maki.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 2OO4즈 .ᐟ | she-they. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎purinni.carrd.co .ᐟ.ᐟ

[sknyuz]

₊‧☆⋆｡ﾟ 💾˖° 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶.𝗲𝘅𝗲 .ᐟ 𓂃⌨️⌒☆

𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁—𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲, 𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗽𝘀 .ᐟ

╰┈➤ get to know the programmer here 📡

💾 fluff | ⛓️‍💥 angst | ⚡ smut | 📟 friends/strangers to lovers | 📁 shorts (<5 min reads) 🧿 suggestive | 💿 est. relationship | 👾 headcanons | ✨ faves / popular

linked networks 🌐 @kstrucknet @studiosvt join the taglist to always be updated .ᐟ click here 📨 requests: open .ᐟ

spam reblogs are encouraged and appreciated.

seventeen.exe

70√3 — jeon wonwoo 💾📁 (tutor!wonwoo)

sunshine under the weather — lee seokmin (dk) 💾📟 (sick!dk)

heavy lifting — kim mingyu 💾⚡📟✨ (gym + college au)

my quiet place — kwon soonyoung (hoshi) 💾💿📁 (established relationship)

garden fairy — yoon jeonghan 💾💿📁 (idol!reader)

prompt #7 — lee jihoon 💾📟📁✨ (emotionally constipated woozi)

guard your heart (wip) — lee chan (dino) (royal au) preview here

threaded to you — hong jisoo (joshua) 💾💿(proposal!)

thrum — chwe hansol (vernon) 🧿

sticky! — boo seungkwan 💾📟 (office au)

anything 4 u — lee chan (dino) 💾📟

still into you — choi seungcheol (s.coups) 💾📟

chasing the moon* — wen junhui (jun) + xu minghao (the8) 💾⛓️‍💥

✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*

weakheroclass.exe

i can fix him! - the trilogy masterlist

before the storm — na baekjin ⛓️‍💥💿 ✨

how whc boys would kiss you — 💾👾✨

collarless — geum seongje — ⛓️‍💥💿🧿✨

academic rival!na baekjin — 💾📟📁

boyfriend!baku — 💾💿📁

how whc boys show intimacy — 💾👾

sweet (mute!reader) — geum seongje 💾⛓️‍💥📟

how whc boys handle a break up ⛓️‍💥👾

afterglow — oh beomseok 💾⛓️‍💥

still, i choose you — na baekjin 💾⛓️‍💥

going down on the boys of whc ⚡️

meet me halfway — go hyuntak (gotak) 💾📟

cheers to youth - na baekjin (prequel to before the storm)💾📟

✧・ﾟ*: system last updated: 2nd of june, 2025 ✧・ﾟ*:

✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*

discontinued groups

theboyz.exe (closed)

chocolate cliché — ju haknyeon 💾 📟📁

7:43am — kim sunwoo 💾📟 📁

9:00pm — eric sohn 💾 💿📁

haunted house — ji changmin (q) 💾 📟📁 (childhood bffs)

morning after your wedding with ju haknyeon — 💾💿📁

sknyuz © 2025 | all rights reserved. unauthorized reproduction, revising or distribution of this material, as well as the use in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence is strictly prohibited.

[sknyuz]

your boyfriend, mark lee, lets out a shaky “yo, lets get it!”, voice cracking before grabbing your face and slamming his lips on to yours

[sknyuz]

missing mark lee a lil extra today

[sknyuz]

TUMBLR IS BACK OMG 😭😭😭 THE PH GOVERNMENT BANNED IT FOR BEING CLASSIFIED AS A "GAMBLING SITE" HEHSHHSHHSHSHAH

[goldenhourology]

ROOM 217. part of the puttin' on the ritz collaboration with @studiosvt

pairing: lee jihoon x f!reader

genre: smut, hotel owner/speakeasy manager x server

summary: fresh starts are hard, but running away from your mafia husband is even harder. after escaping the protection of the lucky ace gang and fleeing to new york city, you find lee jihoon, a reserved yet enigmatic hotel owner. the hotel ruby conceals a popular speakeasy, the velvet ruby, within its walls. it takes some convincing, but jihoon eventually offers you a job, a chance at stability and anonymity. but every swanky hotel has its secrets. when you stumble upon the locked door to room 217, nothing could prepare you for what’s waiting on the other side.

warnings: dom!woozi, power imbalance, a lot of obsession, masturbation, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, slightly inexperienced reader, mentions of family death, reader's husband is in a gang, 1920s gang-related violence, use of pet names (angel), woozi is deeply infatuated with reader but it borders onto an insane level = light stalking, also insane rational on the readers part for woozi's obsession (aka these two are freaks). nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).

word count: 20.9k

note: this fic is a part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt. the team at @studiosvt were so cool to let me participate again and I had a lot of fun writing freaky hotel owner jioon 😈 this is the second time now I've done a collab with them and I've made the member I got an obsessive freak, not sure if that says something about me but . anywho! make sure you check out the other stories in this collab 💘 (taglist posted at the bottom.)

in rotation: just me and you, the dreamliners / off to the races, lana del rey / love me or leave me, ruth etting / cherry, lana del rey / a little death, the neighbourhood / ruby, woozi

Inheriting the Hotel Ruby from his great grandfather had started out honest. A ritzy, well-known hotel that was in dire need of a upgrade was exactly what Jihoon wanted to get his life back on track. Being born into the Lucky Ace gang hadn’t been easy, but escaping it at the mere age of 21 was a feat in itself. Jihoon had experienced it all: violence, homelessness, grief, until finally coming into money. Why his great grandfather had deemed him worthy enough to include in his will – he had no idea. But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He was so sure he was going to make all the money back that was used for renovations, but when the hotel opened around the time of the stock market’s rapid expansion, no one was traveling. No one was wasting their money for flings in a swanky, New York City hotel. Instead, they were pouring their cash into the stock market and hoping for monetary gain. He had a full staff at the hotel, eager for pay, families to feed. He needed the money. In a time of failing businesses and social collapse, Jihoon had nowhere to turn.

This was where the Velvet Ruby came in.

Nestled in a hidden part of the hotel lobby, behind a password protected door, was a speakeasy. Jihoon pulled together the last of his savings, praying for a win, to decorate the old backroom of the hotel into the most swell joint he had ever seen. He had gotten lucky with the location: a speakeasy in an infamous hotel, right in Manhattan, where people were desperate for alcohol … It wasn’t long before the Velvet Ruby was the most popular juice joint for New York’s elite.

Jihoon didn’t want to reach out to old friends, but the only way to smuggle alcohol in was through bootleggers. He typically relied on smugglers from Canada to bring in his moonshine and other popular liquor from distilleries. Using people connected to the Lucky Aces and other gangs, Jihoon created a network of bootleggers so that he never, not once, ran out of alcohol to sell. 

With his bartender and partner in crime, Kwon Soonyoung, they ran the Velvet Ruby like the military. Every employee at the hotel was paid fairly, and they even had enough to hire the finest entertainment and several servers that were looking to make a buck. Soonyoung was one of the best cocktail mixers around, and if you were lucky enough, sometimes he got up on the mic to belt out a tune.

The hotel business was steady, but the speakeasy earnings were pulling them through a harsh autumn. Even through the success, Jihoon still had bad days. Days when the music got too loud or the loneliness of leaving his family crept up on him. Sometimes the only warmth he could feel was when he stood outside in the cold rain, inhaling smoke from the cigarette in his gloved fingers, as he watched the light above his hotel flicker.

But if days like this didn’t come up, he probably wouldn’t have met you.

You were standing in the rain, soaked to the bone, when your eyes met his outside the Hotel Ruby. Hair wet and clutching what looked like a torn suitcase, Jihoon stubbed out his cigarette and opened the door for you without a word. You brushed past him, but he could feel you shivering. Water dripped from your coat and onto the plush red carpet, but Jihoon had never been the type to chastise a woman for anything. Not even for ruining his carpet.

He slipped behind the front desk at the lobby because Wonwoo had probably fallen asleep on break. Without looking up from the guest book, he asked, “Looking for a room?”

“Actually, a job.”

Jihoon’s head lifted. The night had shrouded most of your face outside, but now that he was looking at you under the warm lights of the lobby, his body froze. Despite your wet hair clinging to your face, there was a natural beauty about you. Something to be admired. The kind of face that didn’t belong in a seedy city, but somewhere gentle, warm. Your face stood out in a place like New York, where crime and gambling ran rampant. 

You weren’t from here.

“We don’t have any positions open at the hotel,” he replied.

“I – I’m n-not –” You stuttered, teeth chattering. The handle of your suitcase shook in your lithe fingers. Voice lowering, you continued, “I’m not asking for a job at the hotel.”

It clicked then, and his brow raised. How did someone like you find out about the speakeasy? He couldn’t dwell on it, not when you had pertinent information. With a cock of his head, he led you into the manager’s office behind the front desk, locked with a golden key. Wonwoo was slumped in a cushioned chair by the door, waking up when the edge hit his foot. Jihoon side-eyed him, and he skedaddled before he could be reprimanded.

