively crowd, and a piercing through his left eyebrow. Life is good, he wrote. The comments display varying degrees of thirst for Sunghoon. Blue ticks light up the screen as you scroll through them. Heart eyes from Bae Sumin. Best show ever babyyyyyyy from Yeh Shuhua.

Good for him.

Seriously.

You have committed a cardinal sin, for which you will never forgive yourself—you forgot your headphones at home. And so, like the rest of Central London, you’ve been subject to hearing the rustle of plastic on plastic in your bag as you walk down the street. As it turns out, no matter how delicious, eating thirty ginormous, sickly sweet cookies is quite difficult, so you’re taking them out to the pub where you’re meeting up with some friends.

The bell above the door at Ruby’s rings loud and clear over the radio when you step inside. For a Wednesday afternoon, it’s busier than you expect, patrons crowding the bar and tables alike, though you suppose, as one of them, that this is the way of the unemployed. Speaking of, Riki towers over everyone at the bar, oblivious or uncaring towards the pretty bartender’s fluttering eyelashes. At the sight of you though, he raises his bleached eyebrows, waving you over.

“Three p.m. tequila shots, don’t mind if I do,” you say, beaming into the rough collar of his denim jacket.

His hug is tight and brief. “Aw, yeah. I’ve got class in the morning,” he offers unhelpfully, holding up a clear shaker. “Salt?” Riki pours salt all over the back of your hand, more granules falling to your feet than sticking to the spot you licked, and hands you his wedge of lime. Holding up his shot with surprising steadiness, he says, “C’est la vie!”

Doing a shot of straight fire would burn less, but Riki isn’t fazed, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you towards the back of the pub where the rest of your friends are. Yizhuo sees you first, peering over the booth and her face splits into a grin. You feel yours doing the same. She and Somi leap to their feet, pulling you into a hug and wrapping you up in a cloud of florals and spice and beer. “You’re alive!” Yizhuo cries out, pulling back to get a good look at you, her hand on your jaw to turn your face this way and that. “And still so beautiful!”

“Against all the odds,” you mumble, accepting the wet kiss Somi plants on your cheek with a smile. Right when you settle into the booth beside Yizhuo, texts from Aeri light up your phone screen, notification bubbles covering up the chestnut horse on your lockscreen.

aeri: heeseung said the guys can make it after all ! he promises they’ll behave

aeri: they’re not as bad as you think !!!

You groan around a long sweet sip of the cloudy IPA Somi ordered for you. “I’m meeting Aeri’s boyfriend’s friends tonight,” you mumble, sending a thumbs-up emoji in response.

“Wait.” Yizhuo pauses, looking over her shoulders before leaning over the table. “NAPE are going to be at your flat tonight?” she whispers, eyes wide and buggy.

What comes from your mouth is a disgusting sigh-groan hybrid that makes Riki flinch as you say, “The one and only.”

Somi’s entire face crumples and she hunches over, hitting her forehead repeatedly on the tabletop, making it wobble. “Why do good things keep happening to you instead of me?”

“This is public knowledge, I texted the chat like a week ago.” You lift your golden pint and Yizhuo’s dark Guinness from the table so they don’t slip off the edge. “Plenty of time, no?”

“A week ago…” Riki repeats, voice trailing off into nothing as he rubs his stomach and leans back in his seat. “That’s like an hour’s notice in employed people's time.” He sighs. “No offense, YN.”

“Okay, Big Rik.” You scoff. “You’ve had a job for ten minutes.”

He glances at his watch before squinting at you, venom written all over his cute little face. “And that’s ten minutes longer than you, is it not?”

“Did I do something to you?”

“You know what? I’m glad you br—” Somi cuts off her little cousin by shutting his mouth with her hand. “Can we please focus on the real issue, you’re partying with NAPE tonight and I can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“My mum’s up and we’re having dinner,” she says bitterly.

“Just come after.”

“Or don’t come at all!” Yizhuo butts in. “I have plans for Jake Sim tonight and I don’t need him getting distracted.”

Riki kisses his teeth, shaking his head. “I’m willing to bet a good amount of money that your plans involve staring at him from across the room, then blowing up the chat to talk about how you two caught a vibe.”

This is, to Yizhuo, the greatest offence — despite its truth — and you have to actually hold her back from leaping over the table to strangle Riki, but there’s nothing you can do about the string of insults that leave her mouth.

Somi’s ring-clad knuckles rap against your side of the table, right beside your glass. “Really sorry about Daydream, by the way. Seriously,” she says, frowning. “If it makes you feel any better, I heard a bunch of their permanent staff got laid off as well.”

Only now, with Somi’s sincerity, do you realise how long it’s been since you last saw your friends. Nearly three weeks have passed since you lost your job, and this is the first time the four of you have managed to get together. As much as you hate to admit it, Riki was right about needing loads of notice to schedule something as simple as day drinking at the pub. Your world used to revolve around your planner, with separate sections in your worn Filofax for work, personal, and social—which was, largely in part, due to your obsession with stationary. Sitting down on a Sunday night to plan out the week ahead was one of your main hobbies, pencilling in coffee dates and errand-run-hangout hybrids wherever you found an hour or two in common with one of your friends. If you didn’t live with Aeri, you’d probably never see her.

“You know what, Somi? Not really, but thank you.”

Undeterred, she beams at you. “One door closed is a million doors opened, I swear.”

“Cheers to that!” Riki grins, raising his shot glass to his cousin’s nonsensical proverb.

Pushing your doubts away, you raise your pint and toast to the possibility of a million doors opening up before you. Beautiful doors with even more beautiful things behind them, of course. You need all the luck you can get.

Somi has time to nurse another half pint before she has to leave, begging you to text her everything about tonight as it happens. You make no promises. It’s another four pints and a sunset before the rest of you get up to leave, zigging and zagging through the crowded bar out into the crisp fresh air. And because the speakers in the beer garden are playing music, different music to what was on inside, Riki makes you and Yizhuo sit shivering with him at a picnic bench so he can listen to Folded by Kehlani.

“Fuck, Riki,” Yizhuo mutters, rubbing her face with her hands when the second verse starts. “Don’t you have music at home?”

He rolls his eyes, pausing his singing to say, “I’m sure even you could appreciate that hearing a song you like in the wild is way better than listening to it at home.”

“I would love to agree with you, but I have central heating at home.” Your teeth chatter when you finish talking, and all you can think about is your bed and the multiple other ways you could be experiencing warmth at home right now. Hot water bottle. Electric blanket. Taking a bath. Cuddling with Aeri.

“You also have NAPE at home.” Yizhuo points out.

“We’re all going there, what’s your point?”

She pulls a face that you know means she’s not coming.

“We?” Riki repeats, eyes bulging out of his head. “I’m going home. There’s music at home, as Yizhuo so kindly reminded me.”

“Neither of you are coming? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, brother.” He nods solemnly, standing up from his seat as the song comes to an end. “None of my mutuals are going.” He pats his pockets, in search of the big three — phone, wallet, keys — before zipping up his jacket.

“Your mutuals…” Yizhuo trails off, eying him. “Riki, this is real life.”

“Also it’s literally my flat, where I live… I thought we were mutuals.”

“Ladies, please.” He holds up his hands defensively. “I can ragebait Jay Park any time, okay, I don’t need to go to your house to do that. I also think I reserve the right to sleep in my own bed tonight. Alone.”

“Who else would be in your bed?” Yizhuo scrunches her nose, pulling the fallen strap of her bag back up her shoulder.

Gesturing towards all six feet of himself, Riki licks his lips, stumbling just a little. “Have you seen me?” he asks, a smug smile curling over his mouth.

“Unfortunately, we have, princess,” you say, patting his back. “Let’s get you home.”

Ruby’s isn’t your favourite pub, but it’s the best option if you’re drinking with Riki, because he stays so close and the only way any of you will have peace of mind after a night out is if you actually see him getting into his flat and hear the lock clicking behind him. The three of you walk arm in arm with Princess Riki towering over you in the middle. It takes all of fifteen minutes to get to his place and then the station across the road. Side by side on the platform, Yizhuo bumps your hip with hers. “How are you feeling?”

Given the pile of her texts you haven’t yet returned, you have a good idea of what she’s referring to. Even so, you ask, “About?”

Yizhuo gives you a look, pursing her lips before mumbling your name. She got lucky, jumping off the slowly sinking Daydream ship in time to snag a senior editorial position at Interview. She’d encouraged you to do the same, move up in your career, but no, you just had to prove your unwavering loyalty to a company for which you were no more than a name on a list. A recipient for an email with the subject line: Notice of Organisational Changes. Hindsight, as always, is 20/20 and the signs were there before you even got to London. The Edinburgh office, where you’d worked since graduating, closed last summer for financial reasons. Transferring seemed like a no-brainer, a blessing, but if you knew you had a year left, you would’ve stayed put.

“The downtime’s nice.” Over the last three weeks you’ve fixed your sleeping schedule, started and finished eight books, gone home to see Minjeong, applied and been rejected from nine editorial positions, and played through all of Super Mario Bros. Wonder. Twice. “I do, however, enjoy receiving a salary, so it would be nice to work again. Quite soon.”

Yizhuo nods, squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out for openings, but it might help to get your work out there, keep you sharp and all that. Are you on Substack?”

You laugh in her face. It’s 2025, everyone is on Substack—including the two-hundred subscribers you panicked and abandoned when your page started gaining traction. “Yes, Yizhuo. I’m on Substack.”

“Perfect!” she exclaims and because this is the Central Line and Londoners do not care about anyone else, no one spares her a glance. Your cheeks burn anyway. A happy sigh falls from her lips, and she tilts her head. “Write and post, write and post. Anyone will read anything these days, just get your name and your gorgeous words online, and I promise, you’ll be rolling in opportunities.”

“Yizhuo…”

“I’m serious. Write about your crazy NAPE party tonight, God knows how many people would kill to be in your position.” She lets go of the handrail and makes a show of pointing at herself with both hands. “Just do something, okay? You’re too young to sit in your room watching TV all day. You need to leave your house and live your life and see your friends.”

“I know, Yizhuo. I know that,” you mumble, fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “It’s not on purpose or anything, I just… sometimes I need a day to do nothing, and then it’s two days and then it’s a week.” Your stomach curls in on itself at the thought. The longer you spend at home, the harder it is to leave. You had to psych yourself up this afternoon, staring at your reflection and repeating: my friends do not secretly hate me. My friends enjoy my company. I am good company.

She frowns. “I get that, really. But you don’t have to deal with everything on your own, you have friends. A lot of friends who love you and want to spend time with you.” It all sounds a bit like an affirmation tape, a YouTube subliminal, and maybe if those weren’t the exact words you needed to hear right now, you might have laughed. “Next time you’re home doing nothing, text me and we can rot together, okay?”

You nod.

“And please, please, please get some NAPE dick tonight and review it ASAP,” Yizhuo says, whispering the name of the band as if that was the worst part of her sentence.

“I’ll pass.”

“Not a request.”

“Okay, daddy. I’ll do it,” you say, which, of course, makes London’s so-called nonchalant population turn their heads in your direction.

Yizhuo’s head falls back with laughter and you look up at the map above the door. Seven more stops for you, though hers is next. She pulls you into a hug, and you hide your face in her puffer jacket, willing your cheeks to stop burning. It doesn’t work. When the doors slip open, she kisses your cheeks and says, “See you later, Kitten.”

Flustered doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel as you call out, “Text me when you’re home, okay?”

She nods and blows you a kiss before climbing the stairs, disappearing into the sea of commuters leaving the station while the doors close. The Tube chugs on, homeward bound. With Yizhuo’s words on a loop, you finish the rest of the journey home, relieved to feel the autumn wind on your cheeks when you get back outside.

Dread stirs a pit in your stomach as you hear the party before you even see your front door. And dread almost kills you as you take careful steps around the people sitting in the corridor to get inside. The music is loud but there aren’t as many people as you thought. It’s mainly just a bunch of influencers you recognise by IG handle instead of name—jenaissante and _chaechae_1 are stretched over your couch, yawnzzn laughs with you.th in the kitchen doorway.

Heeseung spots you before you have a chance to retreat to your room. He is elated and red all over, pulling you into a hug, and wrapping his warm tobacco scent around you. “Hello!” he yells into your ear, before gesturing behind himself. “Jake and Sunghoon.” NAPE’s bassist and drummer, the ones from the yaoi magazine cover you went back for a copy of, are somehow much better looking in person.

The camera doesn’t quite do justice to Jake’s large… everything. His eyes, nose, lips, and rose-tinted knuckles are so big and so beautiful. He tucks some of his hair behind his ear and smiles with all of his teeth. “Nice finally meeting you,” he says, seeming to mean it. Having a favourite member in a band where you know half of the members personally feels wrong, but Jake is that for you, and so, the tipsy fangirl-adjacent part of you gives him a hug that he graciously returns.

At his side, Sunghoon stands in a white button-up that clings to his huge biceps. Great. His hair is perfectly parted over his forehead, his tie tight and straight. His lips are plump and pink, pulling into a sheepish smile as he raises his huge hand to wave at you. The sight of it, the dimple in his cheek, sets off a flutter in your stomach and you can’t help giggling like he’s done something special. “We’ve heard so much,” he says. “I mean, J—” He groans, keeling over and clutching his ribs where Jake elbowed him.

“It’s true, Gigi’s always talking about you,” Jake finishes off like nothing happened. “Something to drink?”

Dazed, you blink at the band boy, but take him up on his kind offer of a drink in your home. Jake leads you through the sparse crowd, weaving artfully towards your kitchen and making small talk along the way. “I actually used to play in church,” he tells you, opening your cupboards and taking out what he needs. Absolut Vanilla, simple syrup. A sticky bottle of Schweppes swiped from the kitchen island behind you. “I wanted girls to like me.”

“Did it work?”

Jake looks up from the counter at you, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he halts his mixology. “Of course it worked,” he says, disbelief written all over his face. “But I was too shy to do anything about it.”

“I see,” you say, struggling to conceal your laughter as he hands you a cup.

“Wasn’t for nothing though.” He shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I guess you could say I’m pretty confident these days.”

You’ve seen enough about NAPE online, fanwars and uproar about the personal lives of the members, to know firsthand he’s not exactly lying. This is the face of some of Pinterest’s favourite couple inspo, one half of the now-mourned JakeZuha. You’d met her once, Kazuha, at a work thing. One of Daydream’s holiday parties. She was nice, more than, even if she didn’t have much to say about anything that wasn’t her boyfriend. Their breakup in the winter had fanpages proclaiming that love was dead and that they were children of divorce.

The thought makes you laugh in his face and you’re just glad he laughs too as you clink the rims of your plastic cups together.

Armed with the sweetest vodka lemonade you’ve ever had, you head to your room, desperate to change out of your jeans. After triple checking the lock on your door, you leave your jeans in a heap at your feet, stepping out of them and towards your dresser, where you settle on your favourite grey sweatpants and resolve to only be photographed from the waist up. One large gulp of drink, a deep breath, and you pull open the door, returning to the party—if fifteen people in your flat can really be described as such.

Before you can go over and join Aeri, a knock at the front door catches your attention, though you seem to be the only one to hear it. The knock comes again and you roll your eyes, unwilling to apologise for noise at nine p.m. on a Friday night. You know your rights. At the sound of a third knock, you stomp over to the door and fling it open.

“Mrs. Kim, we—Jay?”

The last year of your life living in London has been long. A massive adjustment. Hiked up prices and supermarkets closing early on Sundays, learning Tube routes and constantly being an hour away from any given plan you’ve made. So much has changed. You have changed. You are not the same petrified grown up who left everything she knew to move here, nor are you the same lovestruck girl Jay abandoned all those years ago. Yet the sight of him, live and in person and standing at your door dislodges something in your chest. In your memories, those odd dreams you have from time to time, he always looks so grown up. Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. It had never occurred to you back then how young you both were, especially given that he was a year older. Reconciling that version of him with the 25-year-old man before you now is impossible. The last of his baby fat, those stubborn chubby cheeks you loved with everything you had are gone now.

Is there any part of him, of this stranger, that you still know?

His hair is slicked back, a few strands left down, streaking over his forehead in that handsome way. You’d always liked it back like this, though he rarely did it. Reserved it for special occasions. Grad Ball Jay. Anniversary Jay. 25-year-old Jay. Even though the sun is down, a huge pair of sunglasses rests on the straight bridge of his nose. The silver ball above his eyebrow shines in the light. Making sense of the odds in your mind is impossible. How, at once, you are pleased to see him and thoroughly disgusted by it. How after everything, he can look at you, smile, and say your name.

“Jay…” you say again, trailing off, uncertain and half-expecting him to vanish into thin air, like some hyperrealistic figment of your imagination, complete with the cologne he used to wear. Scent — his scent — that most powerful of senses that hurtles you into the past as soon as you catch it. Hurtles you long back into his soft hoodies. Into your bed where that same honey musk lingered on the sheets long after he left.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, sincere as ever.

“I know,” you agree, stomach turning. Nervous. Nauseous. “I, uh, I do think I’m going to be sick, though.”

Before you have the chance to rush away from him, to do anything, you wretch and spew alcohol onto the doormat between his feet and yours.

Pinching yourself does nothing—this is not a nightmare to be woken from.

“Fuck,” Jay says, crouching into view. Concern drenches his features, the last thing you see before screwing your eyes shut. “Are you okay?”

Mortification creeps through every last inch of your body, settling between your bones. This is not happening. This can not be happening. Seeing Jay again was supposed to be an event of Princess Diana revenge dress proportions. You own a revenge dress! You had grand plans to make Jay Park regret the day he was born, never mind the day he dumped you. Yet here you are, in a crop top and joggers covered in your own vomit.

“Great, Jay,” you mutter. “I’m great.”

Against your better judgment, you let him take you to the bathroom where you lean over the toilet bowl. Nothing comes out, but he rubs your back and holds your hair away from your skin anyway. His gentle touch burns through your clothes. “Are you alright?”

Kneeling on the checkerboard linoleum with Jay at your side has been a real test of strength, though, even with your screaming joints, you’re certain it’s better than the alternative—actually having to look at him. Weepy-eyed and vomit-breathed. “I’m fine,” you say for the hundredth time, sighing. “You can stop asking now.”

He scoffs, an amused sound that heats your skin to hear. Behind your closed eyelids, you can picture the look on his face. Clearly see the lopsided curve of his lips, the hint of a dimple. “Alright, my bad for worrying after you threw up all over me.”

Your hair slips from his hold when you whip your head to face him, strands sticking to your neck as soon as they’re free. Frantically, your eyes search his dark jeans. “It got on you?”

Jay smiles and he is so painfully gorgeous in the warm light of your shared bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Seeing him here, seeing him at all makes your heart stutter. “No, YN.” He shakes his head, quickly, voice a low rumble. “You’re all good.”

You hum, raking a hand through your hair. “I’m all good,” you agree.

Now that your level of goodness has been sufficiently clarified, Jay clears his throat. “Alright, champ,” he says, as if you are an eight-year-old little boy while helping you to your feet in much the same manner. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

On your waist the weight of his palm, the heat of it, is dizzying, and your alcohol consumption and post-vomit fogginess do nothing to stop the room from tilting. “Don’t touch me,” you croak, wriggling out of his grip. The words are rough on your throat.

Ever respectful, he lets go at once, stepping back and apologising as he flushes the toilet. A thrum of irritation flares in your head, hammering at your skull, at how easily that word came out of him, sorry, slipping from his little pink mouth and over the smallest thing. At once, the desire to wring his neck and to press your lips against his spar in your head. Neither wins. “So that you can apologise for,” you say under your breath instead.

Somehow, the look he gives you — tilted head, wide eyes, lips ajar — is the worst thing that’s happened since he arrived. Jay pities you, his scorned lover. The tightness in your chest is immediate, a thick knot that won’t give. Before he can speak, you turn away to clutch the sink and it is a grand effort. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“It’s fine, Jay. I’m fine,” you say, though it is the furthest thing from fine you can think of. “It was a big deal to me and not to you. We’re over it, we’re fine.”

In the mirror, he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, like you are Patrick Zweig asking for Tashi Duncan’s coaching. “Not a big deal to me?” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you kidding? Who said it wasn’t a big deal to me?”

You cover your face with your hands, sighing into your palms. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“I think we need to.”

“Yeah, Jay. We did,” you agree, catching his eye in the glass. It’s a mistake. “About three years ago before you up and left out of nowhere.”

“Out of nowhere?” he says, as if he absolutely must repeat everything that comes out of your mouth. “I was always moving back here, YN. That was always my plan, you knew that.”

Your eyes sting at the corners. Tears eager to spill. He’s right. You did know that. Jay made it explicitly clear. But there had been a time back then, when you were a part of those plans too. When his tongue slipped around I and we like they were the same thing. They were. To you. When we go to London… He brought you here that last winter. You drank Bailey’s hot chocolate at Winter Wonderland and met his parents. Met Heeseung. Jay had a life here, a vibrant one, and with each day you spent together, it became harder to imagine him anywhere else. By the fireplace in his family home, he asked you if you liked it, liked London. Of course you did. The flame raged warm in his brown eyes when he asked if you could see yourself here, with him. Your heart was beating in your throat. You loved London, and you loved Jay even more. You would have moved to Aberdeen if that’s where he wanted to go.

“Jay?”

His gaze softens, gone is the harsh crease of his brow, his squinting eyes. It’s like staring the past dead in the face. Everything you wanted so badly and never got to have. “Yeah?” he says gently.

“Get to fuck.”

Jay clenches his jaw, nodding slowly. “If that’s what you want.” He closes the door softly behind him when he leaves.

It’s only now, alone, that you register the hammering of your heart, the thudding of your pulse in your ears. You cry into the sink until your head hurts. You brush your teeth. Wash your face.

Opposite the bathroom door, Jay leans on the wall. Sunglasses on. Bottle of water in his white knuckle grip. He holds it out for you to take and you sigh, far beyond the mood to hear whatever he has to say. Minted by Colgate and Listerine, the water is ice in your mouth. Refreshing. “Thanks.”

Jay flicks off the bathroom light by your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Together, you turn down the hall and into the living room. All of the guys — NAPE, at least — lapse into silence to watch you, though Heeseung is polite enough to pretend he’s not staring. Your stomach turns. Leaning up to Jay’s ear is grossly reflexive when you ask, “Do they—” You pause, pursing your lips and knowing the answer already. “Obviously Heeseung knows, but…”

“I told them.”

No matter how evil he was / is, he has every right to talk about what happened. About what he did. It’s Jay’s story as much as it’s yours, and he can do with it what he wants, regardless of how mortifying it is to think of other people knowing. What you did with it, and intend to continue doing with it, was keep the whole ordeal to yourself, like any other mentally sound adult woman would, which is obviously very healthy and working out really well for you. Jay had to move back home and we agreed it’d be best to end things. This is the version of events everyone else in your life has heard, and it’s what Minjeong and Jaehyun would have heard if it wasn’t for your living with them.

“Sorry,” he adds in a low voice.

That word again, easier than breathing it seems. “It’s fine.”

At the sight of you, Aeri’s face lights up and she stumbles out of Heeseung’s lap and over to you, taking you into her tattooed arms like it’s been an age since you last saw each other. In a way, you can’t believe it hasn’t been. “Here you are!” With her hands cradling your elbows, she takes a good look at you, eyes latching onto every part of your face. “You feeling okay?”

“Perfect!” Your voice is unusually high, strained.

“Heeseung cleaned up.” Aeri’s gaze flickers over your shoulder and she grins. “And I see you two have met.”

“Actually—” Jay starts, but you talk over him. “Yeah!” You face him, grinning too widely and extending a hand for him to shake. “Sorry about that. I’m YN.”

Only after a moment does his confusion clear and he takes your hand in his, shaking it. His fingertips are rougher than you remember, thick callouses boiling hot on your skin. “Nice meeting you,” he says, holding onto you for just too long. Too long for a conventional first meeting, anyway. No amount of time holding Jay Park’s hand could ever be long enough.

True peace and relaxation only find you when everyone has left, trickling out into London’s night time, cluster by cluster. Heeseung and his band boys stayed behind to tidy up and get their hands on one last pint before leaving your place even neater than they’d found it.

While you wash the breakfast dishes you abandoned in your room this morning, Aeri tiptoes into the kitchen behind you, humming happily to herself and pulling you into her arms. “They’re not so bad, are they?” Unfortunately, she and the rest of the world are correct. NAPE aren’t so bad after all. In fact, they are perfectly charming, and funny, and kind. Even their evil guitarist. You hum in response and focus on keeping a firm grip on your bowl as you move it to the drying rack.

“And…” She trails off, apparently waiting for you to finish her sentence. Much to her dismay, you do not. Aeri lets go of you and leans on the counter at your side, tipping her head to see your face. “What do we think of Jay?” she asks in a sing-song voice, and if she were referring to literally any other guy on the planet, you’d have smiled along with her.

But she isn’t and the sound of his name dries your mouth. “He’s… okay,” you say after too long. “Seems nice.”

Aeri’s jaw drops. “He’s okay?” Her disbelief is palpable, expressed through every part of her. “He held your hair while you threw up in the toilet and you think he’s just okay?”

“I actually didn’t throw up at all in the toilet,” you correct her, like that makes it any better, defensive in an off-putting way that makes you cringe. “But I guess the rockstar thing doesn’t really do it for me.”

“The rockstar thing,” she repeats under her breath, shaking her head. “What about the freakishly understanding thing? Or, I don’t know, the extremely fuckable guy thing?”

A pit takes over your stomach. “You’ve fucked him?” You don’t mean to ask, or to sound so dejected when you do, but the words come out before you can help it.

“Jesus, no.” Aeri sighs. “I’m not that lucky.”

You hate how relieved you are to hear it.

“He’s, like, impressively celibate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had on, like, a chastity belt or some shit.” She shakes her head solemnly. “A damn shame if you ask me,” she starts, though quickly changes her tune. “But, you know, I’m obviously very lucky with Heeseung… yadda yadda yadda.”

A scoff comes out of you, but you can’t help the smile on your face. “Right.”

Aeri yawns and stretches her arms out over her head. “Believe me when I say I cannot wait to see the kind of person who does it for you.” It’s the last thing she says before she kisses your temple and heads for bed.

you: I threw up on Park Jongseong tn.

minjeong: YEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

In bed, you open your phone and search for the thread you haven’t looked at in years. His contact still has a kissy face in it.

jongseong 😽: i got my shift swapped soooooo sleepover?

you: 😭😭😭 YES YES YES YES YES YES

jongseong 😽: hahaha leaving in 10 ❤️‍🔥

jongseong 😽: baby baby baby baby baby baby

Because this knife to the gut isn’t quite sharp enough, you search for the word dakgaejang, and those first messages come up.

jongseong 😽: hey yn! it’s jongseong from earlier, i hope you don’t mind me asking around for your number, i’m only now realising how creepy this is… i just wanted to make sure you were able to get home okay, and i’m really sorry i couldn’t walk you all the way back, i swear i meant to! and don’t worry about the hoodie, just hold onto it and stay cozy!!! if you have someone at home who can cook, my mom has this insane recipe for dakgaejang, that shit could cure anything, and if you don’t have someone at home who can cook, i’d be happy to whip some up for you when i get home and drop it off!!!

jongseong 😽: whatever works for you, okay? just lmk!

When you finally fall asleep, you dream of Jay. Of Jay and your university bedroom back in that freezing Edinburgh flat. At the foot of your bed, he hurriedly picked his clothes from the floor while your space heater roared into the cold. You leaned up on your elbows, but said nothing. You couldn’t speak. Finally, he saw you and froze in place. This was not the Jay of years past. Not Jongseong. It was Jay as he’d been last night. With his hair slicked back and his worn leather jacket over his broad shoulders. Still, he gave you that same look. Those same soft and sleepy eyes.

“Sorry, beautiful,” he mumbled, his voice low and thick. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

All it took was one blink, and he was right there, kneeling at the side of the bed. “I’m glad we got to see each other again, YN. I’ve really missed you.” His palm rested on your cheek, calluses on the tips of his fingers. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll be back soon,” he said. A dimple dented his cheek when you nodded, and his soft lips grazed yours—you wake up with a start, sweat-drenched and heavy breathing. Heart pounding in your chest. Tears welling in your eyes.

When you finally manage to get out of bed, you go straight to the shower. You don’t bother drying your hair after, which you will regret. On the kitchen counter, the kettle boils noisily, but you can’t bring yourself to worry about waking your flatmate. Can’t bring yourself to worry about anything other than the fact you haven’t been able to steady your breathing in the thirty minutes since you tore yourself from your damp cheeks.

A door clicks shut down the hallway, making you flinch. Heeseung appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. “How’d you sleep?” he asks through a yawn.

Your dream, Jay, comes to mind quickly and with no warning. The ghost of his palm on your cheek, his lips on yours, all so vivid like he’s here with you now. Like he really spent the night. “Same as always,” you say, clearing your throat. “You?”

“Slept alright.” He shrugs and takes a glass from the cabinet by your head, filling it up with water from the filter. “Are you going to tell Gigi or should I?”

The drop of your stomach is immediate. “Tell Gigi what?”

After a sip of water, he presses his lips into a flat line and takes a moment, like he’s carefully choosing his next words. “I know it’s none of my business but—”

“Stay out of it then,” you interrupt, pulling the kettle from the element and filling your mug. Instant espresso splashes onto the counter.

“But he’s really sorry, you know?” Heeseung says as if it makes a difference.

He’s sorry? Great! The urge to punch Heeseung in the face for his crime of simply having a functional relationship with your life’s great evil is overbearing. Your clenched fist trembles at your side and a maniacal laugh rips out of you. He takes a step back. Your coffee burns your tongue. “Wow, Heeseung! Why didn’t he just say so? Holy shit, this changes everything!”

“YN—”

Desperate for this conversation to be over, to bury yourself under your duvet and start again tomorrow, you cut him off yet again. “It’s not your mistake to fix.”

“You’re right.” Heeseung sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, obviously you’re going to stick up for your friend, I get that and it’s fine. It’s just that I’m not exactly—” You pause, running a hand over your face. “I have a lot I need to figure out.” The awareness of how long you’ve had to do just that, and how long you’ve spent avoiding it, weighs heavy on your shoulders.

He nods, twisting the back of the stud in his ear. “Of course, YN. It’s just… you know…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely into the space between you with both hands. “I’m your friend too, I hope. And, it’s not like I think he can justify what he did, but it might be helpful to hear why he did it. From him?” he suggests, voice tipping upwards as your eyes get progressively more squinted.

The absolute last thing you need right now, is to hear Jay wax poetic about being a true artist and unlocking one’s inner self. How he absolutely had to leave and that was it, you weren’t allowed to be upset about it, because trapping an artist in a box would be like clipping a bird’s wings. Or something.

“Just think about it, yeah?”

For lack of anything better to do, you blow on your coffee, rippling the surface before taking a cautious sip. Over the rim of your cup, Heeseung is watching you, gnawing at his bottom lip with his teeth. If not for the twinkle of hope in his ginormous eyes, you wouldn’t give in and say, “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

His face lights up like you gave him a firm yes and he claps his hands together. “Are you free on Friday night?”

You splutter, coughing into your elbow as you put down your cup. “You’re giving me thirty-six hours to make up my mind?”

“No, not at all. No rush, I swear,” he says, waving his hands frantically. “We’re playing a show at The Helmet, and I thought it would be cool if you came along.”

Disbelief tugs at your brow. “You thought that?”

Heeseung opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, saying nothing. And if you weren’t so curious, you’d drop the subject and decline, but… “I think—” He starts, cutting himself off to look at the ceiling. Then, with his hand on his heart, “All of us would be honoured to have you there. Collectively.”

You’ve seen enough clips online to know that seeing NAPE perform, seeing Jay, would do horrible things for not only your healing journey, but for feminism at large.

As if sensing your reluctance, he adds, “You can come backstage and everything!”

“That would be lovely, Heeseung. No thank you.” Right as the words leave your mouth, Yizhuo crosses your mind and you ask, “Is Jake single?”

With saucers for eyes, he tilts his head. “Pardon?”

“Is he?”

“Are you asking for yourself?”

“Would that change your answer?”

A quiet second passes, Heeseung’s actually thinking about it. “That depends.”

“I’m not going, but I have some friends, two, who would genuinely die to go backstage,” you explain unhelpfully. “I’ll speak to Aeri about it and they can all go together.”

“No can do, YN.” Heeseung purses his lips. “If you’re not backstage, then your friends aren’t either.”

“Then I guess they won’t be backstage.” You frown, lifting your coffee from the counter. The steam has cleared. “Break a leg, rockstar.” On your way out, you pat Heeseung on the back.

Poor Somi and Yizhuo.

The Helmet is a pub of relative dinginess. Each step you take is a mild effort for how sticky the floor is with God knows how many hours of uncleaned booze. And quite small compared to the venues NAPE have been selling out recently, but according to Aeri, “This place has sentimental value! They played their first ever gig here, it’s special.”

She loops her arm through yours and drags you into the throng, not caring who she elbows. And the elbowed don’t seem to mind either when they realise it’s Heeseung’s girlfriend. And you. And Somi. And Yizhuo and Riki and Jaehyun. There is no barricade between the stage and the crowd. Just a foot high elevation and a whole lot of trust from the lack of security the pub seems to boast. Despite how packed it is, it’s not difficult to get to the bar, as evidenced by Jaehyun and Riki’s trips back and forth to supply you guys with drinks.

The DJ plays a jarring mix of alt-rock and 60’s pop music and everything in between. Muse’s Supermassive Black Hole becomes Like I Love You by Justin Timberlake becomes Surfin’ U.S.A. Who the target audience is, you’re not sure, but the more you drink — and the more Riki moves his broad shoulders to the beat — it becomes easier and easier to bear.

“I went to international school with that guy!” Riki yells in your ear. “Name’s Asahi and he’s fucking crazy.”

“The DJ?”

“No, you idiot. That’s Jungwon.” Riki flicks your forehead. “I mean the bartender.”

Around you, the crowd cheers raucously when the stage lights dim. Nothing happens. The DJ continues to terrorise all of you with more insane transitions — Sugar Water Cyanide into No One Noticed — and you continue to drink.

The lights go dim and the crowd around you roars. At your side, Aeri shakes like she’s the one about to perform, grabbing your hand and giving it a tight squeeze. She doesn’t let go. Another swell of screams fills the air as a song starts playing, one of NAPE’s. No Way Back was the first and last NAPE song you ever listened to. It was everywhere—the lead single of their debut album, the title of the tour they just finished, the common song choice for TikTok OOTDs and DIMLs. They were everywhere—BBC Live Lounge, The Tonight Show, Saturday Night Live.

And, much to your dismay, they were damn good.

In the blink of an eye, the lights come up slowly and you hold your breath as NAPE appear on stage. With Aeri, you look straight up at Heeseung who smiles, leaning towards the mic and singing, “When the last sun sets…”

They are a golden spotlighted blur to your tipsy eyes, but Jay has maybe never looked so good. There’s nothing special about wearing a flannel over a plain white T-shirt, you know that, but on him, now, it’s mesmerising. He is mesmerising. Glowing under the lights and so, so close. His guitar sits right by his waistband, veins criss-crossing over the backs of his hands as he plays. Goosebumps rise along your skin, and a funny feeling ravages your stomach. Butterflies on crack, just like the first time you saw him.

It seemed unjust that someone like him could exist not only on your campus, but within walking distance of your flat without you knowing. That someone so handsome had been existing and so close to you for three years. That was all you could think back then. If only we’d met earlier. If only we had more time. It was a real cosmic injustice. You had no real plans to stay in Edinburgh, but not for lack of wanting to—there you had a roof over your head, you had friends, and you had Jay. You had nights spent curled around him, you had mindblowing sex, and you had something special and real that you will never get back.

Knowing what he has now, it would have been ludicrous for Jay to stay behind. He has a crowd screaming his name, and a flat right in the centre of London and most of all, he has accepted that things are over and his life is better for it.

When you lift your stinging eyes from his guitar, he’s already looking at you. His eyes are wide, his lips set apart. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, like he too is using this most inconvenient of moments to mourn the past. To mourn you. He freezes, fingers stilling over the strings for long enough that Heeseung casts a look in his direction.

You chew on your bottom lip until it hurts and snatch Jaehyun’s cup out of his hand to finish it. When the song ends, the crowd erupts into cheers, again.

Jay Park is a god among men.

“What you saying, London?” Heeseung says, grinning, and the crowd goes crazy over it. Over him. You can’t blame them. There’s a charm to him, like this, standing in front of you on the stage. Heeseung the idol, you the… well, reluctant fan of sorts. “We’re NAPE and we’ve got a special show prepared for you tonight.”

The crowd cheers. To his credit, Heeseung is electric on stage, and you are standing so close you can see the sweat beading along his hairline and can already predict the tweets you’re going to see later about all of this. For fear of doing something rash, like jumping on the stage and tackling Jay for a kiss, you keep your eyes trained on the reflective red of Heeseung’s microphone as he continues to speak to the crowd.

“If tonight’s your first time with us, then allow me to introduce the band,” he says, his voice low in a way you’ve never heard before as he gestures behind him. Sunghoon on the drums, Jake on the bass, and his good friend, Jay on the guitar.

“Thank you for that, good friend Heeseung.” The words leave Jay’s mouth in a slow mumble, his cheeks a little flushed as he touches his palm to his heart. The screams for him seem the loudest by far, but that might be because you’re screaming with everyone else. “It’s good to see you guys, I’m Jay. Let’s have fun tonight, London.”

They launch into the next song immediately, a funky track about how they’re always going to be there for their ex who they left in unfavourable circumstances and still love. Sunshine, another unfortunately good song that is a perfect fit for Jay’s voice. Minjeong was the one who sent this single to you when it first came out, along with a message telling you to check the credits. Jay was listed as the sole writer.

Artists take creative liberties, you know that, and it’s easy to see why an attractive guy writing about still loving his ex, no matter what, would do better than an attractive man singing about being Satan’s son. But still, it’s weird to think of the millions of listeners who think they know what happened because Jay wrote about it. Who think he is the perfect, sweet, dream man who’d do anything to be wherever you are. Unless, of course, that place is Scotland—though you can see how that might have been difficult to rhyme.

And even still, despite your growing irritation, you can’t help but look at him in awe.

They play one song after another — not saying much — and you don’t know any of them, but they only get better. The crowd gets more excited, louder somehow, and Jay only gets harder to look away from. Seeing him like this, on stage, is overwhelming. His skin honeyed under the strong lights, slick with sweat making him glow. His thick fingers move quickly over the frets, his straight teeth bite his bottom lip. When he leans towards the mic, his lips brush the top of it, eyes meeting yours. You can see how people idolise him, idolise them, because holding his gaze, staring into the eyes of the man you once knew is impossible, and it’s an effort to stay upright on your weak knees.

A song called Helium closes to raucous screams and applause and all of the members look to Jay. You do the same. As the crowd calms down, he chuckles, tilting his head. Around his hairline, damp strands stick to his face, his temples, and he leans down, mouth a breath away from the mic. “This last song is actually, uh… It’s pretty personal, you know? It’s the first song I wrote when I moved back here,” he says, scrunching his nose. Jay is clearly nervous, his cheeks and neck turning rosy.

The girl behind you says, “He’s so cute when he’s shy!” And you hate that she has learned him enough to see what you do. Hate that she has learned him enough to have formed opinions on Jay and his tendencies, while being lucky enough not to know him personally.

Lucky enough to look at him and see hardly anything more than a blank slate upon which to project her every whim and fancy. This version of Jay, her Jay, that she has gotten to know through YouTube videos and overanalysing social media captions. Who she must imagine is very clear and upfront about his feelings, if that’s what she’s into. What does anyone in this crowd know about Jay? How lucky they all are to have only a part of the picture that makes up the whole, to have straightforward positive feelings for and towards this side of him that anyone with internet access can see. Lucky not to know what it’s like to fall asleep by his side, or to be scared half to death in the middle of the night to find him sleeping with his eyes half open. Lucky not know what it’s like to miss those things. To miss him.

“We don’t really do this one live, but Heeseung wasn’t lying when he said tonight was special.” His eyes flick over to you for the longest second and Jaehyun nudges your ribs.

While the crowd erupts once again, he shows you something on his phone. It’s his Notes app, with the words, get a fucking load of this male manipulator, written in all caps and bold. And because, yeah, I’m trying to, isn’t the right response, you can only offer your friend a forced chuckle before you gulp.

“So for what I think is the first time ever, here’s Carolina,” Jay says, launching into the opening chords. There is a clear difference between this song and the rest. It’s upbeat, and catchy, sounding almost like what you imagine would happen if The Beatles had made a song you enjoyed.

It is also, quite clearly, about you—though it was your father who told you to swim before you drown.

If you had your wits about you, you would probably turn on your heels and storm out. How unfair of Jay to do this. To sing about you and your life and the heartbreak he inflicted on you without so much as a simple text to let you know. Give you a heads up. Hey, I wrote a really fucking good song about our relationship for my first EP and reduced two years to a one night stand lmao. Unfortunately, you do not have your wits about you, and so, as you stand there bobbing your head to the beat and swaying, you cannot help but bite on your lip and stare indulgently up at Jay as he sings about what a good girl you are.

“How would I tell her that she’s all I think about?” Jay sings, looking at you. “Well, I guess she just found out.”

When Jay first told you about his dream, a pang of horror punched you in the gut. Fearing that your fate would be like that of girls everywhere, that he would be your tropey boyfriend, your canon event: the privileged, untalented SoundCloud rapper, or indie artist. All you could do was nod your head and smile stiffly as he told you how much he loved his guitar and writing music. It was to your great relief that Jay wasn’t just good, he was great. You’re certain that’s why, now, as you watch him sing about your relationship for hundreds of adoring fans, there is a flicker of admiration, of awe, right alongside your annoyance.

“She feels so good,” he sings over and over, with his eyes shut. A vein presses against his forehead. His neck.

With that, and a rapturous combination of applause and screaming, NAPE give a bow and leave the stage. They do not do an encore, though a good number of stragglers wait behind for one, while Aeri drags you and all of your friends through a door marked with restricted access. The corridor lights come on one by one as you walk further and further towards another door that she doesn’t hesitate to push open. All of the members are startled by your sudden entrance, but relax quickly at the sight of her.

“Baby!” Heeseung calls out, embracing Aeri, while you and everyone else stands around by the door.

Besides her, you’re the only other person who has met all of these people, and so, you’re tasked with introductions. Jaehyun greets everyone but Jay who stands there looking at him with a straight face. Thankfully, everyone is too caught up with Somi’s huge reactions and extra enthusiasm towards Sunghoon to pay anyone else any mind. He eats it right up, nodding at all the right moments and tucking blonde curls behind her ear while she speaks. Yizhuo, whose big plans for Jake Sim involved taking him to pound town, stands in the corner and stares at him from a distance while he drinks his water.

After filing out of the back exit, you quickly learn that trying to coordinate ten drunk people to use the Tube on a Friday night is more than a bit hellish. But somehow, you manage, with your arm looped through Jaehyun’s the whole way. Jay doesn’t take his eyes off of you, even as he and Sunghoon are tasked with keeping all six feet of Riki vertical.

What Aeri refers to as The NAPE House whenever she’s visiting Heeseung, is a four bedroom penthouse apartment that could surely hold more people than the pub they just performed at. There are people everywhere, influencers and other niche celebrities, drinking and laughing and grinding on each other. Not a phone in sight—only vlogging cameras. And on the black leather living room couch, you have a front row seat. A comfortable one you share with Heeseung and a sleeping Aeri.

“Can you do me a favour?” He lolls his head in your direction, yelling. “Will you get my hoodie from my bed?”

You make a show of rolling your eyes. “You owe me. Where’s your room?”

“Always.” Heeseung smiles. “It’s the last door in the hall, straight down.”

You weave through the crowd, throwing apologies over your shoulders and trying to remember exactly which hallway he was referring to. When you get there, his door is slightly ajar, a dim glow coming from the room right at the end of the hall like he said. The sight of the bed alone, dark sheets pulled tight and waiting, is enough to make you sleepy, a nagging exhaustion you only feel now. Noticeably missing though, is his hoodie, but it’s hardly an urgent matter. Surely not. Blinking heavily, the duvet calls for you, the corn on the cob plushie begging you to hold it—a weird choice for Heeseung, but maybe Jay got it for him.

Since you’re doing him a favour — and he uses your couch more than you — you figure there’s nothing wrong with resting your eyes on the end of his bed. It would be foolish not to seize this moment now that you have it. Carpe… moment. Closing the door behind you, you find a key in the lock, and if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. With the door locked, you pass the guitar rack on the way to the bed, and make yourself comfortable, facing the ceiling. Sooner than you expect, your eyes flutter shut, honey musk tickling your nose.

A soft voice wakes you up. “Hey.”

You don’t need to see Jay Park to know it’s him. If not for the American shape of the word leaving his mouth, the fresh scent of his shower gel gives him away. How annoying, knowing someone. When you open your eyes, he’s leaning over you with a smile on his face, very close. Close enough to see that his hair is damp. To see the light from outside reflecting on the droplets that cover the solid muscle over his shoulders. The scar on the bridge of his nose.

A drop of water falls from his hair, hitting your chest—you swear you hear it sizzle. “What are you doing in here?” The words come out before you have a chance to think of something less accusatory to say. Hey, might have been a good place to start. You shoo him away with your hand, sitting up and facing him, ignoring the heat in your stomach. The butterflies. It’s a mistake to look at him properly, to see all of him. His white vest is vacuum sealed over his defined torso, cinching where his waist does. With his hair flat over his forehead, he looks so young again. Looks like himself. Looks like he’s yours. Like any second, he’s going to pull you into him and press his mouth into the crook of your neck, to say, I’ve missed you, gorgeous. You can feel it already, the shape of his phantom words against your skin, the hum of them from his chest. Jesus Christ. Why couldn’t you be one of those very strong women who’d fallen for an ugly man? How was it fair that Jay could break your heart and only get better looking?

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m allowed to lie on Heeseung’s bed. He’s my friend.” With that, it’s all you do to hope Jay doesn’t pass this on, you calling Heeseung your friend.

Jay eyes you, wetting his lips. His attention, having all of it, warms your skin. “I’m sure you are, YN. But this is my bed, so if I let you lay on it… what does that make me?” His eyes narrow, just a little. Just enough. There’s something behind them, a challenge to match his low voice.

Everything in your life feels so different now. You have new friends, a new address, different interests and opinions, but still, a very agitating part of you is moved by Jongseong. Charmed. “I think that would still make you my evil ex-boyfriend,” you say, more as a reminder to yourself than anything else. A mental marking of the words, do not open, on the overflowing can of worms with Jay’s name on it—a solution about as effective as sellotape around a broken bone.

He pulls air through his teeth, nodding. “Fair assessment.”

It’s been long enough that the vague dim shapes of his bedroom have sharpened into some form of clarity. The names and faces on the posters visible now: Oasis, Bon Jovi, Destiny’s Child. His desk is completely free of clutter, only housing a huge monitor, a notebook, a mouse and a keyboard. It seems in your absence, he’s gotten a grip on keeping tidy. Mounted on the wall above the guitar rack is the plastic guitar that came with the old copy of Guitar Hero you bought for him. Your heart twists in your chest.

“So this is your room,” you announce. And just like that, the pieces of Heeseung’s drunken puzzle slot into place before your very eyes—he was already wearing his hoodie.

Jay hums, a smile tugging his mouth up at the corners. “You like it?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean, I’ve spent so long wondering what your life is like here. Where you hang out with your friends, if you still smoke. I’ve been really keen to find out your life is terrible.” You have no idea why you’re saying these things, but it’s difficult to stop now that you’ve started. “Seeing it though, seeing you on stage, seeing you at all. I’m really glad it isn’t, Jay.”

The crowd screaming his name. Singing along to lyrics he wrote. Of course he had to come here. There is no universe where Jay staying in Edinburgh, staying with you, was the right decision. All of those versions of reality play out in your head, split like a kaleidoscope—you are happy, Jay is not, there is more for him than you or Edinburgh can offer, and he resents you for that. Even if his method wasn’t ideal, he did the right thing by leaving, and the realisation forces a lump in your throat.

He mumbles your name, running his hand through his hair. The water makes it stay put like gel, pushed off his forehead, and his eyebrow piercing shimmers. “I didn’t even know you stayed here.”

“It was none of your business.”

“No, I… Yeah, you’re right, it wasn’t.” Jay looks like he has a billion things on his mind, you can practically hear the gears grinding against one another. “I’ve been wanting to see you is all. Catch up.”

A laugh bursts out of you, dry and bitter, as you stand up from the bed. “To catch up,” you repeat. “What, so you could tell me all about your perfect life in perfect London? So you could thank me for inspiring your discography?”

Jay’s jaw ticks when he clicks his tongue. “Do you think so low of me?”

“Hard not to.”

This seems to genuinely hurt him and some part of you takes delight in that fact. His face drops right away, a sad glimmer in his big eyes as he steps towards you. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay—more than.”

“I’m great, Jay.” You don’t bother wiping the first tear from your eye, but as soon as it falls, the floodgates open and there’s nothing you can do to close them. You can hardly see anything anymore, a fuzzy blob replaces Jay where he stands in front of you. “I just let go from a job I really loved and now I’m crying in my ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. Clearly, I’m…” Getting the words out is an effort so you stop, letting the sentence die around the block in your throat.

When you take your hands away from your leaking eyes, the heels of your palms are black with mascara and eyeliner, and Jay says nothing. He’s sitting on the end of the bed, hiding his face with his hands. In your head, a tiny drunk voice wills fervently for him to take you in his massive arms and pat your back. To rest his chin on the top of your head and tell you that it’s all going to be okay. That it’s all going to be good. You hate yourself for wanting that. For wanting him.

Instead, Jay looks up at you with wet eyes. “I really am sorry. It wasn’t meant to happen like that, I swear. I had everything planned out and I just… I don’t know.”

“After all this time, you’re telling me you don’t know why you did that to me?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Elaborate then.”

“Before I met you, all I did was keep to myself, study, and think about coming back to London. That was it, okay. Being in a relationship was the absolute last thing I wanted back then an—”

You scoff, cutting him off. “Good to know.”

“That’s not what I… I was sure about you, YN. From the start, I was sure about you.” The rest of what comes out of his mouth is secondary, background noise to this.

You feel those words, in your bones, with every single fibre of your being. Recognise them. Because it’s exactly how you felt. There wasn’t a single part of you that would have believed or accepted anything other than the fact that he was the one. Your one—right from the day you met, you knew you wanted him.

Jay sighs, the sag of his broad shoulders catching your attention. “But I couldn’t ask you to do long distance, it wouldn’t have been fair.”

“Fair?” you repeat, hardly believing your ears. “You think disappearing was fair?”

“I thought I was doing the right thing, that it would be easier for both of us that way.”

The thought of hearing him say anything else to defend himself turns your stomach. Worse is the fact that you actually want to hear him out, pick his brain on it. Ask all the questions you never had the chance to. Try to make sense of the mess and sort it all out. Sort yourself out, finally. You just need a minute. Need a minute to get your head on straight, and that’ll be impossible with Jay watching you the way he is, his glossy eyes boring into yours. You fling open the door to his ensuite and shut it behind you before he has the chance to keep speaking.

Heat from the shower hits you immediately, condensation lingering in the corners of the mirror. It’s a beautiful bathroom, glossy white and matte black fixings, a deep sink basin with lots of counter space and a roomy shower. His hand wash and lotion are perfectly lined up by the tap, his watch and some rings placed neatly in front of them as if he wanted to take up as little space as possible. Despite how much makeup stains your palms, your eyes don’t look as horrific as you thought they would, it’s the swelling and redness that makes you look awful. His Le Labo soap smells warm and green, lathering nicely over your fingers when you finally spot something amiss. A blister pack sits between the tap and the wall, all of the tiny white pills gone bar one. Sertraline, reads the foil over the front when you pick it up, and for the second time since you and Jay have come across each other again, you throw up in his vicinity, vomiting into the sink.

The lone tablet clatters to the floor at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Jay asks. The door does nothing to muffle his concern.

How could you possibly answer that? I’m grand! Only gone and found your antidepressants HAHAHA. His antidepressants. Just thinking the word in relation to Jay is enough to make you wretch again. Nothing comes out.

“May I come in?” To your silence, he continues, escalating from polite question to concerned statement. “I’m coming in, okay?”

While you fight for breath over the sink, Jay counts loudly from one to five before the door clicks open behind you. In the mirror, you see his eyes drift to the floor and widen. He picks up the blister pack and puts it in his pocket, aiming for subtle but being more overt than you’ve ever seen. “I saw it, Jay,” you say. “I know.”

He nods slowly like he’s coming to terms with what’s happened. As if he’s the one finding out about his diagnosis. “It’s uh… I’m okay,” he offers weakly, though his reassurance only makes you feel worse.

Your palms itch against the counter, desperate to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. To yell in his face that he doesn’t have to act like he’s alright with everything all the time. Finally, you’ve found something about Jay that hasn’t changed. What a shame it had to be this. “You’re okay,” you repeat, speaking the words more like an affirmation than anything else.

“I’m seeing someone about it and I have good people around me. I’m okay.”

A chill runs over your spine, pulls the hairs on your arms straight up, at the way he says it. This, for Jay, is simply a part of life now, as ordinary and boring as brushing his teeth before bed or tying his shoelaces before he leaves the house. You brace against the sink, screwing your eyes shut again. Nothing changes when you open them, you’re still in Jay’s bathroom and he is still depressed.

“How long?” you ask, as if his answer will make a difference.

He looks away when your gaze meets his in the mirror and shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling in a stiff motion. You don’t press him on it. Whether it’s been one year or one day, the point is that he’s unwell. And the gaping chasm between his life and yours is big enough that you had no idea. God, you’ve been so selfish.

Neither of you says anything else, but it’s not until there’s a thump at his bedroom door and a muffled apology called out through it that you realise. Both of you let out the exact same laugh, a huffed breath from your noses, which only makes the pair of you laugh properly when your eyes meet. The crinkle of his eyes is still a delight, still heats you up from the inside out.

More than anything, you are desperate for this silence to end, desperate to be saying something, making conversation. “So,” you start, clearing your throat. “About this family of mine in Carolina.”

Jay’s cheeks pinken, a sweet, rosy tinge blooming against his skin. “That was just something I thought sounded good.” He was right, unfortunately, it did sound good.

This fact, however, does nothing to stop the harsh pull of embarrassment in your stomach. “I was being presumptuous, sorry.”

“No, it was… that song is definitely about you,” Jay admits, for better or for worse. “They all are, when I write anyway.”

Jesus. You still had an entire discography to listen to, all based around the worst event of your life so far. Such is the plight of dating an artist, you suppose. In the midst of your irritation with him over that, and sick pleasure at knowing your relationship — you — had impacted him as much as it — he — had you, was a flare of curiosity. All of his unknowable thoughts, the things you wished he said, existed only a mere couple of clicks away. You could listen to them all right now, read the lyrics. Given the dedication of NAPE’s fanbase, you were certain multiple Twitter threads had been posted with line-by-line analysis.

“Great!” you say, cheeks aching with the stretch of your lips as you give him a thumbs-up. “Thanks, champ.”

His laugh is warm, filling the space between you. “I wrote it thinking about your…” Jay scratches at the back of his neck, cheeks growing pinker by the second. The colour spreads down his neck and over his chest. “You used to talk about riding camp, when you were younger. That pretty chestnut horse you rode as a kid.”

“Carolina,” you supply uselessly, the name hardly audible over the thud of your pulse in your ears.

“The one and only.”

You gulp. “And here I thought I was well behaved.”

“There was that too, of course there was.” He’s smiling, but you can’t bring yourself to do the same.

You’re not even sure if Aeri knows you went to riding camp. “I can’t believe you remembered that.” Some twisted part of you wonders what else he remembers, what other Easter eggs he’d left behind for you. For everyone.

He seems bewildered by this, his brows furrowing, head tilting. “Who could forget anything about you?” Each word is as sincere as the last, breeding a fascinating and surely singular type of hurt deep in the pit of your stomach.

“You know, I don’t usually throw up so often,” you blurt out, turning to the mess you left in the basin and flicking the tap on.

His reflection smiles in the mirror, leaning against the door frame. “Am I that bad?”

“You’re so much worse.”

“Four words every depressed person wants to hear.” He’s still smiling, his posture relaxed, slanted, but it’s the look in his eyes that gives him away, breaks your heart. How glossy they’ve become in the light.

“You’re really okay?”

Jay nods. “I’m okay.”

Every part of you aches to believe him, willing with every fibre of your being that he’s telling the truth. Okay isn’t good, but it’s a start, and soon he’ll be more than that. He has to be. Without a second thought you wrap your arms around him, feeling his warmth as he hugs you back. “I know I can’t take back or change what I did, but I really am sorry,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

And all of a sudden, it’s too much. His soft lips on your skin, the vibration into the crook of your neck. The familiar squeeze of his strong arms around you, his faint honeyed scent. The fact that despite everything, despite the frenzied red flags waving in your brain, you want to believe him. You do believe him.

You pull away, quickly, and take a huge step back, hitting your hip against the sink. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

Jay watches you for a moment, his eyes catching on each of your features like he’s seeing you for the first time. He clears his throat, scrunching his nose with a sniffle before speaking. “I might have a spare head for my electric somewhere.”

“Great,” you say, while he opens the cabinet with pursed lips. “Thanks.”

Those lips. You feel them while you brush your teeth alone in his bathroom, and while Jaehyun walks you home. While you shower, and while you collapse into bed. I really am sorry. God. How much easier this all would be if his belated apology fixed all of this.

jongseong 😽: Thank you for coming to the show, it really meant a lot to me having you there

you: No prob 👍

Under your face, your pillow muffles a would-be bloodcurling scream. “No prob, thumbs-up emoji…?” you repeat into the fabric, affronted by your word choice.

you: Just texted “no prob” unironically

minjeong: To who 😭

you: Rhymes with Jark Pongseong

minjeong: You should have said YES prob or ALL prob in fact you shouldn’t even have responded to whatever that freak loser (VERY DEROGATORY) said to my sweet angel girl

you: It was kind of sweet tbf, he thanked me for going to the gig and then said it meant a lot to him

Minjeong calls you immediately. You answer but can’t say anything for the genuine wave of fear that crashes over you. Through the phone you hear the click of her heels against the pavement, rumble of traffic, roaring engines and beeping horns, the soundtrack to the functioning woman’s afternoon. “You are the lostest cause of them all,” she says. “I thought you were over this insane person.”

“I am over him. I am also allowed to think he is very good looking and incredible onstage.”

“Shut up!” Minjeong sighs. “Also, did you take my coat when you stayed? The wool one?”

“I wish.”

“I’m hanging up now.” Three beeps follow her words, and her black wool coat stares at you from the open wardrobe.

The room spins around you when you sit up from bed. You can feel your brain swooshing around in your skull. Waking up hungover in last night’s makeup and outfit is never a treat, especially not when last night’s makeup is coming off of your face in crumbs every time you blink, and the outfit is a tank top and Aeri’s sequin microshorts. Somehow you make it to the kitchen where you sway by the counter and make a cup of black coffee, flinching at the sound of Aeri’s key twisting in the lock.

“Ugh, the show was perfect, YJ! It really sucks you couldn’t make it, but I know they’ve got some other gigs coming around the city so I’ll text you deets, alright?” she says. “I dropped my film off after yoga this morning, but I was so drunk last night… not hopeful.” Her voice gets louder in the hallway, an ear-splitting squeal sounding through the flat as she approaches and blows a kiss down the phone before appearing in the doorway. “Hey, you!” The grin on her face is wide and shows all of her teeth.

“Hey,” you say, it’s the only thing you can muster as you watch her lean in the doorframe, decked out in a matching brown workout set that ALO sent her in PR.

Her eyebrows give a suggestive wag as she says in a singsong voice, “Guess who I had breakfast with?”

The full scope of Aeri’s circle is still unclear to you, so the answer could be anyone. Playing it safe, you simply ask, “Who?”

“Your boyfriend! Almost boyfriend.”

“And that would be…”

“Don’t be coy, YN. Jay told me all about last night.”

“Jay?” It’s a wonder that your eyes don’t fall from their sockets—it would’ve shocked you less if she’d suggested that Byeon Wooseok was your boyfriend.

“I wanted to put in a good word for you, but he already wants you bad. Never seen anything like that, he asked a million questions about you. If I didn’t have to get home to shoot I’d still be there telling him about your commute.”

“He doesn’t. At all.” You clench your fists behind your back, denting half-moons into your palms with your fingernails. “We dated for a few years at uni, but he…” The sting isn’t enough to distract you from the swoop in your stomach, so you settle instead for clawing at the back of your hand. “He had to move back home and we agreed it would be better to end things.” No matter how many times you say it, it doesn’t get any easier.

Aeri’s face flickers through the full spectrum of human emotion, never quite settling on one.

“I know I should have said something earlier, it’s just…” Embarrassing. It’s embarrassing that not only can Jay live without you, he can thrive. Meanwhile, you can’t even secure a job interview. “I don’t know.”

Finally, she pulls you into a hug, all citrus and sweat, and you sink into her arms. “I have two pieces of good news and one piece of bad news. What do you want first?” she asks, pulling away just enough to look at you.

Clearing your throat, you ask, “Can you do good news, bad news, good news? Like a sandwich?”

Aeri leans against the island opposite you, smiling. “Okay, good news: you don’t owe me, or anyone else, every last detail about your life, and given the whole me dating your ex-boyfriend’s best friend thing, I get why you kept that from me, alright? You don’t need to apologise for that. The bad news is that said ex-boyfriend is definitely still in love with you, but — and this is the next good part — you guys broke up because he didn’t think he could have London and you, right?”

Put simply, “Yes.”

“You’re in London now, you’re both single…” Aeri lets her eyes and hands spell out the rest of her sentence.

“Jay doesn’t… It’s not like that.”

“Okay,” she says, though you can tell she doesn’t buy it. “What about you? Do you still want him?”

What you really want, more than anything, is to feel secure. To feel like the people in your life won’t just up and leave at any given moment. You want to be with someone you can rely on, someone dependable. A person you can call and know they’ll answer—or at least call you back. You’re not sure if that person is Jay.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“You don’t need to know that right now. What you need is to sit down,” Aeri says, guiding you by the shoulders to one of the stools under the island. “Watching you sway like that is giving me a hangover by association. I’ll make you something to eat.”

She makes you a cup of herbal tea and some fruit topped French toast with bacon. You inhale it before she shoos you out of the kitchen. “You need to sleep this shit off, okay? We need to leave at eight tomorrow morning.”

Fuck. She’d agreed to let you tag along on her work day tomorrow so you’d finally have something interesting to post on Substack. You didn’t realise that would involve facing the public so early in the day. “Of course!”

yizhuo: dear sweetcheeks bubblegum fairy woman consider this our final correspondence as i’m literally about to die idk who the fuck was sick near me but they got me brother stay safe also tell that fuckface riki he can stop praying on my downfall ok it worked.

you: i’ll pass that message along for you… get well soon angel pie dream lady :( do u need me to bring anything by for you?

yizhuo: jimin’s playing sexy nurse this weekend dw i’m right wehre i wanna be 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 in other more relevant news, interview is opening another office…….good day for the unemployed, look how many openings there are !!!

Her next message has fifteen links, and those are just the jobs you’re qualified for. These must be the millions of doors Somi was talking about. In a full-bellied haze, you write a new cover letter and apply to every last one of them. After that, with renewed pep in your hungover step, you climb back into bed and watch as many episodes of Pretty Little Liars as you can handle without breaking the screen in half at the sight of Mr. Fitz and his minor-student-girlfriend Aria. It’s two. You manage two episodes and sleep for the rest of the day.

At eight in the morning, when Aeri is ready to leave, you have, unfortunately, reached the end of your life. And as it turns out, Jennifer’s Body had it all wrong, hell is not a teenage girl. If only. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever strain of the common cold is currently nerfing your immune system.

Shivering under your duvet, you scroll through the pictures you took after the gig, smiling, laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that those would be some of your last moments on this mortal plane. Probably you’ll never, ever drink again. Never do anything again. Your throat is swollen. Raw and painful when you swallow. A dull ache reaches all of your joints, weighing them down. Swallowing ibuprofen is a tear-inducing, Herculean task, but you manage, and finally, sleep comes over you.

For the next few hours, you fade in and out of slumber until you quit trying. Your throat still hurts, but the swelling is down. When you blow your nose into your last tissue, your ears pop and the thumping in your head is actually at the front door. The Grim Reaper here to… well, reap, you suppose. He even knows your name and yells it incessantly like some sort of evil, murderous baby who’s just learned a new word. Gun! Knife! YN! It’s only after your fourth, weak, attempt at calling out for Aeri that you remember she’s not home, and quickly resign to your fate, dragging yourself out of bed and then all the way to the door. Against the wall you catch your breath before pulling it open.

“I’m not here to bother—” Jay stops short.

“Jay?” He is hazy and beautiful in front of you. His sunglasses hold his hair away from his face, and none of the three buttons on his black polo shirt are done up, exposing just enough of his collarbone and chest to make your cheeks heat up. He is the cruel mirage of an oasis in the desert. “Jay,” you say again, reaching out your aching arm to touch him.

Against your fingertip, he is completely solid and real, which is more than a little mortifying. He looks down to where your hand touches his chest, where your hand is still, for some reason, touching his chest. He grabs your wrist, his touch soft but scorching through your long sleeve, and puts your arm back down at your side carefully. “You’re sick.”

“A little.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, wearing his thinking face. Head tilted, tongue poking out between his soft pink lips, the same way he would when he was trying to calculate how long it might take your food delivery to reach your place, and if there was enough time for the two of you to share the shower first. “I just need to get Heeseung’s computer and then I’ll be out of your hair. You need to put on something warm.”

You step aside to let Jay into the flat and he goes straight to Aeri’s room, coming back with a laptop tucked under his arm. He inspects you from head to toe and frowns. “Drink some tea, okay? Lemon and ginger with lots of honey.” It’s the last thing he says before he disappears.

Heeding Doctor Jay’s advice, you use the last sliver of your energy to hobble into the kitchen so you can make yourself a cup of lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey. Equipped with a steaming mug, you go back to your room where you pull a jumper on and stuff yourself into your dressing gown, before crawling back into bed. As soon as your head hits the pillow, you fall asleep, lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey cooling down on your nightstand, untouched.

It’s Jay’s gentle voice that rouses you out of your thick sleep, saying your name over and over until your eyes open. “Hey,” he says, his palm massive on your arm. His glasses slip down the straight bridge of his nose but he doesn’t push them up. “Aeri gave me her keys and I—”

“Aeri’s at work,” you say, correcting him.

He smiles. “Yeah, I just saw her.”

“She’s on the other end of the city.”

“So here’s the cool thing about London — and you might not know this — but we have this thing called the Tube and it got me there and back.”

“But it’s so… it’s like an hour one way.”

Jay waves a dismissive hand, his smile unwavering. “Forty-five minutes.”

The words he’s saying are all words you’ve come across. Words for which you know the dictionary definition and spelling, but it’s taking a lot for your brain to make sense of them and their implications in these particular sequences, coming from him. Fuzzy-headed, you lie back down, sinking into the pillow and screwing your eyes shut.

“You okay?” When you open your eyes, he’s watching you with an arched brow, inspecting you like you are fungi on a petri dish and not his dying ex-girlfriend.

“The common cold doesn’t normally kill people, right?”

Instead of laughing or being charmed by these, your final words, he tilts his head. “Well, it can lead to more severe forms of sickness like pneumonia or sepsis, which could, quite easily, kill you, yes,” he says, delivering the information to you in a tone that suggests he was reading about this on the way over.

This had been one of your favourite things about Jay, his insatiable curiosity and willingness to share what he’d learned with whoever was around. He could talk about any subject for hours and you were always keen to listen. It got to the point that you would direct your queries to him instead of the Google search bar, just for a reason to text him. Hey Jay, is thirty minutes too long to cook a steak? Way too long??? I’m coming over. Hey Jay, what’s the name of that Bon Jovi song you played for me? Hi beautiful, it’s called Always :). Hi baby, would you still love me if I was a worm? I’m always going to love you, YN. No matter what.

“Great, Jay. Thanks.” You lean up on your elbows, coughing with your mouth open like a child. “Still a fount of knowledge, I see.”

Bright red blooms over his cheeks and neck. “As always,” he says, though he doesn’t seem happy about this fact, scrunching his nose. “I… uh… I made you some soup.”

“Your mum’s dakgaejang?” you whisper. To his sheepish smile, you mumble, “That shit could cure anything.”

“It always did,” Jay agrees, lifting the steaming bowl from your desk. He gasps at something, putting the bowl back down and holding up a magazine for you to look at. The magazine, with him and the rest of NAPE on the cover. “Wow, I had no idea you liked us this much,” he says, flipping through the pages to find the article.

It hurts to roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. “Don’t flatter yourself, Park. I bought it because it was my first printed write-up.” And last, you do not add.

The lump in your throat is immediate and all-consuming. Seeing the magazine was a real shock, knowing that — though uncredited — you had left a mark on the world, no matter how small. And that thousands of NAPE fans around the country, and in all nations that print Daydream Mag, had you to thank for transcribing the interview. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. Jay’s eyes turn glassy and his gaze falls to the pages once more, running his finger over the words, your words. The thud of your heart in your ears pads the silence. You wonder if he’s thinking what you were, that you’ve both made it. Both of your dreams unspooling before your very eyes, and somehow, after all these years, your paths found a way to cross again. In print, no less.

At least, that’s how it felt before you lost your job.

“Wow,” Jay whispers. “This is really special, YN. You’re amazing.”

The article wasn’t much to write home about. And sure, when you found out, some of your work friends treated you to drinks that evening, and got a celebratory cake made. And yes, you called your mum in happy tears from the office toilet. But seeing Jay make a fuss over it on your behalf is nothing short of humiliating. Your cheeks burn at the sight—a chart-topping artist praising the ex-girlfriend he ghosted over some paragraphs no one else knew she wrote.

God, what a joke.

“You’re the one who said all the words, and the guys.” You fiddle with the loose thread at the top of your duvet cover. “All I did was read some notes, watch a recording and type it all up.”

He shakes his head and in a blink, he’s crouching by the side of your bed, looking up at you with huge eyes. “That was our first big feature, my mum cut out the parts about me and stuck them to the fridge. Heeseung’s parents got it blown up and framed for the living room.”

“Anybody could’ve written it.”

“I know, but ‘anybody’ didn’t write it.” Jay’s eyes search yours, like he’s begging you to see where he’s coming from, that he means it. “You did.”

It’s only when you cough, a harsh rattle in your throat, that he seems to remember himself, remember the situation and the dakgaejang on your desk. Without a word, he helps you sit up in bed, propping your pillow up before bringing the soup over on a tray. Steam curls up from the bowl, heating your face, and the first spoonful is rich and spicy and perfect. Tender shredded chicken and soft vegetables. A long, contended hum rumbles out of you. “Holy shit,” you murmur, already feeling your blocked nostrils starting to open up. It tastes more like a memory than anything else. Like Jay’s broad shoulders in the kitchen, standing over your stove. His hoodie over your shoulders and the soft hum of the washing machine as you watched him cook. Like cuddling on the couch with a stranger and asking him to stay. Whether it was period-induced sensitivity or that food really was the quickest way to someone’s heart, you fell for him that night.

Jay gives a firm nod. “Alright, I know I’m not exactly who you’d want to spend your time with, so is there someone I could call to look after you? At least until Aeri gets off work?”

Hearing it from him, the reminder that he has a life and things to worry about that no longer include you stings the backs of your eyes. Another cold symptom, probably. You take another glorious spoonful of rice and soup, chewing slowly.

“I’ll call Riki when my phone’s back on.”

As if on cue, your phone starts to life, a black and white film strip of you and Aeri staring up at you from the lockscreen. Jay chews his lip, watching you with his hands on his hips, clearly eager to leave, and, to his luck, Riki answers on the first ring. “Yo, YN. What you saying?” he asks, delighted as the music in the background comes to a stop.

“Are you busy?”

“Not really — ow — okay, yeah, I’m kind of busy. What’s good, though? You alright?”

Your cuticles sting where your thumb bothers them, picking at the raw skin unthinkingly. Terrified of admitting to Riki that you need him, you say, “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Talk later, yeah?”

“Safe,” he says and cuts the phone.

Jay raises a brow. “It’s okay to ask for help when you need it. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you say, trying to convince yourself. “I’ll call Somi then Jaehyun.”

“No!” he blurts out, covering his mouth with his palm as if he can push the words back in. “I mean, you don’t need to bother him when I’m here, I could stay. If you want me to stay, I can stay.”

There’s no time to overthink his reaction, nor is there time to overthink the flutter in your chest at the sight of it, because as soon as he’s done speaking, you’re already saying, “You can stay.”

He only nods and stays there, standing over you. He is very still. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Or blinking. Unless he’s blinking at the exact same time you are.

“You can also sit on the bed if you want,” you offer.

He gestures vaguely towards his body. “These are my outside clothes.”

You could have laughed at that, the idea that maybe his smart trousers and the Ralph Lauren polo shirt tucked into them were his casual inside clothes. Unfortunately, because he is Jay, and you are you, you’re too busy being struck by his remembering such a mundane detail to joke around. A silly thing you’ve since grown out of worrying about. You point him towards the drying rack in the living room where Heeseung had left some laundry. You’re not sick enough to tell Jay he can change in front of you, but you are sick enough to picture it as he closes your door behind him.

Sick enough to picture the smooth expanse of his back, muscles flexing while he pulls his T-shirt over his head. The cinch of his waist, the unfairly round curve of his ass, his Calvin Klein boxer briefs clinging to him like a second skin. His toned arms and thighs. It only takes a second for him to come back, fully dressed, in Heeseung’s grey sweatpants and white Henley that hugs his biceps. You open your mouth to say something casual like, I wasn’t picturing you naked, or you look nice in clothes, but he uses the bottom of his shirt to clean off his glasses and the sight winds you. Dark ink sticks out of his waistband, round edges touching his waist.

“You…” The sentence dies on its way out, your finger shaking as you point at him. “When did you get that?”

“Get wha—Oh.” He looks down at his side, the tips of his ears burning pink. “Two years ago? Last year? I don’t really remember.” Putting his glasses back on, he lifts the left side of his shirt properly, tugging at his waistband too. Only a little, only enough to make your heart race and show the word, nape, written in huge swirling cursive. “Hurt so bad, but it’s pretty, right?”

Pretty sexy, more like. “Yeah. Pretty,” you agree, willing for him to stop showing off his skin before you do something unwise.

“I actually have a couple now.”

The rest of Jay’s tattoos, all one of them, are very tiny and very him—a treble clef behind his right ear. He blushes when you tell him you like it, giving a sheepish smile as he gets under the covers beside you, careful not to knock your bowl over.

“You’re not scared of getting sick?”

“Nah.” Jay shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of me if I do.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, focusing on your dakgaejang instead of your blushing cheeks.

When you finish eating you take a nap, eventually waking to the long set sun and Jay bringing over a cup of tea and some paracetamol. He crouches by your side and feels your forehead with the back of his hand. “How’re you feeling, sleepyhead?”

“Is Aeri home?”

“She texted saying she was going to crash at ours. With Heeseung.”

“Do you think you could stay over?” you ask slowly.

Jay tilts his head, eyebrows meeting in the middle. He’s as taken aback by your request as you are. For a long while, he simply stares up at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t. And so, finally, he nods and says, “I can stay over. Absolutely, I can stay over.”

After a surprisingly restful night of sleep, your second day with the cold begins with your head on Jay’s chest and your leg around him. Neither of you says anything about that.

For breakfast, he makes toast soldiers and beans, and you can’t contain your excitement, even though it hurts your throat to speak. “This was, like, the only breakfast I ate when I was little,” you gush, taking a picture to show your mum. “Especially when I was sick. This is perfect, Jay. Thank you.”

From the other side of the table, he watches you dunk a strip of buttered toast into your dippy egg with a smile on his face. “I know, YN. I’m just glad you still like it.”

You sniff, ignoring the heat rushing to your cheeks and neck—Yizhuo was right, this cold is no joke. Rubbing your hands together, you let crumbs fall to your plate and pull your dressing gown tighter around yourself, redoing the belt.

Back in bed, you warm your hands against a cup of tea while Jay opens your laptop. He insists there is a YouTube video you must see, but when he opens the site, the very first video is NAPE Swap Favourite Snacks | Snacked, uploaded fifteen minutes ago. Great. As it turns out, you had it all wrong, hell is not the common cold. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever the fuck is happening to you right now. This cannot be real life. All you did was watch that stupid video of them spotting each other’s lies. And then the one where they played most likely to with Variety. And showed Glamour what was on their phones.

Every inch of your body burns. “I didn’t put that there,” you blurt out. “Should we watch it ironically?”

A shudder racks through Jay and he scowls. “I kind of do not like to… look at myself. At all. So, no. Thanks though.”

Nothing about his tone or demeanour suggest that he’s joking. The thought that someone so beautiful, that Jay, could feel that way seems senseless. “If I had that face…”

“You’d what?” His straight teeth dent his bottom lip, curious eyes roving your face. Whatever insecurities plagued him a second ago are long forgotten now apparently. To your silence, he says, “I’m glad you don’t have my face, I really like yours.”

When this is all said and done, you’ll have to see a doctor about whatever part of the cold is making your heart race like this. “Just show me the video,” you mumble.

“Yes, ma’am.”

What if forks were made of salt? is eight minutes and twenty-four seconds of some white guy asking and answering what you now feel is an essential question. What if forks were made of salt? Would every bite of steak be perfect? Glossing over the mild existentialism at the end, the video is uplifting, awe-inspiring.

So much so that you and Jay discuss it for an hour before he says, “I bought one.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.”

“Yeah way! I’ll let you try it ou—” Jay’s ringing phone cuts him off and steals the smile from his lips. “Fuck,” he mutters, wiping his face with his palm. “Sorry. I’ve been ducking our manager’s calls, kind of, so I have to take this.”

Nosiness gets the better of you. “Put it on speaker.”

Jay obliges, screwing his eyes shut like he’s bracing himself. Through the phone, his manager’s voice is soft, kind, when he launches straight into his spiel. “I’m trying to bear with you here. I get it, I swear, but if you don’t have lyrics, can you just tell me that? We’ll figure it out, but you need to let me help you.”

Immediately, you regret asking Jay to put the phone on speaker, feeling your stomach drop.

He lets a quiet second pass before sighing. “I don’t have lyrics, Sunoo.” At this, the groan that comes through the phone is never-ending. “Yet,” he adds, rubbing his temples.

“I really did not want you to say that.” Sunoo sighs. “But it’s okay. See, you told me the truth and nothing bad happened. We’ll work something out, okay. Just take it easy, talk to your bandmates, and answer your fucking phone when I call you.”

“Got it.”

Sunoo cuts the phone abruptly and Jay hides his face in his hands, ears burning red.

“Ar—” He utters your name, interrupting you. “Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to talk about this right now.”

You reach out for him, palm resting on his knee and giving it a squeeze. He rests his calloused palm over your hand, locking his fingers with yours. There goes your heart, racing again. And what’s left of the day passes in half-awake snippets. The opening scene of The Matrix here, some spoonfuls of hot soup there, until you finally settle down for the night next to Jay. He falls asleep first, his strong arm around your shoulders holding you close. The thump of his heart is soothing as a lullaby. His chest rises and falls steadily with his slow breathing, in stark contrast to the shallow breaths you’re fighting for, until finally, you fall asleep too.

Hours later, a coughing fit wakes you up, skin damp with a cold sweat as you lean over your side of the bed. It’s relentless, each wheezy hack aching a spot in the back of your skull—your throat has never hurt so much in your life. Jay rushes out of the bed and comes back with a cup of water, rubbing circles on the wet fabric of your t-shirt with his palm while you try to catch your breath. When you manage to, you drink the water in gulps, finishing it quickly while he squints at the boxes on your nightstand before opening one of them—antiseptic throat spray. He pushes your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ears and watching you with worry in his massive eyes. “Can you open up for me, baby?” he asks softly. When you do, he positions the nozzle between your lips and clears his throat. “It’s going to be a little uncomfortable, yeah?”

You nod, blinking with heavy eyelids. He sprays it three times and it takes a lot of work not to gag. A little uncomfortable might be the understatement of the century, but already the menthol is soothing your throat.

“There you go,” he murmurs, taking the spray out of your mouth. “Atta girl.” His large palm rests on your cheek, his thumb wiping your tears.

At this, at all of it — him being here, doing this for you with no complaints — your stomach is in knots. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand in place. “Why are you being so nice to me?” you croak.

In the lamplight, his eyes flicker over every part of your face before he sniffs. “Let’s try and get some sleep.”

“Jongseong…” His full name slips out of you, like you’re back in uni. Like you’re back together—still together.

He says nothing, only closing the lid on the spray and helping you lie back down before joining you in bed. He doesn’t say anything when you curl into his side or when he wraps his arms around you.

Then, right when you blink for the last time, you feel the rumble of his chest against your ear. He says, “You make it so easy.”

It’s another three days before you feel better and Jay spends all of them at your side. At the end of it all, though there’s no reason for Jay to stay any longer, hugging him goodbye is bittersweet. But in all of your time apart, your phone doesn’t get much rest from seeing his name on it. And you don’t get sick of texting him back. Texting him first.

you: We’re having a movie night on Friday!!! Heeseung is coming so I was wondering if you wanted to come along too? Also it would be nice to see you again if you’re not sick of seeing me

you: Or just sick in general… how are you feeling actually?

jongseong 😽: That sounds really nice!!! I’d love to join you guys thank you for thinking of me ❤️

jongseong 😽: Who could ever be sick of seeing you? If anything I’m surprised you’re not sick of me

jongseong 😽: This is a serious emergency ik it’s 8am but please text back

jongseong 😽: HIIIII can u reply rn

jongseong 😽: Heeseung said you liked the choux vanilles from Toad’s so I picked some up for you even though you did NOT reply in my time of need. Are you home? I’ll leave these at your doorstep and get out your hair

you: THANK YOU THANKY OUU THANK YOU THANK YOU

you: You can come in! I’m getting ready to meet Yizhuo for breakfast but maybe we can head out together?

jongseong 😽: Sounds goood!!!

jongseong 😽: It was really nice seeing you yesterday morning, even if it was only for a little bit. I didn’t mean to make it weird and ik that doesn’t make it any better but I’m really sorry

you: Noooo!!! I swear you didn’t make anything weird, I had a lot of fun with you and I wish we could have spent more time together!

When Heeseung arrives for movie night an hour early, he arrives alone—not counting the two bottles of wine and three pints of ice cream he brought with him. “Hey!” he says, smiling from ear to ear. “You look well, I’ve heard awful things.”

You roll your eyes, taking his offerings and letting him in. “Trust me, it was much worse than whatever you heard.”

“Five days with Jay though, how was that?” he asks in a sing-song voice, following you into the kitchen. At this, your smile is immediate and very wide, so much so that he raises his brows, beaming too. “Wow, that good, huh?”

You turn away, putting the wine in the fridge and the ice cream in the freezer, trying your best to look any less elated. “Did you ask him?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Heeseung shakes his head, sinking into one of your dining chairs at the table. He is quiet for long enough to make you wonder if you’d imagined that second night, what he’d said. You make it so easy. Five simple words that your mind has allowed to colour the rest of the week, and all of your conversations since, rosy. To think harder about how Jay cooked an endless supply of dakgaejang for you and Aeri, restocking your groceries afterwards. How you sat with your back to the bathtub while he washed your hair over the edge of it.

Five simple words that may have been nothing more than that.

Finally, Heeseung says, “I didn’t have to ask, he was texting me nightly updates and gave me a full debrief when he got back.”

“Wow,” you repeat. “That good, huh?”

Shrugging off his jacket, he nods. “Better—” He stops short at the sight of Aeri in the doorway. She’s in her pyjamas, scrunching her wet hair in an old T-shirt and holding her phone to her ear. A great big grin tugs his lips up at the corners, scrunches his eyes. “Hey, baby,” he says, pulling her into his arms, splashes of pink hitting his white T-shirt when he leans down to peck her lips.

She seems just as delighted, holding the speaker against her chest as she looks at you to ask, “Is it you that hasn’t tried that mussels from Lilly’s?” When you nod she puts the phone back to her ear. “Could you add another portion of mussels and black bean sauce to the order, please? Okay, perfect, see you at eight!”

Just the mention of food makes your stomach grumble, hunger taking over as if you didn’t have a bowl of rice and stew an hour ago. From the mini charcuterie board you’d been preparing before Heeseung arrived, you eat a slice of smoky chorizo. And another. Aeri joins you, lifting the wedge of cheddar you bought earlier and taking a bite straight out of it. She hums, pleased, while you watch in horror.

“So that’s actually for sharing,” you point out belatedly.

“It’s only you two.” Shrugging, she puts the cheese down, cutting off her teeth mark. “And Jay,” she adds, looking around as if he might pop out from behind something. “Where is he anyway?”

“On his way. Probably?” Heeseung suggests.

“Probably? You live together, what do you mean probably?” Aeri asks.

“I’ve been out all day. Shall I ring him and see?”

You shake your head. “We’re not watching anything until eight o’clock, he’s got half an hour.”

Armed with snacks, you all set up the living room together. Charcuterie plate in the middle of the table for easy access while you wait for dinner, chilled wine and carton of apple juice, the coveted final packet of salt & vinegar crisps which you plan to steal so Jay can have them. Aeri’s in control of the remote, so the three of you watch YouTube videos of eighteen-year-olds playing Dress to Impress on Roblox while you wait for food and Jay to arrive. Eight p.m. comes quickly and with no sign of either, though it seems like you’re the only one to take notice as Aeri and Heeseung are fully locked in on rating the looks coming down the runway.

“One star.” He groans, gesturing at the TV with both of his palms, furious. “The theme was sea monster, why are you wearing a beret and holding an ice cream cone?”

It’s half-eight when your takeaway arrives, and your phone lights up in your lap.

jongseong 😽: Can’t make it tonight

jongseong 😽: Sorry

Not many things can wipe the Lilly’s-induced smile from your face, but this does the job. In a split second. Worsened by the fact that he doesn’t say anything else. Beside you, Heeseung and Aeri open every container, humming with increased volume and enthusiasm at the sight and smell of each new part of your meal.

jongseong 😽: Tied up with recording but I would’ve loved to see you!

You split a pair of wooden chopsticks, stealing a salt & chilli covered chip from the box in Aeri’s lap. She doesn’t stop you. Nor does she complain when you take more. Heeseung hands you an oil-spotted brown paper bag, chicken balls, but still, the stir in your stomach persists, disappointment rather than hunger.

jongseong 😽: Are you free in the morning? Coffee date?

jongseong 😽: *coffee run

you: No worries!!!!! A coffee date sounds really nice :)

you: *coffee run

jongseong 😽: :)

Locking your phone, you tuck it under your thigh and reach over to open a bottle of the wine Heeseung brought. “Jay can’t make it,” you say, hating how small and upset you sound. Heeseung frowns and Aeri squeezes your knee. You’re the one who presses play on the remote, and Superbad’s opening credits start up, while the empty spot to your left gets colder and colder.

jongseong 😽: Hiiiii sorry again about last night, are we still on for this morning?

jongseong 😽: Ik it’s so early hahaha

You almost drop your toothbrush in the sink at the sight of his name in your phone, rushing to text back.

you: Wowwwww Park, are you trying to bail on me already…? Again? Sick.

jongseong 😽: No way! I’ve already left the flat!!!

Right away, a picture of Jay on the Tube appears in the thread, his smiling cheeks and eyes poking out over the top of a thick black scarf. You heart-react to the picture then remove it, replacing it with a friendly thumbs-up instead—there is, however, no fix for the butterflies in your stomach. The heat in your cheeks. You gargle mouthwash and pack your bag before running off to go meet him at once. So excited, so jittery, you can’t even read the thriller you packed for the commute.

Through the café window, you see Jay before he sees you. He’s drumming his fingers against the table, lips pressed together, his eyes on the door. His hair is short and styled so it sits up off his forehead, spiky sort of. You’ve never seen it as short as this. It’s good, you think, that you’ve seen him first, because now you can turn on your heel and go home to address the thump in your chest. As if feeling your eyes on him, he turns around, gaze meeting yours right away, and a grin breaks out over his face. Crinkles his eyes. Dimples his cheek. Takes your breath away. You can’t help but smile too as you hurry inside. He’s standing when you reach the table.

“Hey,” Jay says, pulling you into a hug that smells like honey and smoke and doesn’t last nearly long enough. “I really am sorry about last night.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re here now.”

He nods, grinning. “I like your jacket, it’s cute.”

“Right? It’s Minjeong’s.” You look up at him, overwhelmed by the closeness of his face to yours, by the handsomeness of said close face. “You cut your hair,” you say, because it’s the only thought you’re having that has nothing to do with how good he looks and smells.

Jay’s lips curl into a sheepish smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Of course.” You nod. “You look like a baby.”

And there it is again, that grin. A laugh. “Great, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Thank you, YN.” He gestures to the table, at the steaming mug across from his seat. “I got you a latte.”

He really did! And the art on top of it is really normal!! It’s a love heart!!! And your actual heart is beating at a rate others might hear and think: wow, she’s being really normal right now! Hey, everybody!! Come take a look at how normal she’s being!!!

“Are you ageist?” you ask, taking your seat. To his furrowed brows, you continue. “There’s nothing wrong with looking like a baby. I was a baby once, you know.”

Jay sits down slowly, studying you over the rim of his cup and taking a long sip before he says, “I was too.”

Something about it all, seeing him like this, in a café and not studying, is strange. Jay was big on brewing his own coffee, steeping his own tea—exam season was the only justifiable time to splurge on delicious multi-hyphenate beverages. You take a sip of your own drink and try to come up with something normal to say, settling on, “I can’t believe we’re getting a coffee and it was your idea.”

“I don’t really drink anymore, my medication doesn’t… like that very much.”

“Jay, it’s nine o’clock,” you point out. “Oh… my God.” You cover your hand with your mouth, horrified, and leap to make things better. “I’m not judging you.”

“I didn’t mean I’d drink at this time. Jesus, YN. I’m not Scottish.”

“Okay, so you’re judging me.”

“I can’t help it, that’s just my God given right as a… sort of English person. Asking me not to judge you would be like asking me to kill myself.”

“Really desirable?” You sigh as soon as the words come out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt washing over you.

Jay’s eyes widen and his jaw drops, a surprised, contagious, laugh rushing out of him. He covers his face with his hands while you watch in horror. “Anyway, I was going to ask, how long do you have to stay somewhere before you can claim it?”

He’s still smiling. Your heart is still racing.

“I think it’s more of a feeling,” you say finally.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Jay lifts his notebook from the table, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “You look a lot better since I last saw you, I was starting to think there was something about being near me that was making you sick, you know? Three times is a pattern and all that.”

“We saw each other two days ago.”

“For ten minutes,” he points out.

Ten minutes that you spent the rest of the day poring over, recounting every single detail, every little thing that led to him kissing your cheek when he said goodbye.

“Well, I only just got here, so I’m not sure we can rule it out yet.” Racing heart, turning stomach, breathlessness—symptoms of post-acute infection, apparently. You offer a weak chuckle. “Thanks again for looking after me, you really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. And besides, it was nice spending time with you.” Jay smiles. “How’ve you been?”

“Just the usual.”

“I don’t really know what your usual is these days,” he admits too casually for the weight of it all.

“Right… uh, I’ve been—” You try to think about it, wondering what usual means to you. It used to be so simple. Your usual used to be studying with Jay before and after classes. Sharing every meal you could when time permitted. Ending the night together at his place or yours, even if you’d spent the day apart. He used to be your usual.

“I had an interview yesterday morning. At ‘Interview,’ and I think it went well,” you say, voice high pitched and trailing off towards the end. Worried about jinxing yourself, you hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Yizhuo who sent you the job posting. But now that you’ve said the words out loud, to Jay, you can’t bring yourself to stop. “But my friend told me they’re interviewing until the end of the month, so it might be a bit before I hear anything. I’m feeling good about it though, my portfolio is strong, and it’s versatile — at least that’s what the recruiter said — so I should have a shot for a few of the jobs there if I don’t get this particular one.”

Jay’s face lights up with every word you say, as if you’ve let him in on something secret, something precious.

“I didn’t mean to talk your ear off,” you say, hiding behind a warm sip of coffee.

His smile takes over his face, ear to ear and so delighted. Pink kisses the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. “Luckily I have two ears, and they really love your voice so…” He trails off, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed by his own sincerity. “I’m really happy to hear that, YN. I want all of your good news. And the bad stuff too—everything.”

Suddenly sheepish, you direct the question back towards him, asking what’s been keeping him busy lately. His smile is immediate and wide. “I’ve been writing like crazy since I last saw you.” Jay tilts his head, chewing on his bottom lip, but his smile doesn’t budge. “It’s stupid but it sort of feels like I can… see or something now, again. If that makes sense.”

“Not at all.” You can’t help but smile too. “Tell me everything.”

Pressing his lips together, Jay lets his gaze flick towards the window, looking out at the quiet street. Across the road is a deserted play park with swings that sway in the wind. A fish-shaped spring rocker does the same, bobbing gently. A man pushes a pram. Jay opens his mouth and says, “It’s like I’ve been walking around blindfolded for the last few years and someone finally took it off of me, and now I can see and there’s—” He stops short, biting his lip as his eyes fall on the swirls in his coffee. And then flick up to meet yours. “Well now there’s so much light again.”

You clear your throat, your mind a storm, thoughts unclear over the rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart in your ears. The latte he got you, while delicious, does nothing to calm the raging waters. It feels so pointed, too pointed to ignore. You were startlingly aware of how your five-day fever dream had blurred a line or two in your head. Spending all that time together, letting him look after you — Neo opening the door, following the white rabbit — flipped the switch in your head and turned your ifs into whens. If / when we’re alone, if / when we kiss. Turned you back into an eighteen-year-old, waiting by the phone for Jay to text you back.

It’s only when his smile falters, just a touch, that you realise you haven’t said anything. “That’s kind of extremely beautiful,” you say finally, massively understating it.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I thought so too.”

After finishing your drinks, you sit for a while longer, rehashing uni gossip you bled dry years ago, until the staff start giving you increasingly dirty looks, all but begging you to leave.

Jay holds the door open for you. “So what are you up to today?”

“This is—” Cold wind scrapes your neck, cutting you off as you button your coat to the top. “This is what I’m up to today.”

An amused breath slips out of him, a white cloud by his nostrils, and he takes his scarf off, wrapping it around your neck instead. “I mean after,” he says, unmoved by his gesture. Meanwhile, you’ve got an inhale full of his scent and the exposed column of his neck, his heart-shaped birthmark, on your mind like a thirsty vampire. To your silence he waves his large hand in your face. “Earth to YN.”

“Right here, Park.” You swat his hand away, clearing your throat. “What are you up to after this?”

“I have a session in about an hour, come with?” he offers. “I should warn you though, it’ll be really boring.”

“Boring? I could tell you hated your job and all of your fans.”

“No, I mean for you.” Jay nudges your shoulder. Despite the layers, your heart stumbles at the contact. “Because you kind of just have to sit there and be quiet, which I know will be difficult for you.”

Heat floods your cheeks, pools at the base of your spine. “Shut up,” you mumble, turning away from him.

“What?” Genuine confusion pulls his voice up a few octaves. “Oh,” he says after a beat, figuring it out for himself. “I didn’t mean it like that, but when did I ever complain? I like it.”

“Please stop talking.”

Jay stands to attention, saluting you. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Fuck, if you’re going to beg me then, fine, Jay. I’ll come to the studio with you.” You sigh, struggling to fight a smile. “I can’t catch a break with you.”

His head tips back with sweet laughter and he loops his arm through yours, tugging you and the butterflies in your stomach down the road towards the station. “No, YN. You really can’t.”

On the empty platform, you stand side by side, looking at the massive NAPE poster plastered on the wall. Jay, who usually has no shortage of things to say at any given moment, stares at it in silence. The poster is taller than you are, with No Way Back Tour written at the top in blocky red sans serif. In the centre is a four cut photo strip with a picture of each member, that’s thresholded to oblivion, and the bottom lists a bunch of different venues around London.

“What do you think?” you ask. “I think it’s cool, the portraits look good with the red on them like that.”

Jay snaps back into motion, turning to face you, his teary eyes finding yours. He smiles. “I think I had something else in mind when Riki told me there was a huge poster of my face in the station.”

“What? Just your face?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, just my face.”

“Park Jongseong,” you utter, shaking your head. “Where is your team spirit?”

Jay rolls his eyes but can’t hide his smile. “Dead and gone. Take a picture? Please.” He holds his phone out for you to take and stands by the poster, poking the cheek of his large, printed face.

“Celebrities…” You sigh, though you can’t ignore the swell of pride in your chest. You’ve taken a thousand pictures of Jay standing by posters for movies and artists he enjoys, so this feels almost full-circle in a way you’re struggling to wrap your head around. “Can I take some on my phone?”

He nods, and you slip his phone into your bag, reaching for yours—“This is not happening right now!” A uniformed teenage girl is standing right behind you when you turn around. The strap of her backpack has a can badge with NAPE written on it. Her face and neck and ears bright red as she points a trembling finger at him. “You’re—you’re… Jay fucking Park!”

“Hello,” Jay says, he’s smiling too. He is also turning red. “Good morning.”

“Hello?” she repeats, incredulous. “Hello, yourself, Jay Park. Holy shit!” Everything she says sits at the junction of whispering and screaming as your eyes flick back and forth between the two of them.

“I really slept in this morning and I was like ugh, I don’t want to go to school, so I almost didn’t leave the house, but then I finally did and I was like, I don’t want to walk, so then I came down here, which I literally never do and then I saw you and I was like, she’s so pretty, and then you were taking pictures of literal Jay Park. This is like literally a sign,” she continues, all in one breath. When she shows you her lock screen, she’s listening to Carolina. “My top song for the last two years.”

You’ve never met a celebrity before, as a fan anyway, so you can’t say for sure how you’d react, but her coherence is impressive—you’re not sure you could stand in front of Michael B. Jordan without crying or screaming or proposing, never mind recounting the events that led you there in the first place.

Jay’s entire face is smiling, looking down at this sweet girl like she hung the moon and the stars—he looks like the fan here, hanging onto her every word. “It must be a sign. A great one. I’m really happy to meet you.” A beautiful mix of intrigue, delight, and timidness colours his tone and his wide eyes, straightens his spine.

You feel equally mesmerised by each of them.

“Same,” she says simply, extending a hand for both you and Jay to shake, the picture of composure all of a sudden. She’s amazing. “I’m Wonhee. No one at school’s going to believe this at all, holy shit.”

“Wonhee,” he repeats, to her utmost elation. “Do you want a picture, Wonhee? So everyone at school believes you?”

Wonhee’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding?”

When she says it’s okay, Jay puts his arm around her shoulders, a boyish grin scrunching his sweet face. He looks even more like the fan in all one million live photos you take on Wonhee’s phone. “Wow,” she utters, swiping through the pictures. “Wow!” A glorious, giddy laugh comes out of her and she bolts away up the stairs, leaving the station—so much for school.

“She was so cute,” you coo, unable to keep the smile off your face.

“Yeah.” Jay’s gaze stays on the stairs like she might come back. “Yeah, she was.”

“Look at you, my little celebrity!”

This makes him look away, his eyes falling to his feet, ears and neck just as red as Wonhee’s were. “No, not really,” he mumbles. “Or, not universally, which is a relief. I don’t really get noticed like that, and I think it was only because I was standing next to a giant picture of my face.”

And what a lovely face it is. “You’re her lockscreen, Jay. I’m sure she’d recognise you if she only saw the back of your head.”

“I’m her lockscreen?”

You nod, liking the giddy smile he wears. Liking the flutter in your stomach at the sight of it. The warmth in your chest. “Isn’t it so crazy that you’ve made her day, maybe even her week, and all you did was take a picture?”

“Not really, she’s made my day too.” Jay shrugs, blush still lingering on his skin. “I was already having an amazing day with you, of course. So meeting Wonhee’s just the cherry on top of a great day that already had a cherry on it.” His words come out rushed, one big run on word with no breaks to breathe or think. Like everything he says is coming out of him as soon as it crosses his mind.

“Great,” you say through a breathy laugh. “I’m having a good time too.”

“Washington State is actually the top producer of sweet cherries in the States, did you know that? I was starting to miss them, being away so long—and now I have two cherries on my wonderful day.” Jay is grinning from ear to ear like some sort of adorably Cheshire Cat / Joker hybrid, rocking back and forth on his feet. He might be the most excited person in the whole world at this very moment. Second to Wonhee at least.

You can’t think of the last time you saw him so excited about something. It’s interesting to see a celebrity so thrilled by parts of the job that seem so normal from the outside looking in. Something you’d think he’d be used to by now, two years and millions of streams in. Regardless, you’re just happy he’s happy.

And because you can’t resist teasing him, you say, “I get it, Jay. You’re having the best day of your life because you got attention from a pretty girl. Congratulations.” You give him a slow round of applause.

Undeterred, he tucks some of your hair behind your ear, his warm touch lingering on your skin. “I’m not trying to brag or anything, but I’ve gotten attention from two pretty girls today.”

Your cheeks burn. “Even better.”

Behind you, the Tube whooshes to a stop and the doors slide open right in front of where Jay’s standing. A distraction, finally. “And look at that,” he says, pointing to the doors. “Three cherries.”

NAPE’s room at Laughing Kitty Studios is a large wood-panelled rectangle and you two are the first to arrive. Jay takes his shoes off by the door, so you do the same, stepping in after him. Plaques and posters line the walls, streaming milestones and Nirvana. A worn leather couch sits in the middle of the room with a long table and two chairs at its back. Jay gestures around him and says, “This is where the magic happens.” He gives you a tour when you ask, showing you the huge monitor and lots of expensive mixing equipment that all looks the same to you. In the vocal booth, he shows you the controls and the locked cabinet where they keep snacks.

Helping you out of your coat, Jay hangs it up on the rack beside his and watches as you sink into the couch. “Do you prefer working here or at home?” you ask.

He takes a beat, thinking it over with his hands on his waist. “I guess it depends where we’re at. If we have a deadline or just want to get shit done, we work better here. And it’s nice having, like, a base, I guess, where other writers or producers can come to work with us.”

“That makes sense, it’s like a safe space, kind of.”

“Mmm, safe space,” he repeats. “I like that.” Jay sits too, leaving a small gap between you. “Most days though, especially when the weather’s shit, I prefer working at home.”

“Ah, see, I hated working at home; too many distractions.”

“Sunoo takes all our phones if he’s with us, so no distractions for NAPE at the studio.” Jay licks his lips, eyes meeting yours. “Not normally.”

Your awareness of Jay peaks. Of the spread of his thighs, of his hand grazing your leg when he lifts it from the couch cushion. Every cell in your body zings with this awareness, humming, and even though you’re smiling, even though your heart is a second away from beating out of your chest, you roll your eyes at him, cheeks on fire.

“Will you show me what you’ve been working on?” you ask. “Since I’ve come all this way?”

A boyish grin takes over his face as he nods. “But only because you’ve travelled all of fifteen minutes to get here, my strong, strong girl,” he says, taking out his phone and plugging it into the speaker behind the couch.

His strong, strong girl. Your sanity slips, just a little. Though you suppose it’s this alleged strength that keeps you sitting where you are, rather than jumping into his lap and kissing his stupid, handsome face.

Jay’s thumb hovers over the play button and he hesitates, seeming to second-guess himself before giving a hurried preface. “It’s just a demo, you know? Me and my guitar. I threw it together last night so the final thing probably won’t sound anything like this, alright?”

“You don’t have to play it for me if you don’t want to,” you say, squeezing his knee. “I’m sure it’s amazing though, because you wrote it.”

His ears go bright pink and he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s important to me that you hear it,” he tells you, sounding very certain for someone so clearly nervous. There’s something about it, his certainty, that makes your heart pick up, just a touch as you nod. He presses play and immediately the sound of his guitar fills the room, humming against the couch. Just like he did at the show, how he used to on the end of your bed, he picks a pretty melody. The image comes quick and clear—Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. Sitting in his underwear with his acoustic in his lap, picking the same notes over and over until they either sounded right, or you managed to convince him to get into bed instead. A knife to the gut would hurt less. And then he starts to sing. At first, in some of the most beautiful gibberish and lalalas you’ve ever heard. You open your mouth to compliment him anyway, but the lyrics come in, actual real words with actual real meanings, and everything you wanted to say falls to the wayside.

“You make my heart beat for you. I always cry too often, but I put too much in your hands. So much regret in the end,” Jay sings.

Through the speaker his voice is full and sincere and gorgeous as ever, all while he sits next to you with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. In your chest, your heart does an ungraceful tumble. If he can hear it, your thumping heart, he is polite enough not to comment, instead watching you closely, trying to gauge your reaction, maybe. Trying to read your mind.

“It’s a shame for you, it’s a shame for me. Is the blame on you? No, YN, it’s all on me.”

Oh.

A demo and a confession.

His thoughts laid bare at last, the vulnerability you used to beg for handed over on an acoustic platter. Curling around the room and filling the shortening gap between your bodies until your knee presses against his thigh, or the other way around—you can’t tell who moved. You don’t remember. You don’t care. Not when his lips are parted like that, not when he’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to kiss. The voice in your head says his name over and over. Jongseong. Jongseong. Jongseong. Your favourite nine letters stuck on the tip of your tongue. There are too many things to say, and too many ways to say them, so you don’t say anything at all.

Luckily, Jay says it all for you—sings it. “Wish I knew how to make it right. Just wanna look into your eyes, tell you the truth that I can’t hide, I love you so much.”

Answering seems so simple, but when you try, your mind blanks. Fills, rather, buzzing with all the wrong things. Thoughts and memories. Everything that’s happened over the last three weeks, the time you’ve been together again. Back in each other’s orbit. How he dropped everything to look after you, chose you.

How he finally chose you.

There’s a lightness in your chest, like some persistent weight has been lifted at long last. And now, looking at him, Jay. Your Jay—Jongseong. The freckles on his cheek, how the skin is tinted rosy. Pinched pink. His eyes, dark and wide and staring straight into yours. The only thing on your mind is: I love you, I love you, I love you. You tip your chin, and the space between your lips and his becomes little more than a technicality. His breath is warm against your skin, close enough to feel when it hitches. Close enough to see each of his eyelashes, to count them. To see how they flutter when he blinks, gaze falling to your mouth. Yours does the same, latching on the smooth pink skin, desperate now. Resisting seems futile, so you give in, pressing your lips to his and hoping it’ll be enough to tell him everything.

Jay’s relief is immediate. Clear in the shuddered breath that slips out of him, caught between kisses as he melts against you. His hand finds your jaw, fingers slipping into your hair behind your ear just like they used to. Tongue brushing up to tickle the roof of your mouth and make you smile like always. It feels like it’s been two minutes since your last kiss, not three years. Feels impossible that you went that long without this.

Without Jay.

His grip on your waist is gentle, but his fingertips sear your skin. He pulls you closer, and closer, each point of connection setting off a blaze in its wake. Mouth to mouth. Chest to chest. Knees to the sides of his thighs as you sink into his lap. Like this, under you, the sight of Jay is too much—flushed cheeks, plump lips, ragged breath. The feel of him, all solid muscle and huge palms slipping under your skirt. Nails digging into the curve of your ass. You lean in, lips catching his jaw, finding the side of his neck. His skittering pulse. His birthmark. Sucking on the warm skin there makes him groan, makes his hips buck. His dick strains against his jeans, hitting the exact spot that makes you putty in his hands, moans slipping from both of you as you work up a rhythm.

Your name trails off into a sigh when he tries to say it. “What does this mean?” he asks, breathless.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and for a long while afterwards, the only sound in the studio is the two of you trying to catch your breath. “Do you want to stop?” you ask, terrified for the answer.

Jay says nothing.

Your fingers slip easily through his hair, playing with the tickly short strands on the sides of his head. His question feels heavier the longer he goes without speaking, the longer you stew on it. What does this mean, if anything? There’s an uncomfortable swoop in your stomach, how could this possibly mean nothing? Nothing more than a spur of the moment makeout, never to be spoken of. A unanimous mistake.

On an inhale, Jay’s chest puffs out, touching yours for a heartbeat and he shakes his head. “Not for anything,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss you again.

And this time, when he rocks his hips, his grip on you tightens and he pulls you down to meet them. It’s too much all at once, heat lashing at you from every angle. Increasing with each brush of your tongues, with each press of his covered dick between your legs. Need burns a flame at the base of your stomach, tugs a whine out of you.

Against yours, Jay’s lips quirk into a smile, a smirk. “Needed this just as bad as me, huh, baby?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

“More,” you breathe.

To this, he pulls away, looking up at you with furrowed brows. He shakes his head and says, “No way.” Jay’s heavy palm cups your cheek, his eyes round and wide. A burst of tenderness in the midst of all the heat as his hips freeze under you. A flutter in your stomach. Warmth in your chest, on your cheeks.

“Absolutely, no way,” he says and once again, his lips come up to meet yours. Slow this time, gentle and sweet.

Until laughter erupts from the door, and forces the two of you apart. As if being caught in this position isn’t bad enough, a string of spit attaches you to him when you pull away. There are two guys standing in the doorway, one of them still laughing, the other one pressing his lips in a flat line, as though seeing the two of you like this is disappointing but not surprising.

Frustration and embarrassment wash over you in equal measure, a wave with the force of an eighteen-wheeler casting its great shadow above you. Only death could fix this, of that, you are certain—you can’t laugh at a dead person. At least not right away, surely there’s a buffer period of some description.

The amused one speaks first. “I thought you said you moved the couch off the wall so they wouldn’t fuck on it.”

“Yes, Jungwon. That was the general idea.” Stepping into the studio, shoes off, the disappointed one points at the sign above the light switch—a short list of forbidden things that has, no sex in the studio, written in bold, red letters at the top of it.

Great.

Maybe under different circumstances, if Jay had shown it to you, you might have laughed at the sign, thinking of what had to go wrong to lead to such a notice existing in the first place. For sex to rank over smoking and playing ball games on the list of things not to do in there. Now, like this, sitting in Jay’s lap with only a few layers of clothing between his erection and your dripping cunt, it makes you want to die.