Moving the stack of bills to the floor, Jihoon sat down behind the desk and gestured for you to take the seat in front of him. You settled into the chair warily, still shivering, and just the sight of a pretty thing like you suffering made him pause. He stood and rounded the desk, reaching a hand out. You looked up at him with confusion. “Let me help,” he muttered. “Take your jacket off. It’s soaked.”

“O-Oh,” you nodded, sliding the wet material off and handing it over.

Jihoon averted his gaze when he realized your were wearing a white blouse underneath, the line of your undergarments clearly visible beneath the soggy fabric. Clearing his throat, he hung up your jacket before draping an old trench coat over your shoulders that he kept in the closet. You pursed your lips, and he was pretty sure he heard something that resembled, Thank you, sir.

Plopping back down in his chair, the first thing he said was, “You’re not from around here.”

Your mouth opened, but his words caught you off guard. After a beat, you replied, “No. I’m from up north. I took a bus to the city.”

“How did you find out about the Velvet Ruby?”

He was so blunt, his tone like a dagger. You almost didn’t expect it from someone like him. He was broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that spoke to what little sleep he got and slicked-back hair. Two inches shorter than you and smelling like a combination of cigars and expensive cologne, but his words cut sharper than a blade. You hugged the trench coat more on your shoulders.

“It’s because – I’m not –” You exhaled heavily. Your first instinct was to lie – always lie. It had become a habit after you married Han. Rubbing underneath your nose, you decided to be truthful: “I found out because I know the right people. I’m running away from my ex-husband.”

His brow shot up. “Divorced?”

“I don’t have the money to even get divorced. My family is flat. I married up, until I realized …” You smoothed a hand over your tired eyes.

He licked his lips, realizing how much your expression had soured. His back straightened in the chair and he laced his fingers together on the desk. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me, angel.”

The nickname made your gaze flicker to his, and you both let it hang in the air for a moment. The office was so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop. So you cleared your throat. “No,” you muttered, “I probably should.”

He watched your chin fall into your palm, your eyes haunted and somewhere else. Whatever you had experienced left an imprint on you, a bruise that wouldn’t heal. A wave of protectiveness washed over him and he had no clue why. He didn’t know you, didn’t know what you’d been through, but for some reason, he felt the need to crush whoever made you this way.

“Everything okay?” He asked over a long beat of silence.

“I’m trying to fight the urge to lie to you.”

“Oh.”

You finally sat back up, pushing strands of wet hair behind your ear. Your lobe was pointed, something so characteristically you. “My husband’s friend is one of your bootleggers.  He sources your gin and rum from Canada. Both him and Han are part of the Lucky Ace gang.”

It dawned on him then – he forgot some of the Lucky Aces reached as far as the north east. They were one of the most spread-out gangs on the eastern part of the U.S., but with the likes of the Chicago Outfit maintaining superiority amongst the crime syndicate, it was hard to believe they were still out there, past the boundary of New York State. 

Suddenly, Jihoon felt his breath still. “Han,” he repeated, the name tasting burnt on his tongue. “As in Cheon Han?”

You swallowed, mouth refusing to open.

“Your husband is one of the leaders of Lucky Ace,” he said, though he was sure you knew that from the look on your face. “I grew up with him, until he moved … North.” It was all clicking in his head then: the day they met in elementary school; Jihoon’s 18th birthday when Han revealed he was moving in with his uncle; the night he got the news from his father that “his old friend” had went up in the ranks of Lucky Ace up North, surpassing folks older than him. 

“Oh, my god.” He moved his chair back, surprised when it hit the wall. “I can’t hire you. I can’t house you. That’s asking for a death wish.”

“Only if he finds out,” you were quick to say. “I’m not asking for shelter. I got an apartment for myself outside Manhattan. I just need a job to pay for it.”

Jihoon shook his head. “He’ll kill me.”

“Let’s be honest, he never does the killing. One of his torpedos will do it for him.”

He paused, because he knew you were right, and it wasn’t exactly helping your case. You placed a hand on the desk, as if to reach out to him, but your fingers were trembling so much. The tips were red, so warm compared to the rest of your body. When he met your eyes again, they were pleading. “Please,” you said, “I wouldn’t ask for help if I wasn’t desperate. I’m good with customers. I can … I can be a server. I have good balance –”

“All my servers are male. I only hire female dancers.”

Your face fell. “I’m not a dancer. But I can … please. I know you don’t know me, but I’m asking you to take a chance.”

Jihoon stood, his mind swirling with possibilities. He paced in front of the door and ran a hand through his hair. She’s Han’s wife. They’re not even divorced. She’s running away from him. Fucking Christ, if he finds her here, he’s going to kill me –

A hand latched around his wrist. He turned, meeting your eyes. 

“He won’t find me,” you promised. “He’s too busy with his deals to ever come home and I planted a seed within his friend group that I was going even further south to see distant relatives. He would never guess I’d be in New York. And if he does …” You looked down, realizing you were still gripping him. His skin was pale and cold, but not as icy as yours. Sucking in a breath, you pulled your hand away. “I’ll make sure I suffer the consequences. Not you. I swear."

It was a gamble. You were a gamble. And he quit betting a long time ago, after a risky night at a underground casino with Soonyoung on his 29th birthday. Jihoon had never been entirely sympathetic, had never let himself be swayed by anybody, and yet … The warmth in your eyes left him stunned. Frightened. Like he could feel the whole world turning on its axis, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He sighed, and then rubbed at his eyes. “The men who come into the joint aren’t kind.”

“I’ve survived my fair share of unkind men.”

“You’d be the only female server. I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a woman.”

“That’s okay. Nothing has ever been easy for me.” You adjusted the coat on your shoulders. “Are you offering me the job?”

He closed his eyes, wondering if he should back out now, but he was already nodding, holding out his hand for you to shake. “Name’s Lee Jihoon. I’ll be your boss.”

“Jihoon,” you repeated, lips pulling into a wide grin. You told him your name, but he decided then that the only name he wanted to call you was angel.

You supposed it didn’t exactly matter what you wore to your first shift, but you planned on being more put together than yesterday. A fresh shower in your new apartment and a couple rollers later, you looked more spiffy than the women having brunch at the Ritz. Your hair was perfectly curled, red smeared onto your lips in a perfect cupid’s bow, and you wore a simple, button-down plum dress. One that you made sure to iron before leaving the apartment.

Jihoon asked you to be on the premises an hour before the speakeasy opened, which was usually around 9 to 10 PM. Naturally, you arrived at 8:45, having just enough time for a cigarette with your hood up. You were on guard these days, never taking a chance to reveal more than half of your face, especially when indulging in your worst habit. After taking one last inhale, you crushed the death stick with the heel of your flat and walked inside the hotel.

You expected to see Jihoon there – behind the front desk, talking to a bellhop, anywhere – but the lobby was empty besides Wonwoo with the guest book. He waved awkwardly to you, looking like a beanstalk in his uniform that hardly fit his long legs. You cowered in on yourself, tucking your hands into your jacket, as you prepared for someone from your past to jump out. Wonwoo was probably looking at you like you lost your marbles.

“Hey, big shot!”

You turned at the loud voice, seeing the back door slam open behind Wonwoo, and the taller male almost jumped out of his skin. Another male with curled dark hair stepped out, just a few inches under Wonwoo, clapping his hands in your direction. He wore a black dress shirt and tie, accompanied by a pair of baggy slacks with the ends tucked into tall, tiger-print socks and leather shoes. 

He looked insane, and yet … surprisingly on trend.

When you were within feet of him, he pulled you in by your hand, his grip stronger than you assumed. “Name’s Soonyoung. You’re the new one Jihoon let in, yes?” You nodded, and with your hand still in his, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His smile was mischievous, but weirdly contagious. “Look at you all dolled up for the first night. As lovely as …” He fingered the collar of your dress and attempted not to grimace. “… This is, you do have a uniform. Which I adapted from what the men wear.”

Wonwoo tossed him a pair of clothes from one of the desk compartments and Soonyoung caught it without missing a beat. He placed the uniform into your arms and spun you around, pointing to the public restrooms. “Change please,” he instructed, although it was more like a demand when he pushed you forward in that direction.

The uniform was tighter than you assumed, but that was a given when you didn’t get anyone your measurements. It still fit, the flared black skirt hugging your waist just right. Soonyoung paired it with a white, collared blouse and an apron that secured around your middle. You hadn’t realized he’d given you an old pair of kitten heels, the leather worn-out at the toe. After slipping on some sheer black tights, you stuck your feet in the shoes and prayed you’d get used to them. You’d never been a pro with heels. 

Walking out, Soongyoung sent you smirk of approval before gesturing that you follow him. Wonwoo gave you one last nervous wave, all lanky and long-limbed, before you quickly trailed behind your new tiger-socked friend. He led you down the corridor to the left of the hotel’s entrance, and you noticed the lights getting dimmer the further you got from the lobby. You held your old clothes close to your chest, wary. When you reached the end of the hall, Soonyoung checked you were still behind him and presented the door in front of you both. It was tall and made of iron, with a window slot in the middle that was currently closed. Soonyoung knocked on the door in a specific pattern – two hard knocks, pause, one soft knock, three more hard knocks, slam your palm on the surface – and the window slot opened, revealing a pair of dark eyes.

A whiney voice emerged. “You wanna do that password again for me?”

“Oh, just open the door, Seungcheol!”

The bouncer chuckled, slamming the window shut before tearing the heavy door open. Seungcheol gave you a look as you strode past him, almost tripping in your heels when he winked. Soonyoung looked over his shoulder, glaring at the bouncer, before looping his arm through yours. “Don’t mind him. He’s an ass, but overly friendly. Has a wife at home,” your new friend explained.

Showing you the coat closet, he had you secure your clothes in your own locker before meeting him back out on the speakeasy floor. The joint was small, but clearly prestigious. The lights above where faint and colored in warm tones like yellow and red. Each circular table around the room fit at least four people, decorated with a red velvet tablecloth and a singular rose in the middle. A stage was set up at the front for live entertainment, and you saw a few dancers practicing their routine for tonight. The bar looked new, made out of dark maple and stocked full with every liquor imaginable. This place in fact was the real deal.

Soonyoung raised his arms. “Welcome to the Velvet Ruby.”

“It’s …” You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes scanning the room. “Very dark.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he gabbed, arm laced through yours again as you both flitted about the rooms. “Depending on the crowd, we won’t give you more than three tables. Just because it’s a small amount, doesn’t mean your attention shouldn’t constantly be on them. This is a business and we’re selling liquor. If someone isn’t being bum rushed out of here because their too canned to walk, I’m not doing my job right. You’ll typically find me mixing behind the bar with Seokmin, but don’t be mistaken. It is my bar.”

You nodded. “Noted.”

“Rules of the house,” Soonyoung continued, rounding the corner as they reached the seats at the bar. He held up three fingers. “No violence with patrons. No touching from patrons. And absolutely no questions about past lives.”

You began to nod in agreement when the sound of two bodies hitting each other emanated behind them. Your head spun out of instinct, seeing two of your fellow servers – one, a shorter man with reddish-brown hair and an otter-like smile; the other, a big six with hulking shoulders, strong muscles, and perfect features like wavy, black hair and honeyed skin. They greeted each other loudly, their raised voices making you flinch instantly.

Just a sound could take you back to Han. To the nights you heard him getting scrappy with one of his torpedos, right behind the door of your shared bedroom. To the days he yelled at his right-hand man as you prepared coffee in the kitchen, and then his hand gripping your apron as if to anchor himself to you before he clocked his friend in the kisser. 

Han had never been violent with you. Never touched a hair on your head. But to be married to a gangster was to see a threat at every turn. How long would it be until one of his enemies got the upper hand?

“You got the heebie-jeebies or something?” Soonyoung asked, and you whipped your head back to him. But he noticed the look in your eyes, how scattered you were, and with a soft smile, he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. I’ll tell Chan and Mingyu to pipe down.”

You schooled your expression – one of the many skills Han had taught you once he revealed his true identity. Your shoulders squared and you cleared your throat. “I know. I’m just … getting used to being the only female server.”

He laughed. “Yeah, Jihoon kind of set you up for failure with that one. Especially in this city.”

You raised a brow.

“Not that I think you’re going to fail. I’m sure you’re swell. It’s just …” He closed his mouth, realizing that he was going on a tangent. “I should let Jeonghan take over.”

Soonyoung yanked over another tall male with dark hair that reached his shoulders, almost making him drop all the glasses on his tray onto the floor. Jeonghan shook his head at the bartender before introducing himself to you. His slender build was similar to Wonwoo’s, but he wasn’t as broad.

Jeonghan brought you over to one of the tables to explain the basics of serving: how to write out your orders, address customers, and when to exactly cut them off. “The hardest part of being a server isn’t even about interaction,” he explained, and then lifted his full tray of empty glasses on his shoulder. “It’s about learning how to balance. Never, ever, break a glass.”

You nodded, jotting down notes in your server book. Guests were beginning to pour in, but Mingyu and Chan took the lead while Jeonghan showed you the ropes. Businessmen strolled through with women that probably weren’t their wives. Even a few flappers made their presence known, requesting Mingyu as their server specifically for one of the ladies in the friend group. You tried to focus over the noise and be present with Jeonghan, but your eyes couldn’t help but drift around the room, until they finally landed at the corner of the bar.

Jihoon leaned against the edge, a lit cigar between his teeth as he spoke to Soonyoung. And it seemed his eyes were drawn to you too, because only a few seconds later, you were the only thing he could focus on.

Sitting on the cold wooden floor of your apartment, back pressed against the side of the twin-sized bed, you dug out a small box from underneath the frame. One of the little things you made sure to pack before leaving, the gift box was old and torn, the vintage paper from when your mom was a child. You placed it in front of your crossed legs, your work heels discarded just a few feet away. The time was nearing 3 AM and you’d just gotten back from the Velvet Ruby, but your hands were itching for this, for the memories.

Lifting the cover off, you smiled at the pile of rectangular photos from years past. You picked up the first one off the top: an overexposed shot of you and your mother from when you were a child. It was the time you were sick, so she dressed you up in the prettiest clothes and had a photoshoot with you, as if you were her little doll. Your big grin, one tooth missing in the front, a red nose from sniffling. It was a good memory – a really, really good memory.

Your hands pilfered through the family photos: the one of you and your grandparents, your first day working for your parents’ laundromat, your 16th birthday party. Each a crucial part of your childhood. Setting the plethora of memories to the side, you picked up a photo that felt like a lifetime ago: you, leaning against a telephone pole outside, wearing your mother’s old wedding dress that came to your ankles because you were much taller than her. The smile on your face was different, and when you flipped to the next shot, you knew why. It was the day you and Han got married at the courthouse. His hands were in yours, his eyes on you, while you were looking at your father’s camera. The court clerk was in the middle of almost dropping his booklet when the image was captured. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself. This was when things were good, when Han was just a customer you met at the laundromat.

You flicked through the photos, noticing the way your eyes changed in each one. As if your fear of the unknown and the weight of being your husband’s moll had made you lose your sparkle. Even in the shot from your first anniversary – which you had taken of both of you, sitting on the beach in some warmer state, albeit on a day where you were so happy – there was something in your smile. The first inklings of uncertainty. Because even on this day – one of your favorite days with him – he had gotten a letter with a threat sent to their hotel room near the beach. And it had become clear then that you might have fallen in love with one of the most dangerous men.

One of the last shots at the bottom was a picture he asked your father to take after the wedding. You both stood in the middle of the courthouse, him holding your wrist as you presented your hand out, the ring on your finger glinting in the lens. Standing on both sides of you were men that you deemed as his friends at the time, unaware that they were his associates in the Lucky Ace gang. Now that the dust had settled, you wondered if you had just been blind, because you most certainly remembered one of them having a shiv in his suit to defend Han at a moment’s notice.

But you didn’t think anything of it. You didn’t need to. Because he hadn’t been truthful with you in the first place.

With a heavy exhale, you buried all the photos of Han to the bottom of the box. You couldn’t dwell on the past or else you’d be filled with dread. Reaching into your apron, you pulled out a new addition for your collection: a photo Jihoon had requested to be taken of him all his staff at the Velvet Ruby. This photo spoke of new beginnings, one where you’d stop being afraid of what would happen next. Because you were protected here; everyone promised you that.

In the photo, Soonyoung was standing to Jihoon’s left, one arm around him while holding up his other hand, curled like a cat’s paw. Beside him was Chan and Mingyu, and then Jeonghan with Seungcheol on the corner. On the other side were a few servers you had been introduced to that day – Vernon and Minghao – both sporting the same unamused expression, with the other bartender, Seokmin. You were standing to the right of Jihoon, lips pulled into a soft smile while his arm slipped around your waist, yet hovering. Your heels made you feel like a tower next to him, but he was still the most important, confident man in the room.

When he had given you the photo a few days later, you assumed it was because this was one of the damaged copies. The brightness of the image, the way Mingyu was mid-talking to Chan. But still, you couldn’t help to ask, “Why are you giving me this?”

“I like having pictures. They’re a good memento.” He tapped his finger against the flimsy paper before meeting your gaze. “And I want you to have a good memory. To show you that there will always be a place where you will be safe.”

It took a couple weeks to get into the swing of things, but it felt like you had finally established yourself in a new place. And you did it on your own. You didn’t flinch anymore at sudden footsteps and raised voices, although you did have to tell Mingyu to shut it every once in a while. You slowly got the hang of serving and attending to wealthy patrons, even picked up a few regulars that came by at least once a week. Much to your excitement, they  were mostly women – a group of flappers looking to gossip about their dates or dance to whatever live band Jihoon hired that night.