Already, you had a whole host of things to stew over in bed tonight — spending all morning with Jay, the song, the kiss — and now you get to add being walked in on to the roster.

The rush of blood in your ears is disorienting, warbling Jay’s voice when he says, “It’s a great sign, Sunoo.” Completely unconcerned, he wears a great big smile and keeps his hands under your skirt. “But it says nothing about kissing.”

Your breath catches. Sunoo. His manager. Even better.

Without another thought, you stand, straightening your skirt. Jay doesn’t move, he just sits there with his hands on his thighs, eyes trailing over every inch of your body as if you’re still alone. As if now that he knows he can, he wants to use the opportunity to the fullest.

“Yes,” Sunoo agrees, sinking into one of the spinny chairs by the monitor and rubbing his temples. “And I’m coming to regret that.”

Silence hangs over the room as Jungwon steps inside, closing the door after himself. He runs his finger over the sign, following the words one at a time like he’s sounding it out or studying it. How nice it must be, not to have a stake in this moment. You clear your throat, deciding that if the universe isn’t going to answer your pleas for sudden death, you might as well perform good and normal social niceties. “I’m YN,” you announce, so loud that Jungwon flinches by the door. “It’s… nice to meet you both.”

“Likewise.” A genuine smile covers Sunoo’s face, scrunches his eyes—it’s like looking at an angel. “I can see why Jay talks about you so much.”

“Sorry for…” You trail off, unsure how best to put across whatever the hell you and Jay were doing—sorry for having a reconciliatory dry hump on your couch, doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “That,” you say finally.

He laughs and the sound is delightful, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying it like he wasn’t just losing his mind. “Please, that wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve walked in on this week.” Sunoo shudders, seeming truly disturbed. “First time offence for Jay though,” he adds thoughtfully, which is oddly reassuring.

Jungwon claps his hands, one loud smack as he sits on the other end of the couch, a bright smile on his face like he’s solved some pressing matter. “So what if the sign says, no partners in the studio, instead?” he asks, nudging Jay.

His emphasis on the word partner sets off your stomach, steadily fluttering butterflies flying around a swirl of heat. Is that where this might have led? Where you and Jay could end up? Partners. Again? Casual-workplace-dry-humpationship isn’t a relationship status you’ve had before, or heard of, but now, the thought of it being as far as things go here, with Jay, is a horrible weight on your shoulders, a pressure in your chest.

Sunoo sighs. “I love this band, I really do, but the horny fuckers would just kiss each other.”

At this, you all laugh. All but Sunoo, anyway.

It’s straight to work when the rest of the guys arrive, and Sunoo settles on the other end of the couch, typing away at his laptop and pausing to give his opinion when they ask. Sunghoon sits with his knees to his chest, picking at his lip as he stares at the screen, clicking this and that, playing it back over and over, no matter what imperceptible change they’ve suggested.

Standing over his shoulder, Heeseung tilts his head. “Actually, yeah. Your way’s better, cut that.”

“I think quiet for half a bar instead of fading out—everything off just vocals, and then back on full force for the last chorus. Louder,” Jake suggests, so Sunghoon does just that and plays the whole thing over again. You can’t hear the difference, but all of the guys hum in approval.

Heeseung riffs. Jay does the same on his guitar, and he was sort of right. Maybe if you were less fascinated by him, you would be bored. But he’s kind of extremely good at this. All of them. They manage to lock in for hours at a time, bouncing ideas around and executing them perfectly in a matter of two or three takes. Late in the afternoon, Jungwon orders pizza and they stop working to eat before getting right back to it. It’s the only break they take all day.

“Look, I know you want to, but you don’t need to take a new song out with you—not yet anyway.” Sunoo stands up from the couch, putting his laptop into his bag. “You still have time to decide on the encore show, but maybe after all the travelling you’ll have a few finished songs. New setting, new inspiration.”

Jake furrows his brows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, I think we’re cutting it a bit thin. I mean this is your last full week off — bar rehearsal — before tour starts, and I don’t want you so stressed about something with an easy fix.”

At the mention of the word tour, Jay stiffens. You do the same.

Jungwon takes his headphones off and turns to face the room, laptop in hand to show the screen. “Do we like these T-shirts for the U.S. shows?”

“Yeah, but…” Sunghoon squints, getting closer. “They look just like the Australia and New Zealand shirts.”

“Which look just like the Europe ones,” Heeseung points out.

Every sentence makes things worse and worse. They’re going on tour in a week. Jay is leaving in a week. Going to the U.S., to fucking Oceania, and this is how you’re finding out. The tightness in your chest, the ache in your stomach, is immediate. Instead of looking at you, Jay bites at his nails. Scrunches his nose.

“If we could kindly get back on track,” Sunoo interrupts, pulling his jacket on. “You have Live Lounge when you’re back in March, VEVO Studios in April—much better opportunities to showcase new music. I know you want something special for fans, but maybe we can shoot a performance video of… Royalty? And release it on Valentine’s Day?”

Jay hides his face in his hands. “Okay.”

“Just think about it, okay. It’s up to you, and I promise I’ll support whatever you decide. For now, though, I have carbonara and an episode of Lovely Runner waiting for me at home, so I’m away, yeah?”

With that, Sunoo leaves and Jungwon is quick to follow. The guys sit in silence for a bit before getting back to work. By your side, Jay hunches over his guitar, resting his chin on the body, picking at the strings aimlessly. Across the room, Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon crowd around the monitor, nitpicking.

While their demo plays through the speakers again, louder than before, Jay finally speaks. “You and your friends can come if you’re up to it, to the London show. Whoever you want. On me,” he mumbles, looking at the fretboard instead of you.

“Okay.” You nod, though the thought of having to tell Minjeong that Jay has upset you again, that you’ve let him close enough to be upset by him again, is too grim to bear, so you text the chat, inviting them along instead.

you: Nape concert next Friday night on me (on the band) who’s there?

somi: me me me me me

yizhuo: Will Jake be there?

riki: will jake be at his concert.

riki: what happened w you and jimin 🤔

yizhuo: No further questions your honour (she only wants to hookup HAHAHHAHA).

riki: my apologies twin (Go Get Your #Man).

you: Oh okay bc I thought you all had very important jobs right . Right. MY FUCKING BAD.

And just like that, all three of them stop texting.

It’s ten p.m. by the time you and Jay reach your flat, and neither of you have said anything since you said bye to the other guys back at the studio, ten Tube stops ago. You search in your bag for your keys, desperate to end this silence by disappearing inside. Jay has other plans though, apparently, because when you twist your key in the lock and step over the threshold he sighs, saying your name. You don’t look at him.

“I swear to God, I was going to tell you about the tour, okay? I wouldn’t just leave like that. Not again.” Though his credibility where telling you things is concerned is shaky at best, you nod and he continues. “I’ve known for ages, obviously, but I wasn’t sure when to tell you or if you’d care.”

“You weren’t sure I’d care that you’re leaving for two months?” you ask, hoping he can hear how absurd that sounds.

“Three months,” he corrects, mumbling an apology when you squint at him. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I thought this was or could be, by talking about my short-term plans like you’re my girlfriend or something.”

Your scoff echoes through the hall, an accurate reflection of the irritation that heats you from the inside out. “Sure, Jay. Give me the right idea then.”

He takes a beat, his eyes catching over all of your features. “You’re cross with me,” he states simply.

Cross, he said. As if that even begins to cover it. Maybe if you were any less cross with him, the Briticism might have made you smile. “Very.”

“I’m sorry, YN. I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Sunoo told me. You didn’t say anything.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to—” Jay pauses, pressing his eyes shut with his fingers until his nails turn pale. With a shaky breath, he tries again. “We didn’t have hard conversations at home. My parents would just make up their minds and do shit, you know. I found out we were moving to Seoul when my dad came into my room with a bunch of boxes, and told me to fill them up.”

The words rush out of him, each of them a blade to the heart, deeper than the last. Twisting. You’ve seen all of his childhood photos, the calendar his parents had made when he was eight. His permed curly hair and bright smile, those big round eyes that never failed to melt your heart no matter how many times you saw the pictures. Hearing that his parents could raise him that way, their only child, to change his life at the drop of a hat, like he was just another thing to put in a box and cart away, stings the backs of your eyes. From what you remember, he’d gone from the U.S. to Korea, then London, all so quickly—and now you know, with no warning.

“London was the same, back to Tacoma, same thing, and back again. I never really…” He trails off, chewing on his lip before he starts again. “I thought Edinburgh would be like that too, it was supposed to be. But then I met you, and for the first time, the thought of leaving was terrifying. I thought it was about the band, what my parents might say, but it was you, YN. I never had a home to leave until I met you, and I didn’t realise that until it was already too late.”

The realisation sets in with deep unease. His room in Edinburgh was completely bare when you met him, just the essentials, the stuff you can only assume was easy to move with. It was only after the two of you had been together for a while that his room started filling up. Posters and knick-knacks. Snowglobes and postcards from whatever holiday Minjeong had planned for you, her and Jaehyun. At the end of it all, by the time it had been two weeks since Jay left your place and never looked back, his flatmate Wonbin handed you a box with these things in it. To your confusion, to your upset, he only raised a brow and said, I thought you agreed it’d be better to end things? With him moving back home and that…

“And even after I left, I had a million and one chances to reach out to you, to explain, apologise, all of it, but I—I really let you down, and I’m sorry. I’m not that person anymore.” He looks down, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

Your body reacts before your words can, hand reaching out to his cheek, cupping the smooth, flushed skin. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the only thing you can say is, “You’re not. It’s okay, I promise.”

“It’s not, YN.” He presses his lips together, biting the skin until the pressure turns the pink pale. “I just want you to be happy.”

Again, the words are right there, twisting painfully in your throat and stuck to the tip of your tongue. I love you. I still love you. It’s you, Jay. It’s always, only you. But you can’t get them out, can’t bring yourself to say them. “I am happy, Jay,” you say instead.

Jay’s lips quirk up at the corners, not quite a smile but close. “You’re happy,” he repeats, nodding his head as he seems to consider this. The silence is awful, turning your stomach and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, you’re so certain he’s going to wish you a goodnight that you rush to speak first.

“When are you leaving?”

“Saturday.” One day after the London show. Ten days from today. “Manchester’s Tuesday, then Glasgow, Dublin…” He trails off, but you know the rest—Paris, Hamburg, Stockholm… Auckland, Brisbane… You studied the order from the poster Jungwon showed you.

“When can I see you again?” you ask quietly.

“I’m not sure.” Jay tilts his head. “Want me to send you my Google Calendar?”

He’s kidding, you know that much, but still, you say, “Please.”

At this, he pulls up the app on his phone, multi-coloured blocks filling the screen. “Looks like I’m free at 3 a.m. tomorrow,” he says, clicking the share button and pasting the link in your text thread, where your contact is saved as MY ❤️. Still. Jay hits send on the message and again his calendar fills the screen. “And right now.”

“Me too…” You trail off.

To your surprise, it doesn't take much more to get Jay into the flat, into your room. To have your back against the bedroom door and his lips on yours, not even separating to push your coat down your shoulders. His hands span wherever he can touch, slipping under your shirt to press your body closer to his.

Jay tugs at the waistband of your tights. "Want these off."

"Later." You chase his kiss, desperate not to lose momentum, not to give either of you an opportunity to think about this and what it means.

Relenting, his hand slips under them instead, grabbing your ass. Bucking forwards, you feel his thick cock against you, a swirl of heat ravishing the base of your stomach. He sighs into the kiss, parting your legs with his thigh and guiding you over the solid muscle.

It's not enough. "My tights," you say, changing your tune. "Rip them, Jay.”

He moans on a shaky exhale, pulling away to look down at you. "Are you joking? I can't tell if you're joking." His eyes are blown and frantic, searching your face. As soon as you shake your head, he tugs at the thin fabric until it tears, making a hole. Cool air rushes against you, forcing you to draw a breath. "Now what?”

You push your damp underwear to the side, fingers parting your slick folds before you rock your hips once more. Painfully slow. The feeling of his thigh, the rough denim of his jeans grazing your clit, makes you whimper into the space between you. Jay's lips quirk up at the corner, his bruising grip guiding your hips back and forth.

"So needy, aren't you?" He pushes his thigh harder against you. "What am I gonna do with you, beautiful?"

Holding his gaze is an effort, but you'd die if you missed the way he looks right now, half-lidded eyes looking down at you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Even blinking feels like a waste. "Anything, Jay. Do anything."

"Bed?" As soon as you nod he carries you over, setting you down.

You lean up on your elbows to watch him undress—his jacket comes off first, falling to the floor. Then his T-shirt, pulled over his head, triceps huge when he bends his arms. A lick of need burns your core at the sight of his tattoo peeking out over his waistband, the thick dark hair under his belly button. You have to chew on your lip to hold a moan, but he notices.

"Like what you see?" He smiles, freeing his belt from the loops of his jeans.

"Mhm."

Jay's eyes trail over your body, skin ablaze wherever his gaze lands. "Not as much as I like you." He leans over and kisses you. "Your pretty little mouth," he murmurs, lips trailing your throat. "Your neck, your shoulders." At your chest, he takes his time. Sucking and licking your nipples through your tank top, urging whimpers out of you with each bite and tug. It's only when he continues down the rest of you that you remember the point he's making, a kiss pressed by your belly button. "Your stomach, thighs. Everything, baby. Love all of you.”

Love all of you. You can't breathe. Love all of you. His hands slip under your skirt, pulling off your panties and torn tights in one go. Love all of you. You might die here, now, like this.

He gets up to take off his pants, leaving only his tight grey underwear and the dark patch in the centre, where the fabric clings to his leaking tip. "Want you on me, YN." He licks his lips before a breathtaking smile spreads over them, slow and feline. A smirk, more like. "Sound good? You wanna sit on d—my face?" Even the thought of riding his face, of the word he stopped himself from saying, hitches your breath.

Saying, please, is a measured effort, though he wastes no time getting between your legs. Just the feel of him under you, his built shoulders and solid chest, thick arms wrapped around your soft thighs; seeing him like this, eyes half-lidded and stuck on your cunt, is dizzying and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"So pretty everywhere." The words are a low whisper, warm and sudden, before he licks you from back to front.

A burst of pleasure arches your back, coursing through you immediately as you grind down on him, rutting against the tip of his nose. Dipping into you, his tongue moves slowly to match the roll of your stuttering hips—he's kissing you, making out. And loving every second of it if his groans are anything to go off of. It is, at once, too much and not enough. His pouty mouth finds your clit, licking it in circles, driving you crazy.

"Fuck," you whine. "Like that."

When he hums in response, it rumbles through you, forcing a moan from you as you tug at his hair. At the feeling of it, he groans, burying his face deeper and deeper. Tipping his chin towards you. In his enjoyment of it all, in his actions, he makes no effort to be quiet—squelches amplified and filthy, with his exaggerated movements of his mouth against your soaking cunt.

Your orgasm creeps up on you, slow to start but quickly overbearing. "Jay." From your lips, his name is a wobbly cry. "Jay," you repeat. Falling forwards, your hands grip fruitlessly at the sheets, whole body trembling in his hold. Pure bliss washes over you in harsh waves, whiting the dark behind your closed eyelids. How could you ever go without this again? How did you manage in the first place? You can't even voice it, warn him, that you're close, that you're there, unthinkable heat hitting you from every angle as you gush all over him. He doesn't let up, only humming and licking more feverishly, quicker, harder, and pressing the entire bottom half of his face to you, drinking up your release.

Catching your breath is an impossibility, your legs and stomach twitching as he cleans you up with his tongue, murmuring praises against you. Thank you, baby, as his nose hits your clit. Missed this pretty pussy, after he licks your clenching hole. So good for me, when he sucks at your inner thigh. Jay looks a mess when you finally sit up, glancing down at him. Ruffled hair. Slow blinking eyes. Everything from his straight nose down is slick and shiny, cum slipping over his jaw, and a smile curving his swollen lips. A handsome mess.

You clench around nothing.

Later, you share the shower and lots of kisses, teeth bumping under the spray as Jay whimpers, coming in your hand before getting into bed. He strokes your hair, twirling the ends around his fingers, and opening his mouth to speak but says nothing. Minutes pass like this until you finally ask, “What is it?”

He shakes his head, smiling too. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me, baby.”

“I just… I kind of feel like I’m dreaming or something,” he admits softly, though you feel the words in every part of you.

Stuck for what to say, scared to say anything, you lean up and kiss him instead. Kiss him until your stomach starts to flutter. Until you’re gasping for breath, legs tangling together under the duvet, because if this really is a dream, you don’t want to have any regrets when you wake up.

@.gigiseung: DUDEEEEEE JAY GOT A GIRLFRIEND 😭😭😭 I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS THE MUSIC IS GONNA BE HAPPY !!!!!!! FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!

112 replies | 675 retweets | 5.6k likes | 752 bookmarks

@.nojayback: no one moved 🙄

@.gigiseung: girl im really sorry but your boyfriend has a girlfriend and it’s not jake or you… i retweeted…

@.sunghoon67: I SAW JAY AT MOONSTRUCK ON A DATE WITH A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN THIS IS NOT A DRILL WATCH THE FUCKING VIDEO 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

400 replies | 4.2k retweets | 25k likes | 2.3k bookmarks

@.nojayback: WHY DID HE PUT HIS SCARF ON HER LIKE THAT WHO TAUGHT HIM THAT ??? WHO EVEN IS SHEEEEE 😭😭😭

@.sunghoon67: IDK WHO SHE IS I JUST KNOW SHE’S HOT AND HAS AN ACCENT

@.nojayback: AND LOOK AT HIS OUTFIT HE MET WONHEE IN THIS OUTFIT DID THIS GIRL TAKETHAT FUCKING PICTURE??? @.jaykeyaoi wake tF UP RNNNN DID YOU MEET HER TOO???

@.NAPEisFOUR: So friendship between a man and a woman isn’t a thing anymore? This fandom never fails to disgust me.

@.gigiseung: @.NAPEisFOUR GOODBYEEEE a sex tape would be less incriminating.

minjeong: Oh girl I can’t defend you anymore send my fucking jacket back TODAY

you: What jacket ???

Her next message has ten pictures. And then another set of ten pictures. And then another.

minjeong: Lie again. Asking “what jacket” DUDE I SEE YOU WEARING IT AND WITH YOUR FUCKING SATANIC EX TOO… Killing you would not be enough.

All of the pictures are Twitter screenshots, threads of NAPE fans trying to solve a mystery by the looks of things. Several photos of you and Jay, a video, even. All from yesterday morning.

@.hojumilkpuppy: ALL THESE FUCKING PICTURES AND NOT ONE SHOT OF HER FACE ??? ARE WE KIDDING RN WHO IS THIS AND WHERE DID SHE GET THAT JACKET

@.gigiseung: OP said she has an accent and jay said he studied in edinburgh right?

@.hojumilkpuppy: Are You Trying To Tell Me This Is Miss Carolina.

@.jaysnape: am i the only one who thinks filming them like this is weird af idk it’s nice seeing him all smiley and in love but idkkkkk it feels weird seeing this when they clearly have no idea they’re on camera

@.ClubNAPE: If you’re feeling distressed by the video, it’s ok. But please take care of yourself. Step away from social media for a couple of days. Don’t attack or criticise Jay, too much money and time went into publicly harassing him and it finally paid off for those people.

@.jm4pjs: Thanks for trying to encourage us, but I’m so sad and furious at the same time…For now I’m empty… I hope he uses condoms…

@.ClubNAPE: Trust me when I say he doesn’t go that far with her. Just, please trust me.

@.hojumilkpuppy: You are an adult.

Each thread follows a similar pattern, hundreds, maybe thousands, of NAPE fans freaking out over the video. Posting detailed body language analysis to prove and disprove the true nature of your and Jay’s relationship. The split seems even enough—half of them happy for Jay, for you; half of them affronted by the mere suggestion that Jay might have feelings for any woman in a way beyond friendship. The worst part of it all, by your standards at least, is that you’re just as confused as them and it’s your relationship.

The original video, sunghoon67’s pinned tweet, has over a million views. In all of her replies, she goes to bat for you, insisting that the whole time she saw you and Jay, the two of you seemed comfortable and happy, and that she was not stalking him, but happened to be at the café studying for over an hour when you arrived.

somi: YOU AND JAY???

yizhuo: Do Not even get me started.

riki: you told them about uni? i thought that was a secret yn u made me feel special…you okay though? this is kind of extremely crazy 🤔

yizhuo: What the fuck do you mean UNI

somi: ???

riki: ning yizhuo you have a degree i know ykwtf uni is.

You mute the groupchat, putting your phone on Do Not Disturb.

What Twitter user #hoonjay real’s deep analysis of it all says about them, you’re unsure. An odd mix of delight at the thought of other people perceiving you and Jay as happy together, and discomfort at the thought of someone studying you so closely, filming you without your knowing, clash in your head. The more tweets you read, thanking OP for sharing, and bashing OP for the same thing, the more confused you feel. You spend an hour like this, laying in the bed Jay left this morning, scrolling through Twitter and Reddit, refreshing the timeline to read new responses as they come in. More and more people claim to have seen you together, inventing stories about you yelling at Jay in Notting Hill, or kissing him in Piccadilly. All the while, Minjeong continues to text.

minjeong: And you did it in the street WEARIGN MY FUCKING JACKET THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT YOU STOLE MY JACKET??? This is SO embarrassing for me imagine all the people that think I’m Park Jongseong’s fucking girlfriend because they saw you in my jacket

you: Imagine all the people that think I’M his girlfriend ???

minjeong: You’re not?

you: Define girlfriend.

minjeong: A frequent or regular female companion in a romantic or sexual relationship

you: Define frequent.

minjeong: I really don’t have time for this YN.

minjeong: Are you okay though? Fr

you: I’m good! People think I have nice hair and good taste in jackets, over the moon rn 🥰

Three dots appear on her side of the chat and your phone vibrates in your palm. Jay’s name and an old photo of him with his hair bleached take over your screen. Jay at twenty-one—fast asleep in your childhood bed, cuddling your worn Snoopy plushie. “Hey, are you home?”

“Mhm.”

A sigh comes through the phone, he sounds relieved. “Please open the door.” He’s standing on the mat when you do, chewing furiously at his lip. He hugs you and apologises into the crook of your neck. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Jay,” you mumble into his chest. “Are you okay? Are you coming in?”

Jay sighs again, letting his shoulders fall. He assesses your face, still holding you close. “Wish I could, baby. I’m on a potty break,” he says, completely earnest.

“Potty break?”

“Like, restroom? It’s a long story, but the suits made a slidesh—” His phone goes off loudly in his pocket, buzzing between your bodies and making him sigh. “I’ll tell you later, alright? I have to get back.”

“Later today?”

Jay shakes his head, pecking your lips. It’s not enough—there’s no such thing with him, so you pull his bottom lip between yours. “Don’t want you… staying up just for me,” he mumbles, the words warm against your mouth as his hand comes up to hold your cheek.

“You’re worth it, Jay,” you admit.

He draws a breath, pulling away just enough to look at you. His face softens, a smile on his lips, his eyes on yours. “You’re cute,” he says softly, thumb brushing over your skin. “I’ll think about it.” When his phone goes off this time, it rings. A call. He mutters a curse, pressing his forehead to yours like he might ignore it, like he might stay, then he kisses you once more. “I really have to go.”

“How about you text me when you’re done and we’ll see if I’m still up?” you suggest.

“Alright, princess. We’ll see.”

And by fire, by force, you are still up at two in the morning when he texts you to say he’s all done at the studio. You open the door to usher a tired Jay to the kitchen, sitting him down at the table where you’ve heated up leftovers for him. A slow smile lights up his face and he eats quietly, only breaking to chug water.

Aeri comes into the kitchen, greeting you both with a tired hum before filling her bottle with water from the filter. On the way out, she smacks Jay over the head with a flat palm. “My loyalty is to YN before it’s to you or Heeseung, okay?”

He winces, clutching the back of his head and nodding. “Got it.”

After food, you wash his dishes while he showers, and he climbs into bed with damp hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Thank you so much, baby.”

“Thank you for coming over…” You trail off. For making time for me, you think but don’t say.

“I really am sorry about this whole thing. The photos, people talking… Jesus.” Jay sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you worrying about any of this, it’ll die down, alright? I promise, shit like this, it always dies down.”

“I’m not worried about any of it, Jay. Promise. It’s kind of cool how much your fans care, a lot of people really love you,” you say. “I’m just happy you’re okay and that you’re here.”

His lips spread into a smile against your temple. “I’m happy I’m here too,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest. Though naturally, because you are you, and he is Jay, your lips find each other anyway. Kissing for an hour like a bunch of teenagers before you fall asleep.

It’s perfect.

Mostly.

The days leading up to the concert go by similarly, with you and Jay meeting up after his studio sessions or rehearsals. Some nights you hook up, most nights you cuddle and watch the newer seasons of Formula 1: Drive to Survive, which he pauses every two seconds to add his own — very necessary — commentary. Neither of you mention the concert or what’s going to change when he leaves the day after. Its first mention is on the day of, when he sends you a text.

jongseong 😽: We have about an hour or two downtime before the show if you want to head over during that? So around like 5, yeah? Sunoo can come and meet you and bring you up

you: Sounds good see you sooooonn!

jongseong 😽: See you babyyyyy got soundcheck so talk in a few :D

At a pub you’ve never been to, you meet up with Yizhuo to nurse a pint and eat truffle mac‘n’cheese. So much has changed since you last saw her and it’s only been a week and a half. Life has a way of doing that—flipping things on their head when you least expect it.

“Have you heard back from anywhere?” she asks, clearing her plate. “From Interview?”

You deflate, sipping sweet golden nectar from your glass. “Not yet.”

“Try not to look so worried, it’ll be good news. I can tell.”

“What if it isn’t?” The words are impossible to say, a pathetic mumble over the speakers. It feels a bit like admitting defeat. You’d been relatively optimistic at first, but hardly anyone gets the first job they apply for. Or the first thirty. Creative jobs are hard enough to come by as it is, and after all the difficulty of securing one, the only thing anyone leaves for is the grave. “I can’t wait forever, Yizhuo. I’ve got maybe two more months before I need to go and stay with my parents again.” And that’s if you stop using your redundancy pay for frivolous things like groceries and rent.

“It won’t get to that. You’re capable, you’re smart, you’re qualified.” Yizhuo says firmly, squeezing your hand over the sticky tabletop. “Just because things are bad now doesn’t mean they’ll be bad forever. Soon, we’ll look back at this moment and laugh about it at work drinks. I promise.”

You hope she’s right. You need her to be right.

When you meet up with Sunoo, he leads you through the venue’s back entrance and to the green room, where Jay and Riki are the only people inside, bickering on the couch. At the sound of the opening door, they quit it, and Jay greets you with a bright grin. His tight-fitting black long sleeve is tucked into his dress pants, and a pair of wire-frame glasses sit on the bridge of his nose. It’s like seeing God. He hugs Yizhuo first, though in light of #JaysGF-gate and your sharing of the full story, she’s not his biggest fan at the moment. You however, as evidenced by the last week you’ve spent joined at the hip, are more than eager to have Jay’s arms around you.

“Hey, beautiful. How’s your day been?” he asks, pecking your lips.

“Good, Jay. How are you feeling?”

He was a nervous wreck this morning, pacing the length of your bedroom until the absolute last second he had to leave. Now though, he seems relaxed, like he’s left with only excitement for tonight. “Better now that you’re here,” he admits. It doesn’t sound like a line when he says it, but Sunoo mutters, Jesus fucking Christ, before he leaves.

You tease him too, rolling your eyes despite the smile on your face. Despite the fact you feel the same way.

Unfazed, he only smiles wider, holding your jaw and kissing you. He tastes like spearmint, like Jay. “Want me to show you around, baby?”

“Yes!” Riki says before you have the chance. “I’ve never been backstage before.”

Yizhuo has to grab him by the sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. “Not you, weirdo.”

“You don’t know that.” He yanks his arm from her hold, straightening his denim jacket over his shoulders and running a hand through his hair.

Jay takes you by the hand to give you a tour. Just you. Dressing room, catering, the wings. One small lounge for each of the members. There isn’t much inside: a vanity, a couch, a coffee table. His guitar and his bag. All the while, a nervous flicker turns your stomach, anxious like you’re the one about to perform in front of thousands of people.

In the privacy of his locked room, he holds you in his arms, looking down at you. His eyes trail your body, a sweet smile curving his lips. “Look amazing, baby. Always so pretty,” he says, tucking your hair behind your ears.

A different kind of nervousness sets in, classic giddy fluttering, mind racing and trying hard to think of the perfect thing to say at the perfect time. It’s reassuring, feeling like this again, warm and happy—bitten by the lovebug you’d long stopped believing in. No matter what happens tomorrow, when he leaves, at least you know that feeling can still exist for you. The thought is scary now, but most of those big truths always are in the abstract. Until they happen.

You smile up at him, desperate to live in this moment forever, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Thank you, Jay. So do you,” you say. “My handsome baby.”

Pink tints his cheeks, eyes wide for a split second. “You mean it?”

“Mhm. Love these glasses too, they make you look all serious, like a sexy professor or something," you joke, startled to find you mean it. “Tell me more about changing the subject of a formula, Mr. Park.”

“No way,” Jay mutters, his hips bucking towards yours. “Can’t do this with you right now, baby.”

“Can’t do what, Mr. Park?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Be good, YN. Please.”

“Yes, sir.”

And like you’ve scalded him, Jay steps away, biting his lip. With his eyes screwed shut, he grabs at the crotch of his pants, adjusting himself before sitting on the couch and patting the cushion next to him. Stepping out of your boots, you curl into his side, playing with his fingers. “You never told me what happened with the song you guys were working on,” you say, hoping not to pressure him after what you heard at the studio.

Luckily, your question seems to do the opposite, and his face lights up. “We finalised it this afternoon! You’ll hear it tonight, baby. I really hope you like it.” A knock on the door punctuates his answer, and he has to disappear for hair and makeup while you wait in the green room.

The boys aren't gone for long, but you don't get any time alone with Jay before he has to go on stage. No time to properly process how good he looks with his hair all spiked up. His freckles aren't covered at all, and his black long sleeve fits like a second skin, clinging to every curve and contour on his torso and arms. You can't help but touch him, feeling his sculpted chest and racing heart against your palms.

"You look..." There's no single word you could use to describe him right now, as he looks at you through matte black sunglasses. "I think you're going to have to surgically remove my mouth from you later," you say pressing a kiss to his soft lips, already picturing your evening plans. As if overhearing, excited as well, the crowd roars before starting to sing along to whatever Jungwon is playing through the speakers.

“Good, baby. That’s good to hear, I’m looking forward to it.” Jay’s grip on your waist is firm, holding you as close as possible, tickling the roof of your mouth with his tongue. A breath comes out of him, flustered, eager, happy, and he rests his forehead on yours. “Wish me luck?”

Giddy butterflies turn in your stomach, your smile impossible to contain. “Good luck, Mr. Park.”

“Mm,” he hums, kissing you again. “I have no plans to go easy on you later, darling.”

It’s Sunghoon who finally has to pry Jay’s grip away from your waist, a firm tug that does little to quell the burning heat on your cheeks and neck. His transformation takes a split second, going from Park Jongseong, the guy you’ve known and wanted all this time, to Jay Park from NAPE, golden under the amber spotlight and singing his heart out. If he wasn’t so good, you’d have more time to process how strange it all is, how clear it is that he comes alive on the stage. All of them do. Like they’re finally doing the exact thing they were put on earth to do.

Song after song, it becomes clear what they mean when they talk about themselves and the fans and the energy. How they meet in the middle, feeding off of each other. Watching it like this, backstage with your friends, it feels like you’ve been let in on something unthinkably special. That feeling sticks around for the length of the entire two hour set, amplifying.

The crowd boos when Jay announces that they’ve reached the end of the show. “But we have one last song for you tonight, something very new and very dear to me—” he says, grinning into his mic when they cheer again. “—I’ve been going through a bit of a funk, I guess,” he admits.

In the front row, you see very pretty women frowning, touched to hear about Jay’s hardships — no matter how vague — like they’re taking them on themselves. Somi squeezes your hand, pointing them out to you and mumbling that they’re so cute. You agree.

“But a couple weeks ago, something really special happened for me, and when I finally figured it all out, what it meant to me, I sat up all night working on this song. And the guys and I have been grinding to get it done, so it’s been a long time coming, and we hope you love it. This is Out Sick.”

All of the lights go dim, save for a stark spotlight that shines straight on Jay. The venue holds its breath, and he looks over his shoulder, craning his neck just a bit to find you. When his eyes meet yours, he gives you a smile, soft and warm, your Jongseong in that moment. Your smile is immediate, a second of calm in your pounding heart as he strums the first chord and turns back to the crowd.

You know this song already, its shape. As familiar as the back of your own hand. As Jay’s lips on yours or his hands under your skirt on the couch at Laughing Kitty. Your stomach plummets to the floor, eyes stinging with tears. Sunghoon comes in slowly on the drums, Heeseung and Jake’s guitars following to make it warm and round and full.

And then, Jay sings, “I don’t have to try to love you, it comes easy to me…”

His demo. Complete. And performed so beautifully. His voice is raw, vulnerable, as he bares his soul for everyone, for you, to hear. Heeseung’s harmonies are simple, sweet, a perfect anchor for the song. They’re amazing. They are actually amazing. All of them.

As the final note rings out, the lights go dim once again, and applause erupts backstage, your friends squealing and hugging each other while you wait. NAPE don’t take long to appear behind the curtain, all four of them a blur of black clothes and adrenaline. Jay doesn’t stop to speak with the crew or with the other guys, he comes straight for you. Short strands of his hair slick with sweat, his glasses fogging up as he pulls you into his arms.

“It was perfect, Jongseong. You were perfect.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel him smiling into the crook of your neck as his heart thuds against your chest.

Tearing Jay away from the tour kick-off party is easier than you expected. Largely in part due to the fact that he’s the one dragging you through the crowded flat to his bedroom. Music muffles through his door and as soon as the lock clicks shut, you sink to your knees at his feet and Jay gulps when you look up at him, a gentle look on his face, in his eyes, that makes your heart trip in your chest—that he could look so tenderly at you in this moment seems unreal. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, unsure who you're teasing more. You undo his zipper. The button.

He cups your cheek with his palm, clearing his throat. "Only if you want to, baby." His voice is soft, delicate as he traces your lips with the pad of his thumb.

You nod. You need to.

Jay's trousers give easily when you pull at them, falling to his ankles. His white underwear stretches over his erection, a dark patch where he leaks onto it. You can't even pretend to resist, tongue finding the spot immediately, and taking his tip between your lips, sucking on it through the wet fabric. Precum seeps into your mouth, the taste of it heady and familiar, leaving you hungry for more.

His hips buck forward, stuffing more of his clothed dick into your mouth, groaning. "My beautiful girl," he mutters, tucking your hair behind your ears. "Still so dirty and all for me, yeah?"

White-hot desperation buzzes along every inch of you. You can't wait any longer. Jay shivers when his leaking tip smacks his stomach, leaving a streak on his toned skin. Oh, my God. When you take him by the base, your hand only just wraps around him, thumb and index finger brushing. "Let me help you, YN." One of his hands covers yours easily, the other holding your head still. "Want my help, don't you, baby?"

All you can do is nod, watching Jay stroke himself—help you to stroke him.

"Say it. Use your words."

"Want you to help me—" Your mind blanks, that five letter word burning on the tip of your tongue. "Jay," you say instead.

His dick twitches in your fist as he brings his slit to your mouth, spreading hot, sticky precum like gloss over your lips. "Good girl," he whispers, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Always so good for me."

Molten need pools between your thighs. "Only for you," you admit, words muffled against his tip.

Jay's breath hitches, fingers curling in your hair, then, finally, he stuffs your mouth—starts to. At an agonising pace. Inch by torturous inch, he pulls you towards him. Watching with furrowed brows and holding his breath as the stretch starts to ache your jaw. Only when his tip brushes the back of your throat, making you gag, does he let out a breath, a ragged, whiny thing, torn from him. Hearing him like this, being the cause of it, never gets old. Never fails to flip your stomach.

Chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he throbs in your mouth when you stroke the part of him that won't fit. "Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby. Too good, need a — fuck — need a minute." He pulls out, looking down at you like he's confused, like he can't make sense of the thick string of spit and precum that attaches your lips to his tip.

Can't make sense of the way you kiss it anyway, lapping up the mess from his slit with your tongue. Every word that follows is a whined curse, his legs shaking as his grip on your hair lets up. Your name comes out of him, a stern mutter that makes you press your thighs together. Even so, you keep going, licking a strip from his tip to his base, thick hair tickling your face when you suck on his balls.

"Shit, YN," he mumbles, watching you with squinting eyes, shivering while you stroke him. "So good, baby."

Kissing your way back up to his tip, you take him in, letting your hollowed cheeks pull him further. He's twitching already, erratic on your tongue, low grunts and shallow breaths coming from him. This time when he says your name, it's gentle, sweet, as he rocks his hips to fuck into your mouth in shuddered strokes. Over and over, he moans for you, the sound of it lighting you up, spurring you on to take him deeper, quicker.

His stomach tenses, thighs shaking until he bucks hard against you, coming straight down your throat, hot and thick, without warning, making you cough. It leaks from the corners of your mouth, rolling down your chin, warm on your chest. Jay moans at the sight, licking his lips while you swallow what you can, still working your fist over him. Bracing against the door behind you, he lets out a cry of your name that drives you mad, loud and unbidden, as he trembles.

When he pulls out, his dick hits his legs with a loud squelch. Spit and cum drip off of him, wetting your thighs and making a mess.

You can hardly catch your breath or wipe your mouth before Jay's kneeling in front of you, pressing his lips to yours. Pressing your body to his. "My sweet, sweet baby," he mumbles, licking into your mouth. Teeth bump teeth. Tongues on tongues. "Way too good to me." He pulls you into his lap, cock wet under you. Something about the feeling of it like this, soft and pressed against your thong, twists your stomach.

Taking him in your fist, you thumb at his slit, and he whimpers. "Need it. You, Jay," you tell him, stroking desperately.

At this point, the wet smack of his mouth on yours can hardly be described as a kiss, but he keeps at it. "I'll give you what you want, I promise," Jay says, pushing your hand away and running his finger over your slit. "But I can't right now." He sounds truly apologetic, distraught and whiny as he presses on your clit.

Relief comes immediately, but it's not enough, when he slips his finger into you and fills you to the knuckle. Still, you chase pleasure, fucking yourself on his thick digit, humming at the stretch of another finger pressing in. "Yes, right now."

Against your mouth, Jay smiles. "Want you ready, yeah? Don't wanna hurt you," he coos, a third finger joining the rest.

"You won't," you whisper. "Please, Jongseong."

On this, he concedes. On not using a condom, however…not so much. Laying you down on the bed, he undresses you before pulling his own shirt off. Now that he's had a beat to collect himself — free from your eager hands — he's hard again, standing up taller than before. His tip not just flushed but angry red and leaking. At the very least, he lets you roll the condom onto him before joining you under the covers and hiking your leg up over his hip.

"You're gonna kill me," he mutters into your neck, pressing himself against you, right between your wet folds. So close yet so far. "Gonna die if you keep this up."

"If you're going to die anyway, you might as well take the condom off," you point out, rocking towards him. "For old time's sake, you know? Last night, two nights ago—the good old days." It was a lack of condoms that led you there, to Jay whispering sweet filth in your ear while he spilled into you.

"Very funny, YN." His breath fans your skin when he chuckles. There's no humour in it, but he throbs between your legs, rolls his hips back to match your rhythm. "Can't keep chancing it." You can hear his resolve fading, his lack of conviction.

"Don't you think I'd look pretty? All nice and full?"

His teeth sink into the crook of your neck, making you cry out. "Don't," he mumbles, soothing the bite mark with his tongue.

"Used to — fuck, Jay — talk about it all the time." You're panting more than you're talking, eyes fluttering shut as your sweat slicked skin slips over his. "Lost your shit when I'd call you da—" He cuts you off with his dick. Finally.

You moan in unison, eyes screwing shut as he thrusts into you, filling you up with one shaky stroke. There's no getting used to the size of Jay. Whether he's fucking you with it or sending a video, it shocks you every time. It's like he's trying to split you in half to make room for himself, thick heat spreading, unbearable, from between your legs out. He doesn't move yet.

"All good, baby? Feels good?" he pants, burying his face into your throat.

You nod into his pillow, gasping for breath, only managing to say, "Uh huh."

A low groan heats your neck when you claw at Jay's back and he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting right back in. "So good for me, YN. Fit so good, baby. Always fit so good." He fucks you with the same strokes each time, even when his breath turns ragged, pulling you closer and closer to the edge. Tip on the burning knot in your stomach, nudging it undone, one deep thrust after the other.

You bury your face in the pillow, biting down on it, as he brings you to your orgasm like this. Finger pressed to your clit, teeth nipping your neck, hips rutting frantically. He fucks you through it, wet and overwhelming, scorching heat tearing through you. The memory foam muffles your mewls and whiny babbles, and he groans when you tug his hair, muttering, oh, my God, over and over, until he finishes with a loud cry of your name, shuddering in and out of you.

Calming down is difficult, but Jay's hand stroking your hair is a comfort. Lips pressing sweet kisses to your jaw and muttering praise into your skin. Again, you find those three words on the tip of your tongue, eight letters eager to make their way out. They don't have a chance, thankfully, because he pulls out slowly, moving just enough to kiss your lips. His tongue brushes yours, wiping your I love you away, taking it for himself, and smiling against you like you actually said it. Like he's saying it back.

Sleepiness overwhelms you, eyelids heavy, lips lazy on Jay's. After you pee, he wipes you clean with a warm towel, kissing your knee while he does. Falling asleep is easy in his arms, with the steady rise and fall of his chest under your head, butterflies swirling in your stomach, and the knowledge that the terrifying and uncertain tomorrow is still hours away.

When you wake up, no music seeps into Jay’s room, no heavy footsteps in the hall. No doors slamming shut, no yelled conversations. The flat is completely still. Even the street outside is quiet through the open window, London’s morning running on silent. Soft cotton kisses your skin, detergent and sweat float around you. Sunlight streaks the wall, slipping through the gaps in the blinds. Jay’s fingers twirl the ends of your hair. His voice, low and gravelly from sleep, asks, “You sleep alright?”

Alright isn’t enough of a word for how well you slept. You’re not even sure if perfect would suffice, but you nod anyway. “Did you?”

“Mm.” He squeezes your shoulder, holding you closer. “Perfect, darling.”

I wish we could just stay here forever, you think. Saying it is another story. “Do you really have to go?” you ask instead, knowing he’ll have to leave soon to make his flight.

You hear the spread of Jay’s lips and see the curve, his perfect teeth, his smile lines and dimple, so perfectly clear behind your closed eyes. His hand is heavy on your arm, his fingertips warm and calloused, dragging senseless patterns into your skin. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he mumbles. “Promise.”

Resting your arms on his chest, you finally get a proper look at him. His hair sticks up in tiny spikes all over his head, pointing this way and that. A smile creeps over his lips, slight and sleepy, but warm all the same. How desperately you want this all to be something, to mean something. Now and when he gets back. The soft look in his eyes, the relaxed lull of his breath, chest rising and falling slowly under you, his hand on your back. How desperately you want this to be something more than simply blowing off steam before he goes on the road.

“What is it, baby? What are you thinking?” Jay asks, using his thumb to smooth out the crease over your brow. His touch is unthinkably gentle, but it ties your stomach in knots.

The words are right there, slipping from your mind and taking their juvenile shape on the tip of your tongue. What are we? It seems absurd to think that he could leave, even if only for a few months, without asking that question—but picturing yourself asking him is worse.

“It’s nothing.”

Jay’s lips curl downwards and the sight tugs at your heart. He kisses the palm of his hand and presses it to your forehead like a stamp, making you giggle, before his fingers find your hair, scratching your scalp. You could fall asleep again, your eyelids weighing more and more with each graze of his nails against your skin. He smiles, finally, he smiles when you lean into his touch.

“You could always come with me,” Jay suggests. “If you want.”

If you were even a little more secure about your place in his life, those three words — if you want — wouldn’t be so jarring. Wouldn’t turn your stomach or make you want to roll your eyes and ask, what the fuck kind of an answer is that?

“What do you want?” you ask instead.

“I want you to do what you want.”

You sigh, a deep breath torn out of you and into the silence.

“What do you want me to say? What am I getting wrong?”

Feeling bad, you shake your head. “Nothing, Jay. It’s nothing, I swear,” you try to assure him, but you can see his thoughts passing through his head. You can’t stand it. Can’t stand to think about whatever comes after this, after he leaves.

You lean up and kiss him to stall the inevitable, warmed by the low sound he makes, by the way he pulls you into his lap. Warmed by the feeling of him under you, hard already. His lips are slow against yours, tongue licking lazily into your mouth and sighing when you roll your hips over his.

“Tell me, baby,” he says, lips barely leaving yours. “Can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”

When you pull away, his eyes search yours, a million questions written all over his face. His cheek is soft beneath your palm, thumb stroking his skin, and it’s all you can do to hope this won’t be the last time. “Fix what, Jay?” Your voice comes out small, frightened. “What is this?”

Say it, you beg silently. Say you want me. Say that this is everything.

He bites his lips instead. Says nothing.

“Do you still want me?” you ask around the lump in your throat. “Properly?”

Jay’s brows knit together. “I feel like I should be asking you that. I don’t know how else to show you.”

“I can’t go with you, Jay.” Saying it feels final, like you’ve drawn a line under whatever the hell you two have been doing, and he will leave for his tour and come back and this will still be over.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Before you can help it, your face falls, lips curling downwards, and Jay wraps his fingers around your wrist to keep your hand on his cheek. He jumps to take it back, to fix it, but you’re not sure if he can.

“That’s not what…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. Can we just… Can we take a second?” His cheeks are flushed, skin rosy and warm under your hand, his eyes wide, pink lips pressed together. “I just need a minute,” he adds softly. “I’ll be right back, yeah, baby?”

You nod and Jay kisses you quick, gentle, before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. It doesn’t take long for you to make up your mind. To put your clothes on and stuff your bra into your bag, turning your phone off on your way out of the flat.

At home, you get straight into bed, pulling the duvet up to cover you completely.

Twenty-year-old you would be mortified if she could see you now: twenty-three, unemployed, and still worrying about the same problems you had three years ago, about the same guy. Surely by now, having known him all this time, known yourself, you should have seen this coming a mile away.

Sleep comes easily like this, moping under your covers like a kid.

By the time you wake up, it’s well into the afternoon and you turn on your phone to one new notification. A text from Aeri asking you to check if her parcel has come yet. Nothing from anyone else, from Jay. He and the rest of the guys are probably in the security queue, fumbling laptops out of bags and shoes off of feet. Chatty and excited and too busy to spare you a second thought, to send a text—which, maybe, given how you walked out, that’s what you deserve. You’re even now though, you and Jay. And it doesn’t feel good at all.

As if you’d willed it, wished it so much it came to be, your phone vibrates next to you on the mattress. Not a text, an email. It’s from Interview, with the subject line: Offer of Employment.

The smile that breaks over your face is instantaneous and aching, tears welling in your eyes as you read and reread the first line of the email. As you read and reread the whole thing, closing the app and opening it again, waiting for something to change, for a second email to come in saying there’s been a mistake. But no. The word congratulations stays right where it is. A job. An actual job that you get to start in a month when the office renovation is complete. It’s a weight off your chest, a blinding ray of light in the face of countless rejection emails.

When you open the phone app, Jongseong 😽, is right at the top, and it takes your thumb hovering over it to even realise what you’re doing. This week-long instinct, relearned and deep as marrow. I need to call Jay, I need to tell Jay, now your default thought. Again, your default thought.

The silence of the flat feels greater, bed bigger without him in it. As quickly as it came, your delight sours, curdling in the pit of your stomach. Everything you’ve been working towards, the fruit of your efforts finally reaped, and the one person you want to tell all about it, is the one person who’d care the least.

Locking your phone, you press the cool top of it to your forehead and take a deep breath. This is okay. You’re okay. You’re great! You have a job, finally, an actual named and recognised role. And it’s all yours.

Feeling lighter, if only a little, you get up to check the mail room, stuffing your feet back into your boots and pulling the front door open. Jay is there. Here. He looks like he’s run a marathon just to stand on your welcome mat, cap on backwards and his suitcase at his side. Sweat shines on his upper lip, his neck. His eyes are wide, brows raised like he’s surprised to find you here, at your flat, where you live. Nothing comes out when you open your mouth to speak, but your name comes from his in a whisper.

“I can’t go.” His voice cracks when he says it, making him smile. “I couldn’t, we got to the gate and I—I can’t leave if we’re like this. I love you, YN. I do. So much. I’m a coward, okay? I’m a coward and I’m awful at all of this, but I love you.” The words leave him in a rush, and he sighs after like he’s relieved, like the words have been weighing on him all this time. “I know how much I’ve hurt you, and I know I can’t make it up to you, but I’d like to try.”

Your heart races in your chest like it’s trying to burst out, thoughts scattered, too fast to latch onto, to process. You need to say something, you know that much. “I wanted to call you,” you utter, pointing at him as though maybe he doesn’t know to whom you’re referring. “I got the job at Interview.”

To this, he lets out a sound you’ve never heard him make. A half-laugh, half-sob as he takes your pointing hand in his, pulling you in. “Of course you did,” he says, the words a warm mumble against the top of your head. “Fuck, YN, that’s—that’s amazing. You’re amazing.” He holds you so tight you can feel the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest. The frantic pounding of your own heart. For a long moment, you bury your face in his chest, taking it all in. His scent, honey and detergent and sweat. The grounding feel of him, his arms around you, his palm stroking your back, mouth kissing your hair.

Reality, everything he’s just said sinks in, slow and heavy. Jay, here, with you, again. At last. And saying all the right things, saying almost everything you’ve been waiting years to hear. Meaning them. Too good be true surely, the job and now this, and all in a matter of minutes. You pull back, only enough to look at him with your palms flat on his shoulders, and wait. For the other shoe to drop. For Jay to glance at his watch and realise he can still make his flight if he leaves right this second. It doesn’t come. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder, his eyes are stuck on you. Only you.

“What are you—what do you want?”

“I want to be with you, and I want you to want that too. Still, again, whatever, just… you’re it for me,” Jay says decisively. “You’re always going to be it for me.”

Whether he knows it or not, he changes your life with those words. He changes everything. Quiets the years of chaos in your mind and finally, finally calms the storm.

“Yes, Jay. Whatever you’re saying or asking, my answer is yes, okay? I love you, Jay. I love you too, I love you still, all of it.” You tip your chin to kiss his smiling lips, and after all this time, your heart falls back into its natural rhythm.

Jongseong, Jongseong, Jongseong.

© zreamy (2026), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !

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[kongjjen]

GOODNIGHT MOON ─★ jeong jaehyun

SYNOPSIS: you've always found working in pairs easier than working by yourself, sharing success or demise with another person was easier than being a loner like most of your colleagues were. but, when your partner in crime dies, you realise just how dangerous the life you're living is, so you try to quit and disappear.

it's not easy leaving the criminal world behind, especially when you're a paid assassin who knows too much about the job and the dark secrets of powerful people. and that's why jaehyun is sent over to find you. and kill you.

PAIRING: paid assassin!jaehyun x paid assassin!reader

GENRE: hitman!au, e2? au, coworkers!au, angst, smut

FEATURING: aespa's ningning. mentions of nct members.

WORD COUNT: 36k

CONTAINS: survivor’s guilt, jaehyun is very competitive and doesn’t like losing. smoking, multiple physical altercations. minor characters' death, mention of gore, wounds, mention of multiple weapons. some characters are described with roles/categories/code names. world building. long descriptive scenes (im sorry), mentions of aggression, paranoia, anxiety and panic. emotional and physical distress. language, smut, oral (male receiving), masturbation, unprotected penetrative sex. miscommunication and misunderstandings. author's note at the end.

NOW PLAYING: goodnight moon by shivaree

SERIES MASTERLIST: HERE!

I. BEIJING 

You’re not sure how you managed to pack a bag and board a plane. You’re even less sure of how you managed to escape and leave the continent, and how you made it all the way to Beijing safe and sound. Beijing, that’s supposed to be your safe space right now, following Ning’s instructions in case something terrible happened and the two of you ended up being split from one another. 

And indeed, you did end up split up, but not by unexpected circumstances while on a mission, knowing you’ll meet each other again after following the plan B she so carefully planned out. You ended up being split by sudden death — hers, to be precise.

Remembering how it went down that day makes your chest heavy and your breath hitches in your throat, tears pricking your eyes. Ning was everything to you, the closest thing to a sister you could get. You trained together, you decided you should be partnered up rather than being on your own, and that meant her giving up being a scorpion just for you. As if she were sensing that something would be going wrong at some point, she made up this plan for a safe escape, yet you’re not sure how safe it is now and if your past decisions will be coming back to bite you. But you try to shake the thoughts away, at least for now, because you need to get to safety as soon as possible.

The streets are busy, and your legs and back are starting to hurt after the long hours spent travelling, not to mention the fact that you’re basically going on autopilot mode since you haven’t been able to close an eye and rest during the whole flight. In all honesty, you haven’t been able to sleep well in the last few weeks that led up to you quitting your job, and then trying to fly away undetected by your criminal boss and coworkers. Because you were sure he put a bounty on your head, or that he would in the future, anyway. No one has ever heard about anyone quitting the circle and living life like nothing happened, going on with life while planting pansies in the backyard and picking up Italian cuisine cooking lessons. It’s just not possible.

And, how were you supposed to sleep during your flight, knowing someone could be following you and could eventually kill you? You had to stay alert as much as possible, even if you thought no one sane would actually kill you on a plane, but you had to watch your back for any familiar faces around the plane or airport. 

You’re holding Ning’s handwritten instructions, now crumpled in your hands as you hold the piece of paper. You feel like your legs work on their own, and the sleepless days and nights are catching up to you, making you feel exhausted. 

Managing your sleep time and managing the lack of sleep were part of your training, and it was an important part of your job. Your hands needed to be steady on the firearm you used, your balance needed to be impeccable whenever you were on stag, and nobody could see you faltering while hiding or preparing for an attack. But right now, the lack of sleep is making your mind black out for a bit, as everything around you happens like scenes of a film, and as soon as the director yelled cut! you were back to reality. 

That’s how you gather your bearings as your feet halt suddenly, reaching a secluded part of the neighbourhood Ning wrote down on the paper. The tall buildings are obscuring the street ahead of you, and even if it’s close to noon, it feels like this street has never seen a ray of sunshine. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the lack of appetite that has you feeling weak right now, but a sense of paranoia is working itself up your spine, up to the back of your neck, where the hairs stand up in terror of being followed. You halt your steps, turning around to look for familiar faces, and you hope your brain cells are still working, because this is the time to recognise any suspicious faces that you might or might not know. 

Except you don’t see anyone, so you turn around and start your journey once again. Your muscles hurt, your body is crying to get some food and rest, and there’s still the pending feeling that something is wrong — that even if you didn’t see anyone behind you, something bad is bound to happen.