As it turned out, working in such an energetic place was great exposure therapy.

Jihoon checked in on you regularly: before close, when you hung out by yourself at the bar. He’d meet you outside when you had a cigarette on your break. He asked you questions no one else did: Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Is everyone treating you well? Are you happy? Sometimes, he’d walk with you to the bus station, wait beside you until it came, and when you asked him why, he’d be so nonchalant. 

“This is on my way home anyway,” he’d say.

And you’d tilt your head. “The bus station?”

“Yes, I live … just over yonder,” he explained with an awkward wave of his hand. “I should get going.”

Your apartment could be scary at times, especially for a woman living on your own. Sometimes you’d wake up in the middle of the day – since you worked long into the early morning hours – hearing your neighbors argue over the price of milk. Insistent door knocking startled you before it became clear that no one was at your door at all; they were downstairs. Every loud noise outside your window sounded like a gunshot at first, until you realized that it wasn’t. It was just the kids on the sidewalk playing with wooden blocks. 

But you found solace at the Velvet Ruby – in a routine, in seeing your coworkers. Your friends. They were kind and made you laugh, the happiness returning to your eyes again. With them, you were safe. 

Jihoon made you feel safe.

And then, December 1st came.

Soonyoung was keeping you at the bar as he slowly made two Gin Rickeys for one of your tables. The drink was simple – club soda, lime juice, and of course, gin – but he had a better time holding you hostage there with a story from last night, which he told rather exuberantly. “And there I was, wearing my favorite socks – you know, the ones with the tiger pattern?” He asked, giving you no time to nod before he was continuing. “I was cleaning up the bar when Laurie – you know her? One of the hoofers Jihoon hired to come dance every week? Dark hair, big brown eyes. Anyway, she comes up to me –”

You watched him gradually poor the lime juice into both glasses before looking over your shoulder to see your patrons bored of their minds. Not even the pianist on stage could keep their attention.

“– And she wants to see me past work hours. Complimented my socks and everything.  Didn’t realize someone had a crush. Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?” He slapped the top of your hand, making you swing back to him. “Are you even listening?”

You blinked. “Oh, um – Laurie’s stuck on you. Anything else?”

Soonyoung glared at you and poured a shot of gin into each glass. “Maybe I should ask her on a date next time I see her. What do you think?”

“Well, do you like her?” Your eyes slid to the right, where Jihoon stood in the corner of the joint. He put a cigar to his lips while Seungcheol whispered something in his ear, and then his gaze was on yours, making the hairs on your arm stand up. For what reason – you had no idea. Yet.

“She’s pretty.”

You flickered back to Soonyoung. “Then you should go on a date with her.” Your hands wrapped around the two Gin Rickeys. “If you’ll excuse me, my table is about to fall asleep if I don’t get these to them.” 

You turned, foot coming out to step forward, when two people breezed past you and you almost forgot to breathe. It was a man with a woman on his arm, and his face … it was something out of a nightmare, out of one of the pictures you had looked at weeks ago. But it couldn’t be him. Minho never let his hair grow that long, and he swore he’d never leave Han’s side, not even for a vacation. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

Minho was one of your husband’s enforcers in Lucky Ace, his right-hand man for all problems. A shield, but also a brother to him if he needed it. Which meant he was a brother to you too – however, you never let him get close enough. You kept Minho at an arm’s length, a hard task given the fact that he was almost always with your husband. Except for right now. If that was him. 

Most likely, it wasn’t. But what if it was?

This had to be your anxiety talking and you weren’t going to let it win today. Not after all the progress you made. You avoided the table he sat and thanked your lucky stars that you didn’t have to be their server. Pulling Mingyu away from one of his regulars – a blonde flapper named Kallie, who skirted around the rule of not touching the wait staff with lingering caresses and eyes that spoke trouble – you informed him to not let you near that table under any circumstances. Typically, Mingyu would crack at joke in this moment, but when he saw the serious look in your eyes, he knew this was important.

Keeping your face turned away from his table was harder than you assumed, but when it was finally nearing closing and you were getting back your last check of the night, you thought maybe you survived. Maybe you could sneak a peak now to see if it really was Minho. You just had to swing by the bar and drop off this money –

A warm palm latched around your arm.

Eyes wide, you turned, seeing Minho so plastered that his Old Fashioned was sloshing over the sides of the glass in his hand. You were petrified, body going ice cold. Because it was him – it was fucking Minho. In the flesh. Right before your eyes. His hand feeling like an iron brand on your bicep, as if he could burn through your blouse.

What was he doing here? How did he find you? Did Han set him up to this –

“H-Hey,” he slurred, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. The woman beside him was tugging on his arm and begging to leave. “Don’t I know … know you from sssssomewhere?”

“I – I –” The words were clogging in your throat. You tried to tug your arm free, but he wouldn’t let go. Oh, my god – he wasn’t going to let go. He was going to take you back to Han and the woman with him was just a ploy and – fuckfuckfuck –

“No touching my servers.”

Your arm was yanked free by a strong arm suddenly appearing on your left. Stumbling back, you caught yourself on the edge of a table as you recognized the back of Jihoon’s head. He was smacking away Minho’s hand, roughly grabbing him by the collar before he could even look in your direction again. Soonyoung was at your side instantly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and shielding you from the scene. 

You heard the scuffle behind you, and you turned your head just enough to see Jihoon bum rushing Minho out of the speakeasy with Seungcheol on his right. They were both yanking on Minho’s flailing arms, ignoring his drunken shouting, while the woman on his arm sprinted after them.

The Velvet Ruby shut its doors for the night and instead of cleaning, Soonyoung insisted that you take a breather. You found his small pantry nestled behind the bar, the entry marked off by just a velvet curtain. This was where he stored all the extra liquor, where bootleggers met Jihoon with their latest shipments. You sat on the steel table by the wall, your legs dangling off the edge, and you took a few deep breaths. Realizing your pantyhose had a few tears in them, you sighed. Sleep was already creeping up on you, but there was still so much left to do. You should offer to mop the floors, clean up behind the stage, and yet …

The curtain swung open, and Jihoon closed it quickly behind him. “Are you doing okay?” He asked while striding up. His tone was detached, but it was his words that spoke to how much he cared. 

You didn’t answer, only nodded your head.

“Are you fighting the urge to lie to me again?”

You blinked a few times, his words making a tremor run through you. “I guess I was. Unintentionally, at least.” You looked back down at your legs swinging and gripped the edge of the table. Anywhere but his eyes. Sometimes you wondered if he could see right through you.

A moment of silence passed. Jihoon clicked his tongue. “So did you … know those two people?”

He was trying to pry you open, read through you like the Sunday paper. But you couldn’t let him. The less people who got in your shit, the better. It was for his own good. He was the one who almost didn’t hire you because he was scared of Han in the first place.

“You have to let me in at some point,” he whispered, softer this time. Intimacy laced in his tone and invited you in. He then snickered under his breath. “You got me all balled up over this. I probably just threw out someone who gave me good business –”

“He knows Han,” you confessed. “I don’t know who the woman was.”

Jihoon stuck his hands in the front pockets of his pants. “I see.”

You chewed on your bottom lip. Was the tear in your tights getting bigger or were you finally seeing things? “I didn’t think it was him at first, but … he saw me. What if he goes back and tells Han? What if –”

“He was too tanked to see, and he won’t remember anything now either.”

Slowly, you lifted your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were so dark that you swore you could drown in them. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry about it, angel.” He loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt. Your stare drifted to his forearms, admiring the veins that led up to his knuckles, which you realized were now … red, bruised. Both of his hands were. “Do you trust me?”

His words rang through you, causing your gaze to flicker up to his again. After a moment, you nodded. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.

He stepped closer, the fabric of his expensive pants rubbing against your ruined pantyhose. “I think its best if we establish a plan. If someone asks for you, how should I respond?”

Your hands started to shake, knuckles turning white as you clutched the edge of the table. Looking to your feet, you realized how little you thought this through. Your plan had cracks. You  hoped it wouldn’t get to a point where you had to worry about this happening. “I … I don’t know. Say you don’t know me. Say …”

He placed a reassuring hand on top of yours. Your eyes slowly slid to the right, realizing that his hands were bigger than you assumed, prominent veins and scars etched into his skin. His palm was warm, and one of your fingers couldn’t help but twitch. 

He squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.

“A cup of Joe or tea?”

Your head swung up. He was that much closer, his hand not leaving yours. Cocking your head to the side, you answered, “Tea. Why?”

A smile flashed on his plump lips. “I figured that was easier than the hard stuff. Morning person or night owl?”

“I used to be a morning person.” Your lips pursed as his gaze burned into yours. “But these days, I think I prefer the night.”

You noticed the way he swallowed, and for a moment, you thought he shivered. But he let go of your hand before you could feel it.

“Are you comfortable here?” His voice was so smooth, like dark chocolate melting in your mouth. After a beat, he added, “With me?”

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip for a moment, and you notice Jihoon’s eyes move down, ogling you like a painting. Finally, you uttered, “Yes.”