Following Ning’s plan should be easy, it should be easy to trust her and her judgement, you know she would never betray you, but you can’t seem to get rid of that feeling in your gut. What if someone from the circle found out about Ning’s plan, and they’ll be waiting for you at the destination? What if whoever’s waiting for you there has conspired behind your backs and is hand in hand with your boss so they can get the bounty? You try to shake these thoughts away. Ning would never betray you — you’re sure of this.

Ning’s instructions are clear. You need to take a few turns around maze-like shady alleys that have never seen a ray of sunshine in all their existence. It makes you anxious, nauseous with the unshakable feeling that this is nothing but a trap, that someone is coming to get you as soon as you reach the end of this labyrinth.

You’re sure that you would never be able to fight back if peril approached you, taking you by surprise. Your senses — that were so sharp just a few weeks ago — are now disoriented and all over the place. The years of training and working as an assassin are suddenly dust in your eyes because you’re too tired and famished to be in your right mind. 

Nothing makes sense right now, except for Ning’s instructions. You do as she says, you take the right turns, your heart falls to your stomach when a rat creeps out from behind some trash bags by a door, but you go on — tired, itchy eyes scanning the crumpled piece of paper.

You reach the door, green paint flaking off the heavy metal, showing the old blue paint underneath, and you wonder just how many painting jobs this door has gone through. You know who’s waiting for you on the other side of the door, yet you’re not sure if you’re too late. Perhaps your former boss already bribed them into giving your head on a silver platter — and right now, there’s nothing you can do. This is a risk you must take, and hopefully it will be for your own good.

You knock on the door, and once again you feel anxiety eating through your chest and stomach. You’d be at least a little bit more comfortable if you had any kind of weapon with you right now, but you couldn’t risk losing precious time around a city you’re not familiar with in order to find some alley gangs willing to sell you illegal weapons. 

And the lack of weapons might not have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that you are basically exhausted. Your physical training has always been harsh, preparing you for all sorts of encounters and unforeseen circumstances, but you know that right now your precarious state will not be of help.

You hear someone approaching the door, and they open the door slowly, its heaviness making the hinges squeak in a loud echo that reverberates on the long, dark alley’s filthy concrete walls.

A man looks at you, and he seems to recognise you immediately — as you notice by the look in his eyes. He’s worried, his eyebrows furrow, probably because he never expected you to be the one showing up at their doorstep. It takes him ten seconds before gesturing for you to walk inside, pushing the heavy door and locking it on the inside as you wait for him in the entry hallway. 

There’s a musty smell, maybe from all the humidity around you, or maybe it’s just the fact that this narrow entryway isn’t ventilated at all, but one thing is sure — you’d never wander around this place alone if it weren't for the very specific reason why you’re here now. You just hope you won’t be welcomed with a bullet right in the middle of your forehead as soon as you step into the next room.

The man turns around, barely throwing you a look, and makes a gesture with his head for you to follow him.

Your steps are small and slow. Anxiety is making your inside melt as you keep thinking of all the scenarios that could end up in the wrong way, with almost all of them ending with you in a blood puddle — except for only one, which ends with you greeted by Ning’s grandmother and how she’d be willing to help you, without your boss already having you and her traced down.

You follow the man, and you enter one of the rooms at the end of the corridor, exhaling with relief as soon as your eyes meet Grandma’s gaze.

She’s surprised, and the look in her eyes lets you know that she wasn’t expecting to see you being the one showing up for her help. With the well-curated escape plan Ning and her grandmother had conceived in case of an emergency, Grandma never expected her granddaughter’s partner in crime to be the one showing up at her doorstep. And you understand this, you understand that the tragedy that struck you both is not something that can be taken lightly. You, for one, are still grieving — so you can just imagine just how bad her grandma is feeling. You understand, because after all, if you were to put yourself in her shoes, you wouldn’t be elated to see how someone else survived your granddaughter.

“Y/n,” she speaks up, calling your name, and her gaze softens seeing just how pale, frightened, and mortified you are.

You let out a sob, and you fall to your knees in front of her approaching figure, with the palms of your hands falling flat on the linoleum floors. Your forehead touches the surface as you place it in the space left between your hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, not having the courage to look up, because crouching in front of a woman whose only grandchild has died is the only acceptable thing to do right now, at least that’s what you think. “I’m so sorry, Grandma,” you sob once again, and you hear a pair of feet stopping just by your head.

“Y/n, look at me,” she instructs, crouching down to pull you off the floor. In other circumstances, you would have bowed to her feet to greet her, your elder, but now you’re crouching out of mortification and shame. 

Ning should have been here right now, not you.

You look at her, and her facial expression is not giving away what’s going on inside of her. “Y/n,” she calls your name, grabbing you by each side of your face and squeezing your cheeks slightly, with her thumbs wiping your tears from under your eyes, “Is Yizhuo…” she trails off, not having it in herself to finish the sentence, yet she knows.

You nod, and your bottom lip starts quivering as your eyes finally look into hers. They’re hurt, they lose their sparkle as soon as you confirm her darkest fears have just turned into reality. 

“Everything will be fine,” she shushes you as soon as you start crying again, and you feel like the scum of the earth for being a crybaby in front of an old woman who just lost the most precious person she had in this whole world. “You’re safe now,” she hugs you, and her hands wrap around you a little tighter.

“Tell me all about Yizhuo,” she instructs as she manages to drag you towards a small table in the corner, “Tell me what happened!”

II. THE MOUNTAINS

The day the old man recruited you, he promised you he’d protect you if you accepted being taken under his wing. He promised you he’d take care of you and that you would never lack anything in life. All you had to do was train and become a part of his team.

At that time, the idea sounded amazing. You were young, fresh out of school. A young adult fighting to make her stance clear in the harsh lines of an already well-established society. Young meant impressionable, and the fact that you didn’t really have a family to be tied to made it seem like it was the best choice for you at that time. 

After just a bit over a decade in the industry, you realised you were manipulated into joining these circles, because the old man must have known your background and the fact that you were all by yourself, with nothing to lose — nothing except your life, of course. But again, you were young, you wanted to affirm yourself, and the man spoke to you so beautifully of the life awaiting you, that you couldn’t really think about anything else. 

So you accepted his offer, and next thing you knew, you were in a sturdy jeep, being driven through rocky mountain trails towards the camp where you were supposed to start your training. 

The camp was huge, with a seemingly abandoned hotel situated in the middle of trees. It made your skin crawl, and it wasn’t just the cold mountain air too harsh for you — who had never left the hot city — it was more than that.

There was an eerie vibe to the whole place, and you felt your stomach dropping when the thought of your life being in serious danger crept up on you. And then the two muscle-packed bodyguards who drove you up this mountain instructed you to follow them inside the building. 

If on the outside the hotel looked abandoned and unkept, the interior made your jaw drop to the floor. Style, luxury, everything was clean and surprisingly so welcoming — you didn’t expect the interior to be so different from the external façade, and yet you still felt out of place. You liked the idea of this whole life ahead of you, you liked the promises made to you, and you even liked the obligations that came with agreeing to all this — with putting your life on the line with each mission you were going to take on. But the luxury and the dystopian difference between what welcomed you outside, and the warmth of the inside, made you stop in your tracks a few times as you were escorted to your room.

The old man explained the rules to you, right before you climbed into the jeep that was to take you away to the mountains.

You were going to be training in the mountains for as long as needed. Physical and psychological training sessions were to be taken daily, with a very precise schedule you had to follow to a T. 

“You’ll be trained by our experts,” the old man explained to you, “There’s a tough training period you have to follow in order to join the circle, and it’s best if you master the art of all disciplines before the others make an appearance.”

“The others?” You asked, eyebrows furrowing while looking at your new boss. 

“The training camp isn’t reserved just for newbies like yourself,” he smiled at you, “The other members of the clan can join the camp anytime they want, in order to train,” he went on explaining, and you were sure the sickening glint in his eyes was due to a twisted pleasure he had with having everything so planned and disciplined. You knew he was obsessed with always having everything under control, and you couldn’t really blame him — not after knowing that he invented this system and the amount of money he was juggling between clients, his assassin agents, and his own pockets.

“You’ll have a code name, but that will only be after our experts assess you and see what you’re best at. You can say your real name to the others in the circle, but you’ll learn that your code name will be used most of the time, especially by me when I’ll assign your missions,” he nodded to himself, lost in thought like he was pondering saying what was on his mind or just skipping it. 

“Listen, Y/n,” he started, clicking his tongue, “You’ll learn that the ones inside this circle might not always be your friends, but they’re your coworkers and you are a team. You’ll always have to trust each other, no matter the grounds.” 

“How long do I have to train before getting a code name?” Your voice was small, but you didn’t stutter. Your head was throbbing with all the information you had received, and you felt an incoming headache making your temples tighten.

“Depends on you, kiddo,” he laughed, bringing a glass to his lips, “Training periods last for as long as needed, depending on your skills.”

Your training sessions were ruthless. Waking up early, you had to go through your first physical training sessions of the day on an empty stomach. After breakfast, meditation followed, with more physical training following suit — not to mention the almost nonexistent breaks, with the first week tuckering you out, almost on the brink of passing out.

You weren’t used to this type of training. The intensity of your days made you nauseous, with little appetite, and sometimes just bringing a spoonful of soup to your lips made your muscles hurt. You would have gladly given up your food if you were allowed to do so, but with the strict eyes of the masters? There was actually no chance you could do that. Not when their eyes followed your every movement like vultures, waiting for you to make a mistake so they could discipline you or just make you climb that damned mountain up to the top, as a punishment for not being obedient. 

You had always been a good fighter — you kicked and punched like you were born to do so, yet one of the masters thought it wasn’t your strongest point. Then they made you train with knives, swords, katanas, and while you perfected the art of throwing a knife right in the dummy’s heart and forehead — right in between the eyes — they thought you still didn’t find your perfect skill. 

With your force and lightweight movements, and with the perfect aim, they said you still couldn’t fit into one precise category.

“You’ll have to practice on these before completing the training,” the Head Master explained as you were trying to keep your balance on a log, jumping up and down and trying not to fall into the puddle of mud. “If you fall, you aren’t allowed to shower!” He screamed your way.

Saying that you were exhausted was an understatement. Your calves were burning, and your thighs were trembling every single time he made you keep your balance while standing on your tiptoes on that log. 

You knew you had to be perfect in all fields, and even if knives or physical force weren’t your strongest points, you still had to master them. But you also knew that once they found your real talent, that was going to be your category — and then they made the inspired choice to make you work with firearms. Although you did the basic training up until that day, they hadn’t made you focus on that discipline until they realised there’s more to you than kicking stuff and throwing knives.

And that way, you actually found your category. With your perfect aim and quick instincts of a cat, they made you shoot all sorts of firearms, trying to make the perfect sniper out of you.

It was one month into your training period when you came back to the hotel a bit earlier than anticipated. You had spent the entire morning training with a long-range rifle on one of the cliffs, shooting birds and everything moving in your sight — including the propelled props your coaches shot up in the sky with the help of a cannon, for you to take down, — but thankfully you got dismissed earlier.

Walking past the entrance of the lobby, your steps came to a halt when you noticed a small silhouette wandering around, walking towards one of the conference rooms.

“Hey,” you spoke up before you could stop yourself, “Can I help you?” You call after the silhouette, and the person flinched after hearing your voice, but turned around nonetheless.

“Hi,” she waved your way, small steps approaching you as you stayed unmoving in your spot, drinking from your bottle of water. “I’m here to train,” she told you, but it came out more as a question. “Was told not to share my name just yet, and I don’t have a codename, so I don’t know how to introduce myself,” she mumbled, placing her hands behind her back. 

You took a good look at her. She was beautiful. Very long, straight and black hair fell perfectly around her shoulders and figure, and her eyes sparkled, although shy. You were wearing your training gear, and she was sporting some of the most beautiful clothes you had ever seen at that time. 

The more you looked at her, the more she seemed even more beautiful. Her shyness was adorable, maybe because she was taken by surprise by you full-on interrogating her, but you were genuinely curious who she was since no one had mentioned her up until that point. 

“I don’t have a code name either, at least for now, but it’s just the two of us here right now,” you explained, trying to sound friendly. After being alone on this mountain, it suddenly became hard to talk to other people. “Sorry for earlier, didn’t mean to sound rude,” you apologised, playing with your bottle of water, “After being secluded on this mountain with the monks for one month, I was surprised to see someone new.”

She let out a bark of laughter, showing you a row of pearly white teeth, “The monks?” 

You laughed right back, but you waved your hands around, asking for her to let you explain, “The masters. I call them monks because it feels like they are, to be honest. And I’m not allowed to talk to them unless given permission or otherwise they’ll make me climb this mountain,” you explained like that was the most normal thing to have ever happened to you, and the girl in front of you seemed shocked after hearing your words.

“They give us punishments?” She asked in horror, eyebrows arching worriedly. 

You gave her a nod, but tried giving her a reassuring smile, “They do, in all sorts of ways, so look out for that!” 

And you tried to reassure your new companion the best you could, walking her around the whole place to let her know your favourite spots, giving her important advice that you would have appreciated if someone welcomed you here when you arrived, the way she found you in the lobby. 

And she seemed appreciative of all your help and insights. After that day, seeing each other was hard because it was already your second month there, you already fit into one category, and the new girl was just at the beginning of her journey. While your training sessions gradually started being shorter, with you having more free time to yourself or for training on your own, practising whichever skills you wanted, the girl left at dusk and came back late into the night, just like you used to. 

At some point, you started having your meals down in the lobby, hoping you were going to have her in your sight at least once. Because after spending so much time alone with no one to talk to, knowing there was another person around made your soles tingle, wanting to go out in the woods and look for the spot she was training in. 

Hectic schedules meant that while you were slashing dummies in some part of the woods, you could hear gunshot sounds reverberate around you in the woods — yet with it being your second month of training there, you weren’t allowed to flinch, no matter how surprised you could have been.

“It’s all about your self-control, Y/n,” one of the coaches told you one day, sharp gaze cutting through your flesh as he looked at even the slightest of movements coming from you, keeping an eye even on your breathing. “When you’re focusing on your task, there should be nothing disturbing you from doing what you’re set to do. One small movement and you’re ruining it all. One slash of a katana triggered by a thunder outside can kill the wrong person, or even make you fail your mission, your purpose.” 

And for this exact reason, during your third month there, they made you train in the rain. Heavy rain might have felt like it was making holes through your flesh with how hard it was pouring down and how cold it was, but you learned to overlook it. At some point it became second nature; the cold and temporary stinging on your bare shoulders and arms became normal, like it was something that was absolutely normal to happen to you, something absolutely normal for you to feel.

After training and meditating in the rain, strong sounds didn’t make you recoil anymore. But you still weren’t sure where you were standing with your progress, because they never told you. Even if your training sessions were shorter than what they used to be, they never praised you, they never let on where you stood. 

And not knowing what kind of progress you had made also meant not knowing how long you still had to train before they decided you were ready, or what your next training sessions would have looked like.

And when you saw the other girl again after what felt like years, she was waiting for you with one of the coaches standing behind her.

“This is our first time having two people training at the same time,” the master walking behind you — master Shi Lai spoke up, walking right up to the other master standing behind the girl, “It’s time we saw just how good you two are.”

“What?” You spoke up, totally ignoring the fact that you knew you weren’t supposed to question their judgement. It was the rules. 

“You have to fight each other,” the other master — master Mu Yang spoke up, taking a few steps back in order to make more space for you. “No weapons, just you two fighting each other,”

But you didn’t want to fight the other girl. Yes, no weapons were to be involved, but it still meant one of you could get badly hurt, potentially both of you, and that meant a lot of problems.

One being the way masters weren’t going to cut you some slack if you were to be hurt. And not fighting against your opponent meant you were going to hike up some wild trail while carrying a sack of rice on your back, up to the top.

You let out a sigh, placing your hands on your hips right before you took small steps, trailing in a circle —  making the girl move as well. It was clear as day that neither of you wanted to fight against each other, but had to do it nonetheless.

You trailed off, simply waiting. You weren’t going to attack first, and you knew she was probably going to throw a first punch soon, going for your head. Your breathing was steady, and you only hoped that this girl wasn’t a real-life fighting machine, because it wasn’t unknown that you were street smart and that you knew how to fight, but the level of training for people who fell into the fighting category? Absolutely insane. And you could never compete with that.

So you waited, as your masters instructed you during your first days of training, your senses focusing on the girl in front of you. And just like you expected, she attacked first. 

One of her arms moved methodically and with straight precision towards your head, and maybe anticipating her move actually helped you, because you blocked her swing with your forearm, successfully grabbing her arm with both hands and flipping her to the ground with a loud thud. 

You looked at master Shi Lai, and right before you could open your mouth to talk, the girl was up onto her feet, once again being the one starting the attack. You parried her incoming kicks, but she was surprisingly way too quick with her jumps, too eager to take you down, and that only meant she was going to feel tired soon. 

Surprisingly, she managed to dodge all your kicks, but you felt her getting tired from all the dodging and uncoiling she did while jumping around, and you took it as a sign to stop tiptoeing around her — and your leg lurched towards her, your foot kicking her right in the middle of her chest, propelling her to the ground.

The fight was short, but it was enough for you who didn’t want to be in that position from the very beginning. The girl didn’t move from her spot, but instead brought a hand to her chest, and you imagined her having difficulty breathing after hearing her panting.

You looked at master Shi Lai, and he nodded your way, “Bring her inside,”

And you followed the instructions, helping the girl up and pulling her figure towards your own. You rotated a bit, offering her your back for a piggy ride, which she accepted without batting an eye — sore chest probably still causing her problems. 

You’ve been kicked in the chest before, by the Head Master during a physical training, when you were just too ambitious and wanted to show the master just how good you were at fighting after picking it up on the streets. And that time, no one was there to pick you up and carry you back inside on their backs.

If someone made you carry another person on your back just three months ago, you think you would have ended up with a broken back. But in that moment, you were carrying another person down a mountain trail — but then again, you got used to carrying rice sacks on your backs, so the girl weighed absolutely nothing compared to that.

You took her up to your room, not knowing in which wing her own room was situated, and you actually wanted to keep an eye on her.

You placed her on your bed, and she winced in pain, sucking air through your teeth. The fight was short, but you definitely caused her some damage by taking her down twice.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” You sat next to her, touching her shoulder, careful not to make her feel any more pain. You placed a pack of ice inside one of your old t-shirts, tying it around the cold item and placing it on her sternum, right where you kicked her, “This should be of help,”

“Thank you,” she rasped, grabbing the ice pack on her chest and raising her head off the pillow. “They told me I was a shit fighter and they brought you in to fuck me up,” she giggled, and she closed her eyes, embarrassed, “I’m Yizhuo, by the way,” She opened her eyes to look at you, and your breath hitched in your throat hearing her opening up to you, “But you can call me Ning,”

You threw her a look. Still in pain from the brief fight you had outside, you were glad that she was comfortable opening up to you. 

“Y/n,” you gave her a small smile, and she grinned your way.

“We weren’t supposed to share our names until we get code names,” she spoke up, but her grin never subsided, “But you just beat the shit out of me, so I think we’re good,”

And after that day, you and Ning became inseparable during your free time at the training camp. With you training individually, you went on hikes or trained together during your free time. But you also spent nights talking and just getting to know each other.

“What made you come here?” She rolled on her belly to look at you. You were sleeping in her room that night, after spending the whole evening training underwater in one of the indoor pools downstairs. 

You looked at her ceiling, playing with your fingers that were resting on your belly, “I was alone out there,” you shrugged, moving your head to look at her. “I had no one and got into trouble more than I’d like to admit,” you laughed remembering all the times you ran away from city gangs, “That’s how the old man recruited me. I was fighting two men in the back of an alley and he waited for me to knock their lights off before he approached me,” you smiled, but your gaze was lost, looking somewhere behind Ning. 

“I got recruited after I harmed my aggressor,” Your breath hitched in your throat as you heard her words, and you once again moved your head to look at her. Still on her belly, biting on her thumb like she had just been caught red handed, she looked at you like she was expecting you to jump off the bed after hearing just how calm she had been saying those words. 

“Harmed?” You inquired, calmly. 

She smiled at you, “Don’t look at me like that’s the most concerning thing you’ve ever heard!” She defended, “You’re acting like we’re not here actively training to become assassins,” 

“Did he deserve it?” You asked, getting on your side to have a better look at her.

“Yes,” her reply was curt, without a shadow of a doubt, “He was my stalker,” She went on, gaze lost in space as she kept biting on her thumb. “He followed me to a nightclub and when I was leaving, he grabbed me in a back alley. I knew he was after me so I had a knife on me, and I actually sliced his cheek when he least expected it.” 

She waited for you to hum before continuing, “And when he tried getting away, I threw my knife after him. It pierced his back, puncturing his lung,” She looked at you, trying to sense if you were judging her for hurting someone.

“He definitely deserved it,” you mumbled, and Ning got on her side, imitating your position on her bed. 

“I like training with you,” she mumbled, head resting on her arm and looking at you, “Wish we could be a duo forever,”

And at that time, given how close the two of you had become, the idea didn’t seem to be that bad. 

That was, until the old man dropped by one morning, calling you into his designated office. You were actually happy to see a familiar face dropping by, already sick of seeing the masters all day, every day. 

He looked at you as you walked towards one of the loveseats in the office, seating facing towards where he was sitting. 

“You look good, heard you’re a warrior around here,” He stood to his feet, making his way towards one of the cabinets, fishing for two coasters and two glasses, “I know you haven’t had a drink in months,” he pours you some of the liquor, pouring himself some as well, “Drink up, you deserve it,” he prompted you, taking a sip of his own glass.

“Thank you, sir,” you thanked him, but you grew so accustomed to the lifestyle the training program forced upon you, that you weren’t really in the mood for alcohol, and the liquor burned your tongue as soon as you took a sip of it.

“I’m very pleased to tell you that you’re finally ready to join Death’s Kiss Assassination Squad. You’ll be a part of the Vipers squad,” he smiled at you, and he seemed proud of everything that left his mouth up to that moment. 

“Vipers?” You asked, placing your glass on the coaster resting on the small glass coffee table. 

“Yes! Vipers, also known as Snipers!” He clicked his tongue, moving his head excitedly, “You were born to play with firearms, kiddo,” he joked, clapping his hands together, “At first I thought you’d be a great Bouncer. But you’re so full of surprises, I’m so happy you’re a successful addition to our squad!”

“Thank you, sir,” you repeated, not knowing what else to say — or to put it better, you didn’t know how to bring up what you and Ning had been talking about. “Actually, sir…” You trailed off, hesitation making you bite your bottom lip.

“What is it, kiddo? You don’t like your category? It’s all about skills, and while you’re good at everything else as well, firearms are your art-” but he was interrupted by your waving hands.

“It’s not that, sir!” You tried making yourself understood, “I’m very happy with being a viper,” You reassure him, because while he might have seemed like a ray of sunshine while talking to you, you were also very aware of the fact that he was leading one of the best, most profitable organisations in the entire world. 

“What is it, then? Speak up, Y/n,” He placed his glass on the coaster, and you were not sure how to test his mood, because you hadn’t seen that man’s worst side up to that point. 

“Would working as part of a duo work?” And even if you wanted to add more to your question, the look on his face stopped you from doing so.

He sighed, leaning back into his seat, “You talked to Ning?” And he only waited for your nod before he spoke up again, “Duos are hard work, hard to manage, Y/n,” he drank up all the remaining liquor in his glass before standing up to his feet. 

And he called Ning into the office anyway. Seated at his desk, his gaze bounced from you to Ning so many times, but neither of you had the courage to speak up.

“You two realise you have completely different aptitudes. You’re a Viper,” he pointed his head at you, “And you’re most likely to become a Scorpion, given your knife skills,” he looked at Ning, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to remain as calm as possible, “You have to be the same category, one of you has to give up on her skills and start from the beginning,”

“I can do that,” Ning spoke up before you could, “My shooting skills aren’t that great right now, anyway, and that can change,” 

You actually wanted to be the one to change categories. Not because you didn’t like how being a viper sounded, but because it would have been easier for you to spend a little more time in order to perfect your knife skills, than having Ning spend a long time training to get on the same level as you.

“Ning,” the old man’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, “Are you aware that Y/n is ready to join the squad, so that means you’ll need to work hard and get to her level fast?” And when he saw Ning nodding, he turned to look at you, “You’ll work on your own until she’s ready,”

You and Ning exchanged looks, barely able to contain your grins.The old man let out a huff of breath, but regained his initial good mood  in mere seconds, “In this case, welcome to the squad, Copperhead and Cottonmouth!”

III. BEIJING TO OKINAWA

After recalling the accident of how you lost one of the most important people in your life, and after telling Ning’s grandma about everything that had happened that day, she decided she would take you under her wing for a bit. Because after all, Ning’s plan involved her and she was well aware of it, wanting to help you out.

You remained secluded inside her building for three weeks before she allowed you to step out and have your face kissed by the warm air and the sun. And it wasn’t like she was reluctant to let you out, but she explained all the next steps the plan entailed. 

You were never going to allow her to act recklessly just to help you. You were never going to allow her to expose herself to the dangers of covering up the trails of a very experienced paid assassin on the run. You trusted her judgement, but you were never going to accept her risking her life just to save yours, because life was unfair to you, to Grandma Ning, and especially to Yizhuo. 

Grandma Ning fed you, kept you updated about possible suspicious behaviour around the area, and she catered to your needs, although you kept your worries to yourself. There was no need for you to burden her with all your fears and worries, but you also knew that you couldn’t overstay your welcome. 

Yes, she was part of the plan — the first person to go to in case of emergency — and yes, she was there to keep you safe for a while, but you couldn’t put her in any danger. 

And remaining in Beijing seemed too good to be true, anyway. Like all fantasies, there had to be something happening for you to come back to reality. You were on the run, you needed to hide and run towards the edge of the earth, and you couldn’t afford to get caught. 

And like a macabre reminder that you weren’t safe and needed to either embrace your demise or just run off to a hopefully safer place for you to survive in, it glinted in the sun. A coin, a simple coin glinted as sunshine grazed it, and it caught your attention while you were finally out enjoying a little bit of freedom after so many weeks of just being secluded inside a building, scared, and uncertain.

Holding your hat down on your forehead as you crouch down to pick it up, you almost drop the coin when you inspect the country of origin. It’s a coin from back home, that would never be used in Beijing for absolutely any reason — new, shiny and polished — it was dropped, or actually placed by someone right at the alley’s exit. A perfect spot for methodically placing a hint, knowing that its perfect state would get the very well-trained eye of an assassin, especially if light hit it from any angle. 

This isn’t a sick coincidence. This doesn’t have anything to do with chances and fortune. This was meant for your eyes to catch, and they did. 

You keep the coin in the palm of your hand, squeezing it like you’re afraid it might disintegrate the more you keep thinking about it. 

So you make your way all the way to the end of the alley, checking behind you with every quick step you take — trying to see if you are being followed, trying to see if there’s any pair of eyes that even remotely resemble those of someone you know, someone from your squad back home. 

Your steps come to a halt when you reach the large, green door, and you watch behind you one last time before pushing it open, quickly getting inside the building and locking the door after yourself. At first you thought that leaving the house today was a mistake and, while you were not entirely wrong, you were never going to pick up on the hint that they finally managed to find you if it weren’t for your little impromptu stroll. And who knows, maybe staying in would have meant both you and Grandma were going to be ambushed with neither of you suspecting anything.

“Grandma!” You pant, calling for her as you run through the narrow corridors of the building, “Where are you?” A lump forms in your throat at the idea that while you were busy wasting precious time with that coin outside, grandma had already fallen victim to whoever’s after you. And not knowing who it is, it’s killing you on the inside.

“What’s wrong?” She asks the moment you enter her meditation room, the final spot inside the whole building you were hoping to find her in, alive. She directly asked you what was wrong, because she already knew something had happened.

“They found me,” If someone told you just half a year ago that you were going to have a full panic attack at the thought of being met by one of your coworkers, you would have let a bark of laughter escape you, that’s for sure. And it is actually insane to you how barely only a bit over one month had passed, and you already couldn’t recognise yourself.

You used to be someone ready to fight, ready to face whatever danger was awaiting you because, after all, you were prepared for any kind of peril.

“You and I both know there are no coincidences when there’s a bounty on your head,” Grandma retorts, reminding you that you can’t let yourself be fooled by the delusion that this could be all in your head. 

“Remember what we talked about? The Okinawa plan?” She asked you, and you hummed in response, too busy looking for the bag full of essentials that you were to carry around with you. “I believe in you, Y/n, you only need to reach Naha safely,”

You nod, and for some reason your eyes are welling up with tears.

IV. DEATHSTALKER

There’s a sense of heaviness in your chest as you lie unmoving on the old bed of your hotel room, your ears ring, and your mind runs lapses trying to hear anything suspicious coming from the hallway or the floors above. Anything that you can take as a sign to leave this city as soon as possible.

The anxiety you’ve developed since leaving the circle weakens your abilities and senses a bit, and you were one of the best on the field. Able to control your pulse and breathing, you never experienced having an annoying and constant ringing in your ears as you try to decipher silence. You never had to lie down on a bed in order to allow the ringing to subside and your pulse to calm down. And you’ve never experienced such strong paranoia, not even when they were training you in the mountains to get an elite assassin out of you.

And how could you not be paranoid, after they made you leave three countries already? You’ve seen them all, the signs. The hints thrown at you that they’ve found you, but the worst thing of all is not knowing who exactly is after you. 

Who is it that your former boss sent after you? It’s important, because it’s over for you if they sent a knife expert — or worse, a butcher. Ning trained you intensely during your free time in order to perfect your skills so you could be on her level, and you know what scorpions and butchers are capable of. Ning gave up being a scorpion, being the best at using knives out of the entire team, just for you. To be able to be a viper with you. 

You hear heavy footsteps thumping on the carpeted hallway outside, but you don’t pay too much mind to that. Someone from your field would never make that much noise. You could probably expect to have a gun to your temple even right now while lying in bed, whilst you try waiting for another sign, they could enter your room and you wouldn’t even know it. 

You’re once again in your own head, thinking about Ning and how it ended for her, the signs you’ve noticed in the past two months that you were being followed and that they found you, yet they let you live a little longer before they make you disappear off the surface of the earth. And then you hear it, the imperceptible click of your door’s lock, gradually and carefully being picked.

You jump off the bed, trying to be as light as possible, leaping towards the massive bookshelf fixed on the wall on the left side of your bed, where you carefully planted a loaded gun in case you heard any type of suspicious movement outside your door and windows. You crouch down on top of the bookshelf, holding your gun with steady hands as you wait for your assassin to enter your room. 

In the pitch black room, with only the moonlight seeping through the open curtains, you don’t hear any footsteps or rustling of clothes, but you spot a man’s silhouette stepping carefully around the bed. A car parks outside your window, and the headlights briefly land on the man’s features, making you freeze. 

Deathstalker? They sent a damn scorpion after you.

Even with the moonlight as your only source of light, it is enough for you to make out his movements, and it’s like your senses are once again as sharp as they used to be, because you can see everything perfectly. Like having night vision. 

He reaches for the spot on your bed, the spot you were lying on, and touches it, checking its warmth to understand how long you’ve stayed there.

You feel a numbing pain in your foot sole due to the stupid position you’re crouched down in, and you try moving half an inch to the right in order to be a tiny bit more comfortable until he decides to act — and you'll need to be ready — but your heart drops to your stomach when your ankle pops from the small movement. 

Fuck, shit, motherfucking-fuck-shit.

And you see him stopping his hand on the bedspread, keeping himself unmoving in the same position, and you hear him giggle.

“Oh, baby, baby,” he laughs lightly, straightening his back slowly to turn around and look at you, all perched on the bookshelf with your head nearly touching the ceiling “Seems like the lost months of physical training really got to your ankle, huh?” He lets his usual deep laugh fill the room, mocking you.

“Shut up, Jaehyun,” you retort through gritted teeth, “Don’t call me baby when I have a loaded gun pointed to your head,” you threaten him, but he only smiles back. 

“Why are you here?” You ask, trying to buy some more time. Especially because you don’t see him holding not even one of his knives, and you don't like unpredictability. But again, he could have some shuriken up his sleeve. 

“I think you know why I’m here, Y/n,” he answers with a sombre tone.

Of course you know why he’s here. “I’ve been waiting for you,” you mumble.

He chuckles, “You’re so thoughtful, baby,” he ignores your threat about using the nickname, and he doesn’t even try to move an inch to the side. He knows that an unexpected movement might cost him his life. “You say you’ve been waiting for me, but you ran away from me,” he tsks, shaking his head in mockery.

“Oh, my fucking bad! Should have baked you a cake and got you some flowers waiting for you to kill me,” You bark back at him, gun still aimed at his head. 

You guess your reflexes really are back even after the months of reckless living, with no healthy food, no proper training, no meditation. Especially no meditation, because how could you even think of focusing on that when your mind was so full of paranoia and anxiety. 

“Who said I’m here to kill you?” He laughs, and those damned dimples make an appearance. Your gaze falls on them, on his sculpted cheekbones, then back on his dimples, finally travelling down to the jaw. 

He’s relaxed, he looks like he’s on fucking vacation, taking his sweet time inflicting even more anxiety on you. He looks around the room, looking around the walls — or at least trying to look around, because there’s not much one can see with only the moonlight seeping through the curtains. 

But you see him just fine, and he sees you perfectly as well, and you guess it’s all because of your profession — trained to see and sense the target even in pitch dark places.

And thanks to this quality of yours, you see him moving fast, and you anticipate his actions, knowing that he’s doing all this in order to get the knife he has up one of his sleeves out, in order to launch it towards you.

But he seems to forget you trained to be almost as good as he is — because truth be told, not even Ning could ever come close to Jaehyun’s knife skills, — and maybe you also forgot you still had the self preservation instinct and adrenaline going hand in hand with all your training that you still hadn’t forgotten, even if you initially thought had become rusty. Turns out you’re doing just fine. 

You jump off the bookcase, hoping he won’t launch another weapon your way, and you shoot at him as soon as you land on the carpeted floors of your motel room, the suppressor making the shooting noise a bit more bearable to the ears. 

But you know it can still be heard, and people panic even if they hear a thud, a snapping or cracking sound coming from outside their window. So you stand back on your feet, lurching towards the door and escaping as fast as you can, not losing any time with checking if Jaehyun is harmed, or dead.

“Shit!” You hear him curse, and you run faster towards the small green space beside the motel and parking lot. He’s alive and breathing, yet you’re not sure if he’s harmed or not, but you’re sure the shock of actually being shot at by you will buy you some time before he comes out to look for you.

Your steps are light as you almost trot your way on top of the dead foliage covering the ground — the green space in which you buried an emergency bag a few days ago, preparing for a moment like this one right now. Groping in the dark for the few bushes you used as cover for one small shovel, you find it and start digging fast in order to get your belongings. 

The ground is moist but easy to dig in, and you snatch your emergency bag up from the ground, rummaging inside it for new clothes and anything you could use not to be easily recognised by Jaehyun. Changing clothes, wearing a relatively well made wig that wouldn’t give away the fact that it is made of synthetic hair, especially in the middle of the poorly lit parking lot.

Parking lot, which you have a clear and amazing view of. 

You spot Jaehyun marching out of your room, looking around himself for bystanders who might have heard the gun going off, and who might even be looking for you. You see him throwing a look towards the green space with trees — where you’re hiding, but his whole plan has been too faulty for him to risk it by staying and looking for you.

And he walks away with fast steps, jumping in his car and reversing it in the middle of the parking lot. You think you have an idea of what route he’s going to take, because there aren’t many possibilities at the moment. He’s either going south or north, and it all feels like you’re gambling — the right choice would allow you to chase, find, and kill him, and the other one would leave you still as the one being chased. 

So you pick a second car key you kept in your emergency bag, and move towards your car as discreetly as possible. 

You jump inside your car, starting it almost immediately so you don’t lose precious time that might make you lose Jaehyun’s tracks, and you speed after him after spotting his sturdy jeep racing on the highway.

You never expected Jaehyun to be the one sent out to come after you, for you to find your demise by his hand. Your history has always been complicated, from that one time when things ruined your chances to ever be in each other’s proximity without throwing daggers at each other, up to the last few months, especially today, when he actually decided to stop hunting you down and messing with your head — when he actually attempted to finally complete his mission.

But there’s so much more about Jaehyun that needs to be thought about, and you reckon this is not the time. Being in your own head thinking of the last decade as you’ve known him won’t be of any help, especially now that you’re in the right mind to actually behave and do what you learnt to perfection. To kill.

You see Jaehyun taking the next exit and you follow, although you hit the brakes so as to not catch up to him and be caught. Turns out Jaehyun was actually hiding himself about thirty miles away from the motel you chose to take refuge in, and you’re surprised he actually decided to stay so far away instead of just getting a room at the same motel. And yet you know the reason why he did it — so as to not mess up his chances and be seen following you, or worse, being seen by you. Because after all, you knew someone was after you, you just weren’t sure of who it was exactly. 

You park your car by the front gates of his hotel, fancier and in better condition than the motel that sheltered you, and his grandeur makes you scoff. Talk about doing your job and living in barracks if it’s required for the success of your mission, it isn’t a rule for Jaehyun and it has never truly been. 

He can do his tasks very nicely from a nice hotel, not to mention the most luxurious ones he usually resides in — he goes out in the morning wearing nice clothes, seemingly ready to take over recreational golf tournaments for the whole day, but leaves the resort for the entire day and only returns after he’s succeeded in his mission. No crease on his white polo t-shirt, not a drop of blood on his trainers, not a drop of sweat having gone dry on the collar of his polo or on his spine. He’s an unbothered, perfect executioner who does his work like his mother pushed him out and he already had knives in each hand. 

But you’re not afraid of him. Maybe because of your history together as the main reason, you were more threatened by the thought of being chased by Perentic — Kim Jungwoo, bouncer — and actually being beaten to death with a crowbar by him, instead of finding your demise by Jaehyun’s hands.

Jaehyun takes his sweet time gathering his belongings from his car. You see he’s not hurt, so you’re not sure if your missed aim was because you are actually rusty with your skills or if it happened because it was Jaehyun you were aiming at. You hope it’s the first option, especially because he had no problem terrorising you for months, only to later show up and throw shurikens your way.

He gets out of his jeep, walking leisurely inside the hotel, and you finally enter the parking lot. Your eyes are on Jaehyun even if you look for a spot to park your car, which you actually manage to do just a few spots away from his own, and you get out following his steps. 

The hotel is nice, but not nice enough to have key cards instead of physical keys. And you can barely contain your smile as you avoid being seen by any staff roaming around, managing to keep your gaze on Jaehyun’s figure and see which room is his.

You can pick a normal lock with your eyes closed, but trying to pick up an automated lock — like the one most hotels have — would have been a total nightmare.

You approach his door, sticking your back to the wall, and you try pricking up your ears and sense if you can hear any type of movement behind the door. Jaehyun’s steps thud as he moves around the room, and you sense them moving farther away from the proximity of the entrance.

It doesn’t take much for you to hear a creaking sound, and then the pitter-patter of the water coming down in his shower, and you know you have to get into his room now that you have the chance.

You pick the lock as silently as possible, and it doesn’t work on the first try, so you wait and pay attention to any noise that might have changed on the other side of the door.

You try again, and this time you succeed — the knob making an almost imperceptible clicking sound that would never be heard over the pitter-patter of the shower.

Looking around yourself, you see Jaehyun’s jacket scattered on the bed like he didn’t even pay attention to where it landed once he took it off. His shoes are by the door, where some of his belongings are also scattered on top of a coffee table in its vicinity. 

You take your gun out, taking careful steps around the small living area and swiftly inspecting the bedroom without finding anything suspicious. You don’t see a bag that might be containing weapons, you don’t see anything suspicious. You don’t see misplaced trash, you don’t see the traces of someone who’s lived here — even if it was for a short amount of time.

You also don’t hear anyone in the shower, although the water is still running and you can see all the steam coming from behind the shower curtain.

But you frown as you take a few more steps towards the bathroom door, reminded of the fact that Jaehyun doesn’t take steamy showers.

You sense him, you see him creeping up on you like the ceiling has just been split in half, and he’s coming down to make an appearance. You turn around, and right before you can do anything and point your gun in his direction, he throws a kick that manages to send your gun flying back to his bedroom. 

You swing your arm, aiming for his head, but he blocks your motions and actually manages to crouch down when you target his head once again, this time with your right leg.

“Stop fighting me!” He warns, because truth be told, he doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s ducking down every time you try kicking him with one of your limbs, getting away from all your kicks like he’s a little girl who’d rather run away during perilous situations. 

He’s actually trying his best not to let his instincts kick in and fight you for real this time, because it’s going to be brutal and it’s going to end with either one of you bleeding. 

He tries getting close to you in order to immobilise you, yet you manage to jump to your right and hit the wall, kicking left to get a higher kick and actually knock him down. But he’s quick with his reflexes and after all, who were you even kidding? This man trained just like you did, with these very moves, so he knows everything by heart already. He manages to actually catch you mid-flight and prevent you from moving by keeping you stuck between his arms.

“I said,” he spits through gritted teeth, squeezing you tighter so you stop moving like a fish out of water, “Stop fighti-,” he’s interrupted the moment your head kicks his chin.

He finally lets you go, taking a few steps behind and placing one hand over his aching chin.

“You actually kicked me!” He barks, and you know he’s more shocked than upset.

“I could have done so much more!” You growl, preparing to attack him again. You don’t even care where your gun is right now, you just need to lose all the pent-up tension in your muscles by giving him a good beating. And with the amount of rage you’re feeling, not even a man as tall and sturdy as Jaehyun can feel safe, “You actually tried killing me, earlier,” you reproach him, and he’s in disbelief after registering your words. 

“And you shot me!” He accuses you, his voice suddenly high in pitch with betrayal.

“So fucking sorry, Jaehyun! I should have let your shuriken pierce through my chest!” You scream, exasperated.

He’s ridiculous for being so offended, so sulky, and it was all his fault in the first place. Acting like he didn’t aim his knives at you. You know Jaehyun well enough to know he’s going to be bothered about you shooting at him for a long time, or maybe he’ll be bothered by the fact that he missed his target. Yet you don’t see him trying to remedy his initial mistakes, as he’s now standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips and eyes bewildered while looking at you.

You’re getting tired of this. Maybe you should just offer to stay still and call it a day, because just the thought of having to run away for the remainder of your life is making you feel all the motivation you had —  all the motivation to pull through and run away in order to save your life — is disappearing. 

“Just shoot me,” you tell him before you can stop yourself. He shudders hearing your words, his head jerking briefly. 

“Are you insane?” He mocks you, grimacing. 

You scoff, dropping your arms exasperated, “Aren’t you here to do this, Jaehyun?” You talk calmly, and Jaehyun almost can’t believe just how calm you’re being. When you see him being in his own head, with no intention of replying, you go on, “Just throw your knives, kill me, take my head or whatever. But please don’t take me back alive because you know what’s gonna happen,”

And of course, Jaehyun knows. He knows the rules, the instructions, he knows what’s going to happen if he captures you and takes you back on your own two feet. He doesn’t want to see you being tortured, and he’s not sure if he’d be able to live knowing he basically did to you so much worse than just taking your life. 

Taking your life should have been easy, easy on him and especially easier on you — because you know very well what going back to the old man would mean for you, everyone from the squad knows. Jaehyun is still so unsure as to why you left the squad, knowing you would bring this upon yourself. But he really doesn’t like where this is leading the two of you.

He either kills you on the spot, and his life will forever be a nightmare from now on, or he takes you back alive, and you’re likely to get killed by the old man or one of his bodyguards, but still under his scrutiny. Either way, Jaehyun’s life is going to be a nightmare. 

“They never said I should take you back alive,” he sighs, dropping with a thud on his unmade bed. He raises his head from the mattress to look at you, and he sees you staying still in your spot by the arcade at the entrance to the bedroom. 

“Then it’s clear as day that you should just kill me,” you insist, and he wants to seal your mouth shut.

But you’re having none of the silent and pensive Jaehyun agenda, because while you accepted it in the past, you’re not as lenient right now — now when your life is at stake.

“Are you even listening to me?” You push, moving your weight from one leg to the other. But you see him ignoring you, and you want to kill him on the spot. One thing that makes you want to go ballistic is his ignoring you, completely lost in his own thoughts, like you’re not here chewing his ears off with your words. 

You see him frowning, raising his head once again, and then carefully getting off the bed, but staying unmoving by the foot of the bed. 

“Jaehyun!” You raise your voice, and the only person who’s ever made you lose your temper this way is standing in front of you, ignoring you, “If you won’t do it, I’ll do it myself in front of your eyes and change the trajectory of your life,” you bark, moving your hands frantically. 

He finally looks at you, still frowning, and he brings a finger to his lips to signal you to shut up. 

You look at him bewildered, because … did this man just tell you to shut the fuck up?

“Oh, you didn’t just tell me to shut it,” Your scoff is loud, outraged, still not believing this just happened —  not believing Jaehyun would ever have the audacity to do this.

“Shhhh!” He lurches towards you, covering your mouth with his hand. You look up at him, and his eyes are piercing and… worried?

He takes his hand off your mouth, but brings his index finger to his lips to instruct you to stay silent. He points his fingers to his ear, and then to the door, and you finally get it. He’s sensing something’s happening outside his door. 

You look at him, and you try to prick up your ears and see if you can hear anything of what he’s sensing, supposedly. Your ears start ringing once again as you try to pay attention, and you feel like punching yourself. Whatever happened to the elite assassin you once were?

You look at Jaehyun once again. Jaw set, eyebrows furrowed, gaze lost while looking into a spot on the carpeted floors of his room. He points to the door once again, and just five seconds after he does so, there’s a knock filling the silence of the room. 

You flinch hearing another knock, but looking at Jaehyun taking a few steps back and away from you has your jaw setting. You’re within the door’s radius, and if anything happened you wouldn’t be able to do much more than jump away from whatever could be coming for you. The fact that Jaehyun snatched your gun earlier, throwing it somewhere by the door, isn’t of any help either. 

You see him touching his lower abdomen, and you look at him, confused. There’s another knock on the door, and within three more seconds, someone kicks the door open with their foot, making you flinch and jump back — but not enough for you to take cover from whatever weapon they might have on themselves.

And the moment they appear and walk through the door, you know that taking cover from a rifle wouldn’t be possible — you’d end up dead anyway. The man loads the rifle, pointing it at your unmoving figure, and you’re too stunned to even think of trying to move away. 

But gladly for you, Jaehyun didn’t lose his assassin senses like you did, and in your petrified state you still manage to see him moving his hand to his pants, pulling out a jackknife and jerking his arm to pull the blade out, and throwing it towards the man holding the rifle aimed at you. All in under two seconds.

The knife hits the man in the heart, making him drop the weapon to his feet and throwing Jaehyun a look right before blood starts spilling from his mouth. He touches the dagger right before collapsing to the ground, and you look at Jaehyun as he approaches you.

“Let’s go, Y/n!” He instructs, pulling you by the wrist, “If he found us here, they’ll come check for him when they’ll see he’s missing!” He mumbles, grabbing the few personal items scattered on the coffee table by the entrance, looking for your gun and placing it in your hands.

“Hey! Snap out of this!” He snaps his fingers in front of your eyes, trying to bring your attention to him. 

You’re lost, never expecting Jaehyun to kill someone else in order to protect you — because after all, he was sent to get you one way or another, dead or alive. Yet here he is, bruising your wrist with his involuntary excessive force, looking at you concerned. 

“What’s wrong with you? Get a grip on your elite senses if you don’t want us both to get killed!” He grabs your face with his free hand, and when he sees your eyes focusing on him, attentive and once again aware of your surroundings, he lets you go.

He moves away from you, and snatches the jackknife away from the man’s chest, wiping its blade on the man’s shirt and carefully putting it back into his own pants. He makes sure you take care of your gun, and lifts his bag in order to place it on his shoulder. 

He grabs you again, by the hand this time, and he pulls you out of the room, trying to close the broken door as best as he can.

“We need to get away now, and fast. It’s a matter of time before the staff notice the messed door,” he pulls you away, and his steps are huge while you almost trot next to him as he drags you by your hand, “You have everything you need with you?” He asks, and you know he means personal items like a bag — and weapons.

You nod, “In the car,” and you pull your keys out of your jeans.

He opens your trunk, taking your bag and pushing it into your arms, and his gaze lands on a long clarinet case, and he’s sure your weapons are in there. So he throws you a questioning look, and you only look back at him, understanding each other just by looking at each other.

As he closes the trunk of your car, there’s a woman’s scream disturbing the quiet of the night, and Jaehyun looks at you as he starts running to his car. For some reason, you also start running, and you’re not sure why you’re doing it. You came here to kill him, yet you’re now running away with him.

“Let’s go before they come after us!” Jaehyun throws all your stuff in the backseat of his jeep, and you get into the passenger seat as he starts the engine, “Put your seatbelt on!” His voice is tense as he bosses you around.

He turns around to look back, putting one arm behind your seat so he can have better visibility as he reverses the car. The action makes him get closer to you, and your nose is close enough to him to get a whiff of his unchanged cologne. 

You’ve known Jaehyun for a decade, yet his cologne remained the same. The same clean, fresh smell flooded your senses, even if a bit faded after a long day.

He speeds away from the parking lot, and you realise he’s speeding towards the highway, breaking speed limits. 

“Put a second one just in case,” he instructs you, throwing you a quick look, and when you jerk your head confused, he extends his arm behind your seat once again, pulling a second seatbelt and handing it to you, “Secure it on the other side of the seat,” and you do as he instructs, your chest and body now secured under a cross made of two seatbelts, tightly tied over yourself.

He takes the highway and throws you another look, making sure you listened to him. Seeing you sitting calmly in the seat next to him, he decides to look for his own seatbelt.

“How did you get two seatbelts installed?” You ask, looking at his seat and seeing a second one he doesn’t bother securing for himself. 

“I have my ways,” he explains after a while. Knowing Jaehyun, he probably mulled the answer over and over again in his head, “I know a guy,” he confesses, letting you know the truth, and you only hum in understanding.

He’s speeding and swaying lanes, yet you’re not panicking. In fact, you’ve never been this at peace. You’re not sure where he’s taking you, or what he’s going to do with you. He might have saved you tonight just so he could kill you with his own hands tomorrow. 

But a thought crosses your mind, and it’s so loud you can’t pay attention to anything else. How did that man find you in Jaehyun’s room? And why was he after you, if Jaehyun was the one sent over to hunt you down and kill you?

Jaehyun hits the brakes, honking as one of the cars sways lanes and cuts your way, and your chest hurts a bit with the two seatbelts forcefully keeping you glued to your seat. You don’t even notice Jaehyun’s arm extending in front of you, as if he wanted to keep your body safe and unmoving in case the two seatbelts were not enough.

“You good?” He asks, throwing you a look, but he speeds off once again, “Some people just don’t need to be out on the road,” he mutters to himself, but you hear him nonetheless over the rumble of the car navigating the winds on the highway.

“Where are we going?” You ask, getting more comfortable in your seat. For some reason, you’re incredibly sleepy. Maybe it’s the fact that you know you’re not being followed, otherwise Jaehyun would have already let you know — because he’s a talker every time he’s panicking — or maybe it’s the fact that you trust Jaehyun’s driving skills enough to have your body relaxing even in a perilous situation like this one.

“As far away as possible,” his reply is simple, but relaxed, “I have a few options,”

But you don’t fall asleep, because that thought keeps lingering in your mind, that man’s expression as he loaded the rifle reappearing in your head every time you blink. Even if Jaehyun kills you tonight or later tomorrow, you don’t really mind. You’re sure being on the run isn’t the life you want to lead, and now that you found Jaehyun, you’re fairly ready to have him kill you.

You turn your head to the side in order to look at him. His facial features shine, basking in the blue light of the jeep’s console lights. He’s driving with one hand only, keeping the other arm propped on the window to his left, hand playing with his hair as he’s deep in thought. His jaw is set, lazily chewing on a gum, and from time to time he switches his glance away from the road in front of you so as to look to his left before switching lanes.

He’s in his own world, like always, and he doesn’t notice you looking at him. The same man who heard suspicious steps approaching his door earlier and saved both your lives doesn’t sense your gaze on him right now. 

The drive is long, and you and Jaehyun don’t talk to each other. You’re exhausted but you know he is too, and yet every time you ask him if he’d like to switch and let you drive, he refuses. 

He hums to the songs on the radio, taps his fingers on the steering wheel, sometimes imitates some of the instruments playing the melody, and yet you’re used to this, you’re used to him. Maybe the old man did you some good by sending Jaehyun after you, maybe Jaehyun won’t give you a painful death, maybe he’ll be considerate, for old time’s sake.

It’s nearly dawn when Jaehyun takes one of the exits, driving away from the highway. The horizon starts being painted with white and orange hues when he parks the car, and jumps out quickly after undoing his seatbelt.

“We need to rest, and this is actually a good place for us to stay,” he lets you know as soon as you join him in the back of his jeep, watching him as he takes his bag on his shoulder, “You’ll leave your clarinet here until tomorrow,” he throws your bag in your arms, and then walks away towards the motel’s entrance. 

You wait for him by the door, and he’s painfully late while losing track of time talking to the receptionist. You roll your eyes, turning around to look around the parking lot. This is your perfect time to run away yet you don’t do it, and maybe you’re too tired, but you now start regretting driving away with him. 

And he could have killed you in his car if he wanted to, you’re reminded by the voice in your head. And he didn’t. He didn’t even try. One movement of his hand could have sliced your throat open and could have made you bleed out in a minute on his passenger seat, yet he hummed the songs playing on the radio and whistled to the rhythm of Goodnight Moon, a song you knew he liked.

Your patience runs thin when you hear the receptionist giggling, and you actually get fed up with waiting for him, returning to his car and trying to unlock the doors. Which you realise is a total failure the moment the alarms start going off as soon as you hit one of the windows with your foot, and you hear Jaehyun running out of the receptionist’s cubicle to see what had happened after recognising the alarm. So it’s not a failed attempt after all. 

Had he been dumb enough — which isn’t something that ever happens when it comes to Jaehyun — and had he left the car unlocked, you were going to either start the engine one way or another and take off, or just take your stuff out of the trunk and get your clarinet back in your possession, hitting the road even if you had no idea where to go next.

Being a trained assassin had its perks, like physically harming men who tried to assault you in any way — and you could even take off with their cars. 

“Do I have to wait for you to flirt with that receptionist, or can we actually rest peacefully?” You asked him once he made the alarm stop. 

He shows you the keys to your room, and you scoff, “Why do you have just one key? Where’s mine?”

He snorts, dimples on display, “You’re dumb if you think you’re sleeping in a different room than me, baby,”

“Don’t call me that!” You bark back, feet trotting trying to catch up with him as he walks towards your designated room, “And why wouldn’t you trust me? I actually followed you here, didn’t I?” You continue, finally catching up to him.

“You tried to kill me,” he turns around, and it nearly makes you run into his chest, “Twice,” he completes through gritted teeth, his tone sombre. 

“You also tried to kill me,” you defend yourself, shocked at the accusations brought against you. Yes, you tried killing him, but he seems to forget that he’s been terrorising you for months instead of walking up to you and killing you once and for all.

You follow his steps, and he unlocks one of the doors, stepping in first and keeping the door open for you to walk in as well. 

You look around the room. Simple furniture, a closet is carved into one of the walls, there’s a door that you suppose is leading to the bathroom, and the detail you’re most excited about, the twin beds. 

“You should be grateful I’m letting you sleep here on a comfy bed, instead of tying you and leaving you in the trunk until morning,” he throws his shoes and bag away, walking around the room to sit on one of the beds. 

You roll your eyes, dropping your bag by the entrance. You know he locked the door and he’s keeping the key somewhere safe, and even if you tried escaping, you’re sure he’d hear you with his damned supersonic hearing only an elite assassin has. 

“Can’t believe I have to hear your snoring,” you whine, sitting on the other available bed.

“And I can’t believe you’re moaning after I basically saved both of us today. You just stood there like a puppet instead of doing something, anything!” He got up from his spot, coming up next to you to face you. You don’t look at him, too tired to bicker with him after the hell of a day you had. 

“You threw my gun away, so I was basically useless,” You defended yourself tiredly, not even having the energy to raise your voice at him.

“Yes, you were,” he confirms, and you see him pulling his bag on the bed and fishing for a change of clothes, and other essentials like a toothbrush and his shower gel, and then you see him smiling all of a sudden, just one dimple on display as he tries containing his smile, “Thank god the amazing mortal weapon in my pants saved the day,”

You blink twice while looking at him, too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

“My god, you’re such an idiot!” You whine, bringing your hands up to your face, running them up and down a few times out of frustration, “Can’t believe I have to stay with you and your dumb jokes between these four walls,”

He snorts, way too happy with his idiotic joke and the reaction he got out of you, “I’m not that bad, baby,” You roll your eyes hearing his words, and just as you open your mouth to retort something, he cuts you off, “Yeah, yeah, I know! Don’t call me that, Jaehyun!” He imitates you by repeating your words, imitating your voice by raising his pitch, and you let out a groan, snatching your pillow off your bed.

“Get the fuck out!” You retort, throwing your pillow at his head, but he’s quick entering the bathroom, and he shuts the door after himself as you hear his deep laugh from behind the door. 

This is going to be a long night, you realise as you sigh and plop once again on your bed.

Maybe he should have just killed you.

You wake up the next morning with your head feeling heavy, temples pulsing painfully with every beat of your heart. You blink a few times, expecting bright light to make it difficult for your eyes to adjust — but the dim lights don’t bother your eyes.

You replay the last bits of last night — or earlier this morning, to put it better — right before falling asleep. 

After his shower, Jaehyun made sure to take your gun away, and you actually allowed him, not having the energy to physically fight him for a weapon you don’t even plan on using on him. You could have killed him in numerous other ways, if only you weren’t so sleepy — and if you actually wanted to, to begin with. 

After you were done getting out of the shower, and after bickering with Jaehyun for using his shower gel, you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. You were so exhausted, after weeks of being chased down by the same man you’re now sharing a room with — the psychological terror inflicted on your mind really wore you out, but you managed to have a good night’s sleep after such a long time now that you knew you weren’t being chased and that you didn’t need to stay alert at all times any longer. Or, actually, you were still being chased, but this time you were actually not alone in this.

Which reminds you of the fact that you really need to have a talk with Jaehyun.

You turn around in bed, looking for him on his bed, but the spot he was sleeping in is now empty. Bed unmade, it looks like he’s been up a while now, and your eyes scan the dimly lit room for his presence.

He’s standing next to the window, taking a peek through the curtains as discreetly as possible while biting hungrily on a red apple. He notices you as soon as you turn around, he knows you’re awake but doesn’t spare you a look — at least for now, still busy peeking outside the window.

“Good morning,” he rasps before taking another bite. He turns around, this time taking slow steps towards your beds, sitting on his while still facing you, “I didn’t remember you snored,”

You let out an offended gasp, pushing yourself up on one elbow to see him better, “I so do not snore!”

He hums, unimpressed. He takes another bite from the apple in his hand, “You do. But I slept nonetheless. Now eat this,” he extends the apple towards you, “And get ready, we have to go,”

“What?” You bark, smacking his hand away from your proximity, “Do you think I eat after just anybody?” You retort, raising an eyebrow.

He’s not impressed. There’s so much more he wants to say but he decides against it, and because his silence is heavy and you know what the look in his eyes implies, you grab the apple and bite on it.

“That’s the only thing I had in my bag, we should be good until we stop for proper food along the way,” he takes a new change of clothes out of his bag, packing the garments he wore yesterday.

“Why are you taking me away with you, instead of just killing me? Aren’t you here for this?” You ask as you chew.

“You’re coming with me until I’m sure no one else is following us. Then, we’ll see what to do with you,” he’s calm, he doesn’t even look at you because he knows that it might tick you off and you’ll start another fight with him. He hates fights, especially the ones that are with you.

“Right,” you nod as if that’s the most understandable thing he’s ever said, “About that… we need to talk,” you try, but he dismisses you.

“We need to get going! Go change if you don’t wanna leave in your pyjama shorts right now,” He warns, pointing his head towards the bathroom door.

“But I really need to have this talk with you,” you insist, but still pick up yesterday’s jeans and a new t-shirt from your bag.

“Go change! Now!” He raises his voice at you, exasperated by your constant pushing of his buttons, “We’ll talk when we hit the road,”

“But this is something important that we need to talk face to face about, Jaehyun!” Your tone is suddenly high in pitch, frowning at him and his stubborn behaviour. Maybe if he allowed you to bring up all your concerns and everything that you realised earlier in the car, he might even end up thanking you.

He throws your unloaded gun on your bed for you to keep on yourself once again, “What is it?” He sighs, finally giving in to all your pressuring. He fishes a gun out of his own bag, because he keeps one in all his missions, out of convenience and for collateral damage. He keeps his actual weapons for the ones he’s actually paid to kill.

And you guess it’s one of those habits the entire squad has. Because after training intensely with Ning, trying to be on her level of scorpion, you also keep a dagger in your mission bag out of comfort, and you know for a fact that even Jeno — a butcher — also keeps a revolver on himself at all times. 

“Wasn’t that man suspicious to you?” You start, and you see him furrowing his brows as he closes his bag up. 

“What’s supposed to be suspicious about that man? He was sent to kill us,” he rasps, looking at you like you’re an idiot and have shit for brains.

“The operative word being ‘us’, Jaehyun,” you push, looking at him. You don’t expect Jaehyun to be quick with his reactions, but you expect him to understand what you are implying. 

“Huh?” He squints his eyes, jerking his head at you, all confused. 

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their orbits as you look at him, “Man sent to kill,” you raise one finger in the air, and then raise a second one before pointing out, “Us,” 

He still looks at you confused, and you want to kill him. He makes you want to scream and rip your hair off when he’s being slow about important stuff. Totally normal Jaehyun behaviour that can be accepted when situations are not as critical as this one is.

“Jaehyun!” You call out his name, frustrated, your raging eyes looking into his confused ones, “A man that was sent to kill us! Not me,” you point your index finger at your chest, and his eyes follow your actions, “Us, Jaehyun. You and me!” You accentuate your words, making sure the words get to his brain and he registers them instead of him hearing you, without listening properly.

“What are you even talking about? That man came in and tried shooting you,” he retorts, looking at you like you’re taking things out of proportion.

“But he didn’t come for me! That’s what I’m trying to tell you and you won’t even listen!” Your voice breaks with frustration. At your words, he looks at you, showing you he’s actually all ears right now, prompting you to continue — and you do, “He pointed that rifle towards me because I was in his radius and he didn’t see you! I wasn’t even supposed to be there with you to begin with!”

He throws you a sombre look, like you’re finally making the gears in his head turn with your words. His jaw is set and his fingers are unmoving on the zip of his bag, already not thinking about it anymore. You really got his full attention.

“I got there after chasing you, so it was a pure coincidence. He wasn’t there for me, he was there for you!” You point at him, hoping he’ll understand your logic.

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back before looking at you once again.

“He tried shooting me because he didn’t see you, and that’s also what got him killed. But this proves they sent someone after you, too,” You move your hands around, pointing your hands to him, showing your palms like you’re silently telling him here you go, I told you this was important. 

“Fucking shit,” he mumbles as your words echo in his head, and it all starts making sense.

“You lost so much precious time playing your little cat and mouse game to terrorise me, that they sent someone to get you for not doing your job!” You accuse him, but you’re getting worked up because you know this shouldn’t have happened. If only he actually came for you from the beginning, maybe you would have been more accepting of your fate and ultimate demise instead of running away, just like you’re doing right now.

So you pick up your gun, loading it, and pointing it at Jaehyun — all in under one second.

“What the fuck are you doing, Y/n? I thought we were past this. Put that fucking gun down,” he barks, incredibly irked by your actions.

“This is all your fault. You had to be fucking annoying instead of doing your fucking job you were being paid for! And now there’s a bounty on your head too!” You raise your voice at him, and you don’t care if your neighbours are hearing you. In your head, either one of you won’t be leaving this room alive — and you’re more than sure you want to be the one who goes through this.

“Put. It. Down.” He barks back, like he didn’t even hear you. And it only drives you even more insane. 

“No!” You spit, turning your gun’s safety off with one finger, and still aiming it at Jaehyun’s head, “You pick your gun up,” you point at his own weapon on the bed, the one he took out of his own bag just a bit earlier in order to check out, “Pick it up!” You scream, and he does as you say, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now turn the safety off,”

He does just as you say, but you know he’s dying to argue back. You see it in his eyes that have now darkened, you see it in his jaw that is now set, you see it in the way he’s literally swallowing down all the words he’s dying to let out. 

“And now what? You’re going to shoot me?” He asks as calmly as possible, but there’s something sombre in his chest and if you didn’t know him this well, you’d have been afraid of even crossing him.

You shake your head, “You’re going to shoot me,” and your hand remains steady, no shaking, you have tunnel vision and Jaehyun is the only thing you can see in front of you — like your assassin senses are once again here and have never failed you before. 

“You’re insane if you think I’m going to pull the trigger!” He shakes his head at you, an accusatory tone dripping off his tongue, and he squints his eyes at you in mockery, “Listen to me! We’ll get out of this shit!” 

“How?!” You are desperate, but not desperately asking for mercy — you’re desperate trying to make him understand that this is the best for both of you. You don’t care anymore, you don’t want to be on the run, you don’t want to be without Yizhuo and live a life like nothing has happened, “There’s a bounty on our heads, they’re out there looking for us, and you know there’s no going back!” 

“We can pay the penalties! We can get out of this, together!” He’s starting to lose his patience. You’re out of your mind thinking he’ll actually kill you. He doesn’t even know why he’s here, but he’s glad he was the one sent over to find you and that he stalled. He doesn’t regret it one bit, but he’s sorry you have to go through so much in order to run away for your life, and he’s also following right behind you — since he’s also in trouble now. 

All his shattered dreams come back to him, hopeful, like he’s never given up on them, like they have never been stepped on by the old man.

“I’m not paying a fucking shit ton of millions to get out of this,” You’re calm, and over time this sudden change and sudden calmness of yours had Jaehyun learn not to trust you. You’re going to have another crash out soon, “Just shoot me! And you’ll be able to get out of this even if you stalled! He’ll understand!” You beg him, and your words anger him more than he’s letting on.

“Put the gun down, put it down now,” he warns, and his patience is starting to wear thin, “Put it down or shoot me, Y/n, but make sure not to miss your target,” 

You feel your eyes brimming with tears while your gaze is still on him, and you see him putting his arm down, turning his gun’s safety back on and tossing it away somewhere on the floor.

“What are you doing?” You panic seeing him walking towards you menacingly calmly.

He gets close to you, sticking his chest to your pointed gun, yet his eyes never leave yours. And like challenging you to do something about the fact that he’s standing vulnerable in front of you, he pushes his body against the gun.

“I’m not shooting you, Y/n,” he rasps, “You’ll have to either shoot me or put down the gun,” he challenges, and you’d really like to pull the trigger right this moment, but your bottom lip starts quivering as you look up at him. 

He’s upset, he’s actually raging, but you can see he’s containing every bit of emotion to not blow up on you. You know how he gets when he’s upset, and not the sulky upset you might find endearing — you mean the one in which he’s absolutely terrifying, and no one and nothing shall get in his way. 

He finally takes your gun away from you, turning the safety back on and scattering it away from the two of you. He doesn’t say anything, but in this moment you’d rather he fought you and bickered with you instead of just flaring his nostrils at you. 

You sit on the bed, not having it in you to look at him, not after the intense moment that just happened, not after you let him know it’s okay to kill you, and especially after he challenged you to shoot him dead and you didn’t. You know him so well, and every word you said was true. If he actually killed you, he could still go back to the old man and ask for forgiveness for stalling his mission. Sure, he would have lost the commission promised on the mission, and maybe he could have even been forced to pay penalties for stalling, for having another hitman sent after him — and you, and for killing said hitman. But he was going to be forgiven, he was going to be able to go back to work and still face your former boss. Now he’s in the middle of a shitstorm.

“I’ll go take our bags to the car. You go change,” He sighs, taking all weapons away from you, including the bag sitting next to you, “I’ll be downstairs,” he mumbles as he opens the door, “Please be quick, we need to hit the road,” 

And he closes the door after himself, with a calmness only specific to Jaehyun and Jaehyun only.

And that’s how you know it’s bad.

V. NOWHERE AND EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE

The drive to Jaehyun’s next destination was silent, a total nightmare having to sit next to him and feeling so guilty for some reason. You feel like you’ve indeed killed someone just as collateral damage and for no other reason whatsoever. 

Jaehyun was definitely sulking all the time, not exchanging a single word with you. Not asking you anything, and making sure you knew he was ignoring you every single time you asked something like ‘where are we going?’, and ‘do you wanna stop for a bit and stretch your legs?’

But he didn’t overlook your needs. He took frequent breaks, he allowed you to stretch in the parking lot as he drank three espressos one after the other, he stopped for food every time he thought your stomach grumbled. He made you stay up as he rested in the backseat, but also allowed you to sleep for the entirety of the time he was driving. He did all this while giving you the silent treatment, not asking anything of you but expecting you not to open your mouth either.

You watched his body language, observing everything carefully. Jaw set, eating mints and chewing gum every time he tried fighting off sleep while driving. He hummed along to songs from time to time, and even if he had a recurring thought that he wanted to share with you, he refrained from doing so, not even looking your way.

Three days of this and you were exhausted, you felt like throwing up. Your legs felt like sticks that had absolutely no reason being attached to your body. You haven’t had a decent shower or felt the comfort of new clothes ever since you left the last motel, and you would have actually complained if you knew you could get on Jaehyun’s nerves by doing so. But because he kept ignoring you like you weren’t even there with him, you just shut your mouth.

But a heavy feeling weighed down on you, eating at your insides as you kept thinking that you’re the reason Jaehyun is behaving this way. Maybe you took it too far, but you genuinely feel like you can’t keep doing this. And the thought that Jaehyun is also in great danger because of you makes your insides churn with guilt. 

Or maybe it isn’t your fault after all. You forget all about the guilt — maybe because of just how tired and hungry you are — but maybe it’s his own fault for putting his own life at risk. He could have killed you when he had the chance, right at the beginning — in Beijing — but he dragged it and stalled for so long that he’s now running with you to the middle of nowhere in order to save his own life.

And you’re grateful you actually reach the hotel that’s supposed to shelter you for a bit until Jaehyun decides to actually talk to you, or until he decides to tell you his plan. Because you know he has one.

He gets the key from the reception, not even bothering to keep an eye on you — maybe because he knows you’re just as exhausted as he is after so many days on the road, he actually lets both your and his bags full of weapons by your feet as he sorts things with the receptionist. He takes you upstairs, and right as you try opening your mouth to talk to him, he walks straight to the bathroom, and you can hear water start running in the shower.

You sigh, plopping down on one of the chairs in the corner of the room, and your head falls on the table. Not that you needed to sit down after three days of doing just that continuously, but you’re honestly exhausted. Your temples throb with every beating of your heart, you feel more exhausted than you’ve ever felt before — even more than what you felt when you first ran away in order to reach Beijing. 

Trying to focus on your breathing in order to block the headache and all the discomfort away, you feel your limbs getting heavier, and the bathroom door opens swiftly. Your senses are flooded by Jaehyun’s scent, his shower gel and cologne that just match each other are very welcomed by your nose, especially right now.

You stand to your feet, trying to keep your balance as best as you can, and you notice he’s changed clothes right before coming out of the bathroom. You need to be the one doing the first step and try to mend this whole thing up, especially because you’re in this together.

“Jaehyun, can we-,” but you’re interrupted by the door slamming after him. He left you behind once again, stranded in the middle of nowhere, and he even locked the door like you are his prisoner. Maybe he’s going to finally complete his mission, hoping he’ll be able to go back to things as they were before he acted so carelessly. Maybe it really took him three days to understand the weight of your words, and that you were right. The tens of millions that each of you had in your respective bank accounts would never be enough to pay a penalty and go back together, not if you combined the entirety of each other’s wealth. But he could go back, live for a few months following the old man’s own terms and conditions, and then life would definitely go back to normal.

But it can’t be said about you. You don’t have all these benefits. The day you left, when you resigned, not only did you resign from your job — you resigned all the rights you had to go on with living a peaceful life. And the day you joined the squad and signed your contract with the old man, you basically gave away all the rights you had over your own life. 

And you knew it, but you were just out of school — a very impressionable young adult that was just beginning to taste all the flavours of life and independence. And this job surely gave you more than you could bear. Your commission wasn’t the biggest or most appealing — at least at the beginning, but it offered you a life that was worth living, and every mission was paid more than what a regular office worker would earn annually in the financial district. 

Over time, your commission increased with every mission and with every success, and you and Ning never failed any of your missions. Until that one, which cost you so much more than penalties and money. It cost a human life and your whole ability to live peacefully as a member of the squad. 

You felt itchy — not comfortable with your own body; you felt your mind was the loudest it had ever been and it was driving you insane, and for what? The day it dawned on you that it actually happened, that you actually lost the only important person in your life, you couldn’t bear knowing you had to go on and keep living like this, leading the criminal life — even if the money was the best part. 

But money meant absolutely nothing when you couldn’t peel yourself off the floor. It meant nothing when you were alone and hallucinating conversations you never had with Ning, but would have loved to at some point. But it was too late, there was no going back, and you were left looking in a corner like she was speaking to you in person.

You sigh, your skin suddenly covered with goosebumps at the thought of Ning and everything you had to go through, and it actually didn’t matter anymore — nothing mattered. Not the sore muscles, not the pain in your bones, not the headache, and certainly not the hunger that made your stomach growl — because after all, it had been more than twelve hours since you last ate, the moment Jaehyun decided it was time for a little break during your drive.

And Jaehyun, now that your mind is back on him, you wish things had gone differently between the two of you. A rivalry that was born out of spite, you wish he would recognise this as well.

You whine in pain as you walk towards the bathroom, taking your own change of clothes out of your bag, and they seem to be among the last few clean clothing items left that you can use without leaving to look for a laundrette. You still don’t have your own shower gel, so Jaehyun will have to forgive you once again for using his stuff, and you get under the steamy showers.

Jaehyun. There’s so much you’d like to tell him, so many things you need to open his eyes on. He’s not confrontational, at least with words and feelings. He’s never been. He’s hot-headed when it comes to stuff that's not related to work, but he’s the most exemplary member of the squad. 

He had already been a member of the squad when you joined. Granted that you had to wait a bit more so Yizhuo could complete her training — it also allowed you to get a better training in using knives, beyond the basic levels that were required of you — you actually didn’t participate in the first complete training everyone attended. You were flown out to Cuba with your partner in crime for a very special mission, so attending the training in the mountains was out of question, not even the old man thought of sending you back only a few months after completing your full training. 

So it was a failed opportunity to meet everyone from the squad, that you didn’t get. You never met your coworkers. They didn’t live in the same city as you and Yizhuo — who basically did everything together, even if you had your own separate apartments — so it was hard to actually meet them outside these training camps.

The old man had mentioned that once a year the squad was set to meet for a joined training session, but he also mentioned the fact that you could get one any time you wanted, and with his lack of active need to add people to the squad after you and Ning joined and made it whole, it was very easy for any of you to show up to the camp in the mountains and train without having newbies around.

And just as you were nearing the one-year mark as a member of the squad, with absolutely no other plans or prospects for a bit until your next mission, you decided to go back where it all began, where you felt like home — you went back to the mountains. 

While Ning was somewhere in Maui going paragliding, you decided you’d embrace the cool summer mornings the mountains offered you.

That’s when you met Jaehyun and his cool motorcycle. Looking at him today, you’d never think he used to be one to search for that kind of adrenaline, messiness, liberty. He’s so private about his life, nowadays he’s so determined to keep his cool portrayal — but you know how he used to be.

A rebel, someone chasing a liberating feeling that only the speeding of his motorcycle and fast knife skills allowed him to feel like he was living to the fullest. 

He walked up to you the moment you parked your car next to his motorcycle. He was training just around the corner and heard your engine, and a small dimple formed on his barely contained smile that he showed you as soon as you got out of the car.

He knew you were one of the new additions to the team, he just didn’t know which one out of the two you were.

“Cottonmouth,” you exhaled, not expecting to meet a member of the squad so suddenly and so soon.

He smiled at you, extending his right hand for you to shake, “Deathstalker.” 

You frowned hearing his code name. You knew the categories, what they meant, but you didn’t know the code names. 

“Scorpion,” he cleared the confusion for you, still smiling as you nodded at him, your travel bag still in your hand as he kept making small talk with you by your car. 

You pointed a thumb to your chest, “Viper.”

“I know that!” He chuckled, grin reaching his eyes, and he started walking towards the hotel’s entrance. “I’ve been dying to meet you,” he confessed while walking after you.

You stopped in your tracks, turning around to look at him, and he almost tripped on your trolley the moment you stopped, making him throw his legs around in order to keep his balance.

“I heard you trained for the shortest period before finally being accepted,” he explained, nervously moving his hands around, “I was curious about your skills.”

You raise your eyebrows at him without even realising, “I… Well that’s not me,” You shake your head, giving him a small smile even if he’s the one raising his brows as you spoke up, “That’s my partner, Copperhead,” You cleared all confusion between the two of you, except he actually jerked his head as he registered your words, “She was supposed to be a scorpion just like you, she’s really great,”

He shook his head, “No, I know your reputation around here as a duo. You’re the one who had a shorter training period,” he pointed at you, and dang it — he was so sure of himself, suddenly the soft façade was replaced by a cocky one that was only normal for someone who knew was being correct about all assumptions. With the amount of confidence dripping off his body language, you thought he could have sold you any lie, and you’d have believed every single word coming out of his mouth. 

He’d always been convincing. Maybe it was the confidence given by his looks, or by the fact that he knew he was an elite in his field — one of the best, with a success rate of one hundred percent even at that young age. 

And at first he didn’t bother you, but as days passed you became curious, and the curiosity only made things worse. You started looking for him when you knew he was out training, and you weren’t even sure why or how you started training together, but you know you got close quite fast. 

And it was only normal for it to happen, as you were the only ones on that mountain. You trained together, you got to know each other and, after a bit, you stopped using code names. 

You cleaned together, you cooked together, you shared a pot of ramyeon on the patio as you sat in front of an impromptu bonfire. No one lived around your area, yet surprisingly he knew his way around, he had stories to tell, places to review and share his opinion on with you. 

Awkward handshakes became sharing a blanket on the patio as you also shared a cigarette — he was the one to light them up, and he offered you a smoke from time to time. Limbs crashing during physical training became intertwined arms as you walked around, which ultimately became lingering touches. A strand of hair away from your eyes, hands touching as both of you reached for something at the same time. Yet nothing more happened, keeping it in the safe territory for the sake of your jobs.

You left the training camp and you kept in touch, and somehow he was ‘in the area’, your area, once every two weeks. You knew he was lying, you knew he had no missions in your city. You knew he always came by in order to see you.

For some reason, Jaehyun always came back to you like a moth to a flame, and he never failed to show you just how much he was enjoying his time with you — in the most respectful of ways. And then he started holding your hand when you went out for a walk around the city, he started leaving some of his stuff around your place, he started taking you out for dinner while sharing bits of his life with you. He started being more affectionate, a bit bolder every time he came around, every time he drank a bit more than his normal limit. Stealing kisses as you dropped him at the airport when he had to go back home and prepare for a mission.

And you thought it was going in the right direction. After all the nice moments spent together, you could actually see the two of you were going somewhere. And all the signs coming from him showed that he felt the same way. 

The mandatory annual training session with the whole squad came around a few months after you and Jaehyun started seeing each other — when he supposedly had missions in your city and he forgot the way back to his own home, living with you for a bit before work called him back for duty.

And your coworkers became your friends soon after. Yes, sure, you weren’t on first-name basis with them like you were with Jaehyun or Ning, but it was nice to get to know them and finally opening up after a few weeks together — time that led to all of them dropping the code names in front of you. 

By the third week, the old man came around, and you were filled in on the traditions. He was going to put you into pairs and have you compete against each other in the same categories. But they reassured you that you were going to be paired with someone with your same strength and gender, and that it was just for fun.

“I have an amazing idea!” The old man clapped his hands as he bit into a peach, “Let’s have Deathstalker and Cottonmouth fight each other!” He laughed, grin reaching his eyes as he could barely contain his excitement.

There was a general whisper that filled your ears, “What?” Everyone whispered to each other, and you looked at the old man hoping you didn’t hear him right. 

He raised one finger, waggled it in the air before pointing it at you, and then gestured for you to get in the middle. One look at Jaehyun and you knew he didn’t want this either. Jaw set, nostrils flaring in anger, you had never seen this side of him. He kept his arms behind his back as he got in the middle to join you, avoiding your gaze like he couldn’t even bring himself to look at you.

The shift in his mood made your stomach drop, because he could at least have looked your way. Yet he didn’t, and when you were once again prompted to fight each other, he only let his arms loose — with them falling freely around his figure. 

You heard a gun loading, and the old man shot it blindly up in the sky — not aiming at anything or anyone in particular, but that was your first warning that you had to get into positions. 

And then Jaehyun did get into position to get ready to fight you, and that hurt you more than one of his punches would have. But looking in introspection right now, as you’re using his shower gel and expensive shampoo, what was he supposed to do? Have both of you shot because you refused to take orders from your boss?

Your memory is blank, you don’t remember how it started, you just knew that you were the one who did. And you took some punches as well, it was inevitable — but you tried your best to affirm yourself and fight Jaehyun. Because after all, what else could you have done? Were you supposed to wait for Jaehyun — who was known for having the force of a brute, especially during physical fighting — to punch you repeatedly? So you fought like your life depended on it, and it wasn’t that it actually did, but you couldn’t afford to get too hurt.

Jaehyun lost, but you were exhausted, and you knew he let you win.

“Jaehyun, wait!” You called after him as you followed his steps towards his room. After being dismissed by the even more cheerful voice belonging to the old man, Jaehyun left fuming, “I said wait!”

“What?” He barked, turning around to look at you. “What is it?”

“Why did you let me win?” You asked him, trying to understand what was going on behind those raging eyes. Yes, he let you win and you knew it — everyone knew it. You were positive you could have become just dust in the wind if he took the fight seriously.

“I didn’t let you win,” his tone was sombre, like he was trying to wrap up the conversation before it even started properly.

“Hey!” You snarled, touching his arms to bring his attention back on you once he turned his back to you, “What is going on? Why did this even happen?” You tried understanding why everything had to unfold the way it did. They told you it was all for fun and to test each other’s abilities, yet it took a turn when you and Jaehyun were brought up. On top of it all, Jaehyun barely touched you, barely looked at you, and he evidently let you win. It didn’t matter just how much damage you tried to cause him, two punches and a kick from him and you were going to disintegrate into thin air.

“Nothing happened, and I didn’t let you win!” He barked back at you, snatching his arm out of your grasp, “Congratulations, Cottonmouth!” And with that, he left you behind.

From that day on, things changed forever. No more Jaehyun dropping by unexpectedly, no more Jaehyun texting or calling you, no more Jaehyun exchanging cheeky jokes and looks with you. No more Jaehyun.

Not even a glance thrown your way during the annual squad training in the mountains. Everything changed, everything seemed like all the good times spent with Jaehyun might as well have been all in your head, and in reality, he hated your existence and the air you breathed. 

And isn’t it ironic, that he was also the one being sent after you? Isn’t it ironic, that after ten years of rivalry, you’re now in the shower using his products and smelling just like him?

Your muscles are thanking you for the scorching hot water you blessed them with. Your skin has never been as hungry for a steamy shower as it is right now. 

You feel slightly better after you shower, and when you exit the bathroom with your hair still damp, Jaehyun also walks into the hotel room, carrying bags in his arms.

He sets them down, opens a bottle of water to take a sip, all while still not paying attention to you. Maybe both of you need to rest, sleep on it at least for tonight, and maybe things will be better in the morning.

You get under the covers, bare legs touching the cool sheets, and you’ve never been more ecstatic to actually feel your head hit the pillow, and you’re sure you can fall asleep in a millisecond as soon as you close your eyes.

But rustling around the room distracts you once again, and you open your eyes to throw a look at Jaehyun and what he might be doing. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” You panic. Seeing his navel wasn’t on your to-do list tonight. 

He stops his movements, holding his t-shirt in his hands before looking at you, sporting a puzzled look on his face.

“I’m changing,” He says, but it comes out more as a question. 

“No,” you blurt out while looking at him, and you think you’re in a staring contest with the man. “You’re not changing, you’re stripping,” You correct him.

“Yeah,” He says, but it comes out as a question once again, “I kinda need to do that to change myself,” He doesn’t bother looking back at you, he’s looking for another t-shirt laying around the room, a cleaner one anyway. 

You see his head emerge through the neck of the t-shirt he chose to wear. His black, fluffy hair bouncing in different directions before he passes a hand through it. He reaches for the edge of the bed throw, and you panic once again.

“No,” You shake your head, looking at him from your spot on the bed. “What do you think you’re doing?” You ask again, and he halts his actions once more. 

“I’m getting into bed?” He asks, and he knows he’s doing nothing wrong, but seeing you so set on asking stupid questions, he thinks you’re playing a push-and-pull game. 

“What do you mean you’re getting into bed? This bed?” You raise your voice a bit, but you shut your mouth immediately, remembering that you need to keep quiet because no one needs to know you’re in this room.

“Do you see any other bed here, Y/n?” You recognise his tone and how you’re pissing him off, and you’re making an impossible effort not to start another fight with him. 

“I won’t sleep in the same bed as you, Jaehyun,” You mutter, throwing him a warning look that you hope he understands. But even if he does, he ignores you. 

“Suit yourself,” He mumbles while pulling the throw a bit before getting into bed next to you, “I need to rest.”

You throw the blanket covering your legs, pulling yourself away from the headboard, so you can turn around on your spot on the bed in order to look at him. You think there’s smoke coming out of your nose and ears, and you look at him, with his stupid, fluffy head resting peacefully on his pillow.

“Cut me some slack, Y/n,” He sighs, rubbing his eyes, “I even went out alone and brought you food,”

“And whose fault is that?” You raise your voice once again, “You left me here alone, Jaehyun. So don’t act like it’s my fault you went out by yourself and you’re extremely tired right now,” You press your index finger repeatedly on his chest as you make your accusations.

“You know what? Fine.” He gets out of bed before you can blink twice, pulling his pillow away from the bed. “I’ll sleep on the fucking floor and tomorrow you’ll go out by yourself and get some food for me,” He retorts angrily, not even looking you in the eye.

You see him looking for a spare towel, which he throws on the floor in anger, his pillow following suit. 

The blanket he chose not to pull away from you suddenly burns your skin, and guilt starts pooling in the pit of your stomach as you see him turning the lamp lights off and getting on the floor on top of that towel. 

You don’t move, still consumed by the sudden guilt that’s eating you from inside, and you’re not sure how many minutes pass with you staying still in your spot on the bed, exactly how he left you. You wait to see if his breathing has changed or if he’s starting to snore lightly like he usually does, but you don’t hear anything.

You turn the lamp on your bedside table back on, and swiftly crawl towards the foot of the bed, to see him frowning and lying on his side on the floor.

“Jaehyun? Are you sleeping?” You whisper, hoping he’ll be kind enough to react instead of ignoring you because you upset him.

“Go to bed, Y/n, I’m not in the mood to fight,” He groans, not bothering to move an inch from his spot on the cold floor.

“Come to bed, I’m sorry,” Your voice is filled with regret, and he thinks he misheard you or that he misunderstood your tone.

He gets up, pulling his pillow after him. You crawl back to your side and you see him turning the lamp lights back off before settling comfortably on his side of the bed. 

His cologne fills your senses, and then you hear him sigh once again — and you know he’s about to fall asleep this time, finally in the comfort of this bed.

You sleep for the entirety of the next day, and it surprises Jaehyun. To the point that he’s actually checking if you’re still breathing. You feel him hovering and bringing his hand to your face a few times throughout your sleep, but you don’t wake up because frankly, you don’t care. 

So you toss and turn, move around, you don’t even feel your leg touching Jaehyun’s or the fact that you actually take over the bed like it’s your own, nearly making him fall out of it.

You only wake up when you hear the door closing, and you straighten up, panicking.

“Woah, careful,” Jaehyun mumbles, walking around the room. You look at him through your lashes, eyes still so sleepy even after the sleep marathon, which your entire body is thankful for, “I thought we said you’d be going out to buy food today,” he mumbles, still standing in front of your figure on the bed, “I was gonna starve waiting for you to wake up,”

“How many hours did I sleep for?” You stretch, whimpering at the nice feeling of your rested muscles finally regaining mobility and energy. 

He looks at you, unsure if he should say it or not, “Eighteen,” he takes a sip out of a cup, hiding his smile behind its rim. “Here,” he extends a cup towards you, “Coffee,” and you could already tell by the smell. 

You gladly take it, sipping on the still-warm beverage that was just too perfect. Perfect amount of sugar, no milk, just how you liked it. You look up at Jaehyun only to notice him already looking down at you, cup still up to his lips. 

There’s a lump forming in your throat at the way he’s looking at you, at the fact that he still remembers how you liked your coffee, and maybe even at the fact that he’s talking to you right now. 

He plops down on the bed right next to you, “You need to eat, there’s yesterday’s burrito still waiting for you,”

“Can we talk?” You gulp, not looking at him. In fact, your eyes are glued to the lid covering your cup, looking at the imprint that your lips have left behind. 

“We are talking,” he sighs, and if you didn’t feel so anxious all of a sudden you’d actually throw a punch or two. But the thoughts you had in the shower resurfaced right now, and the fact that both of you are in danger just makes this whole thing more urgent. You need to clear the air, clear all misunderstandings. You might actually die soon, and you have no idea what went wrong all those years back.

“I-” he starts, but is interrupted by your fidgeting as you get yourself in a more comfortable position while sitting down next to his lying figure, “I have a plan. We can make this work, if you trust me,” he mumbles.

And right now, you’d be a fool to even think of not trusting Jaehyun. Maybe he will really make this work this time. 

“We’ll leave in two days,” he lets you know, and for the first time ever you don’t feel like questioning his judgement. If anything happens and you end up dead, you’ll be at peace with it, knowing you found your demise trusting the man in front of you, and that you could have gone through that or much worse much earlier. You’re at peace knowing that you could die trusting Jaehyun and his plan, just as much as you could die running away — it’s a risk you’re willing to take.

Something happened to Jaehyun. You’re not sure if the thoughts he mulled over and over again in his head made him change his attitude towards you, while just last night it felt like he couldn’t even look at you. Or maybe it’s the fact that he got a proper and good sleep, after eating some consistent food instead of sandwiches and junk food you picked up on the road. Or maybe it’s the small walk he went on right before you woke up, during which he bought coffee for both of you.

Whatever it is, you think you’ll find out as you look at him and the way he looks at the ceiling, his gears turning inside his head trying to find the right words, or maybe he’s just thinking if he should tell you about the plan right now or later as the two of you hit the road again.

“I talked to a buddy of mine,” he finally rasps, making you flinch in surprise. He turns to look at you, piercing eyes looking straight into your eager ones. “His name’s Johnny,” he sits up to take a sip from his coffee cup, “He can shelter us for as long as we need. He’ll help us out,” 

“Johnny?” You ask, the name awfully familiar. But you can’t remember meeting anyone named like this, and you’re sure the name might seem familiar after hearing it somewhere. 

“I know you don’t know him, but we can trust him,” Jaehyun nods, avoiding your gaze. He looks awfully suspicious, but your senses aren’t making the alarms in your head go off, and so you nod, making Jaehyun get visibly relaxed, “That’s where I was… I used a payphone a few miles away and called him,”

You smile at him, encouraging him to tell you a bit more about the plan, and there’s a sparkle in Jaehyun’s eyes as he starts gabbing about what he and Johnny talked about on the phone.

And suddenly, watching as his features soften and his complexion lightens up as he speaks, your heart skips a beat realising this is the Jaehyun you knew and missed, and that he’s coming back to you.

VI. WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

Jaehyun’s plan was simple. Get to Johnny, whose house was supposedly going to be the perfect shelter for the two of you — assassins who had multiple bounties on their heads — and you could stay there as long as needed. 

You know Jaehyun well enough to know he hasn’t disclosed everything to you, only the parts convenient to his perfect story making it past his lips. His rambling felt delicious, and you took great pleasure in seeing him so relaxed while talking to you. No more tiptoeing, no more gulping down confrontational talks — you and Jaehyun needed to get along in order to make the plan work. 

The only possible problem that could have hindered your sweet escape? Being detected as you left the country, and you saw Jaehyun stiffening the moment he explained to you that Johnny’s private jet couldn’t reach you, so a one-way ticket on a normal airline was your only option. 

Together, you managed to travel undetected while using your fake id’s — you wanted to use one of the many they forged for you in Okinawa, but Jaehyun knew a guy. There’s always a guy. And he couldn’t risk having your fake id’s traced down and you to be found.

After landing, the two of you got into a cab, because Jaehyun thought that staying together meant not getting caught easily. If it meant having two very well-trained pairs of eyes to look out for possible dangers, then the two of you were definitely going to stick together. 

“You’re staring,” Jaehyun finally speaks up after the two of you manage to make it safe and sound away from the airport. A bandana is keeping his hair covered, expensive sunglasses perfectly placed on the bridge of his perfect nose. If he didn’t seem suspicious, your staring at him certainly made him look so.

You shrug, following him under the scorching sun as you make your way through the thick crowds, and you grab the hand he extends behind himself, for you to anchor yourself to. You have no belongings with you, having discarded of everything as soon as you managed to leave the airport behind after landing.

You shrug, albeit he can’t really see you, “You seem to know your way around,” 

You hear him huff a laugh, and he turns his head to look at you, one dimple on display, “I told you, Johnny and I go way back. I know how to get around his city,”

There seems to be something Jaehyun wants to add, but refrains from doing so. Instead, he just drops your hand, and walks in front of you in order to make way for the two of you among the sea of tourists wandering on the streets.

You’re glad you don’t have a problem with crowds and crowded spaces, because this is the perfect place and perfect time to lose yourself and to have some sort of panic attack.

 Jaehyun takes you to a secluded area, a whole lot of huge storage units, and you follow behind him like a lost puppy. His broad shoulders are clad in a black t-shirt that kisses his muscles just the right way, his jeans make his legs even longer, as if that is possible. You look at yourself, and then at him, and you think you’d definitely think you look suspicious if you saw anyone going around like the two of you are. Or maybe you’re too self aware, and nobody really cares about you and Jaehyun, yet you still need to keep an eye on your surroundings. 

Jaehyun starts whistling a new tune as he nearly trots towards one of the storage units, at the end of the whole lot. He seems to be able to compartmentalise his energy more efficiently than you, because after travelling and getting your way around the city up to this point, you’re absolutely exhausted. But Jaehyun is in a good mood, he’s relaxed, almost as if he truly knows this place to perfection. And it really leads you to question one essential thing, who is Johnny? And what kind of connection is there between him and Jaehyun?  Jaehyun never mentioned him up until a few days ago, not even all those years back when you two started getting to know each other.

The tune Jaheyun is whistling is a different one — no more Goodnight Moon, and you can’t seem to recognise it right this moment. But he goes on to humming it as he presses his digits onto the fancy lock of the storage unit. 

“Get in,” he instructs as he looks around the two of you for any kind of suspicious movements, or any suspicious presence in your proximity. 

You follow his instructions, and you get rid of your own sunglasses trying to accommodate your vision to the darkness of the storage. The place is cooler than the scorching outside you were already beginning to dread, but the air inside feels musty due to the humidity you feel even as you breathe. 

There’s a jeep parked in the middle of the storage, the surrounding walls adorned with shelves, and all sorts of equipment. Jaehyun climbs on a shelf, grabbing a box from all the way back, and bringing it down with himself.

You’re confused, but you don’t ask questions. You agreed you’d trust him, so you choose to gulp down all the curiosity and questions already suffocating you.

His slender fingers rummage around the box he just took off the shelf, and he fishes for something — a key, which he uses in order to unlock the jeep. You watch him as he doesn’t say a word to you, instead he goes on rummaging through boxes. He brings another one off a shelf, opening it to reveal a whole lot of different plates — and he seems to know which one he needs to look for. 

He keeps whistling his tune, foreign to your ears, while he sticks the new plates to the front and back of the jeep. 

“And now, baby,” he claps his hands, not even looking at you, going straight towards one of the safes in the corner of the unit and putting the code in, unlocking it. “Come here,” he fishes for something, and the moment he brings it up for you to see, you recognise it’s a knife bag.

His agile fingers unroll it open, and deadly sharpened tools sparkle in the lighting of the unit. 

Jaehyun lets out a low whistle, throwing you a look soon after, “You remember how to use these?” 

You gulp, looking at everything rolled out in front of you. You remember how to use them, but you’re sure your skills are a bit rusty. You nod almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough for Jaehyun to roll the bag close once again, sliding it towards you.

“Good,” he comments before looking for something else inside the safe, probably other weapons, “Even if you think you’re rusty, I know you’ll be fine using them,”

He picks up cases that look an awful lot like your clarinet case, and you’re excited looking at how he opens them up for you to scrutinise their insides, “Are we going to take these with us?” You ask him, and he hums in confirmation, “How are we going to travel with this amount of deadly weapons?”

Jaehyun looks at you, and you almost see pride glinting in his gaze. “The jeep has hollow spaces that we’ll use,”

And he doesn’t lose any more time, loading the jeep and sneaking every single weapon he got out of the safe, in every single space he knew was available for coverage inside the jeep. Secret pockets, secret spots in the jeep’s floor that had the perfect holes, hollow spaces inside the backseat — that were waiting for the clarinet cases to make them whole again. 

You then depart, and although you feel dizzy with the amount of questions overflowing your mind, one look at Jaehyun and seeing how relaxed he’s being, and you exhale the breath you didn’t know you were holding in. 

You know where he’s taking you — Johnny’s estate, somewhere safe, secluded, protected by technology and nature. The curiosity is eating you alive, and you promise yourself that if by bedtime Jaehyun doesn’t give you all the explanations he avoided giving, you’ll go back to your old ways and chew his ears off. 

The radio is loud, Jaehyun is speeding on the highway, and for some unknown reason you feel safe — at peace. Like you have always wanted to do this, like you were always meant to do this with Jaehyun. Even in the most critical moment, you’re probably going to still trust Jaehyun. It doesn’t matter how this ordeal ends, as long as Jaehyun gets to live. 

You reach the foot of a mountain, a forest welcoming your car and engulfing you underneath the dark and cool shadows of the trees. Jaehyun makes frequent stops along the way, and uses a small remote to deactivate security sensors placed along the trails, leaving you impressed.

 Yet curiosity overpowers how impressionable you are right now, and by the time you reach the mansion located deep into the heart of the forest, your tongue is itching to speak up and ask the one billion questions Jaehyun has coming his way.

The car stops, and the loud radio starts playing a song that seems almost too familiar, like it’s been terrorising you all day — and it really has. Guns n’ Roses’s tune starts playing, and you recognise the melody almost immediately.

You notice Jaehyun turning around to look at you, giving you a dimpled smile, “Welcome to the jungle, baby!” He sings along to the radio, right before jumping out of the car.

But before you can make any comments, he slams the door shut despite its heaviness, and you see him running towards the entrance to the mansion.

The huge door opens slowly, and Jaehyun stops in his tracks waiting for the person to come out. 

A tall man laughs loudly, grin reaching his eyes as he reaches Jaehyun’s figure by taking only two steps. His white teeth are on display, and creases form around his eyes as he hugs Jaehyun tightly, seemingly not even paying attention to the car door slamming after yourself, or the small and careful steps you take towards the two.

You never knew Jaehyun could be this close to someone, hugging and laughing as the other man makes comments that only the two of them can hear.

You approach them slowly, and you stop just as they sense you, breaking the hug. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” the man slaps Jaehyun’s biceps with excitement, looking him up and down, “I can’t believe you finally asked for my help,”

You see Jaehyun raising his shoulders, but the words fail to come past his lips as you see him noticing your silhouette approaching the two of them. Words, and the tens of questions that pop up in your mind, get stuck in your throat as you are making an incredible effort not to break your promise made to Jaehyun — you promised you’d trust him, not question his judgement with every single decision taken.

The man lets Jaehyun go, and his expressive eyes meet yours, “Cottonmouth!” He greets you, his smile reaching his eyes, “I’m Mamushi. Nice to meet ya!”

You can feel your pupils dilating after registering his words. Mamushi? Is this man a member of your squad?

“He’s a viper,” Jaehyun confirms for you, and your eyebrows furrow, a small crease forming right in between them. If this man is part of your squad, then does Jaehyun bringing you here mean you’re in danger?

“Used to be,” Jaehyun corrects himself, seeing as you’re reluctant to shake hands with the man who approached you, “This is Johnny,”

Mamushi — or Johnny — snaps to look at Jaehyun, who’s now standing closer to you, probably out of fear that you might be going to cause a scene. 

“You told her my name? What happened to keeping our identities safe?” 

Jaehyun shrugs, “You knew hers already,” he avoids your gaze as he touches the bandana covering his hair — and you know he’s doing this to make sure his ears are covered, a clear sign that he feels embarrassment creeping up his spine and going straight to his ears. If Jaehyun can lie, the same can’t be said about his ears — and it’s nice to see that he hasn’t changed this aspect about himself. 

He fixes his bandana on his head, as if it even moved ever since you left the airport all those hours ago, and a smile creeps up your features looking at how endearing and childish he’s being. He’s protecting his ears the best he can, but you know. You know him. 

Johnny turns around to look at you, “Nice to meet you, Y/n,” He’s handsome, the look in his eyes is strangely comforting, and for a moment you forget why you’re here, “Don’t worry, you guys are safe here,” he gestures for you to follow him inside the mansion, closing the door after you, and you see Jaehyun waiting at the foot of the stairs, “I hope you guys are hungry, I bought enough food to feed an army,”

“Thank you for this, Johnny,” You finally speak up, feeling like you need to let him know that beside the initial shock, you’re very grateful for being here — in the comfort and safety of his estate. 

The whole place feels safe. Huge mansion inside of which you’re sure you’ll lose yourself, the floors are marbled, luxury meets modernism in a classy cream decor that somehow manages to make everything warmer to the eye and more welcoming of you. 

Johnny smiles at you once again, guiding you towards the stairs, “Jaehyun, you know your way to your room. Y/n’s right next to yours,” 

If you knew Johnny, you’d think his tone got lighter as he gave Jaehyun instructions, and maybe Jaehyun’s reaction could be enough of a hint that you don’t need to know Johnny personally to know you might have been right. Jaehyun starts going up the stairs, not waiting for you, and he leaves you behind before you can notice his ears.

After settling in your room and allowing yourself to spend time by yourself for the first time in a week, you decide to return downstairs in hopes that you’ll get the answers you’ve been desperately looking for for whole days. 

Johnny’s mansion is indeed huge. Your room and adjacent bathroom alone are the size of your apartment from back home, the hallways are huge, spacey, long, and you feel like you’re in a maze as you try to make your away around. You pass Jaehyun’s room, his door left ajar, but you're not curious to see how it looks on the inside — one pending question in particular still bothering you.

Who is Johnny? And how is he so close to Jaehyun? 

Jaehyun seems to know his way around the place. Knows the traps on the trails that lead to the mansion, seems to know the security codes, seems to feel at home here. Yet you know he doesn’t have brothers, he doesn’t have cousins, he’s all alone — just like you are. And with Johnny being a viper from your squad, you wonder why you’ve never heard of him before — not from Jaehyun, not from anybody else. 

But thanks to the topic of Johnny being from your circle, there’s an inevitable question that pops up in your brain. How did Johnny manage to get out? Did he pay a penalty — that unlike Jaehyun, you’re refusing to do — or did he fake his own death? But then again, you can never get away and fully escape as if you’ve fallen off the face of the earth — unless dead. Which Johnny obviously isn’t, and more questions flood your tired mind as you try not to get lost looking for the staircase taking you downstairs.

Your temples throb as you think of all the possibilities, and your mind seems stuck on Jaehyun.

And eventually, you manage to keep your mouth shut — but only until you sit down at the huge dinner table, because despite the food cooked by Johnny being delicious, the food gets stuck in your throat with every glance you take at Jaehyun and his friend, talking carelessly like you’re not even here. You don’t mind Johnny trying to make small talk with you, but you feel out of place, everything feels forced, and you can’t shake away the feeling that they’re hiding something from you. Something important. 

And again, even if this isn’t the case, even if they’re not hiding anything but your mind learned to be full of paranoia given the last few months of being on the run, there’s still the fact that Johnny used to be part of your squad, used to be a criminal — probably still is, he used to have a proper code name.

“Y/n,” Jaehyun calls your name, and you snap out of your own thoughts, fork dropping and clicking against the expensive china plate, “You good?”

“I-” you pause, gulping your words down. But one look at his face makes you realise you’ve been patient enough, and you trusted him and his words up until this moment. And with the fact that all three of you are now exposed to a dangerous criminal circle makes you think that they do, indeed, need to give you some sort of explanation. “When will you tell me what’s going on?” You set your fork aside, finally bringing your hand up to push your plate away, “I don’t even know why we’re here. And while I trust you, you can’t expect me to shut up forever… You know me better than this,”

Jaehyun nods, chewing the last bit of his steak as he tries to find the right words. Yes, you’re right, he knows you better than this, but was it so bad that he was hoping you’d trust him blindly?

The circumstances don’t help him, or the two of you together, either.

While you’re the one who needs to be on the run, your supposed assassin is just in as much trouble as you after stalling with his mission — and now you’re both on the run. While he certainly doesn’t want to die, neither can he just go back and ask for forgiveness, and God knows Jaehyun is the last person who should bow his head in front of your boss, after the many years he did nothing but endure so much shit coming from that old man. 

“Who are you?” You turn to face Johnny, “How do you have a code name but I’ve never seen you around?” You’re tired of having to wait for Jaehyun to answer your questions. 

“I was part of the squad before you came along,” Johnny explains calmly, like he has been waiting for you to finally snap, “Then I left and never looked back,”

You huff, still not understanding why he’s beating around the bush, “And how did you leave? Did you pay the penalty or something? Because to me it doesn’t seem like you’re on the run,” 

Johnny shakes his head, throwing Jaehyun a quick look right before looking right back at you, “I didn’t pay no penalty,”

“See?” You cry out, confused and on the verge of starting a fight with Jaehyun, who avoided talking to you about any of this, “I know nothing about this? You might as well just kill me while I’m here because you,” you turn to look at Jaehyun, “Never told me anything about what I should or should not expect from this plan of yours,”

Johnny interrupts you, “I’m not on the run, because I’m the old man’s son,” he pauses, and while your head snaps to look at him, all shocked, his gaze holds yours like he didn’t just drop some of the most insane statements you’ve ever heard.

“You’re… what?” You question, a lump setting in your throat and making it hard for you to swallow. Are you in danger?

“You’re not in danger,” Jaehyun comments, knowing what goes on inside your mind, “I told you you can trust me, we’re safe here,”

“How?” You’re beginning to lose your calm after hearing Jaehyun’s reassuring tone. There’s a billion things going on inside your mind, and your ears start ringing once again. 

“Y/n,” Johnny tries to get you to spare him a look, “My father is one of the worst criminals to have ever roamed this earth, can you really blame me for going no contact and leaving the squad behind?”

The look in his eyes makes him seem sincere, but even if you trust his words, there’s Jaehyun’s lack of communication that makes you want to go ballistic on him. It’s like he never listens to you, it’s like he doesn’t know you. It’s like he knows what needs not to be done when it comes to you, yet he does the opposite — like he’s doing all this on purpose, waiting to manipulate and drive you insane.  

“So he just let you go?” You ask Johnny, not having it in you to spare Jaehyun another glance, because you know you’re going to start a fight.

Johnny laughs, but he’s not amused, “I wish,” and the look he gives you is enough for you to realise you’re grateful he’s here to tell you all about this, “Y/n, I need you to understand that I’ve been through this, my own father did unspeakable things the moment I wanted to leave, so it’s obvious to everybody that he’d do so much worse to you and Jaehyun,” He turns around to look at Jaehyun, but the latter is avoiding your gaze, lost deep in thought  and you’re not sure he’s even paying attention to what Johnny has to say right now, “But I promise you, this is the safest place for you two right now. Not because he can’t know or can’t look for you here, but because things have been somewhat settled and the danger isn’t as imminent right now,” he goes on explaining, and you feel bad.

You feel bad because you’re questioning this man you didn't even know until a few hours ago. You feel bad because ever since you left the circle you lost yourself and your ability to trust people, along with your peace and confidence. And there’s Jaehyun, who could have told you about all this before you made a fool of yourself, he could have let you inside his head for a bit — and he chose not to, the usual walls built around himself for some unknown reason you’re now too tired to try and get to the bottom of.

“Jaehyun called and asked for my help, he told me everything about your situation. I’m extremely glad you’re both here and I can assure you we’ll get you out of this. I promise,” his reassuring tone does nothing to calm you down, and you tremble with skepticism.

A little over two weeks go by with you and Jaehyun staying at Johnny’s, but not even a day went by before Johnny pulled you outside, making you start your physical training in order to get back in shape. ‘It’s important for the plan,’  he said. 

The plan was simple, or at least they made it seem like it was. But you know — and you’re sure they do as well, it’s going to be tough. Theoretically everything seems to be doable and simple, but in reality it’s going to be a living hell.

So Johnny trained with you, and even if the intensity of your workout wasn’t as tough as the training you got in the mountains, it still helped you get back on track. No more ankles popping at sudden movements, no more losing balance, no more ears ringing — for the most part, in which you weren’t in your own head, falling victim to your own thoughts and making the paranoia engulf and suffocate you.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask him right after throwing a kick. “To your own father?”

Johnny frowns for a split second, his features relaxing as soon as he straightens his back. Fringe kept off his sweaty forehead with two small hair clips, his grey tank top is damp and sticking to his torso. You definitely hit a nerve, even if he’s trying to shake it off and return to his usual good spirits.

“We have unfinished business,” he explains, taking a sip of water from his bottle, and then looks at you, “You also have unfinished business. So it’s easier if we just team up,”

“I do?” You question, giving him a quizzical look. Apart from you resigning and going away after messing up a mission, you’d think your time in the squad wasn’t problematic. 