“Good.”

He was in your space now, so close you could inhale his cologne that he probably bought from Lord & Taylor. Or maybe he had it custom. He smelled like firewood and something so inherently masculine, stabling you. A hint of cigar smoke lingered on his collar. He placed his palms on the steel table, thumbs just barely brushing against your hips, as he leaned into you, meeting you at your eye level.

“Tell me,” he continued, “is it worse to be trapped by someone who has feelings for you, or hunted by someone who doesn’t?”

You arched a brow. “We’re back to the hard ones now.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I think …” Pausing, you debated your answer, even though you knew it instantly. Maybe you wanted to make him sweat a little. “I would rather be trapped. Better to be trapped and unharmed than hunted.”

Jihoon’s tongue darted out from the corner of his mouth, slowly dragging over his bottom lip. Your answer obviously unfurled him, making his body tense as he stood there and questioned his next move. Your stares connected, but both of you were completely frozen. “You know you can leave at any time, yes?”

You nodded. “I know.”

Time stilled, the small pantry seemingly warmer than usual as Jihoon inched forward. You were white knuckling the table again, but you weren’t moving away. Because maybe … just maybe, you wanted Jihoon to kiss you. And would that be so bad? To have just a modicum of happiness, only for a moment, with his lips agains yours? Or maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should lean back and say, “Bank’s closed,” like your friends used to in your single days. 

But that was like torture. Moving away from him felt like a curse. 

Just as you leaned in, he cleared his throat, stepping back. Both realizing just what you were about to do, your bodies went rigid again. Your cheeks flushed bright red while he rubbed a finger over his top lip. He had never shied away from eye contact with you, but now … he was avoiding you like a disease.

“Let me go get your coat,” he said, already heading for the curtain. “You don’t have to stick around to clean tonight.”

You opened your mouth, wanting to say anything. Even if it was the first thought that came to your head. But Jihoon had already vanished, the curtain swinging in his wake.

December came and went. The winter months were slowing blurring into each other. You were looking forward to the warm comfort of your bed after a long night at the Velvet Ruby. Once the doors had closed, you had to clean up the huge puddle of a spilt beer pitcher by a clumsy patron and his wife. Your knees burned and there were blisters on your feet; you just wanted to be curled up under your blankets before drifting off to sleep. Dragging yourself up the stairs to your apartment, hearing your neighbors arguing at 2 o’clock in the morning, you groaned and stuck your key in the lock.

But your door wouldn’t budge. The lock had been changed.

You looked up, seeing a folded up paper with a coffee stain on the corner. Once you opened the note, you read the words, RENT LATE. PAY OR MOVE OUT, in your landlord’s messy handwriting. A heavy exhale filtered through your lips as you pressed your back against the door, sliding down to the carpet. The same carpet that probably had bugs in it, but you were so tired right now that you didn’t care. Your head fell into your hands as your lack of sleep took over. You didn’t want to doze off out here – absolutely not – but your landlord was surely asleep right now and you wouldn’t be able to pay him until morning. 

There was only one option for you.

Using the only change in your pocket, you hauled a taxi and gave the driver instructions to the place you knew best. The taxi pulled up the double doors of the Hotel Ruby, the blinking red sign out front casting a glow on the cab’s interior. You handed the driver your change before stepping out, quickly rushing in to escape the falling snow and giving the doorman, Joshua, a kind smile. He looked confused to see you back, but didn’t question much these days.

You expected to see Wonwoo lounging behind the front desk as usual, but you froze when you realized Jihoon was organizing the mess his regular employee always left there. Jihoon didn’t work here often; he typically stayed in his office or slept in his bedroom connected to it. His mind must be running. What other reason would someone be organizing this late? 

Sensing your presence by the door, he finally looked up. A smile curled at his lips, and then fell, realizing that there probably wasn’t a good reason for you to be here after your shift. He said your name, so soft, and then asked, “What’s eating you? I thought you left for the bus an hour ago.”

“I did,” you replied, shaking the snow off your hair. “But I …” You wrung your hands out in front of you. “I must’ve forgot to pay my rent this month, so my landlord changed the locks. Obviously, I can’t reach him until he wakes up, so I was hoping … I could stay in a room tonight.”

Jihoon blinked, studying the red blush on your cheeks. You didn’t know if it was from the cold or your own nerves.

“I could pay, if you need me to. Or you could take it out of my paycheck. That would be easier. Used my last clam for a taxi here.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “I realize that this might be unethical –”

“It is entirely unethical,” Jihoon finished with a straight face. And then, he smiled again, smoothing back a stray hair that had slipped from his slicked back strands. The bags under his eyes became more prominent. “I don’t usually let employees stay. If I let one, then everybody’s got a chance.”

This was mortifying. You felt like cowering in on yourself, sticking your hands in your pockets and pretending you were never here. “I understand.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he chuckled low, stretching out his arms over the edge of the front desk. His sleeves were rolled up, despite the chill from the door, the veins that ran from his wrists protruding and making you even more flushed. “I can make an exception for you, angel. As long as you keep my secrets.”

You were glowing now, a huge grin on your face. “Your secrets are always safe with me.”

“I know they are,” he snickered, and then called over one of the bellhops bringing a cart to the lobby. “Jun, can you bring her to any of the available rooms for tonight? Any floor. I don’t care. Use the universal key.”

Jun nodded, leading you to the elevator just off from the lobby. You looked over your shoulder, giving Jihoon a soft smile and a wave, before catching up to Jun. Jihoon simply watched you go, but you managed to catch his front teeth bite into his lip as you rounded the corner, and a familiar warmth pooled in your stomach.

Opening the lattice metal door, Jun escorted you inside the intricate elevator and told the lift boy, Seungkwan, to take you both to the second floor. “Nobody typically stays on that floor,” Jun said to you, filling the awkward silence. “Maybe it’s because the rooms are a little more drab. Not sure. But they’ll definitely be one available.”

The elevator stopped on the second floor and Seungkwan pulled the door open, tipping his hat as you left. You couldn’t help but ogle him, because he had the kind of look in his eyes that said, I know things you don’t. You couldn’t imagine the type of things he saw on a daily basis, the type of people he caught switching floors.

Jun twirled the shiny golden key in his hand, which you guessed opened every door in this hotel. The power he felt like he held right now was immense. He whistled under his breath, swinging his finger left and then right, as he decided which room to choose. Finally, he stopped by room 214, at the far end of the hall. 

“Good with you?” Jun asked, peering over his shoulder.

You nodded. “As long as the heat works.”

His laugh was so low you almost didn’t hear it. As he fumbled with the key, you looked to the right and squinted, wondering if you were seeing things correctly. There was a room at the end of a corridor. Marked as room 217. It looked almost out of place, like a mirage. Why would the second floor end on an odd number for rooms? It just didn’t seem right.

When he finally stuck the key in the lock, you asked, “Does this floor really end on an odd number?” You pointed to the right.

Jun followed your finger. “You mean 217? Yeah, only floor that does, I believe.”

You were still perplexed. Was he incapable of offering any more information, or was it just you who thought this was strange? “Must be the biggest room on this floor,” you continued as he turned the key, “because its in the corner. Right?”

Jun shrugged, unlocking the door and holding it open for you. A blast of warm air hit your cheeks as he turned to face you. “I wouldn’t know. No one is allowed in there.”

Your brow knitted together, but he was still holding open the door, looking at you as if you were the bird in this situation. Why was no one allowed in that room? Was it never available for people to stay in? You walked forward, into the room, and shed off your coat. When you spun back to view at Jun, you opened your mouth to ask him another question, but he interrupted you. 

“Can you butt me, doll?” He held out his hand. “I ran out of cigarettes.”

Your face fell. With a glare, you shut the door in his face.

Your bag accidentally whacked a shoulder on your way inside the hotel, and you looked to your left to apologize. Recognizing the photographer that had taken the pictures of the speakeasy staff nearly a month ago, you waved and blurted a couple thousand sorry’s before heading to the secret entrance for the speakeasy. You had noticed that photographer lingering around the hotel for weeks, but no one seemed to question it so you wondered if maybe you were the odd one out. Eventually, you brought it up to Joshua, since he saw most of the comings and goings of the hotel. 

“Oh, him?” Joshua rubbed the back of neck. “Think Jihoon told me that he’s here to take photos of the hotel for advertisements.”

There was a hint of a question in Joshua’s tone, telling you that even he didn’t understand the reason for the photographer. He was just always around. Sometimes when you looked a certain way, he was right there, loitering in the lobby with his camera glued to his hands. 

Maybe you were seeing things. Maybe he wasn’t here as often as you thought. You were having trouble falling asleep these days.

When you closed your eyes, sometimes you thought about room 217. It still baffled you; its presence haunting your mind like a ghost. A couple times, you took the elevator up to the second floor just to go see it, the secret of your visits staying between you and Seungkwan. You tried the knob once, and when it wouldn’t budge, you jumped back as if it burned you. This was crazy – you were crazy. Sleep deprived even. You should not care so much about this, but nearly a week after the late rent incident – which you did make up for, thankfully – you found yourself thinking about this room over and over again. 

Nobody typically stays on that floor. No one is allowed in there. 

Jun was going to be as helpful as a chocolate teapot, and you assumed that most people didn’t know or care much about a locked room anyway. You could ask Jihoon, but … something told you that you might not get the answers you wanted. And maybe what you actually needed to know was more about the elusive hotel owner first. Perhaps that could crack the secrets of 217, and truthfully … you were still a little embarrassed after your almost kiss to be alone with him again.

So you went to Soonyoung.

As the staff was preparing for the Saturday night rush, you dropped off your coat at your locker before stalking up to your favorite bartender. He was drying off glasses, fresh from a wash, and you noticed that he had smudged some black eyeliner on his waterline. Conveniently, Laurie was dancing tonight. It didn’t take an idiot to put two and two together.

“Level with me,” you said to him, lacing your hands on the edge of the bar.

Soonyoung glanced up with a wide grin. “Okay, big shot. What do you need from me?”

You had him right where you wanted him. Soonyoung was always willing to gossip.

“I have some questions about Jihoon,” you proposed, “but I’m just too scared to ask him. I know he’s busy and I don’t want him to have to recall any bad memories. I’m just … curious.” 

“Well, now you got me curious. Shoot.”

You started off easy, asking him how the Hotel Ruby came to be. Soonyoung explained that Jihoon had inherited it by his great grandfather on his mom’s side that he almost never spoke to. Nobody ever understood why he had been written down in the will. Jihoon once thought that maybe his grandfather’s handwriting had been so bad that they just assumed the name was his. But he had been grateful, because inheriting this hotel had pulled him out of a series of bad events. 

“After he modernized the hotel, he realized no one was coming to stay because of all that stock market bull, which was when he approached me about running the Velvet Ruby together,” he went on. “I was his first friend in the city, so it only made sense for us to become business partners. It’s proven to be his most successful venture, but I supposed anything is better than what he ran away from years ago.”

You raised a brow. “And what was that exactly?”

Soonyoung scratched the side of his head. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you everything …”

“Who am I going to tell? I only talk to you.”

He set down one of the dry glasses. “You make a great point.” He exhaled heavily, wrinkling his small nose, before continuing, “He was born into the Lucky Ace gang. His father was some big leader in it. I’m sure he’s mentioned this in passing, right?”

It all made sense now. Upon your first meeting, Jihoon had known your husband, even mentioned growing up with him. But you didn’t expect this: that he had once been part of the gang that you had somehow married yourself into. Just like his mother. 

You schooled your expression and played along, hoping to get more out of Soonyoung. “I believe I heard it once. So he ran away from the Lucky Aces?”

Nodding, Soonyoung replied, “He only told me about it once, so I could be misremembering. He had some huge brawl with his father after his mother’s funeral, and then he stole his father’s car, drove it to the bus station, and got a one way ticket for the city. His father had sent for him, tried to get him to come back, but eventually stopped trying because he wanted his son to suffer on his own. Jihoon had been determined to never set foot near the Lucky Aces again, even put himself through poverty and lived on the street. Until he came into his great grandfather’s wealth. Guess he kept the luck from the Lucky Aces after all.”

“Has he ever talked to you about Cheon Han?”

He set a couple clean glasses on the racks behind him, thinking, and then shook his head. “Not really. Heard the name pop up once or twice. Said he was a good friend from home, but obviously not anymore. In fact, he actually mentioned that name again recently. I overheard Jihoon say it to Seungcheol and gave his description, told him to never let him in the bar under any circumstances.” His eyes slid to yours. “How do you know that name?”

You blinked, trying to keep your composure. “I thought we agreed on absolutely no questions about past lives.”

Soonyoung’s lips slowly curled into a cat-like smile. “Oh, horsefeathers! Look at you. Making me remember my own rules.”

You shrugged nonchalantly at his compliment, even though your brain was screaming at the new information you just received. Jihoon had known Han. Jihoon had been involved with the Lucky Ace gang. He probably still had low-risk friends in the gang, which was why one of Han’s friends was one of his bootlegger’s. This was almost unbelievable. You were more connected to him than you ever imagined.

“Do you …” Using the tip of your finger, you traced senseless circles onto the dark wood of the bar. “Do you know anything about room 217?”

He didn’t answer. Your eyes flickered back up and you realized his body was frozen, his gaze locked on the glass he’d been drying for longer than usual. After what felt like several minutes, his stare met yours. “You know about room 217?”

“Well … not exactly.” You were playing with your hands now, the nerves slowly creeping in. It was important that you stayed impassive during this conversation, but your true colors were starting to show. “I just … I just saw it when I had to stay the night here last week. That’s all.”

“You’ve never been inside it?”

You shook your head.

“Oh.” His shoulders immediately relaxed, and he turned his back to you while putting away more glasses. He made sure he wasn’t looking at you as he said, “I don’t know anything about it.”

Your brow raised. “Really?”

“I know what everyone else does: Jihoon doesn’t let anyone stay in that room.” He spun back again, his shrug the picture of disinterest. “Maybe it’s haunted.”

After that unproductive conversation with Soonyoung, you decided that it was probably best to give up on finding out the secrets of the mysterious room. Clearly, no one had an inkling of knowledge about it, and the ones that did weren’t going to budge so easily. You knew it wasn’t the truth, but maybe it was just haunted. Every old hotel had one. 

If you looked into it more, you would find out things that might hurt you. Things that might ruin the picture perfect image you had of everyone in this hotel. The place that had become your safe space.

So you gave up. For now.

February was treating you nicely. Jihoon had added an extra nickel to your weekly paycheck and put more tables in the speakeasy to accommodate the growing crowd on weekends. This Saturday was no less busy than the last, especially with Laurie’s growing fame. She was even looking into managers now to try to further her career, past the small stage of the Velvet Ruby, but she never forgot about Soonyoung. He still met her behind the curtain during her intermissions, doing who knows what. You were grateful to not know.

The joint was filled with male patrons tonight and the usual flapper group in the corner. Dollar bills were thrown on stage, and there was a particular table near the back that was especially rowdy, engaging in a loud bull session with each other over the music. This was your worst nightmare, so when you asked Mingyu to cover for you while you went on a smoke break, he agreed without question. If anyone could handle a table like that, it was him.

Some would say it was idiotic to make your way outside for a cigarette, especially in this weather, but it was a habit that you weren’t keen on breaking just yet. Slipping past Seungcheol and heading for the main lobby of the hotel, you pulled your cigarettes out of your apron, stuck one between your lips, and adjusted the tie in the back. Shouting emerged the closer you got to the lobby, making your brow crease. It was only when you reached the threshold that it all became clear.

The unlit cigarette dropped from your mouth.

Cheon Han was being held back by two of his friends – not Minho; you didn’t recognize these ones – while trying to swipe a knife in Jihoon’s face. Must’ve been a shiv he borrowed from one of his associates. Jihoon’s arm was out to shield his face, while Wonwoo was at his side to bite the bullet, if it came to that. Jun was on Jihoon’s right, looking utterly clueless and downright terrified, with his bellhop hat crooked and his fists in the air. As if that was going to do anything.

“Han.” The name slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

Your husband’s face whipped to yours immediately. His eyes were bloodshot and his body froze. Even his associates recognized you, but they looked like strangers in your wide-eyed gaze. A few long strands of hair escape from his signature slicked hairstyle, falling onto his distressed forehead. His nose scrunched as he took in your appearance. A uniform. A server. You worked here.

The knife dropped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.

But he was furious. His eyes blazed with a fiery intensity as he shouted, “Did you think I wouldn’t know where to look?! I have friends everywhere. You really thought you could run away from our marriage and I wouldn’t find you? You slay me. Really, that’s funny, doll.”

Your hands balled into fists. Han was seething with rage, while Jihoon was staring at you, not sure what to do. “Our marriage was built on a lie!” You exclaimed. “You know it was. You never told me – not once – until after we were married about what you were. What I would be putting at risk by being married to you – my life, my family. I didn’t want to be some moll, Han!”

“Oh, this is such bull.” He let out a laugh, but there was no humor behind it. His associates slowly let go of him and pocketed the shiv. Han looked back at you, and before you could blink, he was advancing. “Come on now, doll. Let’s stop playing around and go home.”

He was within a foot of you when Jihoon blocked his path, using himself as a human shield. Wonwoo and Jun watched with hesitation, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Jihoon stood tall, even if he was shorter than you than usual when you were in these heels. He was broad and his muscles bulged from the rolled up sleeves of his black dress shirt. His brows were narrowed as he said, voice low and menacing, “She’s not going anywhere with you. Beat it, Cheon.”

Han’s teeth gritted, his whole body shaking from the rage flooding through him. The same rage he showed his soldiers when they fell out of line. And he was leveling it towards Jihoon. “She’s mine,” he growled.

Your husband had never been violent with you. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t possessive.