“Yes? Think about the way he set you and Jaehyun up now and all those years ago?” Johnny looks at you like you’re stupid, like something is not registering inside your brain. And then you see a slight change in demeanour, like something has just dawned on him, “You haven’t talked to Jaehyun about this, did you?”

You shake your head, snatching the fight gloves away from your hands and wrists, and you feel rage suffocating you. You’re not even sure why the lump in your throat is making it difficult for you to swallow, but it’s becoming too much when scenes from the past pop up in your head like passing flashbacks. Not here to stay, but enough to unsettle you. 

And this is the main problem, you never knew what happened all those years ago, and to find out from Johnny that Jaehyun actually has an explanation for it all makes you choke up with betrayal. Because you suffered like a dog in pain after Jaehyun had to fight you in front of everybody, and how that broke any kind of bond the two of you had.

But you’re not surprised, knowing how Jaehyun isn’t confrontational, how he doesn’t speak his mind until it’s too late, how he’s avoidant. And he is avoidant, especially after the two of you settled here for the meanwhile, you haven’t been able to talk to him except for the times Johnny was also present. 

You’re starting to resent him once again, and you know that this won’t do any good to either one of you, especially now that you’re on a new mission.

You find him swimming in the indoor pool, long limbs flapping and kicking around, and he doesn't notice you. And when he finally stops and notices you standing on the side of the pool waiting for him to come out, he takes the small glasses off, placing them on top of his head. 

He knows you well enough to know you want something from him, like a talk or a fight or something else, and he can’t deny that he saw this coming. With the way he’s managed to avoid you and your questions for the past few weeks — miraculously so — he’s surprised you managed to give him all this space. He knew you popping out of nowhere to corner him was inevitable, and he’s about to face the consequences of all his typical stalling.

“We need to talk,” You let him know as soon as he gets out of the pool, a few feet away from the point you’re standing in.

“We always need to talk,” he comments, and his words rub you the wrong way.

“We always do, yes,” you bark back at him, seeing as he grabs a towel from the nearby beds, “I honestly think you feel some sort of sick pleasure in seeing me harassing you, because otherwise why would you avoid talking to me when things aren’t blowing out of proportion?”

He frowns after hearing your words, but like the typical Jaehyun always does, he keeps his mouth shut, letting you continue, “Why do we always do this? You never talk to me when the time is right, you wait for shit to hit the fan, so of course I can’t help it but have fights with you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You feel like you’re trying to explain this to a child. Because a twenty eight year old shouldn’t have to make you go through this. You want transparency, especially because you aren’t enemies anymore, you’re on the same team and need this to work out if you want to go on living.

“What exactly did Johnny tell you?” His question makes you want to punch him in the throat, with the way he’s looking at you, wet hair slicked back, holding his towel around his shoulders like that is going to protect him from a possible attack of yours.

“What happened ten years ago?” You reply with a question, and the pain in your tone seems almost suffocating. 

Jaehyun closes his eyes, sighing. Things should never be this complicated, and for some reason you think he’s the one making everything so impossibly intricate.

“I was going to talk to you about it,” he tries reasoning with you.

“When?” You bark, clapping your hands, “Before or after killing me?”

He squints his eyes, and for a moment you think he’s hurt by your words, “Don’t do this. You know I stalled because I didn’t want to kill you in the first place. That’s the reason why he sent another killer after both you and me this time, you said it yourself,”

But you don’t allow him to continue, the possibility that he might end up manipulating you in his favour making you lose your patience.

“Why did he send you after me?” But the way he avoids your gaze is a slight confirmation of your suspicions, “Is this connected to the fight we had ten years ago?” You try asking, tone calm, but you feel suffocated with emotion. 

Just how many things did Jaehyun keep away from you — and most importantly, why?

“Answer me!” You feel like you're choking, and you see him nodding before his gaze finally locks with yours.

“He knew about us,” your suspicions are confirmed, and you wait for him to finally explain everything to you, “He’s a sick motherfucker,” he laughs, bringing his palms to his eyes before looking back at you, “He found out about us, he made us fight against each other and dared me to win against you,”

“Dared you?” It doesn’t make sense. If he wanted the two of you to fight against each other, why would he talk to Jaehyun privately?

“He said that if I won against you, he was gonna make me shoot you in front of everybody,” Jaehyun’s words make your stomach drop, and you feel like hurling everything you had for breakfast, “He was obsessed with you, Y/n. He still is,”

He looks like he’s being genuine, but there’s no way for you to know this right now, not with the amount of emotions taking over you. Did the old man send Jaehyun — specifically him, to kill you because he wants to hurt the two of you for kindling something all those years ago?

“I couldn’t do that, Y/n. I cared so much and I couldn’t kill you just because he was obsessed with you and didn’t want you to be with anyone else,” he rasps, and his words do nothing to calm you down. All this explaining is messing with your feelings, because while you learned to leave everything behind and forget about the feelings you once had for Jaehyun, it is incredibly hurtful to navigate the past and every thought of what could have happened between the two of you had it not been for this sick obsession you’re only now learning about.

“He said that he’d personally put a bullet through your head, if he found out I didn’t cut you off after that day. I had to do it to protect you,” he tries getting closer to you, but you stop him, raising one arm to keep him away.

“And you couldn’t tell me all this back then?” You feel like crying, and you’re sure your gaze gives you away.

“How?” He finally snaps, raising his voice at you, “I needed to protect you! And what were you even gonna do about it? Fight him? Kill him? Run away with me? He’d have found us and killed us both like rats in the sewers,” he’s losing his patience, and you know he’s about to let a thousand words past his lips at the speed of light. Because while he usually keeps to himself and doesn’t let anyone know anything that might be going on inside his head, Jaehyun has the habit of simply exploding and letting every single pent up frustration out after bottling it inside of himself for far too long. “And now he sent me after you because he’s sick and wants me to be the one to kill you after all. Like killing you will be my personal hell, and he’s right! I stalled because I can’t kill you, I can’t even imagine hurting you, Y/n. You have to understand,”

You guess he’s right, but while you certainly couldn’t harm your boss for conspiring against both you and Jaehyun, a little communication might have worked. While you couldn’t be with him, it would have been nice to know the reason why that was happening, instead of being given the cold shoulder.

“Maybe we couldn’t run away together, or be together, or leave the circle until he said so…” you whisper, because speaking up would make your voice break with emotion, “But you could have let me know why you were treating me like I didn’t matter, all of a sudden,”

You look at him while you take a few steps back, and you’re right assuming Jaehyun will not have it in himself to add anything more. And you’re right.

You leave him behind, standing by the pool, and you make your way inside the mansion, tears running freely down your cheeks as you try to contain your sobs.

You lay in bed as you listen to the quiet of the night. Everyone is in bed, most probably asleep, and everything outside is at peace. Only the sound of crickets singing can be heard, and the wind moans gently as it makes the trees dance to a lulling rhythm. 

It lulls you to sleep, it insists on making you fall into a spiral towards darkness and a place of unconsciousness you crave for, especially after the horrible day you had. 

If the constant grief you managed to keep at bay wasn’t enough to bother you, there’s the agony of a heartbreak that managed to resurface after so long. Jaehyun didn’t look for you for the rest of the day, didn’t come up to ask you to talk things out — but then again, did you really expect him to? Avoidant and non-confrontational Jaehyun? Yeah, like you didn’t know better than to expect anything from him. 

He might have confessed a few things to you today, but you’re sure he would have never opened up to you if it weren't for your constant nagging and trying to get words out of him. 

You manage to calm down, to find peace, and when you think you’re on the verge of falling asleep, a thought resurfaces and a face pops up behind your closed eyelids, disturbing the quiet of the night and disrupting the regular rhythmic beating of your heart — Ning’s face makes an appearance, covered in blood, cheek sliced and eyes glossy, just like the last time you saw her.

You scream, jumping off the bed, and tears start spilling immediately. An ache in your chest and a knot the size of a fist down your throat makes it difficult for you to breathe, to even think straight. You drop on the floor, hand clawing at your t-shirt as you try to rip it away from yourself, to let the air flow better. You gasp for air, tears making it impossible for you to keep your eyes open right now — and the same image plays in your head again, and again, and doesn’t seem to vanish.

You hear the thuds of heavy steps approaching you, and someone collapses next to you on the floor. One strong hand snatches the one you kept on your chest, and after getting it out of your way it grabs your chin, forcing your head to look up.

“Breathe,” you recognise Jaehyun’s voice. He’s calm, his tone is steady, “It’s okay, I’m here. Now breathe,” he rasps, squeezing the sides of your face as he keeps your head up. 

When you fail to do as he instructs, still struggling to gasp for air, he keeps you in place, using his other hand to secure you as he grabs your nape, and he blows gently on your face. 

“Breathe,” he instructs again as he starts blowing softly on your face, but eventually gives up as he sees your panic attack isn’t subsiding and you’re struggling to let air in, adding to the panic.

He picks you up, and you claw at his t-shirt as he moves with you in his arms, at a rapid speed. You recognise the squealing of the shower, while Jaehyun keeps you in his arms as he walks into the shower, right under the cold pouring of the water from the shower head above the two of you, and it doesn’t matter if it’s cold. It doesn’t matter if it’s freezing. You keep yourself glued to his warm figure as you feel the freezing droplets of water on your skin, as if they burned through your flesh.

Jaehyun’s hands are sturdy and big, and they keep you in place against his chest, securing you as you try to come down from your panic attack, letting the water do its job.

You start breathing again after a while, gasping for air with big breaths, and Jaehyun sits you down on the ground, his arms never leaving you. The cold water is a blessing, regulating your endorphins and calming the panic that took over you, and your head falls in the crook of Jaehyun’s neck as you wait for all your symptoms to calm down. That’s when you realise he’s under the freezing water with you, holding you, and the scenes in your bedroom just a few minutes ago replay in your head. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold, or at least you think so, because he doesn’t move an inch to close the tap until he can be sure you’re doing good.

He senses your warm breath fanning against the skin of his neck, and he finally turns to look down at you, black eyes piercing through your bloodshot ones. 

“How are you feeling now?” He asks, trying to make sure your attack and symptoms have subsided. You nod, touching him for comfort, and he hums, “Can you breathe?” And when you nod, taking big breaths to show him you’re doing fine, you feel one of his hands moving away from you, “I’m going to turn the hot water on, so we can get warm,”

You nod, body still limp in his arms as he moves under the water and towards the tap, and then carefully moves your body to rest against the wall of the shower, the shower head now directed at your freezing bodies.

You feel the water getting warm, and you bring your legs to your chest, while you can physically feel Jaehyun’s gaze on your figure as you try to relax.

“What happened?” He asked, carefully looking at how the water hits your face. 

“Ning,” you choke out, barely able to contain your tears, “Ning happened,” your head falls in your hands, and tears start brimming in your eyes again, but you feel safer, now that you know you aren’t alone with your thoughts, “I keep seeing her face from that night,” Your breath hitches in your throat, and you make huge efforts to take big breaths as not to have another panic attack.

“Do you miss her?” Jaehyun feels like an idiot for asking, but he’s glad he’s here for you.

“So much,” you whisper, finally letting your tears spill down your cheeks, yet they become one with the droplets of hot water streaming down your whole body. 

Jaehyun doesn’t say anything else, careful not to use the wrong words or do the wrong gestures. Despite the despair and sadness you’re feeling, you’re glad Jaehyun is here. He brings you comfort, and the feeling that you’re safe is back once again.

You look at him, at how his long strands of hair are sticking to the sides of his face, at how his big eyes are looking straight into yours, as if trying to assess the state of your inner turmoil.

“Can you tell me what happened that night?” He tries, gaze still not leaving yours. You can tell he’s genuine by the worried, yet curious glint in his eyes.

“He never told you what happened?” You rasp, because it’s hard for you to believe the old man didn’t let the squad know what had happened.

He shakes his head at you, gaze not leaving yours, “He only told us that Copperhead died and that Cottonmouth is no longer part of the squad,” he sighs, and for a second he avoids your gaze. But you can literally see the gears turning inside his head, and he moves to look at you once again, “And then he called me into his office,” you know what he was called in for, and you appreciate the way he chose to communicate with you. He literally tried avoiding telling you, and then he made an effort to actually open up to you — and you feel like you want to coddle him for doing the bare minimum. Bare minimum, yet such a big step for the non confrontational and avoidant Jaehyun. 

You nod, taking your time to recollect your thoughts without sending yourself straight into another panic attack. 

“We were in Bangkok for a mission,” you start, and your gaze gets lost as you look at how the droplets of water touch the drain of the shower, right before being sucked in, “We needed to take three men out that night. Two were part of a gang and the other was a very powerful man who had ties with some organisations,” you recall, and you gulp as you realise you’re going to explain how a small rookie mistake brought to your best friend’s demise, “Yizhuo needed to lure them in, bring them to one of their upper suites as I was in another building, positioned right across their suite, ready to shoot them. She had a gun, for good measure, you know the rules…” you trail off, throwing him a look only to see him nodding, “She managed to get them inside the suite, the windows were clear, and then one of them started to cover them,” your breath catches in your throat, and you let a big huff of air escape you as you try to continue your story.

Jaehyun is patient, and one of his hands touches your ankle in an attempt to ground you.

“I could hear her in my in-ear, she was trying to distract them from covering the remaining windows. She was so calm, yet so persistent and we were so close to succeeding, but then one of them attacked her, groped her, and he felt her gun. We both knew it wasn’t going to end well, and I told her to stay clear because I was gonna shoot them, but it was too late,” you choke, biting on your bottom lip, “They shot her right before I could finish my sentence and give her the heads-up,”

Jaehyun looks at you and the way your features contract so painfully in order to try and keep all the sobs and pain away.

“I managed to take them down, one by one, but only after aborting the initial plan. While hearing Yizhuo struggling to breathe in my in-ear, I fled the scene and went straight to their suite, not only because I needed to make sure they were dead, but because I needed to keep her alive,” you look at him, to make sure he’s still following, and you see how his gaze hasn’t moved away from the side of your face, “I know what the rules are. Abort the mission if there’s a fault in your initial plan, but the rules were never designed for duos. I couldn’t leave her there, Jaehyun,” you sob, turning around so your sitting figure can face his, and Jaehyun takes you into his arms.

“She was still breathing after I killed the three, but succumbed in a matter of seconds after I walked into the room to take her away from there,” Jaehyun hums after hearing your words, and then gulps.

“You couldn’t save her,” he rasped, one hand keeping you close to him under the pouring warm water. You were aware of this, especially after Grandma Ning made you realise it as you dived deeper into the story, but you were hoping everyone was just wrong. 

You felt immense guilt every time you thought of what went down that night, and how you had to leave her behind before catching the first plane home and reporting back to your boss. At least you completed your mission, but at what cost?

“I know it might seem like it’s your fault and that you could have done something to prevent this, but the only thing that could have prevented this from happening would have been Yizhuo not carrying a gun and them not feeling the dangers of it. But you can’t just not bring a weapon for good measure, so you can’t blame yourself for this. It happened and we can’t change that right now,” his wise words sink deep into every fibre of your being, and you try to come to reason that maybe it is like Jaehyun just said — it had to happen and it had to go this way. 

Had it not been for this, you wouldn’t be in a shower with him right now, you wouldn’t be here to see him trying to be more communicative with you, you wouldn’t be here to feel that strange attraction to him once again. 

It’s weird — just a bit ago you were having a panic attack, and now Jaehyun’s presence and words managed to calm you down and take your mind off the horrible things that have happened to you, that kept haunting you.

“Of course you decided to quit, how could you not?” He comments, and you realise he’s speaking mostly to himself.

“Can I ask what Johnny's unfinished business is with his father? And how are the two of you so close?” You snap him out of his own thoughts, and he looks at you all taken aback. 

“I guess we’ve always been close,” he shrugs, “We trained together, but he left me behind when he was ready to join the squad and I still had to train and fit into one category. And even after he left the squad we kept in touch, without his father knowing, of course. I was already in trouble for having a thing for you, so he might have sent someone to get me if he found out Johnny and I are as close as brothers,”

His words make your ears ring. He was ‘in trouble for having a thing for you’, but you don’t make a comment, too scared of bringing it up now and scaring him away. He seems to be in good spirits tonight, and you don’t want to ruin that — and you don’t even have the energy to do it right now, not after what happened tonight.

“As for his unfinished business, I guess it’s all about how his father reacted when Johnny decided to leave the circle. You should be glad he let you walk out on your own two feet and let you get away to another country. Johnny didn’t have the same luck as you,” You bet your eyes are the size of saucers as you look at him. 

“But isn’t Johnny his son?” Your question is stupid, you know this, but it makes sense to want to make sure you have the right details.

He nods, “Yeah, he is. But it didn’t matter. The moment Johnny decided he wanted to leave, the old man kept him tied in his office while his gorilla bodyguards tortured him for a few days,”

“What?” You bark, your stomach dropping.

“Mhmm,” he hums, one hand pressing forcefully into your flesh like a reflex, “I told you that motherfucker is sick. I’m just glad he let Johnny go in the end,”

You nestle against his figure for a bit longer, until he starts massaging his calves, and you realise the position you’re in — and the fact that you’ve been sitting for a while under both freezing and hot water, is finally bringing him discomfort and that he needs to move away soon.

You move your head to look up at him, only to see him already looking down at you. He probably thought you were asleep by now.

“Let’s get you dry and into bed, yeah?” He gets off the shower’s floor, and extends a hand for you to grab.

“Can you-” you tell him as he gets rid of his wet t-shirt and reaches for one of the towels in your bathroom, “Can you spend the night? I don’t want to be alone,” you whisper, and you feel warmth creeping up your spine and going straight to your cheeks.

He shows you one dimple, but refrains from making stupid comments. He knows you need this, and God knows he needs this just as much. Maybe things will finally settle for the two of you.

And after changing into a set of dry clothes, Jaehyun gets into bed next to you. He listens to the cadence of your breathing, how you’re finally at peace after a full and difficult day, and he turns around to look at you,  trying to take you in and make up for all the time lost while trying to avoid you.

The following weeks after the panic attack have been nothing but a sweet reconciliation with Jaehyun. Sure, you kept training and kept trying to keep up with Johnny and his incessant talking and trying to distract you every single second of every single day, but you got the old Jaehyun back. 

It started slowly, with the loving gaze he couldn’t hide at breakfast or during dinner while you explained to Johnny how Ning once taught you how to decapitate someone by using a ruler; or with his stalling around to be able to stay a bit longer with you even if he had something else to do with Johnny, in some other place around the estate. 

Then the lingering touches started to make an appearance, and the moments were so bittersweet with all the nostalgia they brought back, for all the time lost that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. 

“You guys are idiots,” Johnny comments when it’s just the two of you in the kitchen preparing dinner.

You turn around to look at him, meat knife in your hand.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ve been waltzing around each other for so long,” he ignores your staring, and he keeps chopping vegetables, “You think I don’t notice Jaehyun doesn’t sleep in his room anymore?”

And you guess Johnny is right. There are hints of the fondness you feel for each other, for everyone with eyes to notice. 

Ever since you opened up to Jaehyun, you stopped picturing Ning right before falling asleep. You guess it’s the wisdom he shared with you that one night, or maybe it’s the way he sticks to your body for the entirety of the night trying to bring you comfort, just like the old times.

But as the D-Day approaches, you start feeling anxiety weighing you down once again. It’s not about the fear of going through with this — because Johnny spent every single day since you arrived, training with you to get you back in shape. Instead, it’s all about the anxiety of losing something you just recently found again — or someone. Jaehyun. 

While you know you can’t stay at Johnny’s and hide forever, because that isn’t something you can consider a life worth living, you also feel like if something happened to either one of you it would ruin your life. 

What you regained when you reconciled and cleared the air with Jaehyun could be lost in a second, and you’re not ready to let it go. 

And then it seemed like Jaehyun had the same thoughts as you, because he dropped to your room one night, and the look on his face was a clear sign of the gears in his head working overtime. 

“I think you should stay home. Let me and Johnny and the others handle this,” he rasps, scared of your reaction. 

Your head snaps to look back at him, standing at the foot of your bed, cozy pyjamas making him look extra warm. How could you even think of losing this sight, and losing this warm presence that has filled you with a newfound will to live? How could you ever think of going on with life if he was going to be taken away from you?

“This shouldn’t even cross your mind, Jaehyun. I’ll be there,” you fight back, going towards the foot of the bed to be closer to him. 

“We have people helping us, you don’t have to be there,” he tries explaining, but you’re having none of it, shaking your head at him.

“I need to be there, to make sure I did my part,” you want to tell him that you need to make sure he’s getting out of there alive, but you refrain from doing so, “I am totally capable of doing this, remember?”

He sighs, “Fuck, I know this!” He squeezes his eyes shut, bringing his hands up to his head, fingers combing through his fluffy hair, “I know this isn’t the best time to tell you this, but I kinda love you. And I need you to be safe otherwise I can’t even bring myself to imagine what it will be like if you’re in danger… or worse,” his word-vomiting takes you by surprise, and by the time you register his words, you can see he also realises the weight of them.

You seal your lips shut in a straight line, shrugging as you grab his hips, “Well then it’s a good thing I kinda love you too, and that I also need to make sure you’re safe,” 

“I have John to protect me,” he jokes, dimple on display as he tries not to smile at his own joke, and you poke it out of habit. An old habit that has recently resurfaced, that is.

“And I have you,” you whisper, lurching a bit so you can kiss the corner of his mouth, “I can’t imagine letting you go in without me, I’d feel so guilty if anything happened,” your kisses trail on his jaw, right up to his ear, and you kiss his pulse line. 

Your hands travel up his torso, clawing at his t-shirt as you bring him down to lock lips with him.

 “I can’t even think of a future without you in it, Y/n, we lost so much time already,” he’s serious, and his tone makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise, “Just the thought of never being able to feel you here with me makes me go insane, I can’t afford for this to happen to us,”

His confession dawns on you, and you realise he’s finally found the courage to speak his mind up, he’s found the courage to change and be more communicative, for you. And he put everything into words, just as you would have done. He explained the turmoil going on inside of you, and once again you’re reminded of everything that’s at stake.

You lock lips with him once again, and your hands trail up to reach for his face, grabbing him by both sides to keep him close. He moans into the kiss, his lips devouring yours in a kiss so desperate and raw that it makes you almost want to cry. You have it all right now, everything you ever wanted, and tomorrow it could be all gone.

“I need you,” he mumbles against your kiss, not being able to get away from you as he chases after your kiss, “We need this,”

And you couldn’t agree more. 

Your body is suddenly burning up at the mere anticipation of having Jaehyun in all his glory.

He doesn’t waste time, pushing you slowly in a slight attempt to make you understand that you need to lie down on your back, and he takes advantage of your submission as soon as your back touches the comfortable bed.

On top of you, his hand travels down your body, playing with the waistband of your pyjama shorts, cold fingers lingering on your lower abdomen as he waits before allowing himself to proceed. He breaks the kiss, letting your lips finally go, and his mouth travels down your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses as he makes his way to your collarbones. 

His nose nuzzles your breast, covered by the flimsy night tank top you’re wearing, and his free hand travels up your body to reach for a strap, carefully pulling it down. His fingers are cold, but they graze your burning skin and it feels like a blessing, the contrast of temperature giving you goosebumps as you start to lose your patience.

You move your pelvis against one of his legs, causing the friction you so desperately want right now, “I need you,” you moan at the delicious contact, and you hear him chuckle as his head dips down to your chest, teeth grazing the margins of your tank top, “Stop teasing,”

Normally, Jaehyun would never take orders from anybody. But because he’s finally able to be with you after so many years of having to bottle up all of his feelings for you, he thinks you’ll drive him insane.

Your smart mouth always drives him insane — when you nag, when you fight with him, when you threaten to kill him. And with a swift movement of your hips, you manage to lock your  legs around his waist, making him rotate and fall onto his back, totally at your mercy. 

Unlike him, you don’t waste time. You push his t-shirt up his torso, gesturing for him to take it off, and his stupid dimple makes an appearance as he does as told. And then your nails graze the skin of his stomach just above the waistband of his boxer shorts, your index tracing up along his happy tail, all the way to his belly.

“Stop teasing,” he imitates you with a huff, and you’re sure he would have imitated your voice, mocking you like he always does, if it weren't for the way you’re straddling him, your core directly placed on top of his bulge.

But you decide it’s not the time to play around, not with the way you pleaded him not to tease you just a bit earlier, and definitely not with the way you feel your insides burning with anticipation. You decide you’re better than him, and you take pity on him as you free him and his aroused cock from the tight material that was pressed onto it.

It falls heavy on his stomach, and the sight alone has your mouth watering. It’s long, veiny, perfect girth from the base all the way up to his pink and glistening tip. You dip your head down, tongue travelling flat from the base all the way up, finally getting a taste of his leaky tip as you swirl your tongue around it, and Jaehyun moves his thighs to make space for you. 

He’s fidgety, almost whining at the way your lips lock around his tip, suckling on it as you feel your core dripping from ministering your actions on him. Your tongue travels down the sides of his shaft, returning up to take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks around him as you try to take his length. 

You feel him buckling his hips up into your mouth out of reflex, and you take his hand to place it on your head. He doesn’t need to be explained what to do, with him taking control of your mouth by sliding in and out of your warmth, underside of his cock rubbing deliciously on your flat tongue, and his tip touching the back of your throat as he keeps you in place. 

Your hand travels to your own waistband, getting under it, your fingers quickly finding their way in between your thighs.

The squelch of your motions on yourself bring Jaehyun back to his senses, and he gets lost in his motions as he focuses on the sounds of your wet core so eagerly taking every ministration of your fingers.

You try your best to control your gag reflex, trying to breathe in through your nose, and the moment you manage to swallow around him it’s when you hear a guttural rasp escape past his lips. “Good girl, baby,” he praises you, keeping your head still for a bit longer before moving his hips a few more times, and finally letting your head go.

You suckle on his cock a few more times, finally letting it go with a pop! and it falls right back down on his stomach, but he doesn’t waste time. He kisses you, tongue swirling around yours as you grant him access immediately, and you’re sure he can taste himself off your tongue but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“On your back, baby,” he instructs, getting on his knees in between your thighs as soon as you follow his commands. His fingers don’t stall this time, desperately pulling at the fabric of your short before snatching them off you, and sinking his fingertips in the plush of your inner thighs before you can close them and get some friction you desperately need.

He keeps your thighs apart, eyes on your glistening core like a hawk, “You were touching yourself, right baby?” He coos at you, almost mocking you. His index finger travels down your slit, and you moan at the contact of his cold skin against your burning core. You crave the friction only he can give you, yet he seems lost and in a trance while looking down at you.

“Jaehyun, please,” you beg him, and it seems to snap him out of whatever reverie he was just in. You need him to touch you, do absolutely anything to you, before you lose your mind, “Touch me,”

“No,” he’s quick with his answer, like you just gave him the perfect opportunity, and his gaze snaps to meet yours, “Touch yourself for me,”

He moves back a bit, still on his knees in between your thighs, and you see him grabbing himself, hand moving up and down his shaft as he looks at the way your fingers move. 

His fist moves from the base, all the way up, squeezing slightly right before going back down. But his eyes are looking down at you, traveling around your body, taking you in with a gaze so hungry and lustful that it has your walls pulsing around nothing. He looks like he’s ready to devour you whole, and moans get past your lips albeit your trying to keep it down, for the sake of your dignity and being able to face anyone who’s in the house right now, that doesn’t need to know what’s going on behind the closed doors of your room.

Your fingers make up for the lack of Jaehyun, for the lack of friction and for the lack of any type of ministrations. Your index turns around your clit right before sliding up and down your wet slit, finally reaching your entrance.

Your head falls back as you put one finger inside, biting on your bottom lip as your gaze travels to meet Jaehyun’s. His eyes are on you, eating up every single bit of every emotion travelling across your features. He’s squeezing the base of his cock, ministrations on himself long forgotten, and he just watches as you please yourself. 

“Jaehyun, please,” you plead, snatching the strap of your tank top to free your chest, your free hand travelling up your abdomen to reach for your breast and squeeze it, all while your fingers work their magic in and out of you. But you’re sure your fingers are nothing compared to Jaehyun’s — or even better, compared to his cock, and all the spots it could reach inside of you.

You almost tear up at the thought, and Jaehyun finally has mercy on you, “Please what?”

“I need you inside of me,” You don’t know how long you can go on doing this. When you started this, it was urgent and needy, and you thought he felt the same. But like always, Jaehyun gets lost along the way, losing too much time stalling on things.

He gets on top of you, properly this time, and lines himself at your entrance, tip of his cock teasing you. His mouth moves on top of yours, locking your lips in a desperate kiss, almost as if you can’t get enough of each other, and you feel the typical and exquisite pressure of his tip entering you.

You sigh into the kiss, head falling back at the feeling of fullness making your insides almost melt. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, and he tries his best not to move inside of you, feeling you trying to ease up on him. 

You’re so incredibly beautiful, Jaehyun tries his best not to finish in three motions of hips. The way you’re wrapped around him, the way you moan his name, the way you bring him closer with your legs wrapped around his waist — it all has him sucking his stomach in, and he finally starts moving in and out of you. 

He doesn’t even care about your moans or his grunts, the way your lips are so plump from his kisses and all the biting you did in order to keep down is literally driving him insane. And he knows you’ve been waiting for this moment almost as much as he has, when he sees your glossy eyes.

The pleasure becomes almost too much to handle, pressure building in your lower stomach and between your thighs, and by the way Jaehyun is losing his rhythm you can tell he’s just as desperate as you are.

His teeth graze your jaw, one of his hands travelling all the way up to the side of your face, where his thumb caresses your cheek, and his plump lips touch yours to eat up every single sound you’re letting out.

He’s hitting all the right spots, he’s touching all the right places, he’s kissing your most sensitive spots, and that’s the thing that does it for you. 

The way he remembers these things about you has the pressure in your lower stomach finally snapping, and your trembling thighs wrap around him as you feel his hips halting their movements.

He reaches for your lips once again, pecking you in between longer kisses that yearn for more, even now. He retracts just a bit in order to get a good glimpse of you, and his gaze pierces through yours, looking for something that you might have deeply hidden inside of you.

“We’ll be alright, you know this, right?” He makes sure you’re reminded of this, because he’ll make sure to die before he can see anything bad happening to you.

You nod, giving him a tired, spent smile, “I know,” your whisper fills the silence between you two, and he falls into your embrace, your warmth too cozy to let you go just yet.

Nothing seems scary or impossible when you look into Jaehyun’s eyes. They’re tired, yet they sparkle while looking right back at you, and your own gaze travels across his features.

He’s relaxed, seemingly at peace. The playful glint in his eyes gives away the way he’s feeling, and the slow blinking he does while looking at you makes a sudden wave of endearment wash over you. 

You really can’t think of life without him, not now that he has returned to you and he gave you a taste of what it would be like to be by his side for as long as time allows you. And maybe you don’t have to think about a life that lacks his presence, because you choose to believe his words — you’ll be alright, and one more look at his soft yet determined gaze makes you realise he’s going to do anything in his power to make this happen.

VII. EPILOGUE

You never thought that leaving the criminal life behind would ever be possible, yet you were proven wrong. 

You were proven wrong the moment you were allowed to walk out of your former boss’s office, by yourself. You were proven wrong when you managed to fly away, although you knew someone was after you. You were once again proven wrong, when the one sent to kill you refused to do so — and then you managed to team up, and escape death like that was the easiest thing to do in this whole world.

And you are still proven wrong every time you look at yourself in the mirror, not being able to believe you’re still actually here, safe and sound. Because while you know who you owe this to, it sometimes becomes too much to grasp, too difficult for you to believe that you managed to go through so many things and still be able to go on with your life.

You owe everything you own today, and your life being restored, to Johnny. Mamushi, like you still like to call him whenever he’s kind enough to pay you a visit, or every time ‘he’s in town’, although this excuse has been used before by someone else. So outdated, and a joke of an excuse, yet you still accept it and welcome him in the comfort of your home.

Now it’s easy to relax on the patio of your house, condo long forgotten, traded for the privileges of a more spacious mansion, that you have the pleasure of sharing with Jaehyun — your now husband.

Life is a sick little thing, and every time he comes home from a mission, you’re reminded of what was once at stake. 

Getting rid of your old boss didn’t mean cutting all ties with your old life. Getting rid of him meant Johnny taking his place, yet the conditions that tied someone to the circle changed.

Johnny took over the squad, and while he pleaded for you to come back, your refusing his offer was final.

Jaehyun retired, he now likes staying home with you, cooking and gardening, going surfing in the morning and then getting home to lose track of time with you. But he can’t keep away, even if he wants to — not when his commission is the highest out of all the members in the squad. And he certainly can’t keep away when Johnny drops by in person, to beg for him to take a mission.

Although you’re not the happiest with this, you know Jaehyun changed his ways. He isn’t looking for trouble now that he’s a settled man, and he genuinely loves his life and the lack of peril in it. But just four missions a year pay enough to be able to afford the house and the lavish lifestyle you got accustomed to, and he promises his missions are the easiest, because he had his fair share of glorious days and the younger members of the squad need to handle the most difficult ones, anyway.

You, on the other hand, decided to leave for good. No going back, no more missions, no more endangering yourself for money. You support Jaehyun and his occasional missions because you can tell he likes going back to his old life from time to time, but also because that’s all these missions are — occasional. Your last mission happened the night you managed to successfully annihilate your former boss, and you swore you had enough of that life.

At first, the boys wanted to find the perfect opportunity and attack the training camp in the mountains, but it would have been just so difficult to do so. There was surveillance, there were motion sensors everywhere — the old man and all the guards would have been alerted that someone was out there coming for them.

There seemed to be a few other options, but none were safe options. Until Johnny realised that the ambush had to happen at his father’s house, because there wasn’t any other place on this earth that was easier to attack — or so Johnny said. 

Sure, you and Jaehyun knew most places like the back of your hand. You knew which vents in the ceiling of the hotel were safe, designed specifically for this type of thing. You knew about the secret tunnels underneath the training camp, and how one — and which one it was — led to a secret bunker located in one of the mountains, and you knew how to access it.

But you didn’t know about Johnny’s childhood house, and how to navigate it. You didn’t know about the security system, and all the cameras or sensors around the house. But with Jaehyun’s support and because you were trusting him blindly, Johnny reassured you that he knew what he was doing. 

You only needed to jam the air and make all sensors and cameras lose signal, you had to get rid of the power generator in the basement, and to take out the few bodyguards around the property.

The old man could fight, Johnny made sure to inform you that you should never trust his father’s occasional limping, because the man was a kill machine — and the only thing preventing him from actually fighting and getting his hands dirty was laziness, and maybe also the fact that he was used to having someone else whose hands could get dirty, instead of his own.

Johnny made sure you were prepared for attack. He did his best to remember all the security measures his father had around the house, and prepared you for the probable fact that all those measures had doubled over time. But because the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, he predicted all the places sensors and cameras could be placed in, and his guesses were right.

One thing Johnny was proud to have inherited from his father was his mind. Johnny had always been able to predict security codes in order to hack his father’s bank accounts, or security codes for doors so he could sneak out in the middle of the night and meet his girlfriends.

And with all the night security taken care of, Johnny was sure the plan was going to be successfully completed. 

You remember how nervous you were, your insides churning with anxiety at the thought that you played an important role in Johnny’s plan, and that you failing meant getting you all killed.

You remember how you watched through the scope on your rifle all the spots indicated on the map Johnny made you memorise. You were supposed to take out all the cameras surrounding the estate, at least the ones you were able to hit from the side you were located on. It all started with you.

It all started with you, and it ended with you. 

Because after you managed to get in and get rid of all the bodyguards that were roaming around the mansion, the old man crept up on you, capturing you, and fighting you. Even now, you’re still so thankful for Johnny’s piece of advice about his father’s fake limping, because you were going to become dust in the wind if you relied only on your perception of him. 

And you’re also thankful for your husband, because the moment he heard you stomping your feet to a morse code asking for help, his elite assassin hearing brought him to you in just a few seconds, managing to take the old man off your figure and finally putting an end to the ordeal you had been subjected to. 

Back then, you couldn’t bring yourself to imagine what your life would have been like if Jaehyun wasn’t here by your side, after you rekindled. But today, you know for a fact you can’t live without him. Not when you’re so good for each other, sticking together like perfect puzzle pieces, so dependable on each other. Not when you got a glimpse of what life with him is like, you know you will never be able to be without him.

You’re snatched from your own thoughts when you hear the front door opening, and Jaehyun walks in like he just won the lottery. You guess that’s what a morning swim and surfing around for an hour does to a man with an old soul, who finds pleasure relishing in the beauty of life. His hair is still wet, and he walks around the couch to reach you.

“Is she up yet?” He mumbles softly, trying to contain his excitement.

You shake your head, “Not yet,” you reply back just as softly, looking at how he kneels on the carpet to touch your belly.

“You said she kicks all the time during mornings, except she never does it when I’m here,” He comments, eyebrows furrowing as he moves his hand on your growing baby bump.

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you,” You retort, almost shrugging, trying your best not to burst out laughing after seeing the misery on his features.

He sulks on the spot, but he doesn’t have the time to react, because your daughter kicks the spot his hand is placed on — like a sign that what you said isn’t true.

Jaehyun’s features relax, and his eyes sparkle when he feels another kick, as if she’s reassuring him by kicking a second time. 

And while you’re grateful for leaving the past behind, you’re even more grateful to see what the future has on hold for you, your husband, and your daughter. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this piece has been sitting in my docs since july, but this is what happens when a girl misses jaehyun just too much, it's almost unbearable at this point </3 it's finally here and im proud i managed to finish this, my longest fic so far <3 thank you to everyone who showed me patience and love, especially while i was away, and i really hope you enjoyed reading this just as much as i enjoyed writing it! im forever grateful for each and every single on of you babies <3 special thanks to my beautiful @taeeflwrr for making one of the dividers used for this fic, but also for proofreading this beast! i'll see you for the next one! ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა

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©️ KONGJJEN 2025. do not copy, translate or repost any of my works.

[kongjjen]

WHO IS IT ─★ lee haechan

SYNOPSIS: begging you to marry him, haechan promised you the moon, the stars hanging in the sky, and a few hundred million other things. but he never promised you the most important thing — the sun. and after all, that's all you wanted.

or, alternatively ── haechan has a plan of getting his grandmother's inheritance by marrying you, promising you that everything that was about to become his would also become yours. a lavish lifestyle, the liberty of being with other people — but you only wanted him. so what happens when haechan's plan backfires, leaving you both drowning in a sea of uncertainties?

PAIRING: husband!haechan x wife!reader

GENRE: fake marriage!au, marriage of convenience!au, f2l!au, angst, mutual pining, slowburn, smut, cheating!au

FEATURING: [brief appearances of] nct dream, aespa's karina, red velvet's yerim, riize's sungchan

WORD COUNT: 30k words

CONTAINS: fluff, angst, smut, slowburn, mutual pining, a lot of descriptive scenes (im so sorry). haechan is emotionally constipated, it takes him a billion years to realise some things. haechan is not the best husband, emotional neglect, emotional and physical avoidance. use of alcohol, cheating (mentions of, not actual scenes), smut (only between haechan and reader), oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, miscommunication, misunderstandings, rich!haechan, mentions of generational wealth and fraud, riize's sungchan (im sorry pookster), reader has a lot of insecurities and regrets.

NOW PLAYING: who is it by michael jackson

SERIES MASTERLIST: HERE!

Your high heels click on the busy pavement as you make your way through the crowd. The underground ride was hell, surrounded by tired office workers and sweaty tourists, and you just hope that the good odds were on your side and your expensive perfume was still clinging onto your skin and clothes.

When Donghyuck sent you a text earlier in the morning, asking for an urgent meetup at your favourite dinner spot in town — a very busy spot uptown that is, a very busy spot that is very difficult to get into last minute, you knew that it was a serious matter. It was always a bit difficult to get in touch with him, or get a hold of him. He was busy with work, busy with dates, busy with friends, but you knew he always had the softest spot for you, and vice versa. And how could you not, after knowing each other since elementary school? He always found the most random times to be with you — be it on a random Saturday, coming over to your place to watch High School Musical for the nth time, or on a monday at noon taking you out to have lunch together during your lunch break. Or on a thursday for a friendly dinner. Like tonight. 

You know how this is going to go. You’ll take your seats, get your orders taken, eat, chit chat about whatever’s too heavy on his mind for him to keep only to himself. “I’m a man of many secrets,” he once told you, “But somehow you know about ninety-five percent of them,” you can recall the genuine smile he showed you that night a few years ago.

“Hyuck!” You spot him playing nervously with the hem of his jacket, “I’m sorry I’m late, had to go home to change,” you give him a hug, and he keeps you close a few seconds more than he usually does.

“You smell nice,” he pats your back as he reaches for the restaurant door, “Let’s go inside, I’m starving,” 

The atmosphere inside the restaurant brings you a sense of familiarity. The red and brown decor, the dim lightning and the candles around the tables, the faint melody played in a corner by the familiar pianist who also occasionally hums the tune, his fingers touching the keys in a gentle manner. It is so familiar to you, this is your favourite restaurant after all.

“Hate these candles,” Donghyuck grumbles as he opens the menu, setting his eyes on the wine menu. You know he always gets the same three things on rotation, and he always tries to steal food off your plate because your food choices are always the best. 

“So why do we always come back?” You ask him with a smile, handing your menu back to the waiter who takes off with your orders.

“I like that guy,” he points to the pianist in the far corner of the restaurant, “He always plays some Tony Bennett tune,”

“And you like the wine,” you retort, watching as he nervously takes a sip from his glass.

“And I like the wine,” he smiles at you, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which is odd — because he always lets himself go when he is around you. You know his true colours, no need to hide himself from you. 

And yet you wait. You don’t ask him what’s wrong, you don’t ask him what was so urgent to actually meet you for a second time during the week, remembering very well how he took you out for ice cream after work a few days ago. You suppose it’s all about timing, and he’ll know when it’s time to tell you what’s bothering him.

For the duration of the dinner, you see him fidgeting with his fork and knife, looking at you with a glimmer in his eyes yet looking back down to his dorado as soon as you make eye contact with him. He tries to open his mouth a few times to speak, yet he closes it as soon as he notices your head perking up waiting for him to start talking. 

You think you need to take matters into your own hands and force the words out of his mouth until you see him eyeing your brisket.

“Don’t even think about it,” you utter while cutting into the meat on your plate.

“Oh, please,” he cries, setting his knife down, “Just a tiny taste,” he pleads.

“I didn’t ask for a tiny taste of your dorado,” you shrug, chewing on the tiny piece of brisket on your fork. 

“I would have given it to you,” he whines, pointing at you accusingly.

You look at him unimpressed, yet still intrigued. He’s not being annoying about anything tonight, which is very suspicious to you. So instead of trying to get inside his head — which he’ll probably let you do later anyway, you try to make small talk, to appease the tension just a bit. “So, how was that meeting yester-”

“Will you marry me?” He says — no, asks, but in such a gentle whisper that you think your ears are deceiving you. You stop mid-chew to look at him, as if the active action of chewing would ever impair your hearing. If you heard him right, you think it’s a devious, sick joke on his behalf.

“What did you just say?” You ask incredulously, spitting the piece of meat you had been chewing on, in your napkin.

“I said,” he played with the corner of his napkin, that was now sitting on top of the table instead of his lap, “will you marry me?”

“Are you insane?” You bite back, looking at how his energy deflates even more. “Did you fall today? Did you hit your head like that one time in tenth grade?” Your questions keep on flooding the atmosphere between the two of you, and even if your voice is low in volume, he hears you perfectly.

“Listen,” he starts, and you watch as he stops himself from continuing as the waiter comes to retrieve the plates from your table. He holds a finger up in the air, silently telling you to wait, and he asks for another bottle of wine. “I know this is sudden,” he stops when you scoff, setting back into your chair, waiting for him to go on, “But this is an opportunity of a lifetime, for both of us,” he says confidently.

“How so?” He’s impressed by your apathetic tone, he thought you’d be at least a bit more enthusiastic. He’s played all the possible scenarios in his head for the past few weeks, yet these last few days have been the worst. He hasn’t slept much, hasn’t eaten much, hasn’t been able to pay attention to his regular activities and hobbies that much either. The only things on his mind were you, and as disturbing as it may sound, his grandmother.

“I would get to settle down” he points to himself before looking at your annoyed and endearing figure sitting across him at the table, “And you will have the most perfect wedding. Not to mention the fact that you can have all the money you ever dreamed of. Imagine living that lavish lifestyle, buying yourself everything you have to restrain yourself from right now. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He smiles at you like a little devil who’s ready to whisper into your ear all the advantages of his daylight delusions.

“What are you even talking about?” You are truly in disbelief, looking at him being so calm so suddenly, “How would that even be possible?”

Suddenly you are well aware of the reason of his fidgeting, and why he stayed silent for the whole night. He didn’t know how to open his mouth and tell you a bunch of crap without you throwing your plate at his head.

He shushes you, and you scoff at his stupid attempt of trying to make you come to reason. “Grandma Lee’s inheritance,” he explains calmly, playing with the table cloth. 

Your eyes are the size of saucers while looking at him feigning fake innocence. You’re sure this can be categorised as fraud in so many states and countries. The worst way this could go would be this idiot turning you in for attempted fraud and him leaving with all the inheritance he pretends he’s entitled to. 

When you say nothing, just staring at him like he’s grown a second and then a third head, he sighs exasperated, throwing his head back in a sign of annoyance.

“Y/n, you have to hear me out,” Donghyuck pleads, bringing his hands over his face out of frustration. Your eyes fall on his weird and crooked pinky, reminding you of his funny and equally weird childhood story about what had happened for it to become so crooked. So fresh in your mind, you already know it by heart.

“But wouldn’t it be considered — I don’t know…” you make a pause, biting on your nails, “Fraud?”

His eyebrows furrow and then a second later his features relax, yet still being able to hold an unimpressed look in his gaze. He glares at you judgementally, as if asking you if you're stupid. You have the same expression, your gaze holding his, silently asking him who, between the two of you, was the real idiot in this context. Is he stupid for proposing such a plan, or are you the idiot who can’t see anything but the faulty side of his master plan? You try to figure out to what extent it can be considered fraud, promising yourself you’d be looking into this matter later.

“How would this be fraud?” He whines, a few heads turning around to look at the two of you. Certainly, people's ears perked up at the mention of the word fraud, and perhaps Donghyuck’s loud whining had something to do with it too. 

You shush him, “How would it not be considered as such?” You speak through gritted teeth, trying to convey the message to keep his voice down, for his own good. 

You two are having dinner in a nice, uptown restaurant, and you really wish you didn’t have this conversation right here. You were a fool for believing Lee Donghyuck had anything else to say to you except for a stupid idea he had been letting marinate in his pretty head.

“It wouldn’t be,” he insists, “Because anywhere we go we can pass as a loving couple,” he states as matter-of-factly. “Remember that time we scammed the baristas downtown during last year’s Valentine’s Day?”

When you say nothing, only bringing your elbows to rest on the table, he goes on. “Listen, I know for a fact that this is going to be a success. I’ve made plans and took into account all possibilities, and I am my grandma’s favourite grandchild. This is going to work out, trust me” he explains with determination, and you almost believe his words. 

Except, you still have a working left brain. 

“Again,” you sigh, “How is this not a criminal act in your books?” You try to make him come to reason, but he doesn’t want to hear any of it, waving his hands around in an exasperated gesture, “And how do you even know you’re grandma Lee’s favorite? Out of ten grandchildren?” 

“I may have found her will,” he answers immediately, but it comes out more like a question holding a billion uncertainties. Your puzzled expression makes him continue, “When I visited her last year for her birthday, she made me fish for those papers in her home safe. The search for it was very bizarre, like treasure hunting or something, which you’ll realise in a second, it’s very ironic,” he takes a sip of his wine, trying his best to be as serious as possible in order to make you understand how serious he is about this. “She made me look for it in her mansion, giving me easter eggs and hints about where in the house it could be. And when I found it,” his silence lingers for a while, trying to find the best way to tell you the whole story, “This may sound very bizarre, I know, but she even had a riddle for her safe code. I solved it and there was her will, looking right at me. We looked over it together, and she made sure to divide all her assets equally between all her children and grandchildren, except the few hundred million dollars she has to her name.”

You blink once. You blink twice. You double blink for the third time and he scoffs, but quickly recomposes himself, remembering the purpose of telling this whole story, “Y/n, I’m being so serious right now, you have to believe me,” he stops briefly, his fingers drumming on the table following a rhythm only he knows, “In that testament I was the sole heir to her bank account, with that one exception,”

“You need to get married,” you remark.

“I need to get married,” he confirms, laying his hands flat on the expensive cotton tablecloth nicely adorning your dinner table for two. 

Your eyes fall on his crooked pinky once again, your gaze sliding to the finger next to it. The ring finger. You think it could be nice to have a gold band to embellish his beautiful and slender finger. Donghyuck seems to pick up what's going on in your mind, and even if you needed a bit more convincing, he knows you're going to agree to his plan.

And surely, you think, with a few hundred million dollars in your bank accounts, and a man as beautiful as Donghyuck to call your husband, there's nothing that could ever go wrong. Right?

And, before agreeing to his stupid plan, you sceptically make him paint the picture for you. 

“We tell people we’ve been dating for a bit, because we realised we are very much in love,” he explains nonchalantly as he stabs his lava cake with his tiny dessert fork. 

“I genuinely think you’re deranged. You lost the plot to your own scenario,” he looks at you all worried, a smudge of chocolate in the left corner of his mouth. His stupid big brown eyes looking into your raging ones, not understanding the accusations you’re bringing him. “How would you explain this to people? To the boys?” You set your tiramisu aside, knowing damn well he’ll make an attempt to slide the tiny dessert plate across the table and devour the sweet treat. He scoffs once again, as if you’re the one being the ridiculous one here, but he stops himself from letting any word out, letting you continue rambling on about your concerns. “Hyuck,” you start, setting your hands flat on the table, just like he did before, “I think you’re forgetting something. People know you sleep around,”

“Slept,” he retorts, raising a finger in the air as to accentuate his statement, “Haven’t slept with anyone in a while, couldn’t bring myself to, knowing I’ll soon be a married man,”

When you say nothing for the nth time this evening — out of disbelief this time, he’s sure — he goes on, “I told you I already thought of every single scenario and possibility. We’re childhood friends, it won’t be that hard for people to fall for the story of how we realised we’re made for each other. We tell them we kept it a secret for our own good, we tell them we’re madly in love with each other and that we got engaged. We get married, and I want you to think about this, Y/n, let me paint the picture for you,” he says, raising his hands in front of his figure to make a rectangle in the air, “You get to have the dream ceremony I know you’ve always dreamed of, with a big and beautiful bouquet, and the most expensive and show stopping wedding dress. Your veil will cost more than double my suit and your shoes will have rocks more expensive than my car. We then move in for a bit in my — or your apartment, until grandma Lee passes, which by the way,” he stops to raise a hand in the air, as if to assure you, “Will be pretty soon, judging by the medical report I found in her bedroom a bit back. We then buy a house bigger than Brad and Angelina’s mansion. Think of it, Y/n, we could be the new Brangelina. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He slides your tiramisu across the table and excitedly sticks his forks into it, then looks at you with a glimmer in his gaze.

His plan could have been far worse than this, you think, yet the faint reminder of the fact that the two of your are going to be in a marriage is slightly terrifying to you. You always thought you’d get married to someone you had feelings for, whom you loved, and while certainly you do love Donghyuck in a very confined way, you’re sure that it is within the bounds of a lifetime long friendship, in which the both of you have gotten to know each other almost perfectly.

He sees you getting too much into your own head, and snaps his fingers right in front of your nose, like he’s always done since you were children. “What’s bothering you?” He asks, his tone genuine.

“What about…” you bite your lip, too afraid of hearing something you don’t really want to be hearing, and you’re not sure what kind of answer you’re trying to avoid. “What about dating?” You finally ask, and he waves his hand to dismiss your worries.

“Don’t worry about it,” he goes back to the tiramisu he’s put aside when he saw your concerned scowl, “Unless our families and friends find out about our dates, we’re free to see whoever we please and like,” you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, straightening your posture.

And then you see him, grinning at you like he’s the devil, “So what’d you say?” He stands up slowly from his chair across the table, and just as slowly he reaches for something in the right pocket of his slacks while still grinning.

And before you can actually register what is about to happen, you see him sprinting to reach your side, kneeling down in front of you and opening a stupid, black suede small box that — you think once he opens it to reveal its content to you — holds the Hope Diamond. 

“Y/N,” he says your name, and you make a very big effort to tear your gaze away from the ring inside the small box he’s holding, “Will you marry me?”

And with a Tony Bennett tune in the background, with a diamond as big as your fist, and a man as handsome as Donghyuck kneeled in front of you, a man who’s promised you the world just a few minutes back, how could you ever refuse?

“Yes, yes I will”

“You’re what?” Chenle and Mark scream simultaneously, sitting in pure shock on the carpeted floors of Jaemin’s apartment. 

You glared at Donghyuck, who was standing next to you, looking all offended by his friends. He grabbed your hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. His fingers interlocked with yours, “I said,” he showed your hand to his friends, “We’re getting married,” his eyes softened while looking at you. Dang it, he’s a very good actor, you thought.

“How- how did this happen?” Mark stutters, his voice cracking. Chenle reaches for your hand to look at your engagement ring, and his eyes bulk out of their orbits. 

“What the fuck, Hyuck?” He glared between you and Donghyuck, his friends, and the rock on the ring. “Did you guys see the size of this rock?”

“Yes, whatever, it’s the size of your head,” Donghyuck rolled his eyes, and you don’t have time to giggle at his joke as he pulls you gently by the arm towards the empty loveseat. You sit on it, and he pulls a chair close to your seat.

You look around at his friends. The energy in the room fluctuates and changes based on who you look at, Mark being still in shock, Chenle keeps looking at your hand, Jeno congratulates you, and Jaemin's displaying a huge grin that’s plastered on his face. The different reactions feel overwhelming to you, and you imagine how bad it will be when you break the news to your and Donghyuck’s families if his friends reacted this way.

“I knew it, you guys,” Jaemin claps his hands and shakes his shoulders in excitement, “I knew you guys were together!” He cheers, looking around the room, encouraging the others to join his happiness.

Donghyuck averts his eyes and clears his throat, fidgeting a bit in his seat. “Yeah, we were meant to be,” 

“But how long have you guys been together?” Jeno asks with caution, his eyes a bit lost as he lets you know his curiosity and concerns.

“A few months,” you reply, “but we’ve known each other for so long that we feel we’ve been together forever,” you explain, moving your hand. You smile, amused noticing Chenle’s eyes still looking at your hand, straight at your engagement ring.

“It’s been a bit,” Donghyuck says, “Right after Y/n’s birthday party,” he smiled, his hand reaching behind you to pat your back, which made you straighten your posture immediately. The sudden contact, his warm hand burning its print on your back. The nerves and stress of breaking the news of your supposed engagement to the people you care the most for makes a light shimmering coat of sweat veil your skin. You recompose yourself quickly, not expecting the sudden contact.

You look at the people around the room. Except for Chenle, who’s still looking at your hand and then at Mark who’s still shocked by the sudden news, Jaemin is the only one who beams with joy. 

“We’re very happy for you,” Jeno brings a hand to his chest, reaching forward in his seat as he tries to get closer to you and your supposed fiancé, “It’s just that it’s very sudden news,” 

“Extremely happy,” Mark comments, smiling at you and then looking at his best friend, “It’s weird that we didn’t notice,”

“Talk for yourself,” Jaemin barks back with an upset tone, which makes you burst out laughing, “I’ve been plotting and scheming for a very long time,” he shuts up as soon as Donghyuck glares at him. He smiles back at his friend, and then he winks at you with a knowing smile.

 Out of all of Donghyuck’s friends, you felt Jaemin and Chenle to be the closest to you. They were his friends from college, and you met them countless of times during the last few years and for occasional meet ups, but you definitely felt that Chenle and Jaemin were your friends too. Mark was awkward at times, but he always took care of you whenever Donghyuck left the club with some lady hanging off his arm, leaving you behind in the club with his friends. Jeno always lets you win during game nights. While Donghyuck tries everything in his power to cheat at every game and to corrupt Jaemin and Mark to join him in his cheating, sometimes even trying to bribe you to give him a property that he really needed while playing Monopoly, Jeno always lets you win, even helps you sometimes just to see Donghyuck’s cheeks lose all color when he realised he lost the games.

“Y/n?” Donghyuck touches your back once again, the sudden and unexpected  physical contact making you jump slightly — once again. You look at him and you realise you blacked out for a bit, lost deep in your own thoughts about the guys. Realising you weren’t paying attention to him, he repeats himself, “Monopoly tonight?”

You looked around the room at the guys sitting around you with hopeful looks, and you agree before your brain can register completely. You would never ever pass on the occasion of beating Donghyuck at games, or at anything in life, especially now that you’re getting married.

You look around yourself, around the street, you look around at the people passing you by on the pavement. The still cold days of march make you zip your jacket up, your cheeks rosy and your nose and ears freezing even if the sun is out and hitting all the buildings around you. You rub your hands together in a pathetic attempt to warm yourself up, trying to calm the terrible feeling you have in your guts.

“Hey,” your head snaps to the side as soon as you hear Renjun’s voice, and you hug him tightly as you take a good look at him. Bucket hat low on his forehead, covering his eyes, you wouldn’t even recognise him if you didn’t know the timbre of his voice. “Are we waiting for the girls here?” He asks looking around, and when you nod he gets closer to where you’re standing on the pavement. 

“Are you cold?” You ask, hugging his figure once again and rubbing your hands on his arms, hoping the friction will be enough for him to bear the cold a little bit longer. 

He nods, zipping his jacket up to his chin and wrapping his wool scarf around his neck trying to find some comfort. You look at him, still hugging him, and you really wish you could tell him everything that’s on your mind, everything that’s happened in your life in the past few weeks. But for the integrity of your and Donghyuck’s plan you have to keep your lips sealed. 

Apart from Donghyuck, who’s your childhood and oldest friend, Renjun is the second closest. You met him in college right before you met Yerim, and you instantly clicked with each other as soon as you complained about the mess in the kitchen at the dorms. You started as fellow complainers, you then met each other in the communal lounge downstairs while studying, and then you kept looking for each other whenever you weren’t too busy being with Donghyuck. He met Donghyuck in your kitchen while the latter was making your ramen, and Renjun complained about the mess. 

“So you’re the one who makes the mess?” He was close to bursting a vein, trying his best not to kick the unknown man out of the dorm’s kitchen.

“Oh, hi” like a deer in highlights he turned around, scared by Renjun’s tone, before taking a good look at the guy in front of him, “You must be Renjun,” he cheered, changing hands holding the spatula and extending the newly free hand to Renjun, “Y/n told me everything about you, I think her exact words were ‘to look out for that Renjun’ guy,” 

Renjun looked at him, his eyes bulking out of his orbits, “You know Y/n?” He asked incredulous, thinking that you could never be friends with such a messy person such as Donghyuck, “And by the way, she would never say that about me,”

“She’s my bestfriend,” Donghyuck answered before turning his attention back to the ramen pot sitting on the stove. “And don’t worry, the mess was already clinging to these walls way before I came by today,” And in all fairness, Donghyuck is a very clean person, a very clean man. Talk about the advantages of growing up close to a clean freak like yourself. “By the way, I’m Donghyuck, I live in the dorm just around the corner,” 

“Oh,” Renjun mumbled, setting his own pots and pans on the second stove, “I’ve heard about you,” Donghyuck’s eyes lit up as soon as he heard the words coming out of Renjun’s mouth, delighted knowing that he’s someone you go around talking to other people about.

And since that moment you three stuck together. Donghyuck’s proximity to your and Renjun’s dorm, and the fact that he actually met the guy while cooking for you in your kitchen, meant he was always with you, joint at the hip, sometimes to Renjun’s dismay, because he thought Donghyuck was one of the most annoying guys he’s met. And then from your second year in college, the three of you moved in together in a shared apartment just outside campus and, although you became a trio, you’ve always been transparent about your friendship with the guys. What you and Donghyuck had was different from your friendship with Renjun, and the two of them hung out without you as well. It’s just your dynamic, and Renjun has always agreed to this, even if Donghyuck was a little jealous and possessive of your friendliness at times. As soon as you showed Renjun a little bit more attention, Donghyuck stole you away for a whole week. But it was always fine, it was never a problem for Renjun, for reasons you’ve never spent too much time worrying about.

You’re pulled out of your own thoughts by the two girls that approach you loudly, and Renjun sighs while shivering in your arms, “Fucking finally,”

“Why didn’t you guys wait inside?” Karina asks after you’re done with hugging everyone, “Couldn’t you guys get a table? Usually it’s pretty empty at this hour in the morning,”

“Wait,” you pull Yerim’s sleeve when she tries to make her way inside the cafeteria, smiling sheepishly as they look at you confused. “I know I invited you here today, but that’s not really where we’re going,” you explain, rubbing your hands together.

“So why are we here?” Karina mumbles confused, looking at the other two.

You point at the bridal boutique just across the street from where the coffee shop is, and their eyes follow the direction you’re pointing at, their heads snapping back to look at you, so harshly that you wonder how on earth they didn’t get whiplash.

“You’re kidding…” Yerim laughs so loudly that a few people’s heads turn around, 

“Right?” Renjun’s uncertain tone makes you fidget on the spot.

Averting your gaze, you cross the street to reach the bridal shop, and your friends look at each other, still hoping for you to turn around and tell them you’re joking. 

By the time they decide to follow you inside the shop, you’re already drinking from a glass of champagne and discussing about your dream wedding gown.

“You have to be kidding me,” Renjun mumbles as soon as one of the assistants comes over with a tray of champagne flutes.

“How are we here,” Karina downs the whole flute as soon as they take a seat on the expensive white sofas waiting for you to come out wearing whatever dress you discussed with the assistant you wanted. 

“I think we skipped a few chapters,” Yerim sighs contemplatively and looks at Renjun who’s visibly shaken. Out of the three of them, Renjun’s the one that looks like he got hit by a bus. He doesn’t even understand why he’s sitting where he’s sitting right now.

“Last time I asked, she was saying she’s not seeing anyone special,” he mutters more to himself, but the two girls hear him nonetheless, “I don’t get it,”

And then you come out from the little room at the end of a narrow corridor, all three of your friends shut their mouths as you show them the best dresses that you’ve picked up while they were deciding if they needed to follow you inside, or if they should just laugh it off and walk to the nearest bar because it was a joke. It was a reality check for all three of them, and while the doubts and shock was still in the back of their minds and ready to resurface at any given moment during your dress fitting, ah’s and oh’s and sniffles filled the room while complimenting you.

“I didn’t even know you were seeing someone,” Karina spills out, having already downed three champagne flutes.

“I really don’t know how to feel about you getting married to a total stranger,” Yerim sniffles, the feeling of betrayal suffocating her. 

You sigh, looking at your reflection in the mirror while touching your silky dress, and all your curves and edges, “He’s not really a stranger,” you whisper while looking at their reflection in the big mirror.

Renjun pushes himself forward, eyes as big as the rock on your engagement ring, which you purposefully left at home so as to not receive any questions as soon as you met your friends. He takes a moment to think of all the men in your life, your exes, your situationships. “Oh, dear heavens,” he touches the bridge of his nose as he looks at your reflection in the big mirror and then straight into your eyes, and something in his gaze tells you he’s gotten a faint idea of who it might be.

“What did she say?” Karina nearly screams into Yerim’s ears, the flutes making her lose all sense of volume.

You repeat yourself, “He’s not a stranger, you know him very well,” you look at the three of them, and you can feel Renjun’s eyes burn holes in the beautiful wedding dress you have on. “It’s Hyuck,” you whisper, not sure if they heard you.

Judging by Karina’s head snapping to her right to look at the others’ reactions, and by Yerim’s gasp, you can appreciate that they did indeed hear you.

“Hyuck as in Donghyuck?” Yerim makes sure you didn’t possibly meet a new Donghyuck in the span of a few weeks, “How did this happen?”

“How? That’s your concern?” Renjun pulls her by her arm, turning her to face him, “Your main concern should be when! When did this happen?” He addresses you.

“We’ve known each other for a very long time,” you start, “We were meant to be,” you hope Donghyuck’s bullshit excuses and scenarios reach your friends’ hearts, out of love for you. You know it sounds pathetic, the whole childhood friends to lovers fiasco, but you hope they won’t need more explaining regarding this, considering your and Donghyuck’s dynamics. 

And as your biggest nightmare comes to reality, Renjun scoffs. And you recall telling Donghyuck just a few day ago that Renjun is going to be the one who needs the most convincing out of every other friend you two have. “Just stick to the answers I came up with, and he’ll buy it. If there’s anything Renjun cherishes more than his bickering with me, then that’s his friendship with you. He’ll buy it in the end, trust me.” And when you look at him bewildered, because you never thought of accepting such an explanation from him, he sighs and wraps an arm around you, walking you through the whole scenario again, “Tell him we’ve been together for a few months, I told you I love you blah blah blah. Stick to the scenario. Stick to the plan, Y/n” he cupped your face, swiftly kissing your forehead like he always does when you’re sick with worries, since the age of eight.

And so you do, you stick to the plan, to all the lines Donghyuck has instructed you to use, and while you play with your fingers all nervous and with trembling voice, you hope your friends are buying all of whatever bullshit you’re selling them.

“I knew this would happen,” Renjun claps his hands together as he looks at his two other friends sitting beside him on the small sofa, “I knew this would happen as soon as he ditched our study session at the library years ago just to spend time with you, when he found out some idiot didn’t show up to your date and you needed comforting,” this time he looks at you, straight into your soul, and you hope that he won’t be able to pick up whatever bullshit Donghyuck has fed you to convince you to agree to his plan. “You two are idiots”, he retorts.

And yes, you think so too. You couldn’t agree more. You and Donghyuck are idiots indeed, especially you. You, who’s willing to jeopardise decades of friendship just to make him happy, just to feel a bit validated by him. You still don’t want to admit the deeper reason of your agreeing, and you hope you’ll be able to ignore it and bury it deep into the back of your mind.

“But,” he sighs once again, and you’ve only heard Renjun sigh this many times when Donghyuck was insisting on having a bet and the loser would kiss the opponent if he felt like doing it, knowing damn well Donghyuck was going to purposefully bet on something that would turn out to be completely wrong and lose in Renjun’s favour just to kiss him, “I’ll admit that you’re very beautiful wearing that dress,” he points his head at your dress.

“You think so?” You beam and stand on your tippy toes, turning around to look at your own reflection in the huge mirror, using your hand to call one of the assistants over.

All three of your friends agree, and a drunk Karina even starts clapping, cheering you on. 

“I can’t imagine the amount of stress you’re under with all the wedding preparations,” Yerim hugged you as soon as you stepped foot out of the boutique.

“I’m not,” you smile bashfully at your friends, “Hyuck suggested we should get a wedding planner,” 

“Hyuck suggested,” Renjun imitates you with a mocking tone, already sick of your wedding talk after spending half a day looking for dresses for you, and bridesmaids dresses for your two friends.

“Are you going to act like this forever? I’m not even married to him yet,” you say with an incredulous laugh.

“For as long as you’re married to him,” he feigns fake innocence, and you only smile back, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, because you’re not sure how long that’s going to be. You never discussed this with Donghyuck, and Renjun has given you something to stay up all night mulling over. 

You really don’t know how long it’s going to last, or what the whole outcome of it will be, but you can only hope for it to last for the longest of times.

Telling your parents about your engagement was easy. They loved Donghyuck, and he’s been around you since childhood, in and out of your house like it was his own. Your mother always kept a spare place at the table because ever since he was a child, he was unpredictable. Your mom took care of him whenever he wanted to sleep over, she cooked for him whatever it was he was craving, packed him his lunchbox whenever he stayed over and the following day was a school day, his own lunchbox that he personally chose when your mom took the two of you to the store, him choosing one with Crayon Shin-chan plastered on its lid, and you decided on a MyMelody one. Your dad never understood why he was hanging around your house so often, and then Donghyuck came on your family trip to the seaside when he was eleven, and he could see the dynamic of your friendship. 

So when you broke the news to your parents, they were elated, they loved Donghyuck and couldn’t be happier to have him officially as part of the family in a few months.

Which couldn’t be said about Donghyuck’s parents. They liked you, and they trusted your family enough to allow their child to enter your home, and consequently, to spend all his free time there with you. But there was a line that should have never been crossed, and Donghyuck did when he proposed marriage to you, of all people. Donghyuck comes from a wealthy family, in which generational wealth was at the day’s order. Most, if not all relationships were transactional, but both parties were wealthy, and they both brought wealth into the marriage. Which couldn’t be said about you, because you didn’t grow up rich. You grew up in a normal family, you never lacked anything, but sure enough your parents couldn’t afford to change cars ever so often every time they pleased. And it was a problem for Donghyuck’s family. 

“Can’t they oppose to our marriage or something?” You asked Donghyuck after the two of you left his parents’ house, after Donghyuck broke the news to them while holding your ringed hand up for them to see the engagement ring, and consequently had a fight with his mother right in front of you.

Your confidence wasn’t the highest in that moment, let’s just put it this way.

“Don’t really care,” he frowned, taking your hand in his as the other was holding the steering wheel tightly, “The only approval I need is grandma Lee’s,” he mumbled stopping at the red light, “And she loves you,”

The look in his eyes sent shivers down your spine, making you swallow the lump in your throat, and you remember that feeling so well even if it’s been a few months since.

And now, looking at your feet, the point of your shoes slightly visible from under your long silky dress, you hold on tightly to your bouquet made entirely of Casablanca lilies. 

Your head tilts a bit from behind the partition keeping you safe from the eyes of all your guests, curious as ever to see you walking down the aisle. 

You spot Donghyuck’s family sitting reluctantly on the right side of the church, his side, while looking around themselves with judgement. You’re starting to believe something bad is bound to happen when no one can reach Karina, who’s also one of your bridesmaids, and you’re also starting to regret your decision of agreeing to this plan when you hear people whispering as if you’re not standing a few feet away from them, albeit hidden by a flimsy partition. 

“Where’s Karina?” You start to panic, thinking to yourself that this is a sign. This is a sign that this wedding should not happen.You made it clear in the past few months that you want your ceremony and celebratory party to be perfect, especially because Donghyuck’s family decided to attend, and even if you knew they considered you not to be the perfect bride for their son, you could at least show them a perfect ceremony. Which Karina is fumbling really badly right now.

“She said she’s on her way,” Renjun tries to calm you down, straightening the veil on your back so as to not have any creases. 

“When did she say that?” You grabbed him by the shoulders, your nails hurting his skin even through the fabric of his suit jacket, “Oh my god, Renjun if you’re lying to me-” you’re interrupted by Yerim grabbing your hands, freeing Renjun from your grasp.

“You have to calm down,” Yerim pleads, shaking you slightly. “You need to relax, you’ll walk down this aisle and you need to be your best self,” she grabbed your cheeks lightly, and she resists the urge of kissing you on the cheek because she doesn’t want to ruin your makeup. You look so beautiful right now, even if you’re panicking out of your mind.

“I’m here! I’m here!” Karina’s heels clatter on the marbled floors of the entrance, adjusting her dress which was already starting to crease as she almost started running towards you, “I’m so sorry,” she looks embarrassed, holding the little bouquet Yerim hands over to her.

You let out a sharp exhale, instructing Renjun to go ahead and start the ceremony. Yerim smiles to you and reaches behind you to grab your veil, and gently lets it lay on your front. You hear the piano playing, immediately recognising the tune being played. You remember the day you were supposed to choose the music for the wedding march, when Donghyuck grabbed you by the arm and pulled you away from the huge shelf of music in front of you.

“I know I said this was going to be your dream wedding,” Donghyuck starts, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, “but I have a request to make,” when you nod, he continues, “Can I be the one to choose the music?”

His request took you aback, never expecting him to want to be involved in wedding preparations for a marriage that was purely transactional. To him at least. 

“Of course,” you had said, nodding and he knew you were being genuine by the look in your eyes, so big and sparkly, a clear sign of your sincerity. “This is your wedding too, Hyuck,” you smiled at him and he felt a lump in his throat as soon as he registered your words. 

He smiled back, and went for the exit of the music shop, but you stopped him by grabbing him tightly, “Just don’t pull any kind of Elvis or Hamilton crap in front of your family,” you retorted, serious as ever, to which he smirked.

“Elvis? Costello or Presley?” He joked, and you hoped he was only being annoying like he always is, and not serious. Seeing your sour face, he put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side into a tight embrace, “Oh come on, Y/Nnnie” he whined, and you kicked him as soon as you see pairs of eyes looking at the two of you, “Don’t you want to be part of a little musical act as you walk down the aisle? Like they did in ‘The Office’?” He whispered in your ear, and you can feel the annoying smile in his tone. He kisses your cheek, holding you even tighter, and you can feel shivers down your spine. Before you can react, you feel the arm that was holding you before, loosening its hold on you. 

“I’m being serious, Hyuck,” you began, but he started sprinting past you and out of the record store. “Wait!” You screamed, trying to catch him, “I’m serious! I have rocks with your name written on them, and they’re begging to be thrown at your head!”

You heard him giggle as he picked up his pace, trying to escape your loud mouth. 

And now, hearing the tune the piano starts playing, you understand what it was that he wanted. You immediately recognise Tony Bennett’s tune playing, and you think Donghyuck bagged his favourite pianist to play at his wedding, the one who works at your favourite restaurant downtown, the grace of his fingers unmistaken.

You hear heels clattering, and you know that Donghyuck is being taken down the aisle by grandma Lee, who vehemently insisted to be the one to walk her favourite grandchild on such a great day. And you’re surprised his mother didn’t bat an eye, but you know that’s for the best.

“Go! Go!” You whisper shout to Yerim to start walking down the aisle, and she holds her bouquet tighter in front of her, taking steps one by one.

When you go closer to where the aisle begins, you quickly look around the church, noticing the familiar faces sitting around, waiting for you to make your entrance before they stand up. You see Mark, Jeno, and Jaemin standing behind Donghyuck, whilst his other friends are sitting in the second row, allowing Hyuck’s family to sit in the first. You catch a quick glimpse of Renjun standing on your side, waiting for Karina and Yerim to join him, yet you feel a knot of uncertainty setting deep into your guts and stomach, and when you see Karina taking a few steps down the aisle, you take a few steps out of instinct and grab her forearm, dragging her back to where you were waiting to make your entrance.

“Y/n?” Karina whispers surprised, eyes the size of saucers, swaying a bit trying to regain balance after you drag her after yourself. “Y/n,” she insists, “What is it, sweetie?”

You grab your veil, yet still with care because you don’t want to damage it in any kind of way, and you bring it behind you head, because you feel the need to talk to Karina face to face, not hiding behind any type of fabric.

You look at the guests behind Karina’s back, or at what you can see of them since Karina is obstructing most of your view. 

“I- I don’t think I can do this,” you whisper, skeptical, and Karina thinks she’s never seen your eyes this big in size.

“What?” Karina tilts her head, not understanding where this doubt is coming from. 

But she isn’t in your head, she can’t hear your thoughts, and most certainly she doesn’t know on what grounds this wedding is happening. Everything is an illusion, a lie, and you feel the sweat starting to cling to the skin of your neck. As months passed, you really started to believe all of Donghyuck’s delusions, and all the lies, and all the endless conversations and discussions you two had about his masterplan, which unfortunately started to make sense to you as well. It was like the blind leading the blind. 

And up to this point, seeing yourself wearing expensive accessories and an even more expensive wedding gown, seeing everyone who’s believed your lies sitting excitedly as they’re waiting for you to make your entrance, hearing the melody of the piano playing one of Donghyuck’s favourite songs of one of his favourite artists, it hits you. And it hits you hard, and you can feel your eyes swelling with tears. 

“Y/n, what’s wrong?” Karina insists as she understands that she has a panicked bride on her hands. Not only a panicked bride, but a room full of whispering guests that start to grow more and more curious as they sense something is going on with the bride. And how can we forget the groom, who’s nervously biting his bottom lip as he looks at his grandmother sitting in the first seat, on the first row on his side. 

“I can’t do this, Karina. This,” you move your hand around, pointing at the church and all the decorations, including your outfit and hers, “this is all wrong. Very wrong,” you whisper, and Karina’s impressed by your eyes not diminishing in size.

“But why, honey?” She presses, “Donghyuck loves you” she caresses your bare arm, her other hand holding the small bouquet stiffly. “And you love him too,” she’s trying really hard to calm you down, as she notices you trying to swallow what she thinks is a lump in your throat. “You do, don’t you?” She inquires when she notices that you keep looking towards a spot behind her back.

And truthfully, you do. And maybe that’s what’s scary to you. Marrying someone you love so deeply, but who’s only marrying you out of convenience. You love Donghyuck for all his flaws and faults, his annoying side, his bugging, his cold facade, but you also love him because, well, it’s him. You’ve grown up with him by your side, and you realise you made him your ideal type, influenced by his permanent presence and knowing everything about him. And how unfair is it, realising someone is marrying you as part of a fraudulent plan?

You look at Karina, nodding. “I do, I do love him so much,”

“Then what’s the problem?” Karina asks once again, seeing your eyes brimming with tears. When you don’t say anything back, Karina starts crossing her legs, fidgeting where she's standing. She looks behind herself, discreetly, as to sense the vibes filling the room. The few last rows of guests already turned around to look at the two of you, asking themselves if this ceremony is ever going to even start. “Listen, sweetie,” she reaches for you once more, grabbing you by your forearm trying to assure you, “Who cares about this ceremony, anyway?” She waves her hand around trying to convey assurance, although she’s scared shitless of what you might do and how this day could end. 

“You don’t have to do this. We can get a cab outside and go away, if that’s what you want. You don’t need to get married today, who cares?”

You gulp, looking behind her to the waves of faces and heads wondering what’s going on. You spot grandma Lee’s head, who’s throwing questioning looks at you and her nephew, although you’re sure she can’t really see you thanks to Karina’s figure standing in front of you. And then you spot him, Donghyuck, tilting his head to look at you, trying to see you even with Karina obstructing his view. And his curious eyes meet your scared ones, and you gulp once more. 

“Hyuck,” you whisper, trying to compose yourself as you break eye contacting with him, “Hyuck cares. And I do too,” you conclude, grabbing your veil fast, bringing it to cover your head and face once again. “I am getting married today,”

You use your hand to make Karina spin around, gently pushing her forward. 

“Psst, Karina” you whisper shout, using a hand to move the veil a bit from your face so your eyes meet hers once again, “Do not say a word to Yeri and Renjun. Now go! Go!” You usher her to walk in front of you.

You look at your feet once again, and you touch the expensive, silky dress clinging nicely to your waist and bust, and then at the bouquet of Casablanca lilies you’re holding tightly in your hands. And yes, while wearing your expensive Vivienne Westwood dress, and walking down the aisle to The shadow of your smile, you are going to get married to who you think is indeed, the love of your life. 

The first few months were milk and honey. Your dynamic didn’t change much, except for the fact that you were sharing a bed permanently. You’ve always shared a bed while growing up and consequently in your adult years too, yet now it’s different. You can look at him in his usual white tee and large pyjama shorts that show the tanned skin of his thighs and it dawns on you that he is your husband. Your husband. And all the times he wears his expensive watch before going to work in the morning, your eyes skip to his fingers, searching for his wedding ring out of instinct. He always wears it. You’ve never seen him taking it off in the past eight months, which can’t be said about you. You took it off every time you were cleaning around or washing the dishes.

Three months after your wedding ceremony, grandma Lee passed, and Donghyuck’s fraudulent plan came to a successful end. Donghyuck bought you a house, took you on holidays around the world, gave you anything you wanted and everything he thought you deserved. And he did all this while wearing the wedding ring. Donghyuck could see the dreamy look in your eyes, but he never looked too much into it, thinking it was all about the hundred million dollars you were now sharing between the two of you. You were still the same Y/n, and he was still the same Donghyuck, except for the fat bank accounts and the sharing of the bed.

To Donghyuck, sharing a bed wasn’t that big of a deal. He’s slept on the same surface as you multiple times before, the only thing that’s changed now was the fact that the two of you were legally bound, and he actually liked being able to say that he was married to you, and that you are his wife. People never expected him to even be in a relationship, and never expected someone as beautiful as you to get married this young, and he found it hilarious.

“I like being married to you,” he says, chewing on a piece of steak he grilled in the back garden.

You seem taken aback by his words, blinking a few times before clearing your throat, “You do?”

“Yes,” he smirks. That stupid smirk that you hate because you know he’s about to say something annoying, but love at the same time because it’s his smirk. “We’re still the same, we’re still us,” he swallows the bite, “except you’re my wife, and that isn’t so bad,” he smirks again and you have no idea where this conversation is going. He’s a bit tipsy, having already opened a second bottle of red wine, and except the two glasses you had for yourself, the remaining alcohol is in his system. “Why wait and date around to get married, when we’re right here? I have you and you have me, we’re locked in for life, baby,” 

You feel a lump in your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s because he might have just promised you eternity by his side, or the fact that he’s just admitting to be settling for you instead of trying to go after someone he might actually love.

But you agreed to this, to the life he’s promised you. When you looked into his mischievous eyes once he kneeled down in front of you, you knew what you were getting into. Putting your feelings aside, being able to call Donghyuck yours even if he wasn’t anything more than the childhood friend you grew to love in a different way than the way he claimed he loved you back. The casual ‘be careful, love you’s you two threw in at the end of phone calls or when saying goodbye after school became to you much more than what they became to Donghyuck. But the gleam of hopefulness he’s always held in his gaze as he said he believed in you, as he tried to coerce you into committing fraud, as he promised you the moon, the stars, and everything else hanging in the sky, it really made you believe that you could have it all. If this all meant having Donghyuck next to you for the next years, decades, then it was all worth it.

And your routine as a married couple becomes just that, a routine. Waking up in the morning, making breakfast, and then he leaves for work because, unlike you, he still kept a job. And then you don’t know how to make time pass faster until he comes back home, to you. You fill your time with shopping sprees and activities you’ve never thought you would be picking up —  going to the spa and playing tennis every other day. The months pass and you’re not sure how your life has become so boring. Before, you really had it all and you didn’t even realise. A job, your own apartment, your own car that Donghyuck got rid of after the two of you got married, just to gift you another one. You used to hang out with your friends multiple days a week, now it’s a miracle if you see them once every two weeks. Moving to a mansion at the outskirts of the city isolated you, and you relied on Donghyuck for all the support you needed. 

As for your relationship with him, there really isn’t much to say. Nothing has changed, except that he seems to be less annoying, or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve already become too used to him and his personality since the wedding happened. At first, you travelled together for your honeymoon, and you swear you were on the brink of divorcing him, but that annoying feeling has subsided considerably, and you have a faint idea of the reason why that is.

And then, you start to notice Donghyuck doesn’t come home for dinner time that often anymore. Hell, you could say that it’s a miracle if he comes home on time for dinner at least two days a week. Most times, he comes home too late and has to eat alone, while talking to you about his day and what his plans for the following day are. Other times, he goes straight to take a shower, telling you he’s not hungry and that he’ll take a bite of what you’ve cooked in the morning instead.

And tonight, it’s both. He promised he’d be back on time for dinner and then High School Musical marathon on your big flat screen tv. But the dinner has run cold, you’ve already taken a shower, and by the time you hear Donghyuck’s keys open the heavy front door, you’ve already played the first two films.

“Honey I’m hom-”, he’s interrupted by a gasp, and you can hear his heavy footsteps run down the hallway to the living room, “Did you really start without me?” He whines, and you almost cannot believe your ears.

“Please tell me you’re not serious right now, Hyuck,” you warn, looking at him.

Donghyuck looks at you, at your figure, at your eyes. You’re looking at him, and there’s something in your gaze that, for the first time in years, he can’t decipher. Your eyes are sleepy, almost droopy, a clear sign of your tiredness. Or maybe you’re just disappointed and tired of him.

He plops down next to you, looking at you apologetically, and the action makes you jump on your spot on the couch. “I’m an idiot,” he whispers.

“You are,” you agree, nodding your head as you return your attention to the high screen in front of your figures.

“Are you mad at me?” He tests the waters, and it only makes you want to punch his face more.

“Why would I be mad?” You scoff, bringing your legs to your chest, an action he knows you do when you try to avoid confrontation.

“You’re not looking at me, Y/n” he mumbles, and it makes you roll your eyes. He knows you too well. “I’m sorry I’m an idiot. I just lost track of time,” he tries to explain to you, but honestly you don’t care. 

You think your blood pressure has gone through the roof when your ears start ringing and your palm is itching to be smacked against his face. 

“Doing what?” You ask, and if looks could kill, Donghyuck is sure he’d be in great agony right now, just about there, on the verge of dying. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since he plopped down next to you, and Donghyuck knows better than talking nonsense and making you even angrier, because you always smell his bullshit a mile away.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises again, trying to dodge your question, “Was with the boys out for dinner,” he pouts, “I promise we can spend as much time together as we used to once I’m done with this project at work. Kiss and make up?” He tries one of his oldest tricks on you. Ever since elementary school, every time you were upset with him he would pull this stunt on you. The upset one being kissed on the cheek in a sweet and childish attempt to make things better with a gesture of intimacy neither you nor Donghyuck liked showing to other people. Only to each other. 

And his attempt to make you at least slightly less upset with him is successful when the corners of your mouth turn upright just slightly. So he leans in, successfully invading your personal space, his head mere centimetres away from yours, and his chapped lips seem to leave a burning mark when he smacks a kiss on the plush of your left cheek. 

And that’s not the only thing that’s left burning right now, as you sense a scent you don’t really recognise. It’s so sweet it burns your nostrils, that consequently flare as a result of the nauseating fragrance that has invaded your personal space.

He retracts himself, singing along with Gabriella, but you don’t focus on the scene or what’s happening around you at the moment. You look at him, as he’s slouched on the couch, his head propped up by one of the cushions on the couch. He seems content with you dropping the topic of his late arrival and the dismissal of all your plans for the evening, and you’re left wondering if he’s aware of the fact that he smells like fucking cheap perfume. 

The smell is so strong up your nose that you’re sure there’s no amount of fresh air that can get rid of it, it’s the kind of smell you spray from a tester out of pure curiosity and it’s the worst fucking mistake you can ever do because the horrible smell will cling to your skin for the rest of the day. Too sweet and too strong.

You’re snatched out of your own thoughts when you see him turning his head to look at you, “I need to take a shower,” he announces, standing to his feet and moving towards the hall with the staircase to your shared bedroom and bathroom. “And after that I’m all yours, baby” he sings, and you’re once again left wondering, but this time all by yourself.

All mine, you repeat his words in your head a few times, but the only thing you can do right now is question if that’s really the case, or if it will ever be. 

Days pass and you seem to be unable to get the nauseatingly sweet smell of that perfume out of your senses. You perceive it at random times, while cooking, while cleaning, and you know it’s all in your head, because you washed every piece of fabric that Donghyuck could have touched a few night ago with his skin, even after showering.

You don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Sensing another woman’s perfume on your husband’s skin made your skin crawl and your heart drop to your ass. But is it even correct to call him your husband? He’s still your best friend, and that’s all he is meant to be forever. You can’t call him your husband if it’s just the two of you, because in all honesty it doesn’t feel like a normal marriage.

Because it isn’t, you’re reminded by your own voice of conscience.

And you know that’s right. The marriage is just a cover for when your families and friends are around, you don’t get to enjoy all the privileges of being married when there’s no one around, and you realise it’s upsetting you.

What the fuck is going on with me? You end up asking yourself. Why is this situation getting to you? You knew what you were getting into, you knew who Donghyuck is and what he goes around doing, you’ve known him for all your life and even helped him get out of unpleasant situations multiple times, so why exactly is it bothering you so much? 

You’re pulled back from you own thoughts when your phone rings, and you pick it up to see who the caller is. 

“Yes,” you sigh, not really in the mood to hear his voice.

“Wow, gosh, could you be more enthusiastic of my call?” Donghyuck’s tone is full of sarcasm, and you’re seriously contemplating if you should just hang up the call.

“I’m kind of busy,” you lie, “what is it?”

“I’m getting off work early tonight, wanna have dinner with me tonight?” He asks, and you can hear the car’s engine making noise in the background. “Y/n, hello?” He raises his voice a bit, thinking there’s no signal.

“Jesus fucking Christ, stop sounding like a hyena in heat,” you retort, bothered by the high pitch of his voice. “Pick me up at eight?” 

“It’s a date!” He cheers on the other end of the line.

As much as you didn’t want to be in his proximity right now, you can’t deny the fact that you miss him, and spending time with him. You’d still rather watch a lion feasting on an antelope rather than seeing his face and hearing him talk to you about trivial stuff as if he didn’t come home smelling like another woman. But the truth is that you miss him. You miss his company, his presence, the idiotic jokes he makes and the smart comments he lets out when you watch a film or show him some new music. You miss him spending time with you, just being together most of the time, and worst of all is that you miss talking to him. You used to talk to him about everything. From family problems to boy issues, from uncertainties to future plans, and he used to be there for you, attentive as ever as if your words held the truth to all secrets and mysteries of this planet. 

And you’re hoping that tonight it can be just that. You hope he misses you and your company just as much, and that he made these plans to take you out in an attempt to close the gap that has formed in your relationship. If you feel the distance and all these upsetting feelings and thoughts, then he must feel them too, right?

But the hours pass, and like some sort of sick tradition he’s trying to establish in your relationship lately, he doesn’t show up. You’re in a dress, you smell nice, you look spectacular, waiting for him to take you out for dinner at the new amazing place he’s found. Your stomach churns realising that he probably landed in that place with someone else as his date, and that’s how he discovered it, and you grab your purse before exiting the house.

You need to go out by yourself, and clear your head of all the insecurities you realise this marriage has given you. You used to enjoy his own company, and you used to look forward to having Donghyuck around you so often. But now it only irritates you, the thought of being in his proximity makes you want to punch a wall, because you know you can’t be near him right now. He knows you too well for your own sake, and knows if something is off the moment your gaze meets his, so it’s better to avoid him if you want to save your face in this pathetic masquerade. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? As long as people don’t see him going around on dates with other women, you have to go along with all of his actions. How would you explain to him that you know what he’s been doing behind your back? Because that’s what hurts you the most, his need of going behind your back instead of telling you about it all like he used to do in the past. Why did things have to change? 

Your chest feels heavy and your eyes ready to spill some tears. You make your way to your car, you need to be by yourself. Not like you haven’t been mostly by yourself in the past months, but realising why this happened makes you want to disappear into thin air. And you need to be far away, in a place where you can clear your mind, far away from Donghyuck, his smell, and you shared house — where everything reminds you of him, what could have been, and a macabre reminder of what it actually is.

Donghyuck doesn’t know how he got home the night before, too much alcohol present in his system. But he knows one thing, you weren’t there in your shared bed. Considering the taste in his mouth as soon as he wakes up, he can only imagine how bad he smells and that it would have probably woken you up the moment his head hit the pillow next to yours, knowing your sensitive nose. Because of this, he thinks you not being here last night and this morning to witness his state is a blessing. But he also knows that he misses you. He remembers being cold last night, and when he reached for you in search of heat, you weren’t there. 

Donghyuck’s head raises from his pillow, a splitting headache making him hit the pillow once again. 

You’ve never been away at night, not since this marriage happened. Suddenly, he remembers he has your location, and he can check your whereabouts on his phone.

“She’s home?” He mumbles surprised, making a huge effort not to whine in pain as soon as he stands off the bed and his head starts throbbing.

In his actual state, he doesn’t know where in this huge house to look for you, but then his head feels like being split in half when he hears the clanking of some pots and pans downstairs in the kitchen, and his nose picks up the faint smell of coffee and pancakes.

“Good morning,” he tests the waters as soon as he sets foot in the kitchen, but the bright light coming from outside the open window makes him whine in pain, and he brings his hand over his eyes in a sudden movement.

“Morning,” you reply back, flipping the two pancakes in your pan.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, just in front of where you’re working your ingredients, and you feel his gaze following you and your movements.

“How long have you been gone last night?” He asks out of curiosity, and he sees you suddenly frowning. He loves getting to talk to you face to face, because you can never hide your emotions from him. He knows every jot and tittle of yours.

“How long have you been gone last night?” You have a sudden burst, asking him the same question, and you grip that pancake spatula so harshly your knuckles turn white.

“What?” Donghyuck straightens his back on the high chair, looking at you confused. Seeing you so upset makes him forget about his muscles pain and splitting headache. Why are you so worked up for?

And then it downs on him. Last night, the alcohol, the company, losing track of time. The plans he’s made with you. He’s been away almost every night in the past months, and he never paid too much attention to you, because he never thought it would bother you this much. You can’t even bring yourself to look at him right now, and he knows he’s fucked up. You’re never avoidant unless you are really upset, or you’re trying to avoid confrontation because you’re about to open your mouth to pour your heart out. He’s witnessed this behaviour of yours multiple times, so he knows what to expect from you.

Except this time, you don’t start a fight, you don’t get teary eyed, you don’t tell him what has been bothering you. But he already knows. He’s been away too much, and he’s bailed on you a lot lately. 

You keep your eyes on your pancakes and on the huge bowl with batter, not even once looking at him.

“I’m so, so sorry, Y/n,” he mumbles softly, and by his tone you realise he’s genuine.

“What are you sorry for?” You ask, as if it didn’t really matter to you. Except it really mattered, more than you’d like to admit. But you’ve heard him apologise to you on many occasions in the last few weeks and months, and you feel like it’s lost its meaning.

“For forgetting about you and our plans,” he answers. Ouch. Him saying it out loud hurt more than the thoughts running lapses around your head. “I’m really sorry for not being here more often,” he continues.

And he really is, because he’s gone about his life like he didn’t coerce you into getting married for his own good. He thought that the setting down part will be done, and then the huge bank account that would come with it would be an advantage. When he said nothing has to change in your dynamic, he meant it. He wants you to go out and live your life to the fullest, especially now that the both of you share millions of dollars. There’s nothing that can stop you, nor him. While you have a joint account, for which Donghyuck insisted, he also insisted you had your own bank accounts and own cards to use as you please. “No need for me to see what, when and where you spend our money,” he explained to you, and at that time you accepted the idea. The bigger, joint account was your safety net, because while you weren’t the big spender Donghyuck encouraged you to be, he liked throwing money left and right. He supposes it’s about the upbringing, and he knows that you still struggle to let yourself go on shopping sprees worth thousands of dollars a time and getting out of the house now that you quit your job. He just wishes you would let loosen up for a bit to enjoy what this marriage has brought you. Let yourself enjoy the money and the liberty of still doing everything you were used to doing before being legally bound to him.

“Y/n,” he calls your name, “Look at me,” he instructs, and you have to gather all your willpower to do as he says, because there’s nothing you want more than to tell him to fuck off.

When you look at him, he freezes in his chair. Your gaze is so full of emotion, so hurt, and he realises the tears he was expecting you to shed in your usual upset burst weren’t there because you had already shed them before, all by yourself.

He stands to his feet, and starts walking around the marble kitchen island to reach your figure. “My sweet Y/n,” he coos, pulling you in a tight hug. “Please forgive me,” your head rests in the crook of his neck, and Donghyuck’s skin tingles when he feels your breathing against his skin. 

“You’ll have to do some grovelling before I can forgive you,” you mumble against the skin of his neck, and he lets a deep laugh escape him. 

“What if I did the grovelling while having breakfast together on the terrace?” He asks, moving his head to look behind yourselves outside the window, checking the weather. “Sounds good?” He moves back to his initial position, his head resting on yours. 

You nod, holding him a little tighter. “Let’s spend tomorrow together,” he proposes, and you nod once again.

“Before you start grovelling for breakfast, you need to go shower,” you let your arms fall, getting out of his embrace, gently pushing his chest to guide him out of the kitchen, “You stink of alcohol,”

He whines offended, but he knows you’re right. Before he can get out the room he stops in his tracks. “Kiss and make up?” He pouts his lips, closing his eyes and fluttering his lashes like the drama queen he is. No conflict is ever resolved without a kiss and make up situation. You lean in, this time giving him a small peck on the lips instead of extending your cheek for him to kiss.

The action visibly takes him aback, but he doesn’t say anything, and he exits the kitchen with a grin plastered on his face.

You look at the tv, at the bottles of beer scattered around you and Donghyuck, and the Chinese takeout boxes resting on the coffee table in front of you. At his long, tanned legs as he sits on the carpet next to you, his gaze fixed on the tv playing Notting Hill.

After a painfully long time, Donghyuck made an effort to be with you. No more excuses, no more hiding, he knows he’s been away and distant for a few months now, and after the euphoria of the wedding and the first few exciting months of being married to you had worn off he basically went back to his old ways, as if the past few months have never happened and he was still an eligible bachelor ready to roam the streets of the city almost, if not every night. 

He knows he owes this to you, to the decades of friendship with you, to the love he has for you. He loves you more than he would a sister, but less than a romantic interest, if that makes sense. Maybe it’s the decades of friendship that have gotten him so attached to you, or maybe the fact that you’ve always understood and protected him the best you could. Whenever his parents fought, and he got dragged in these relentless fights between the two of them, being asked to pick a side, he flew the scene and came running to your house. You’ve always understood him, you’ve always shared everything with him, you and your parents made him realise what normality is like. A loving family, not everything being about money and power and jealousy. And that’s one of the reasons why he married you, he knows it. Apart from being the one to know him best, even more than his family and grandma Lee, you’re the one who provided him peace and tranquillity, the safety of being loved and, no matter how many times he fucked up, you were always there for him — even if you scolded him first. He can’t pinpoint the nature of all the feelings he has for you, but he knows that you bring him the kind of comfort and safety no one has ever even tried bringing him.

You feel his gaze on you, and you turn your head to throw him a questioning look. “What’s wrong?” You ask, a deep frown plastered on your pretty face.

He’s snapped out of his own thoughts, and looks at you like a deer in highlights, seemingly taken aback by the fact that he was so deep into his head that he didn’t even realise he was looking at you. He tries to conceal what he thinks was a surprised face when you bursted his bubble, and looks at you with fake annoyance. 

“Y/n,” he says your name, sporting a serious expression, “I will have to be very honest with you,”

You turn your whole body around so you can face his, and you giggle looking at his face. Judging by the scene that’s on right now on the tv, you know exactly what he’s about to say. 

“You hate Anna Scott?” You say it before he can.

“I hate Anna Scott,” he confirms, throwing his head back so it hits the seat of the couch, “how can you even like her, she’s the worst!” He whines, lazily pointing his hand towards the tv screen where Julia Roberts’s character is having a fight with Hugh Grant’s.

“Because!” You gasp, smiling sheepishly, knowing that what you’re about to say is going to annoy the hell out of him. “She’s just a girl!” You start, and Donghyuck is already rolling his eyes at you, “Standing in front of a boy!” You’re so excited to do your number, and Donghyuck doesn’t say anything but he turns his head to look the other way. “Asking him to love her!” You end your act by grabbing his black t-shirt and pulling him a bit towards you.

Donghyuck looks at you, at your hands on his chest, at your excitement, and he can’t help being surprised. He also can’t help the rosy cheeks he feels getting hotter and hotter, and the strange movements happening in the pit of his stomach. This never happened before, every time he was the one initiating any type of physical touch with you, or even when you give him as much as a hug back. But he never felt this way.

He tries to regain his composure, pushing himself up against the foot of the couch to an upright posture. He clears his throat as smoothly as he can, trying to remember what was happening before you became so excited. Ah yes, fucking Anna Scott.

“She’s just a girl,” he copies you with a whiney tone, rolling his eyes once again. “She’s an idiot, that’s what she is, Y/n. She’s despicable, so much that they should make a Despicable Me film with her as the main villain,” He argues, his smooth forehead now marked by a deep frown, his index repeatedly and forcibly poking on the carpet underneath the both of you, trying to make his point come across.

You pause the film, outraged at his hate for the character. It wasn’t the first time he hated on her, but he was never this vocal. 

“She’s not that bad, Hyuck” you retort, bringing your legs up to your chest, your body still facing his.

He smirks at you, that kind of attractive, devious smirk he makes when he’ll start a debate with you just to crush you and your opinions like a cockroach in a sewer. 

“Think about it, Y/n,” he says, his body turning towards yours, imitating the way you are sitting. “If the roles were to be reversed, would you think this way?” He asks, smirking at you, tsking in disapproval.

You look at him, weighting his words, and you’re sure your eyes are the size of saucers while looking into his smug ones. 

“She plays with that poor man’s heart, Y/n. She plays this push and pull game I really don’t know why William loves her, it’s like she likes hurting him and he’s an idiot too for sticking with her for so long,” he sighs as if he was William himself, going through that kind of pain himself.

You look at him, unimpressed. It’s ironic, really, he's mocking the ones who play with other people’s hearts.

“Thank god William learnt some self respect, right?” You whisper back, looking at his side profile, waiting for his gaze to meet yours. Except, he never looks back at you, laughing at your words with his specific deep laugh that he lets out whenever he’s taken by surprise.

For god’s sake, he can’t read the fucking room, you think.

“Yeah, that too,” he agrees after he recomposes himself, finally looking at you, his facial features relaxed with amusement. “But it’s a cute ending, I’ll give you that, baby” he responds, going back to the smugness you so love and hate at the same time.

“Thank you for today,” you tell him when the film is over, the last song playing loudly in the background, making Donghyuck start humming it. He knows it by heart, with all the times you made him watch your favourite film and the countless times you put the soundtrack on.

“No, I should be the one to thank you,” he explains, picking up the beer bottles scattered around the room and walking behind you towards the kitchen, where you’re headed with all the Chinese takeout boxes balanced in your arms. “I know I haven’t been a present friends, or we could say husband, but I really want you to know that you matter to me and things between you and I haven’t changed,” he explains, and it feels like a sharp object is piercing your chest repeatedly.

Just another reminder that things are still the same according to him. Another reminder that things between the two of you will never change the way you wanted.

Sensing his piercing gaze on your figure, you nod, not feeling like letting any words out. 

You leave the kitchen first promising to clean all the mess in the morning, but Donghyuck is close behind you, and you can still sense his gaze on your figure as you make your way in and out of the ensuite bathroom, and his eyes feel very heavy on you, like there’s something he needs to bring up and doesn’t know how, so instead he just looks at you until you’ll spare him a look.

So, you spare him a look. And he’s like a kicked puppy, sitting in the middle of the bed and you sense uncertainty in his posture. The easy going Donghyuck you know is nowhere to be found, and you feel obligated to intervene and ask him what’s going on in that head of his.

“Hyuck,” you say his name, climbing into bed, “Is everything okay?” 

“Mhm,” he hums, but you can see him still being hesitant about something.

“You sure?” You giggle, trying to ease his nerves. He’s never hid anything from you, and he’s never taken so long to open up about something either. You never had to coerce him into opening up about what’s bothering him. “Hyuck, look at me,” you say, but it comes out more as a question. 

He avoids your plea for a bit, and then he gives in and his gaze meets yours. It’s sparkling, but not with his usual smugness and joy. Instead, you’re met with an emotional look that looks like might be on the verge of tears.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, grabbing his cheeks, and you notice how they’re burning up. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says, avoiding your eyes once again, even if you’re holding his head still with your hands. “I've treated you so badly lately, I cannot imagine how my avoidance affected you day by day, and as I said before, I know I haven’t been here for you and truth be told, I don’t want anything to change. I dont want to lose you, and I certainly don’t want you to resent me in any kind of way. I’m so sorry, Y/n,” he pauses in order to take a breath in.

You let go of his face, speechless, not knowing if you should open up as well or if you should let him be the only one to open up right now. 

“I want you to know that no matter what, I love you. I really do, Y/n,” he grabs your face with his clammy hands, a clear sign of the nerves he’s experiencing right now, “I care about you, and nothing or no one will come between you and me, yeah?” 

His eyes are sincere, but his words sting like hell. He says he loves you, but to what extent? You know the kind of feelings you have for him, you’re aware of them and you know their nature, but is he as certain of his, as you are of yours? 

You’re so deep into your head that you fail to notice the kind of gaze Donghyuck is giving you, but when you raise your eyes to look at his face, you notice how his eyes are on your lips and immediately shift back to you eyes. 

You lick your lips out of instinct, a habit you’ve had all your life when your boyfriends and partners looked at your lips before kissing you, and you close your eyes embarrassed after doing it in front of Donghyuck. After all, he’s just… your husband.

Donghyuck’s clammy hands gently squeeze the side of your face, trying to bring your attention back to him. You open your eyes and your gaze lands instantly on his lips, knowing his face’s proportion perfectly by now, your eyes sliding immediately without you not even registering the action. Until you feel him leaning in, his eyes barely open, and there’s a force that pulls you in closer to him, and even if you wanted to pull back you know that’s not what you really want. But is it what he really wants?

You give up on trying to analyse the situation right now, and you grab his wrists as you feel him getting rid of the mere centimetres of distance between your lips. His plump lips feel sweet amidst the kiss, the way they sit perfectly on yours makes you feel elated, and you briefly remember who you’re kissing right now. You cheeks feel like they’re on fire, but the kiss is too intoxicating to come to reason with your conscience, and you feel his tongue poke tentatively for access. You grant it, and he smiles into the kiss, his tongue now dancing with yours in a sweet saccharine waltz. You don’t care about the way you’re both running out of air, the way his kiss is getting more and more desperate, and the way you can’t stop chasing his lips now that you’re feeling like you’ve opened pandora’s box. 

He detaches himself from your lips, the action making a popping sound that you’ve never found this hot until today. 

“Just promise me,” you say, taking big breaths as discretely as possible, your throat feeling incredibly dry all of a sudden. “Promise me you’ll never run away from me,” you say, caressing his cheek, and he leans into your touch like a poor animal looking for affection.

“Okay,” he promises, pulling you into his embrace, and it feels like he’s promising you the whole universe.

But you should have known better than trusting Donghyuck. Is like ever since he married you he’s done nothing but hurt and lie to you, like the decades of friendship have never happened and like the past didn’t even matter to him. The promises he’s made in the wedding vows and the ones made to you personally and privately, have no value to him, you’ve come to this conclusion the next day, when he was nowhere to be found.

He was out the door before you could wake up to make breakfast, and you wouldn’t hear from him for the entirety of the day. He would come back home late, knowing his dinner had already run cold, not like it ever mattered anyway since you know he was having dinner out, possibly with some other female companion. He would come to bed, thinking you’re sound asleep, but you felt and heard everything. The sighs, the stirring in his sleep, the occasional smell of alcohol on his breath, the way he would keep his distance from you every night. 

It went on this way for five days before you couldn’t take it anymore, so you moved your essentials out of your shared bedroom and bathroom, to one of the guest rooms. And it should have been this way since the beginning. Apparently being married has no value to the one you thought understood you the best, and what’s a signed paper in front of bodily desires? Nothing, that’s for sure.

This way you’re spared the icky perfumes he comes home having traces of on his skin and clothes, you’re spared the presence of a person that clearly doesn’t love you the way they claimed before, nor does he really care for you, you’re sure of this. Who breaks a promise to someone they supposedly say they love? You’re spared the sadness you feel when he doesn’t reach out to you all day and ultimately comes home at the crack of dawn, and the hesitation you feel when he sits tentatively on the edge of the bed before he decides to lie down next to you. And, most importantly, you’re spared the heartbreak.

The marriage is just a contract to him, you’re just some sort of friends only, treating you like a housemate who he gets the privilege of calling his wife to the outside world. No amount of money, fancy dinners, and privileges that his status brought to you once you married him is worth the pain you’re feeling being ignored by him out of all people. If it were Renjun, you’d understand. If it were one of the girls, it would be logical since you stopped hanging out that often with all your friends ever since you got married. No more meet ups in the middle of the week, no more wine parties during film nights with them. You changed when you got married, but you never thought shit would hit the fan so fast. You could understand if anyone treated you this badly, but not Donghyuck. The bond you two shared was too important, at least for you. But he doesn’t value it as much, that much is clear to you.

You move rooms, you stop making dinner, only eating small portions by yourself because, after all, everything would end up in the bin if you made dinner for him as well. You sleep alone at night, even if you’re cold as hell and you miss his body emanating heat, but you don’t think he’s even noticed your moving rooms. With the amount of alcohol he ingests before returning home late at night, you’re not even sure how he can remember where home is.

You start looking for sports courses, pottering classes, airplane tickets for vacations you’ve always wanted to go on, anything that could get you back on track and to stop you from being the wannabe perfect wife to someone who doesn’t even consider you his wife worth respecting.

Two weeks pass since you two shared the kiss, and Donghyuck’s still avoiding you like the plague. So you do him a favour and make it easier for him by hiding from him. 

One evening, you’re sitting on the couch biting on an apple and watching a documentary when your phone rings. No one ever calls you, and in a pathetic attempt of hoping that he’s the one calling, you’re reminded of how much of a fool you are when you’re met with Jaemin’s name and contact picture looking right back at you. He never calls you, only talking to you through texts, so your stomach drops when your thoughts start racing, thinking that the reason Jaemin’s calling has something to do with something bad that’s happened to Donghyuck.

“Jaemin?” You ask, falling short of breath expecting the worst news ever. You suddenly regret the cold shoulder you’ve given Donghyuck.

“Y/n, yes, hi” he answers robotically, and you feel hesitation in his voice.

“Did something happen?” You push it, trying to brace yourself for the worst possible news.

“Mmm, just wanted to ask you something,” he says but it comes out more like a question. When you prompt him to continue, you hear him breathe through his teeth hesitantly, “I wanted to see if Hyuck’s home, maybe?” You know Jaemin well enough to know that he is conflicted and embarrassed by this phone call.

“What?” You ask incredulously. “Is this the reason you called?” You bark back, knowing that Jaemin is not one of the people you need to hide from when it comes to the real you, and your vulgar mouth with all the swear words.

“I didn’t know who to call,” he says but it sounds like a question once again, his tone defensive. “Me and Mark were supposed to meet him at my apartment tonight, and he didn’t show up. We thought something had happened because he said he’d come home to grab a quick bite with you, but he never came back and it’s been two hours” he explains, and you hear Mark telling him what kind of questions to ask you, “I’m sorry Y/n, just call me if you ever need anything”.