“Not anymore,” Jihoon replied. His tone was surprisingly calm despite the situation.

“Han,” you called, letting your voice take on the velvety tone you used to have with him. His eyes went yours instantly, softening slightly with recollection, before he remembered how pissed off he was that you ran away and some pill was standing between him and his girl. You licked your lips and said, “You should leave. I’m not going home with you. This marriage is over.”

Jihoon snickered. “You heard her.”

His brow knitted together in frustration. “We’ll see about that.” Nodding to his associates, he turned on the heel of his boot and muttered. “Let’s go. We’ll be back around.” Han’s glare met yours. “I’m not leaving without my wife.”

Once the lobby was clear, Jun ran to tell Joshua to not let those men anywhere near the doors of the hotel again. They locked it from the inside, making sure to only allow in current guests and speakeasy customers leaving the building. Wonwoo headed to the front desk, phoning for the police immediately. (Specifically, the only officer they trusted who didn’t rat Jihoon out over the speakeasy.) Lucky for him, he hired good people who took care of the hard stuff without him asking.

He turned to you behind him, seeing your body start to crumble with the awareness of what just transpired. Hooking his arms through yours, he cooed, “Angel, no. It’s going to be okay. I promise. Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

As the sobs began to rack through you, Jihoon used his strength to help guide you out of the lobby. He motioned for Wonwoo to take care of talking to the investigator, hoping that with a thorough description, they would be able to do something. Anything. But he stopped trusting those bulls a long time ago.

He led you to the laundry room just off from the lobby. He gestured for the two maids occupying the space to leave, and they followed his orders with a bow of their heads. Letting go of you, he allowed your back to slide against the wall until you were sitting on the cold stone floor. He sighed before taking the spot next to you.

You rubbed at your eyes and sniffled. “I knew this would happen.”

“It couldn’t have been that drunk fool that told him.”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s here. He found me. Right when I started to feel safe.”

“Angel,” his voice was so gentle when your nickname rolled off his tongue. His fingers were on your chin, turning your tear-streaked face to his. “You are safe here. I’m not going to let him take you.”

“I know I said before that I would make sure I suffer the consequences if you got found with me,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes again, “but now I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to leave. And what if he kills you?”

Jihoon smirked. “One of his torpedos will do it for him, remember?”

A chuckle emerged under your breath, recalling the words you said to him months ago. You shook your head looked down to his lap, where his free hand was twitching, as if he was fighting himself not to touch you.

Lifting your eyes to his again, you felt his thumb swipe under them, catching the tears. “Jihoon, why do you care so much about protecting me?”

“Because,” he whispered, and then stopped himself. He bit his lip, unable to come up with anything that didn’t sound like a lie. “Because I …” His hand fell from your face.

So you grabbed it, placing your palm on top of his. His hand was warm and soft, despite the callouses that were constantly on his knuckles. “You don’t need to explain yourself,” you murmured. “I overstepped.”

“No, no, you didn’t. I …” He exhaled, annoyed more with himself than anything. Running a nervous hand through his dark hair, his gaze lifted to yours. You were sure that he had galaxies in his eyes. “Your marriage with Han … it was always a lie?”

You paused, chewing on your lip. Your hand on his was like an anchor, wondering how much you wanted to reveal. But if you had gotten this far, trusted him this much … maybe it was worth finally divulging.

“It started in a place like this.” Your fingers slipped from his, gesturing to the electric washers and washboards littered throughout the small room. “I worked at my family’s laundromat since I was 8. My whole life had always been school, then work. And when school was finally over, my life had become just … work. Washing and drying. Tending to the wealthy’s clothes and praying I didn’t ruin them. My fingers permanently pruned. But I digress.” You huffed longingly. “Han had come in one day to get a mark out of his suit. He was the berries, looking like he worked on Wall Street or something. I remember making sure I really got that stain out, and he was so kind when I gave it back. He proceeded to come back everyday, sometimes asking to wash a garment regardless if it was dirty or not.”

You shrugged and added, “I didn’t even realize he was carrying a torch for me until he asked me to dinner. I said, ‘Yes,’ because, well … who wouldn’t? He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.” Your eyes casted down, fingers picking at the widening hole in your pantyhose. “We went on a solid five dates before he asked for my hand. It was all very fast, and I told him I had to think about it because I didn’t know him. I wanted to say no, see if he wanted to continue to date, but … my family. They encouraged me to agree. We needed the money and Han would provide whatever we wanted. It just made sense.

“So, I said, ‘Yes,’ again to Han. After the wedding was when I found out.” You thought back to those photos at the courthouse, how you’d been standing so close to all his right-hand men. “All those boys that I thought were his friends … days later, I learned they were his associates and soldiers. He didn’t tell me anything until after the ring was on my finger, said he was scared I would judge him or say, ‘No.’ Said he loved me and didn’t want us to change. And I believed it wouldn’t … for a while. But when your life starts to get threaten, you begin to realize just what you got yourself into.”

You turned your head, your haunted stare meeting his, and you realized just how close Jihoon was. “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“And do you still?” He asked, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Love him, I mean.”

You curled your legs to your chest, smoothing your skirt over your knees and playing with the hem. Eventually, you replied, “I love the memories.”

A beat passed, and then his palm slid on top of yours on your knee. His hands were partly cold, but you didn’t have it in you to move away. Not now. Not ever. You watched as his fingers squeezed yours, thumb running over your knuckles.

“I’m going to secure the perimeter of the hotel,” he promised, “and you can stay here until you feel safe.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me charity –”

“Angel,” he chastised with a shake of his head, “it’s not charity. I’ve never been that altruistic.”

He gave your hand one last squeeze, leaning in just enough for you to think something might happen, but he was getting to his feet. His shiny Oxfords were such a contrast against the speckled stone floor. When you lifted your head, you found him lingering by the doorway. With a lazy smile, he muttered, “Sometimes love is enough.” 

You blinked at him, wondering if you heard him correctly. Maybe you were overthinking, because Lee Jihoon couldn’t have meant what you thought he just did. He barely knew you. He barely touched you.

But he had always stayed. He had always listened. And that could be enough.

He stepped forward to leave the laundry room, but then looked back, pointing a finger at you. “When you’re ready, let me know when you need me to contact my lawyer. I can help pay for your divorce.”

Ignoring Han’s phone calls to the front desk got easier with time. Especially when Jihoon sent a group of his old friends to drive him out of the city for the time being. Wonwoo had told you about the first few calls when you started staying at the hotel, and only stopped after Jihoon requested he only tell upper management about Han’s persistence. Your husband couldn’t even step near the property without the new body guards knowing. You wouldn’t have even found out about the party Jihoon sent after Han if you hadn’t overheard his private conversation with Wonwoo, when he described the money it took to haggle a group of hard boilers to chase down a well-known gangster.

His methods should scare you. His connections to the Lucky Aces should have you fleeing. But he was the only person, in such a long time, to make you feel secure. He was going to protect you, even if it cost him his life. 

You didn’t understand him. And maybe it was better that you didn’t. 

Jihoon helped obtain a private divorce lawyer through means you didn’t bother questioning. The kind of lawyer you would never be able to afford if he wasn’t paying, far from society’s prying eyes. It wasn’t like you were much of a big deal, but a divorce between any gangster and his wife was front page news. Society would rip you to shreds, demanding you provide proof of desertion or adultery. You wanted to avoid that at any cost. His lawyer was able to start the process of separation almost immediately, involving you at every step.

After cutting your lease at the apartment, which Jihoon happily stepped in to help, you moved all of your belongings into a room at the hotel. You wondered if you’d be put in another room on the second floor, but much to your surprise, Jihoon put you in a free room on the first floor. Close to his quarters and the manager’s office.

“I want to be close in case you need me,” he said, opening the door to room 101. “Please, don’t hesitate to call for me.”

You had looked back at him in that moment, setting your only two bags near the bed. The words that came out of his mouth were nonchalant, but you could see in his eyes what he really wanted to say: Please, need me. 

Oh, how you wished he understood how much you did.

Using the phone in your room, you finally called your family again to tell them the news. Your mother had sounded relieved that you were even alive: “I had been holding out hope. I was so scared. I thought you might’ve run off with some drugstore cowboy!” But when you revealed that you were separating from Han, you had to pull the phone away from your ear just to drown out the sound of your mother’s screaming: “Excuse me?! How much have you had to drink right now? I bet everyone at this speakeasy you work at is just handing you hooch all the time. That’s the only reason why you would be spouting such nonsense. Han is a good man. Why would you even think about doing this?!”

You knew she didn’t mean it. Han had fooled everyone; you almost didn’t believe it when he told you his real profession after the wedding. And truthfully, your parents relied on him when times got tough. Han was constantly sending them money if they needed it; that was one of the many reasons they convinced you to marry him in the first place. Your family wasn’t well off. They needed him. 

So you had to make her understand.