You sigh, once again disappointed. “I’m sorry Jaemin,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “And Mark,” you continue, knowing he’s listening as well. “I’m sorry but Donghyuck never came home, and I don’t know where he is,” you say, before bidding goodbye to the two.

What a fucking idiot, you mumble, throwing your phone on the couch. You pick up your apple but you can’t chew on it right now, not with the lump that’s formed in your throat, suffocating you.

Why is Donghyuck acting the way he is? To you, to his friends? It's like he doesn’t want to keep the cover up of this marriage intact to the eyes of outsiders.

Lost in your own thoughts you lose track of time, the first documentary ends just for another one to start. You fail to hear the car parking outside your house, but you don’t fail to notice the tingling of keys just outside your front door. Waiting for Donghyuck to enter and be as drunk as he’s made a habit of being, just for him to then skip checking the living room or any other room in the house and go directly to the upstairs bedroom, you’re incredibly irritated when you realise he’s so drunk off his ass that he can’t see where to put the keys in.

You stand to you feet, approaching the front door, and just in that moment the door opens slightly, showing a dishevelled Donghyuck totter forward in the hallway. He notices you, and he smirks at you as if you’re not ready to kick him in the throat for all the mixed feelings you’re feeling because of him. You’ve never felt more low, more pathetic, more disrespected than right now.

“Hi, baby” he rasps, and you know that the tone of his voice and the words he just spoke would have had you on cloud nine. But now you feel disgusted. 

“Where the fuck have you been? And why are you so drunk at seven in the evening?” You ask, a deep frown plastered on you features. 

He tsks, trying to stand upright, and that’s when you see it. At first you think it’s just the shadow of his shirt’s collar, but then you look more attentively, and a simple shadow can’t have red and brown and purple tones plastered all over.

A hickey? Your heart drops and you think you’re about to black out in about ten seconds because of the distress you feel right now. Another woman’s scent is something, but a mark on his body is another thing completely. You suddenly feel sick to your stomach, but he’s too drunk to bring it up, and you know it’s not really your place to hold him accountable for this. So your internal war goes on and on, and on.

So you try to play it off by chewing his head off like a good friend would do. And you hope the hurt in your eyes goes unnoticed, but you don’t think too deeply about this because he’s too drunk to remember his own name.

“Where have you been, Hyuck?” You ask softly, but he’s too drunk to sense the amicable tone you’re using, and gets defensive immediately.

“Why the fuck do you keep asking me this, Y/n?” He barks, and somehow it hurts you more than anything he’s previously done to you.

The lump in your throat sets itself once again, threatening to make you spill the dinner and the apple you had tonight. But looking at Donghyuck’s dishevelled self, smelling him, and seeing the marks on his neck completely enrages you, making you find the voice to snarl back at him.

“Don’t fucking raise your voice because I’m on the verge of punching you in the throat, Donghyuck” you snarl through gritted teeth.

“You’re so sexy when you threaten me, and you using my government name, baby,” he smirks, trying to keep his upright posture the best he can.

“Stop being an idiot,” you push his shoulder, making him lose his balance for just a second. “Jaemin called me, Donghyuck,” you push him once again, this time his back comes into touch with the wall behind him, and the mention of his friend’s name snaps Donghyuck out of whatever dizziness he was in. His eyes are the size of saucers, and he seems like he wants to say something but you cut him off immediately, “It’s okay to neglect me, but get you fucking shit together if you don’t want your other friends to burst your fucking masterplan,” you say through gritted teeth, before turning around and going up the stairs, not sparing Donghyuck another look.

In doing so, you fail to see the look on Donghyuck’s face, you fail to hear the front door closing behind him, and the engine of his car getting turned on.

You’re suffocated by the wave of emotions you feel, they’re making you drown in your own tears. Tears run down your cheeks before you can sense them even brimming in your eyes, and the sobs that follow are a raw reminder of the unhappiness you’ve felt in the last months of your life. But now you can add betrayal to the equation.

You must do something to get out of this situation, or you’re risking losing yourself for a man who doesn’t really lose sleep over how much hurt he’s causing you.

Donghyuck is not sure how he’s managed to reach Jaemin’s apartment complex safe and sound, but he stomps his way through the building like he owns it. He just might. He’ll buy the place tomorrow and he’ll kick Jaemin on the streets for the stunt he’s pulled on his wife later this evening.

The knocks on Jaemin’s door reverberate so loudly that even Donghyuck is kind of intimidated by the echo they make. 

The moment Jaemin opens the door, Donghyuck pushes through without caring about the force he uses to push at Jaemin’s chest in order to get him out of the way.

“What the fuck, man?” Jaemin asks in disbelief.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to ask you this, you moron,” Donghyuck snarls, pushing again at Jaemin chest, making him grit his teeth in annoyance knowing why his friend is paying him a visit. It must have something to do with the phone call he’s given his wife.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he warns, waiting for the shitstorm that drunk Donghyuck is willing to start.

“What the fuck were you thinking, calling Y/n?” Donghyuck raises his voice once again, “You call my wife for what reason, exactly?” His gaze throws daggers at Jaemin’s head, but the latter doesn’t back down. “What the fuck is wrong with you, snooping about my life like you have no other business? Are you trying to ruin it for me?” 

Jaemin can take a lot of things. Can take violence, palms of hands on his chest, punches to his face. He can take a nasty mouth like Donghyuck’s, and he can take the disrespect because he knows he’ll sort it out with his friend once he’s sober. But there are a few things Jaemin can’t take, like when someone's blaming him when he did nothing wrong, and when women are being disrespected. 

So he walks towards Donghyuck, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and throwing him into the wall, keeping him glued against the hard, cold surface. 

“Your wife was home alone, sad, and upset,” Jaemin makes a threatening pause between each word, pushing Donghyuck against the wall again and again each time, “So shut the fuck up before I push you through this wall. She didn’t even know where you were, you're drunk and you have fucking hickeys on your fucking neck. So, tell me now, who’s the one ruining it for you? Me or yourself?,” Jaemin lets Donghyuck go after one last push. But doesn’t spare him another look.

A week passes since the hickey incident and you don’t see Donghyuck. You assume he’s on some sort of vacation with someone else, and you don’t even care enough to look for him on the tracking app. You don’t want to make an obsession out of this, because you guess he’s with someone else, and actually seeing his contact on some exotic country’s map on the phone app would be your final straw. 

So you try to do your own thing by packing a small trolley and calling a cab to take you to the airport. You’re not sure about the destination, but you feel like you need to do this to get out of the slums of your heart.

You buy a ticket for the first flight you set your eyes on once you reach the ticket till, and you make your way through the passenger lounges towards the gates. You already feel refreshed, and you nearly vibrate with anticipation when you think about the days that are yet to come and the alone time you’ll have to yourself, but this time in a different city. Alone and away from your supposed husband. 

You reach one of the restaurants there, and you hate to admit to yourself that Donghyuck has engulfed every aspect of your life when you realise that you’re going to drink beer and eat steak at ten in the morning just because Donghyuck has always done this type of thing, “It’s the law of the jungle here, baby” he once joked when he almost got drunk off overpriced wine in one of the airport’s restaurants way before noon.

So you gulp the resurfacing feelings back to where they belong, the bottom of your being where you hope they’ll be forgotten and unreachable for a long time, and so you reach the bar, asking for steak and beer like you’d be asking for a coffee and muffin at the local cafeteria back home. Which again, you don’t need to be worried about because airports are like casinos, especially if you have a flight with a layover in the middle.

You chew your steak and you can’t help but think about how Donghyuck would love this, and there goes your appetite. The lump in your throat returns, and your stomach churns because of all the emotions you feel all at once. You think you need to go see a doctor, because your emotional state is already affecting your physical state as well. 

“Excuse me,” you feel someone patting you slightly on the shoulder, making you flinch just a bit at the unexpected contact, “Is this seat taken?” The stranger asks again in a very polite way, which makes you turn around to look at him. 

You’re met with a tall, lean figure standing a few feet behind you, his finger still pointing at the seat next to you. You suddenly remember his question and you jump in realisation, moving your luggage on your other side of the stool you’re sitting on, making some space for him to move and sit down. “By all means,” you look at him, gesturing towards the high stool at the bar, “Please take a seat,”

He gives you a smile in return making himself comfortable before picking up the menu to look over. He’s wearing a black wool sweater, his glasses are covered in water droplets that have gone dry by now, probably from the rain outside. His black hair falls slightly on his forehead, and he has to shake his head from time to time to prevent his fringe from getting into his eyes as he tries to look for something appealing in that whole menu.

You go back to chewing your steak, and even nearly cold it’s still delicious. You try not to think too much about the steak and who might like it, or otherwise you’ll not be able to swallow the bite.

“Is the steak good?” The man on your left asks, still holding the menu in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he giggles, realising that you didn’t expect anyone to talk to you, “It’s just that I’m not really sure what to order and I’m starving, and that steak looks really nice,” he smiles at you, but you probably look like an idiot while he was only trying to be friendly.

“You should get it,” you smile back, seeing how his features relax when he hears your answer, “It’s one of the best steaks I’ve ever eaten. The ones I make are excluded,” you laugh, cutting into your steak.

His ears seem to perk up at the mention of your cooking, now intrigued by you. He introduces himself, and you grab his hand, never breaking eye contact with him. His hand is warm and big, his long fingers wrap around your palm, squeezing slightly.

“So, where are you off to?” He asks after a while, curious to know a bit more about you.

“Chicago,” you answer, playing with your bracelets.

“What a coincidence,” he sips on the last drop of beer from his glass, “So am I".

Donghyuck doesn’t see you for a whole week. After the fight at Jaemin’s, he doesn’t come back home to you, but spends the night in his car instead. Not that he couldn’t afford going to some other place, but he was still drunk and the information Jaemin gave about you really did a number on him. Jaemin could punch him, break his head against any surface of his apartment and it still wouldn’t hurt as much as finding out that you’re aware of all his actions on the side of your marriage. 

And the fact that he has some fucking hickeys on his skin, and that you surely saw them, makes him want to jump off a cliff. The remorse is eating him from inside, and he’s sure he’s about to get a hole in his chest at the amount of stress he’s been through in the last week. 

But not seeing you for a week did Donghyuck some good. He had some time to himself to be really alone, in a hotel room just outside the city, and rethink his life choices and everything he’s done lately. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this amount of shame bubbling inside of him, never thought he’d be able to hurt you so much. He remembers your eyes from that night, when you shoved his shoulder, and it must have happened after you saw the marks on his skin. He feels like a fucking idiot, like he has shit for a brain and there’s no way he’s ever going to straighten things up with you, not after last week. And he honestly doesn’t know what was going on in his head in the past months after the wedding happened, and what made him do all of this, all of the suffering he’s brought you. 

After the wedding, after the first few months after the wedding, after grandma Lee passed, he thought that things were just going to go back to how they were before he even saw that damned testament. He could go around fucking whoever he wanted, as long as he came home each evening to be with you, have dinner together and then go to sleep. Nothing between the two of you had to change. The casual sleepovers at one of your apartments would become a recurrent sharing of the bed, but now as husband and wife even if the titles were just for show. The hugs, the embraces, the casual signs of affection that the two of you showed each other wouldn’t have to change. Except, he broke all his rules. Yes, he did go around fucking whoever he wanted, but he never got home on time. He stopped hanging out with you, stopped being there for you. And he can’t help but wonder what the fuck is wrong with him, because the amount of heartbreak he feels right now while acknowledging the pain he’s put you through is making him lose his mind. Maybe he realises this too late, but he thinks he’s done it out of fear. Fear of acknowledging his true feelings. Maybe he never thought you would ever agree to marrying him, but again, he was really hoping you would. He doesn’t understand what’s going on in his mind, but he’s sure of one thing, and that is he loves you. Scrap the “more than a sister but less than a romantic interest” bullshit he’s told himself time and time again, he’s sure he loves you in the pathetic Anna Scott and William Thacker way, the hopeless way, the romantic and desperate, yearning for your attention and just for you — kind of love.

Maybe spending one week away from you does him so good, because he decides to go back home, your shared home, to be a more present husband. He’ll work from home, he’ll do everything for you just as much as you did everything for him but he was too blind to see — or even more. He’ll take you out, he’ll take you on vacations you’ve always wanted to go on. He’ll pick up whatever couple activity you want, and even if it’s not an activity meant for couples he’d still go just for you.

He comes home after a week and a half of being away, and it’s early in the morning. He stops by the supermarket and buys all the ingredients he knows he needs to make your favourite breakfast, and buys freshly squeezed juice from the farmer’s till you love so much, by the entrance of the supermarket. He comes home, and it’s still early, and thank god you’re not down in the kitchen making something already. 

He puts some music on, but the volume isn’t too loud so as to not wake you up. He wants to surprise you with breakfast in bed. He remembers when the two of you used to eat cup ramen or whatever other thing you prepared, while sitting in bed at either one’s dormitory. He misses those times, but he realises that nothing has to change, everything can be like before, especially now that he’s gotten the cold shower of reality.

He hears the front door open and turns around confused, but before he can take a step and come towards the entry hall, you show up in the kitchen looking just as surprised as he does.

“What is going on?” Your eyes are the size of saucers, pointing at the spatula in his hand and the apron he’s wearing on top of his casual clothes. It doesn’t look like he’s slept home, otherwise he’d be in his pyjamas or suit and tie. But he’s in jeans and a fitting t-shirt. This time, your stomach doesn’t churn and your heart doesn’t drop.

“Were you not home? Sleeping?” He asks, pointing his thumb towards the staircase.

“No,” you answer but it comes out more as a question, “Were you not home? You should have noticed I haven’t been here for four days,” you retort, your tone not that friendly.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were avoiding me,” he lies. His heart drops knowing he wasn’t here to notice you were gone. “I just wanted to make you breakfast, your favourite,” he shows you the pan full of vegetables, scrambled eggs and grated cheese. You start salivating looking at the colours in the pan alone, knowing that it’s going to be delicious because Donghyuck is an excellent cook. “By the way, we have freshly squeezed orange juice in the fridge, your favourite type, no pulp,” he points his head towards the fridge.

“Jesus, we’re like the fucking Kennedys this morning,” you reply, walking towards the fridge to take the juice out. He laughs at your joke, and it’s like music to your ears. You haven’t heard this sound in a long time, and you have to think about something else as not to let your feelings resurface.

“We’re more like… Brangelina,” he jokes, and this time you’re the one laughing.

“So,” he says, sitting at the kitchen island across from where you’re sitting, so he can see you better. God, you’re so beautiful. Your eyes are sparkling and your cheeks are rosy. You’re wearing that coloured chapstick that tints your lips just the right amount, and it contours your features so perfectly his chest heaves with something close to euphoria. The euphoria of seeing you. “Where did you go these past days? Did you have fun?” He doesn’t want to know the details, because it’s a reminder of the past. The past that he doesn’t want to go back to. 

He’s a new man, a married man but he’ll take this seriously this time. A new chapter starts today.

Hearing his question, you stop mid chew. What are you supposed to tell him? Are you two sharing this kind of information now? “Yes,” you reply simply, nodding your head, “I had fun,” 

“That’s good, I’m glad” he smiles at you, and it is his most genuine smile. You know it.

“Listen, Y/n,” he starts, but swallows his words when he looks at you. He wanted to apologise, but he feels like it’s too soon and too sudden right now. He’ll do it when the perfect time comes.

“Actually, Hyuck, I’d like for you to listen first. I have something I want to tell you,” you sip on your orange juice, and Donghyuck stops mid chew, and you sense there’s something in his eyes. Fear?

“I’m thankful for you making breakfast this morning, I really am,” you smile at him, trying to bring him some reassurance, “But you don’t have to do this. You never make breakfast and you’re never around but, for some reason, you’re here now preparing my favourite meal for me. I don’t know why you’re doing this or what’s wrong,” you actually might have a faint idea, but you keep it to yourself, “But we can live separate lives. I’ll respect your choices, and we don’t have to interact with each other if that’s not what you really want,”

“What? No!” He interrupts you, frowning, “What are you talking about?”

“You keep avoiding me, you’re away all the time,” you start, but you can feel tears forming in your eyes. Damn it, that’s not how you wanted this to turn out, he doesn’t deserve any more of your tears. “So, I understand that your plan of getting your inheritance was successful, but we really don’t need to be around each other. I get it now, so I’m letting you know that I’ve moved some of my things out of our room, but not all just in case, you know, if our friends ever come by and they see us having completely separate rooms. It would look really bad for your plan,” you explain, drying your tears but smiling nonetheless. And the image breaks Donghyuck.

“You can go do your activities, by yourself, and I’ll do mine on my own” you continue, “but there’s one thing I want to ask of you. Please don’t bring anyone in our house. This is our house,” you make small pauses between requests, hoping he’ll understand what you’re implying. You’re willing to give up your happiness thinking of what could have been, for the peace of mind of coming to terms with what your life is actually like. It’s the only way you can still be with Donghyuck, and you have to make this compromise.

“What?” He snarls, a frown painted on his face.

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, but you need to get away from him or you’ll start crying in front of him, and that’s not what you want. So you stand to your feet, pushing the stool under the kitchen island. “You don’t have to worry about anything, okay?” You look at him, but your emotions get the better of you and your eyes are brimming with tears for what feels like the millionth time in the past few months, and he looks back at you like you just caught him committing some sort of crime, “I’ll go to my room now, I need to be alone” you point towards the staircase, “By the way, there’s some dry cleaning that needs to be picked up, can you go?” You ask, but he knows that it is not a question.

He gulps, seeing your back leaving the kitchen. “Sure,” but you’re already on your way to your room, and you don’t hear him.

The day goes by, and Donghyuck doesn’t see you around the house again. He respects your boundaries, so he doesn’t push to get you to listen to what he has to say right away, so he secludes himself in your — formerly — shared bedroom, trying to give you space just for today at least. 

The following day, he comes back home after picking the clothes held hostage for so long at the dry cleaner’s — and immediately notices the silence. The dead silence, only the clock ticking making a sound that’s too loud in Donghyuck’s ears and too heavy on his heart. He supposes you’re still locked in the guest room, hence the disgusting silence.

He’s used to finding you around the house either cooking, either singing using a broom as a mic stand as you clean around; either the loud sound of war documentaries, or you crying while watching a cheetah eating an antelope on Animal Planet, either you baby talking to the plants you were planting in some pots in the back garden. But now everything is dead, dead silent. 

He really wants to make this right. He rethinks about everything that happened in the past weeks, Jaemin knocking some sense into him, all the conclusions he’s come to, and the words you told him yesterday morning. 

First, he realised he wants to make this right. No more sleeping around, no more hiding from you, no more hurting you. It took him long enough to realise he wants to be in this marriage for real, and not just because he was promised millions of dollars if he got married, and he chose the easier way since you were the only woman who’s been around him for so long, — that he now realises he was in love with since his teenage years. It was like a cold shower taken on a scorching day, the type that makes your heart stop for one second and then back to pumping blood quickly with an uneven rhythm. 

Secondly, he promised himself, after many days of mulling thoughts in his head, that he’d be more attentive, and that he will try to make things right with you. He’d spend more time with you, as opposed to what he did until now — spending his days with women, too many to count, too many to even remember. And he’s filled with shame every time he remembers how he came home all dirtied up, their kissing marks left all over his body, his clothes stinking of their perfumes, and when he stepped through the front door you were there, waiting for him with dinner and wine, or patiently waiting for him to come home so you could spend some time together like you used to. But he was scared, and it took Jaemin’s shoving to make his brain start working. He’d never meant to hurt you, although he was trying to avoid you every day since that kiss between you two happened, because he thought it was weird. He proposed marriage to you, without any obligations, he never asked you to love him or be faithful to him, and you never asked him either. So why was it so weird? So complicated? He started avoiding you when he realised that maybe you were all he needed after all, and that thought was scary. He jumped head first into this marriage expecting the two of you to live your lives like you were used to doing, and now it seems that he might have done it because it felt right. And it had always been you, and only you. 

Going up the stairs two steps at a time, he quickly reaches the upper floor of your shared house, reaching the guest room’s door, where you’ve been sleeping since he screwed up — you made sure to let him know this just earlier.

“Y/n?” He calls your name gently, hoping for you to recognise the vulnerability in his voice. “Y/n, can we talk?” He pleads, knocking slightly on the wooden door.

 It creaks open, a puzzled Donghyuck opening it slowly as he looks a bit around the room, expecting you to be in bed or maybe doing some sort of activity you found solace in while avoiding his presence.

But you were nowhere to be found. He takes big steps towards the dressing room, noticing the lights are turned off, and then in a last attempt he tries to look for you on the room’s balcony. But you’re not there, and he’s sure there’s nowhere nearly as cozy and comfortable as this space for you to be hiding. And your shared bedroom is an excluded possibility, because that’s where he’ll be sleeping, and you didn’t want to see his face, it was for sure.

In a last, desperate attempt to find you, he moves quickly towards the bedroom, and he prays to god he’ll find you in there looking through your old clothes and trying them on like you always do every few months, calling him an idiot as soon as you see his face entering the room. But you’re not there either, and he can only sigh, sitting on the bed, thinking of what he can do to find you.

Would it be wise to call Renjun? He’s one of his best friends, but also yours? Renjun would take your side any second, and Donghyuck knows this. 

“Let’s not,” he mumbles, throwing the phone across the bed and throwing his back harshly on the hard mattress of your shared bed. He misses you. He missed feeling annoyed by your sleeping figure stretching all over him in search for heat. He misses your perfume, your scent hogging his senses as soon as his head hits your pillow. Your pillow, the one he kept close in his embrace every time you woke earlier than he did. He misses you so much, he needs to feel you randomly giving him a warm embrace.

He can remember the scent of your hair, the one sticking to your skin, and he gets up from the bed to go to your vanity desk to spray a little bit around the room, just so he can find a little bit of comfort before he thinks of where you could be.

He stops in his tracks, sensing there’s something odd going on. Looking around the room, he can’t pinpoint it, but he suddenly feels it in the pit of his stomach. 

He looks at your vanity desk, inspecting it from where he’s standing, and he looks for the bottle of your perfume that he loves. And then it hits him. It’s not there. Out of all the perfume bottles, the one you always wore — which he loves, — it’s nowhere to be seen. He jogs to the bathroom attached to your bedroom, hoping that you took it there when you were getting ready to leave, because you’ve done that before. Except, this time you didn’t place it in the bathroom. It’s as spotless as ever, as if no one has ever used it before. Your shower products are still lined nicely in the shower, your skincare products still inside the cabinets hanging on the walls. But not your toothbrush. His is sitting alone in the glass holders where they usually touch each other, as unhygienic as it sounds. 

He speeds out of the bathroom, back to your vanity, where he inspects the products laying around. Your preferred perfume is gone, a few make up products missing from the little drawer you had arranged them so nicely in. His eyes dart to the jewellery box sitting on the edge of the desk, and he picks its lid up, inspecting what’s inside. Your usual jewellery is looking right back at his stupid face, as if it was mocking him for freaking out, but he notices some of the expensive jewellery he’s gifted you ever since you two got married, are gone. A bracelet, a few rings, a necklace and a brooch are gone. And then his eyes still on two pieces of jewellery, his heart dropping to his stomach as soon as he recollects his bearings.

Your wedding band and your engagement ring sit mockingly in the corner of the box, as if you had thrown them in without even looking where they landed, without even making sure if they made it inside the box before you sealed it closed. 

The thought of you purposefully leaving your rings behind makes him want to hurl, his mind running desperate tireless laps as he tries to understand what’s going on.

And then it dawns on him. You left. 

He puts the box back down with gentle hands, and he feels like the ceiling might have collapsed on him with the amount of heaviness he feels in his chest and stomach. Did you really leave? He wants to make sure before he loses his mind, so he checks a few of your drawers and the dressing room adjacent to the bedroom. He can see a few garments missing from each section of the wardrobe, noticing how one of your suitcases is also gone. 

Not knowing what to do, he walks back to the bedroom, his hands frantically going through his hair and eyes closing tightly in an attempt to find a way to calm himself down. His eyes so forcefully shut that he starts seeing spots as soon as he opens them again. 

He reaches for his phone, trying to look for you through your shared location. “God fucking Dammit,” he exhales when he opens the app.

You went as far as turning your location services off on all your devices, which you’ve never done before, not since he taught you how to turn them on ten years ago.

He dials your number in a miserable attempt to get a hold of you, but it goes to voicemail almost immediately. “Please pick up,” He doesn’t want to give up, so he dials your number a few more times before he gives in and leaves a message on your voicemail.

“Y/n, it’s me, please pick up,” and after five minutes of hopeful waiting, that maybe you’ll reach out to him out of pity more than anything else, he tries again.

“Y/n, it’s me, Hyuck,” he can feel his voice full of uncertainty. He clears his throat, “Where are you? I came home earlier wanting to talk, but I can’t find you anywhere, please call me back,”

An hour of waiting for you to give him a small sign, he feels like he’s losing his mind going back and forth in this damned bedroom.

“Y/n, please come home. At least call me back, tell me you’re safe. Please, please Y/n, call me back” he whispers into the phone before it gets cut off.

Donghyuck feels a tight knot forming in his stomach, only the thought of you not being safe makes him despise himself. If anything happened to you while being away because of him, he would never be able to forgive himself for doing this to you.

Noticing how time flew by, he checks his phone once again, even if you sent him a dry text he’d be happy because he’d know you’re safe enough to check your phone. There aren’t many places Donghyuck knows you’d choose as a safe place trying to put some space between the two of you, but he thinks of one where you could be at right now, and he quickly runs down the stairs and snatches his car keys, so distressed that he forgets to grab his coat.

There’s only one place where you could be, and he needs to see for himself.

“What are you doing here?” Renjun opens the door slightly, but then fully opens it for his friend to step in. “Not only did you steal my best friend, the one who was supposed to marry me at thirty-five in case we didn’t find anyone to get married to, but you’re now attempting to steal my time too,” he rolls his eyes at the man standing in front of him. 

“Steal your future wife?” Donghyuck frowns for a few seconds, processing what Renjun said. “What if she was the one stealing your future husband? What, Renjun, wasn’t I good enough for you?” Donghyuck touches his chest where his heart is, tsk-ing his disapproval with fake annoyance.

“Your ways of causing me disgust are always unbelievable,” Renjun fake gags, crossing his arms.

“Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Donghyuck sends a flying kiss, and Renjun is glad that they’re not standing next to each other right now because the two of them are close enough for Renjun to know that his friend would attempt to kiss him on any spot of his face that he can reach.

Donghyuck quickly drops the banter, curiously looking around the room, trying to find any of your objects that you could have carelessly left behind when he dropped by. In his head, you’re here somewhere, hiding from him. He hopes you are, and even if you came out and kicked him out the door, he’d be grateful because that way he’d know you are in a place where you are safe and sound.

And Renjun can’t help but notice Donghyuck’s dishevelled look, the locks on his head messily pointing in different directions, and of course there was the fact that he isn’t wearing a coat. He observes the way his friend’s eyes dart back and forth between various surfaces of his living room, and the way Donghyuck’s hands reach behind his head in an unconscious motion.

“So,” Renjun begins, “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Donghyuck half laughs.

“I’m not dumb. You’re my best friends and you’re married to each other. You haven’t pestered me with stupid memes in the past days, and I’ve only heard from Y/n a couple of times,” he sees his friend’s face lighten up at the mention of your name, “So what did you do?”

“Why do you assume I’m the one in the wrong here?” 

Renjun scoffs, his friend’s almost offended tone not being that well received.

“You always do shit to hurt Y/n, so excuse me for giving her the benefit of the doubt,”

“What do you mean?” Donghyuck asks again, this time sober.

Renjun sighs, “I had to waltz around the two of you for a very long time, I lived with the two of you before,” he frowns, moving his hand between himself and Donghyuck, “I had to witness times when you hurt her feelings, maybe unknowingly, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but you did nonetheless. I had to pick up pieces you stepped on carelessly, while she gave herself to you on a silver platter. No, pardon me, a golden platter. Your sleeping around, your mindless jokes about it, your little remarks that played with her heart every time you complimented her while making promises to her, and the way she believed you without any second thoughts as if you wouldn’t forget about her and the promises made to her an hour later.” Renjun inhales sharply, recognising how he’s getting worked up, but these are things he’s been dying to say to his friend, and now is the perfect time to do so. 

“Don’t act dumb, Hyuck, I was there and I saw it all happen right before my eyes. Every time you promised her the sun, you left her hanging in the air, looking for you yet you were unreachable, avoiding her. I had to mend the pieces you fucked with, every single time. That’s why I was afraid when she told us she’d be getting married to you so suddenly and out of nowhere. I was scared for her wellbeing,” Renjun gulps, crossing his arms once again.

“So, whatever you did this time, I don’t care. I won’t help you in any way. I want her to be well and happy, and if she’ll reach out to me, I’ll be there for her. But you need to get your shit sorted, before it’s too late. If it isn’t already,”

Donghyuck inhales sharply, trying to digest every piece of information he’s found out from Renjun, on which he’ll mull over later when his nerves might calm down.

“Okay,” he surrenders, “I am getting my shit together, Renjun. I have been for the past few days,”

“It’s not long enough. A few days of meditating on your shitty actions won’t erase your wrongdoings,”

“I know, and that’s why I’m working on it, I’m doing this for her,” he starts taking a few steps towards the door, when he turns back to face Renjun, “If she calls you, just tell her to call me, please. I want her to be safe,” the sad look in his eyes are a sight Renjun never thought he’d see, especially from Donghyuck.

“I’ll see you around,” and with that, he gently closes the front door behind himself.

A few days pass, and Donghyuck has made an obsession with checking if you turned your location on again. You haven’t reached out to him, and neither did Renjun. He hopes that his friend would be considerate enough to reach out to him if he ever found out anything about you, but he’s left hanging. 

He hasn’t been able to eat much, only a few bites so as not to get stomach aches from hunger. He already had stomach aches just thinking about not having a clue about your whereabouts, he didn’t want to end up on a hospital bed because he couldn’t take a fucking nibble. The bottles of liquor and alcohol the two of you had agreed on keeping on a neat bar shelf in the corner of your living room were almost empty. He’s never felt more distraught, and the liquor only helped numbing his thoughts for a short amount of time, for they all came back to his mind as soon as he woke up from his drunken naps. Donghyuck hasn’t been able to sleep much either, that’s mainly why he drained almost every bottle of hard liquor in the house. He doesn’t want to forget anything about you, but his brain is his biggest enemy these days, and the only thing that can help him out is the thought that maybe, after the alcohol numbs him real good and puts him to sleep, he’ll wake up to you standing in front of him, holding him tight and telling him you forgive him and you want things to work out. Because he can do this, he can do anything you’d ask him, he can make this work. He loves you.

He left you more voicemails and texts, and all went unanswered. By the time the alcohol’s effects wore off, his muscles were already starting to ache from the countless times he fell asleep on the big carpet downstairs, on which he chose to rest in hopes of hearing your keys opening the front door. He was like a sick puppy. Waiting for the owner of his heart to come back home, because he knows you’ll eventually come back. He hopes, at least.

He stands to his feet, taking the empty bottle outside and sitting it carefully inside the bin, as to not make too much noise. His head feels like it’s being split in half, and his muscles beg for a hot shower, which he gladly plans to take after popping two advils from the medicine cabinet in one of the bathrooms downstairs. 

After using his favourite scent out of all your shower gel bottles lined up in the shower, he wraps a towel around his waist, walking back to the bedroom to pick up his phone. Your location is still off, and he decides to leave another voicemail for you, because if there’s any possibility of you listening to these voicemails, he wants to be sure he made everything in his power to reach out to you and make you realise how serious he is about everything.

One hand on his hip, while his teeth nibble on his bottom lip, he dials your number, waiting for the call to go to voicemail. Except this time the call goes through, ringing in his ears.

“Hello?” A male voice answers, and Donghyuck has to take a quick look at the phone’s screen to make sure he didn’t dial someone else.

This is your number.

“Y/n?” He inquires, a deep frown forming on his smooth forehead.

“Oh, Y/n’s in the shower right now, can I take a message?”

Donghyuck feels his throat run dry, and sharply exhales in an attempt to calm himself before he can regret anything that might come out of his mouth. Not only is the thought of your leaving destroying him, but to hear another man answering your phone might be the last thing he does before he goes insane. 

Who the fuck is it? Who is this man? He can't help but ask himself.  Who is it? Is it a friend of mine? But he doesn’t recognise the voice.

“Hello?” The voice on the other line rings in his ears, “Are you still there?”

“And who are you?” Donghyuck rasps, his voice raw with anger.

“Erm,” Donghyuck can feel uncertainty in the man’s tone, “I’m Sungchan. Can I take a message for Y/n?”

The mention of your name out of his mouth makes Donghyuck see red before his eyes. 

“Yes, Sungchan,” Donghyuck spits out with anger, “Can you tell Y/n to call home as soon as possible? This is her husband, Donghyuck, by the way,” after which he hangs up, throwing the phone across the room, not even bothering to pick it up again.

You get out of the shower, stepping on the hotel’s slippers, feeling refreshed after getting rid of the sweat residues on your skin, when you feel a knock on the bathroom door. You open it wide, seeing a frowning Sungchan leaning on the doorframe, clearly bothered by something.

“Sungchan?” You ask, combing your fingers through your wet hair. “Is everything okay?” 

You see him giving you a conflicted look, and he bites on his lip. “Your husband called. Why didn’t you tell me that you’re married?” He asks you, and you think the sky falls suddenly. It would be easier if he wasn’t looking at you right now, but his gaze is piercing, cold, and hurt.

“What?” You ask, but not because you didn’t hear it the first time, but because you need time to think how to explain everything to him.

Yes, you omitted this detail when you hooked up with Sungchan the first time, but it’s not like he deliberately asked you, ‘are you married?’. You and him were on the same flight to Chicago. You liked the attention he gave you at the airport, and he offered to show you around if you didn’t already have an itinerary planned out. So you accepted, and between some museums, jazz bars, and nice restaurants, you found yourself in bed with him.

With him, you got rid of all the stress you accumulated in the past months, and for the first time in years you even felt loved and appreciated.

Apart from the shame and regret of not being genuine with Sungchan from the very beginning that’s eating at you, there’s also the way he’s looking at you right now. Betrayed, hurt, on the verge of tears. 

How did Donghyuck’s hurting lead you into hurting other people? You knew Sungchan likes you, because he explicitly told you so, so why did you have to pull the same card your husband played on you?

“Sungchan,” you start, but no words can make up for the damage already done, because he pushes away from the doorway, going back to look for his clothes.

“I don’t want to hear it,” his voice trembles, sliding the pair of jeans on his long legs. “I can’t believe you did this to me,” he’s mostly talking to himself, and you’re left in the corner of the room in your towel only, watching as he gathers his things from your hotel room. 

“Never look for me again,” he walks past you, towards the door, not looking at you even once, “Go back to your husband, Y/n,”

And of course, what other fucking choice do you have?

You push your trolley through the entrance hallway, leaving it at the foot of the staircase, making your way towards the living room. You enter the room, empty and messy, and you can see that Donghyuck has been spending more time at home now than he did before. His clothes are scattered on the couch, a sock is thrown carelessly behind one of the houseplants while the other is resting under the coffee table. He’s not here, but you can sense the smell of steak, and you can hear him humming something in the other room.

You enter the kitchen, that’s empty and messy, and then you hear Donghyuck’s voice ring a bit louder in your ears. You walk around the kitchen island, sliding the kitchen door open and you exit on the patio, scaring Donghyuck.

He’s grilling steak on the patio, dancing around with a huge grilling fork, getting scared when he heard the door slide shut behind you. 

“You’re home, baby,” he uses his saccharine voice, and you throw your phone on the wooden table next to the grill.

“Cut the crap,” you snarl, pulling a chair to sit, and you plop down while pointing at your phone, “I called you, you didn’t pick up,” you bite on your cheek, in a desperate attempt to keep your cool and not blow this fucking patio up.

“I didn’t pick up, nope” he makes a popping sound at the end, using a piece of cardboard to vent the meat on the grill.

“Then why all the voicemails pleading me to call you back? If you can’t fucking pick up?” You bark, but he doesn’t flinch at your tone.

“I didn’t pick up because I broke it,” he explains calmly before turning around to look at you, “I sort of got upset after a phone call. How’s your friend, by the way? Sungchan, was it?” He asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Do not fucking say his name,” you threaten, looking at him like you’re ready to jump him.

“Do not fucking look at me like that, Y/n” he threatens back, placing his hands on the wooden table. “I’m you fucking husband!” He raises his voice.

“And I’m your fucking wife!” You scream at him, while standing to your feet. Your nose is flaring with anger, and when your gaze meets his you feel the familiar suffocating lump in your throat. “In the last year, how many times did you consider yourself to be my husband?” You ask accusingly, pointing a finger in his direction. “How many times did you think you had a wife waiting for you at home, when you were with other women?” You cry out, biting on your lip in order to not let all the sobs run past your lips. “How many times, Donghyuck, did I turn a blind eye on your indiscretions? The times you came back home smelling like other women, marks on your skin, the amount of times you didn’t come home for long periods of time?”

“So you think you’re better than me if you just run away with another man?” He raises his voice at you once again, slamming a hand on the wooden table.

You’re honestly appalled at how he’s trying to turn this on you. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You ask calmly, your tears not flowing anymore. “You’re trying to blame me but you don’t see the root of the problem here. So it’s okay for you to do it for months, and then when I do it once it’s suddenly a problem?” You can’t look at him any more, feeling too upset to even spare him a glance. 

You notice the alcohol bottles sitting around the bin, and you suppose they’re there because the bin is already full.

“Are you drunk?” You ask in disbelief. You swear he seemed sober when he shouted at you just a few minutes ago.

“Do I look like I’m fucking drunk right now?” He asks exasperated. “Not now anyway, but I did drink waiting for your fucking call, Y/n” he points the grilling fork in your direction, as if he’s accusing you of something. “I waited, and I waited, and I waited for you call, but you just ignored me. You come home one day telling me that you don’t care who I’m with just for you to secretly leave to get with another man. What kind of pure and innocent role are you playing, Y/n? Telling me it’s alright just so you have your peace of mind while doing the same thing I do, because you thought you laid your cards on the table and allowing me to do it would exempt you from guilt?” He accuses you with an extremely calm tone. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Y/n, but what was I supposed to do? You left your fucking rings at home and took off!” He shouts again, and you realise you’ve never had a fight this intense with Donghyuck, with so much shouting. You don’t even think you’ve heard Donghyuck’s shout except for the one he lets out when he’s trying to be funny. Two completely different tones.

“So what? You kept your ring on when you were fucking around?” You bite back, and he doesn’t say anything else.

You decide there’s no way you want to continue the fight. At this point you’re not sure if whatever you and Donghyuck have is worth fighting for. You turn around, not even looking at him again, and go towards the staircase to go to your room. 

“Where are you going? Y/n?” He comes after you, calling your name and trying to grab you by the arm, “I made steak!”

“You can shove it up you ass!” You retort, getting out of his grasp, going up on the stairs and leaving him like a lost puppy.

You sit on the carpet at the foot of your bed, not even bothering to turn the lights on. You know you want to be alone right now, but you know that you’d rather be alone in this huge house instead of having Donghyuck downstairs.

You feel like the love you carry for Donghyuck is consuming you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. He can be the biggest idiot in this world and you would still love him. He can be the one to have a huge screaming match with and you’d still forgive him, and love him. Your pain is amplified when you recall the fight you two just had, because everything he said earlier is true. You told him to do whatever he wants because you knew you could go find solace in Sungchan's presence, you wouldn’t be alone anymore, and you could start doing whatever Donghyuck was doing without thinking twice. Just like he did. And what pains you the most is the fact that he made it sound like you were the one who cheated on him first.

And okay, you’re technically not together. But would it be so hard for him to acknowledge you once in a while? Would it be hard for him to stop thinking with his dick and just open his eyes to see that you’re right here, everything he would ask for, you’d give him on a golden platter. But again, maybe he doesn’t feel the same way towards you, and it’s better not to know this instead of having your feelings hurt to a point of no return. 

And Sungchan. That poor soul. You feel so sorry for treating him like this, and you feel even worst for making him feel the same way Donghyuck has made you feel up to this point. Sungchan left so abruptly that you didn’t have the chance to tell him the truth. Yes, your husband called, but guess what? He’s not really your husband. It sounds pathetic. You wish you could at lest have told him the truth, about the nature of the relationship between you and Donghyuck, but you guess you had it coming — because not once did you think about bringing your marriage, albeit fake, up to Sungchan, and you had more occasions than you can count on two hands.

You feel conflicted. You feel like the best thing for you would be getting away from Donghyuck as soon as possible. He brings out the worst side of you. The jealous, possessive side, that really has no business existing. Because it’s a fake one, this marriage shouldn’t make you feel like a miserable fool. It shouldn’t affect you the way it does, you’ve only known sadness and jealousy in the past months and it’s really not fair, not when Donghyuck doesn’t care about you and your marriage as much as you do. But at the same time, even if you think it’s best to get away, you just can’t. You’re so used to being with Donghyuck that he has become a part of you, and walking away from him would feel like walking around with just one leg instead of two.

You’re sobbing into your own hands, feeling like the world just collapsed, and you don’t sense Donghyuck coming up the stairs towards your room.

“Y/n, I want to talk,” he opens the door just slightly, waiting for you to say something, but he doesn’t hear an answer, “Can we talk?” 

“Go away,” You scoff, raising your head from your hands, bringing your knees to your chest. You notice him stepping carefully inside the room, the light on the hallway brightening your room just a little. He’s carrying your suitcase, the one you left at the foot of the staircase, and he puts it behind the door, before he comes next to you and decides to sit down.

He’s so close you can smell him, even if your nose is stuffy from all the crying. His arm is touching yours, and he brings one of his legs up to imitate your position. You don’t look him in the eye, but your tears keep streaming down your face uncontrollably, and you bite your lip trying not to let the sobs escape you.

He extends one hand, touching the arm closest to him, squeezing slightly.

“Lets talk about this,” he shushes you as soon as you try to reply back, and pats your head with careful gestures, “Come here,” he instructs, and your body responds immediately, like you wouldn’t even need a brain, just Donghyuck to tell you what to do and give out commands for you to follow.

Your face falls in the crook of his neck, and the moment you face touches his skin your tears are unstoppable. He continues to shush you, to tell you to let it all out, to tell you that everything’s okay.

And while you’re in his arms, and he holds you like this, showing you that he does indeed care about you, maybe you believe his words — that everything will be okay, just this once.

“Y/n, I know you can’t talk right now, so I will do the talking, okay?” He asks, but when he doesn’t get a reply back he promptly squeezes your arms to get an answer out of you. Between all the sobs and tears damping his skin and t-shirt, you give him a thumbs up — a sign that he should go on and talk, and it makes him laugh. The beautiful crystalline laugh you love so much.

“I’m so sorry for hurting you, and I know I’ve said this a lot lately but I will keep saying this a lot in the future too. I’m also sorry for talking to you the way I did earlier, raising my voice and pointing my finger when I’m not really the one who should be speaking,” he continues to caress your back while you’re all crouched into his side, your head still glued to the side of his neck. But he doesn’t mind the dampness, he doesn’t mind the sobbing you’re letting out right next to his ear. He doesn’t mind keeping you this close.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess, and then making you feel like I don’t appreciate you or like I don’t care about you. Because I do, Y/n. You’d be surprised if you could hear the things my mind is coming up with when I think about you.” He kisses the top of your head, and you feel his breath fanning over your forehead and cheeks for a little while.

“I’m sorry for ruining whatever you had with Sungchan, and I’m sorry to tell you that this last part is a lie. I’m lying Y/n, because knowing you could be happy far and away from me is making me go insane little by little. I’m an idiot for saying this when I’m the one in the wrong here,” he pauses, and you can hear him gulping.

“I need to be completely honest with you, I think I owe you this, and then if you want to walk away you can. You’re free to do whatever you want, you have your share of the money and it’s up to you whatever you decide to do,” you listen to him, holding your breath for a bit while waiting for him to go on, but your tears stopped flowing.

“The day I made breakfast for you, do you remember that?” You nod, stretching an arm across his stomach to get in a more comfortable position — and you really just wanted to hug him, “I was going to have a talk with you. The previous days, when I basically went missing, I reflected on a lot of things and I was ready to ask you if we could try to do this marriage thing for real this time, but you didn’t even let me speak,” he giggles, and once you register all his words your breath is caught in your throat.

“And then you went missing and I was so worried about you, Y/n. Never do that to me again,” he warns you, and you squeeze him tighter out of instinct. “You can do whatever you want Y/n, I mean it. You can forget I said anything about being for real in this marriage, you can decline all my apologies but I’ll forever feel sorry for putting you through this,”

You push yourself up from his body to finally look at him, and he looks at you with big sparkly eyes, touching his chest with his left hand, and you can see his ringed finger shining in the dim lights filtering through from the hallway. You love him, that’s a confirmed fact. Especially now after you got to hear everything he had to say.

“So how are you going to fix this?” You whisper, not really knowing how you should approach this whole situation.

“Do you forgive me?” He asks, his face getting a bit closer to your figure. He gets so close to you that you can smell his cologne perfectly once again. 

“I do, but” you whisper, and you can sense he’s holding his breath, “did you mean it, what you said about doing this,” you point between the two of you, “doing it for real?”

“Yes,” he answers with no hesitation, “I meant everything I said,”

“So let me ask again,” you get closer to his face, smirking as you can feel his breath fanning over your face once again, but this time you look him in the eye, “how are you going to fix this?” 

“I have a few ways,” he smirks at you, taking the bait you’ve just thrown him.

Everything happens really fast. You don’t have time to register the moment he seals his lips over yours, kissing you fervently as he gently grasps the side of your neck to bring you closer. You snicker as you feel his lips eagerly moving on top of yours, and your poor attempt at trying to gasp for air is swallowed by his relentless warm lips. 

He breaks the kiss, giving you both a chance to breathe, and he stands to his feet, dragging you with him. His lips capture yours once again, but this time he doesn’t lose any more time, his tongue sliding carefully on your bottom lip, asking for your permission. You grant it almost immediately, and he moans into the kiss as soon as his tongue waltzes with yours, his plump lips sucking on your tongue before releasing it with a pop sound, and going back to nibble on your bottom lip.

He lets your lips go once again, grabbing a strand of your hair to play with.

“I’ve wanted to be like this for a long time,” he mumbles, looking at the strand he’s holding between his fingers, “Will you let me take care of you, Y/n?” He rasps, and the look you give him is enough for him to understand your answer. “Lay down for me,” he instructs, pushing you slightly until the back of your knees touch the mattress, and you follow his orders.

He sets himself on top of you, and you wrap your legs around his waist out of instinct. His hands reach for your waistline, roaming carefully towards your hips, where he stops to squeeze tenderly. He leans forward once again, but this time he catches your lips in a sweet, short kiss, repeating the action a few times before moving his juicy lips to your jaw, nibbling on your neck as he moves his ministrations further and further down. 

You stifle a moan when his hot mouth reaches the neckline of your top that’s barely covering your breasts now that you’re laying down. Once again, Donghyuck puts his tongue to work, making the wet muscle trace the neckline, leaving wet smears across your hot skin.

His hands reach for the hem of your top, raising it higher on your torso up to your bust. His cold fingertips massage the delicate and silky skin up from your lower abdomen all the way to the underside of your breasts, where the underband of your bra is sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

“Let’s take this off, baby,” he commands, pulling on the fabric that’s covering your bra.

You comply to his orders, getting rid of the top as efficiently as possible, and you hear Donghyuck sucking his teeth, his head hanging low once again to be on the same level as your chest. He continues his actions, tracing his tongue around the cups of your bra, returning to the middle of your chest, where he presses his wet lips on the delicate spot between your tits, proceeding to lick a stripe all the way to your neck and jaw. He captures your lips in a smooth kiss, moving greedily trying to savour every little sound and breathy moans you let out. Your hands reach for his head, your fingers comb through his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp, and he can’t help but moan into your touch. The sound gets swallowed by your mouth moving confidently over his, sucking on his tongue, taking everything he’s willing to give you.

He breaks the kiss, holding a mischievous look in his gaze, instructing you to get rid of your bra and jeans while he gets up on his knees to get rid of his t-shirt. With his tanned, toned arms and abdomen on display, you reach out to get a chance to touch and trace his soft skin, but he slaps your hands away and leans forward towards your stomach, on which he places short, open mouth kisses all the way to the band of your panties. 

He kneels at the foot of the bed, dragging you by your hips towards himself, and holds your legs together before leaning in onto your clothed core. The action has you moaning, and he keeps moving his nose against the crotch of the underwear in repeated motions, his nose bumping against your clit every single time, and it sends a tingling sensation throughout your body, pleasure bubbling fast in your lower stomach.

“Hyuck,” you moan his name, not thinking you can resist his actions much longer.

He smiles hearing you moaning his name, but decides to halt his actions nonetheless. He grabs your panties and pulls them down, the cold air in the room making contact with your wet folds. He folds your wet underwear carelessly and shoves them in the front pocket of his sweats, leaning forward for his mouth to start moving slowly on your core. His plump lips suck on your clit gently, twirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves. Your pussy clenches around nothing, his relentless actions building the pressure in your muscles, and you’re approaching your release fast, your hip buck into his mouth, chasing the delicious pleasure you’re about to be rewarded with soon. 

Donghyuck can feel his dick hard and throbbing in his boxers, but he doesn’t touch himself — he'd rather wait to be touched by you. 

“That’s it, baby,” he moans with his mouth still glued to your core, his tongue licking long stripes along your entrance and clit, stopping to show extra care to the latter. And the pet name on his lips is everything you needed in order to cum. 

His dick throbs hearing the sounds you make while you cum, his name on your lips feels like a mantra, like a chant full of praise, music to his ears.

“You’re insane,” you breathe out, grabbing him by the hair to detach him from your core when he doesn’t seem to have any faint intention of stopping his laps on your clit.

“You haven’t even seen half of it yet,” he grins and smirks, his chin glistens with a mix of your arousal and release. He licks his lips, deciding to cut you some slack until you come down from your high.

You look at him, and you lick your lips seeing his grey sweats hanging low on his tanned hips, a wet patch placed in the front on his crotch, indicating his arousal.

You pull him closer to you, latching your lips with his, sucking and pulling on his bottom lip, tasting yourself off his lips as his mouth moves rhythmically against yours.

You push him slightly off you, instructing him to get on the bed. You look at his figure again. What a great day to be wearing sweats, you think. 

“Get these off for me,” you say, but it sounds more like a question. He giggles, but complies without having to be asked twice. He gets his boxers off of the way at the same time with his sweats, his dick falling heavy on his abdomen. You take a look at his cock, licking your lips unconsciously as you stare at the veins stretching along his length, precum leaking from his rosy tip. You reach for it, your palm aching to stroke him before you get a taste of him. But Donghyuck has other plans.

“Want you on my cock,” he grunts, bucking his hips up in your hand as soon as it wraps around his shaft, “Think you can ride me, baby?” He asks, and you’re more than eager to do it if it means seeing him so dishevelled underneath you, and you’re the cause. 

You nod, and he extends one hand to help you keep your balance as you bring your weight on top of his lap, waiting for him to line his shaft with your entrance. His tip enters you and you have to stop for a bit to adjust to the girth. You sink lower on top of his shaft, your pussy throbbing around it, and Donghyuck has to suck a breath through his teeth and pray to god you won’t take long to get used to his size. You’re so tight, Donghyuck is too excited to last for too long, he knows this already.

You start riding him, your juices are enough for his shaft to slide in and out of you with ease, and one of his hands reaches up to your chest to grab one of your nipples between his fingers, twisting it and putting the right amount of pressure that gets a whimper out of you. 

His mouth latches to your other nipple, sucking on it, his tongue swirls around the teat bringing a new wave of pleasure that has you arching your back and temporarily halting your rhythmic movements on top of Donghyuck’s shaft. Moaning, he sucks harsher on your nipple when he feels you stopping, so you resume your movements even if you can feel your thighs burning. A new wave of pleasure runs through your body  when you hear his moans against the frail skin of your chest, one of his hands placed on the small of your back trying to guide your movements as he can sense you’re tired. 

“Feels so fucking good,” he moans, looking up at you. You’re looking at him briefly, then you push him slightly to get him to lay down. You bring a pretty manicured hand up to his chest, steadying yourself as you keep your relentless and delicious moving of your hips against his. You mewl out a moan as your clit hits the base of his cock, and your head falls back making your hair bounce around yourself.

His body feels on fire, his heartbeat picking up its rhythm. “I think —” you hear him start, but is interrupted by one of your raw moans. “I love you,” he blurts out, and hearing those words coming out of his mouth makes the tension in your tummy burst, and the rhythm of your hips starts faltering. He grabs your arms with force and brings your upper body on top of his, your chests clashing on top of each other’s as he searches for your lips. 

He needs them like he needs air, especially after the words that slipped past his lips. He pulls you closer, one hand grabbing your waist to keep you in place as his hips start bucking up inside of you, and another hand keeping your head in the crook of his neck as you still ride your orgasm. He chases his own climax, and the relentless throbbing of your pussy around his shaft as you ride your orgasm helps him burst deep inside of you, moaning out your name as he holds your body tightly.

You stay in his embrace a little longer, until the clarity starts hitting you, replaying the last moments in your mind. You fall next to Donghyuck, your head still resting on his shoulder, a leg still stretched on his stomach as you both try regaining your bearings.

You raise your head to look at him, only to find him already looking down at you. 

“Did you really say you loved me?” You enquire, believing that’s a figment of your imagination.

“I did,” he whispers back, unmoving while keeping you close to him, his eyes big and sparkly.

“But isn’t it —“ you make a pause, trying to find the right words, “too soon? How do I know that you really mean it?”

“How do you know?” He repeats slowly, and then averts his gaze to look around the room for a few seconds. He sits up, getting off the bed, coming to your side of the bed so he can face you properly. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, looking at him quizzically, trying to understand what goes on in that mind of his. 

“Shut up, I’m about to do the most pathetic and embarrassing thing just for you,” he pouts at you, grabbing your arm and dragging you out of bed, “I need you to stand in front of me otherwise it won’t be embarrassing enough,”

“Seriously Hyuck, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You sigh, and you look at your naked silhouettes standing in front of each other like a pair of sims in the making.

“I have my flaws, and you know the already. I did a lot of shitty stuff to you, and I apologised for all. But you also have to remember…” he leaves the sentence up in the air for a bit, “That I’m also just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him,” he finishes his monologue, waiting for your reaction.

At first, you're speechless. Then the moment sinks in, and you can’t help but let a surprised laugh escape you as you reach for him. 

You grab his face, bringing him closer to you to give him a quick peck on the lips. 

“I love you too,” you let him know, but there’s a glint in your eyes that lets him know you’re never going to let him live this moment down, and he braces himself for impact, “But please never pull an Anna Scott on me, ever again!”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i loved writing this, i am emotionally attached to this story now T-T i love hyuck and i hope reading this was worth your time. feedback and engagement is always recommended and highly appreciated! thank you guys for signing up for the taglist and reading this piece <3 and you might have already guessed, but sungchan's instalment is related to the female oc (reader) in this, but more will come out with his teaser. if you have questions about this fic, my ask box is always open!

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