After finally coming clean to her about your husband’s crime-related activities, she had finally calmed down, started speaking in a tone where you didn’thave to have the phone so far from your actual ear. She became more concerned about the social implications of separating from such a well-known man, but you convinced your mother that you knew what you were doing. Even if you didn’t believe it yourself. Even if this process was scaring you half to death. And she trusted you. 

For the first time ever, your mother trusted you.

The dust was finally starting to settle. You had been living at the Hotel Ruby for two weeks and honestly, your body had never been more relaxed. The phone calls to the front desk had stopped. Your lawyer was handling everything behind the scenes. And you were safe. 

You found yourself spending more time with Jihoon than you expected. Long nights after the juice joint closed, the staff cleaning around you, and the two of you found yourself sitting at one of the tables and sharing stories from years past. You both preferred to share a cigarette because it felt less detrimental than smoking two individually. It felt intimate, almost like a kiss. A not-kiss, that maybe you desperately wanted to have. Maybe he did too.

Going in for your shifts became so much easier now that you didn’t have to rely on the bus or a taxi to get you there. You simply had to get dressed and head down the hallway that led to speakeasy. Seungcheol was especially chipper today, already having the door open for you as your new kitten heels clicked down the corridor. Jihoon had bought them for you in his favorite color: a deep burgundy. 

Slipping into the backroom, you said hello to Minghao before opening your locker to grab your apron you left there overnight. Pulling out the discarded heap of fabric, you paused when you heard a thunk, noticing a folded up piece of paper fall onto the bottom of your locker. Your brow furrowed and you looked around, but you were still alone. When you picked up the note, you realized it had weight to it. 

You bit into your lip, hesitating, and then opened up the paper. The first thing you saw was a small, gold key with the numbers 217 slightly embossed on the top. Your eyes widened. This looked like a copied key, and it wasn’t the first time you saw one of these. Han used to have a special person he went to for copied keys. The molding of the numbers was a crucial giveaway. When your gaze finally shifted to the note, you froze, reading over the words as you felt your throat close up.

Only visit when the clock strikes 1 PM, it read. Good luck.

You threw the note back into your locker as if it burned you. Someone was trying to set you up. You couldn’t have this in your possession. Maybe you could throw it in the fireplace tonight, watch the metal of the key slowly melt into charred wood and ash.

The possibilities ran through your head all night, but it was all cheap talk. Because that key stayed in your locker for another week before your curiosity got the better of you.

It was 1 PM on a Thursday and Seungkwan was giving you a look as he pressed the button for the second floor that made your whole body shake. Like he knew what you were doing. Like he’d been waiting. But neither of you said a word, just simply rode the elevator in silence. As you left the metal cage, he tipped his hat towards you and left you alone in the barren hallway of floor 2. You swallowed hard, and then turned on your heel to see room 217 at the end.

You didn’t know how much time had passed. You wondered if you blacked out. Because you were suddenly standing in front of the door in question, the copied key trembling in your hand. Why were you so nervous? You had no idea what was behind this door. Maybe it was excitement, the knowledge of finally seeing what had plagued you for weeks. To be in the know. Once you saw this, you could be on your way and never have to think about why everyone acted so strange about this abandoned room in the first place.

Twisting the key in the lock, you let the door slowly open and reveal the room. It looked like every other room, almost identical to the one you stayed in, so you stepped further inside. Your tread was silent, and you walked forward like you were waiting for someone to scare you. But the room was … the same. Nothing too out of the ordinary, besides the paintings hung up on the walls. These ones looked old and expensive. Worth a lot more than what this room costed. Your hands finally unclenched, feeling like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. All that curiosity amounted to … nothing. But it did make you wonder why everyone spoke so oddly about this room in the first place.

And then you turned.

On the wall, directly facing the bed, was a gallery of photos. Each taken from different angles, days, situations. Some featured a smile, some had a cigarette dangling from lips. Eyes met the lens in a few. Some even included other employees of the hotel and speakeasy staff. But there was one similarity between all of them, and that was that they were all taken without  any knowledge.

Oh, and they were all of you.

You stumbled, not sure what to make of this. Every photo was of you. This was a collage of your face. You took another step back, landing on the edge of the bed. Your hand came up to your mouth as you ogled the assortment of photos, until you almost couldn’t look anymore and peered at the room around you.

There were stains of self pleasure on the sheets. 

Cigarette ashes piled in the litter of trays on every surface.

You gasped, standing up immediately as you took in the horror. But amongst the perverse, the deviancy, there was a sort of … softness here. There were fresh red roses on the bedside table. You recognized the paintings from the renaissance era, suggesting a fondness. And when you approached the desk by the window … there was a note, ink stains embedded into the thin paper. A box with a pearl necklace sat on the edge, and the note was addressed to you from Jihoon, explaining why he wanted to gift the necklace to you. He wrote as if he were devoted, as if he were in love, and simply didn’t understand how to express it.

This was Jihoon’s room. This was all his doing. That’s why no one was allowed in here, because they’d see … who he really was.

Turning to face the photo wall again, you suddenly realized that you didn’t know how to feel. Your emotions were torn in two different directions. For so long, you’d been devalued, treated as an accessory. Nothing but the doting wife to a notorious gangster, just shy on the totem pole to be important enough to receive threats to your life. Han loved you, but not like this. You walked forward, scanning the multitude of pictures, noticing the little moments he captured of you, and your heart … clenched. Like someone with an iron grip was holding it and wouldn’t let go.

He noticed you. You didn’t ask for it, but he chose you anyway.

You should be terrified. You should be running away screaming. This shouldn’t make your eyes soften or make you wonder if it was possible to stay here forever, with him. But you couldn’t help yourself when you reached out, fingers brushing the corner of a zoomed-in photo of yourself, your eyes fixed on the lens without even knowing it. You were smiling, the corners of your lips almost reaching your ears, as snow fell around your head like a crown. Your mouth trembled and your heart sped up because … you mattered to him. 

But you shouldn’t be here. You knew you shouldn’t. Everything about this was wrong – from the collage wall to intruding on his private domain. This wasn’t meant for you to know, for anyone to know. And when you were sure you heard the elevator ding outside the room, you bolted, unaware that you knocked down a small frame of Jihoon and his mother on a small table near the door.

There was a maid’s closet right near room 214. You sprinted out of 217, whipping your entire body into the closet as you heard the metal doors of the elevator open at the end of the hall. Pushing yourself deeper into the small room, crowding against the mops and brooms and  various cleaning products, you stilled your breath. Footsteps echoed, highlighted underneath the crack in the door, and you gripped a hand over your mouth. They stopped at the other corner of the corridor – near 217 – and it was only when you knew the door had opened and closed did you finally allow yourself to breathe.

The Velvet Ruby had never been more lively on a Thursday night, and you found yourself struggling to keep up. Everywhere you looked, it seemed that each of your customers wanted another drink, as if they were guzzling them. Sweat beaded your hairline each time you bumped into one of your coworkers, your mind somewhere else, thinking of the photos and pearl necklaces and ashtrays –

You collided into Mingyu’s shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. He apologized and brushed past you, allowing you a moment to still yourself amongst the chaos. You breathed out, closed your eyes, and gripped the edge of your tray. Everything was going to be okay. The day would end and you could go to bed soon enough. You would survive, because you had to. Because you were still safe. Maybe you’d even forget about the photos, the note. 

Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d let it consume you whole.

You finally opened your eyes, head turned slightly when you felt a gaze burning into your cheek. Even in the darkness, even amongst the crowd of drunken patrons and servers who jostled around you … you could find him. And he was watching you from the corner of the room, bringing a cigar to his lips, exhaling the smoke that filtered around his dark eyes. He didn’t approach. He didn’t nod. Jihoon simply watched, his stare never leaving yours.

Everything stopped. Your heart paused.

And it was then, that you wondered if he knew what you’d done.

Of course, he knew.

Infatuation was like a disease, spreading to every sap like it was going out of style. Jihoon had known infatuation, but he had never known it like this. He needed to restrain himself. He was a well-heeled man. Being a well-heeled man meant that he was a put-together, sharply dressed, impressive. The kind of man who knew how to act in public and paid attention to his employees, who smoked cigars but helped his patrons at a moment’s notice. The kind of man who secretly enjoyed cheap alcohol and taking a date home to bend her over before having his way with her. But it didn’t matter. It never got out, because he was a well-heeled man. Handsome and level-headed. He never got angry, never punched his employee’s husband so hard that his knuckles scarred, never thought about each way he could claim a married woman in just about every corner of his hotel. He was, as always, a well-heeled man.

But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? A character he fought with in his head. Because well-heeled men didn’t really exist. A well-heeled man didn’t take in women like you, someone married to a gangster he ran away from. A well-heeled man didn’t have the thoughts he had about you. A well-heeled man didn’t pour every ounce of his dough into getting his lawyer to take your divorce case. A well-heeled man didn’t have a secret room where he masturbated to a collage of your pictures on the wall.

The room didn’t start this way. It was just supposed to be a place for him to unwind. That’s why he hung up his favorite paintings – Sandro Botticelli’s Primavera, Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait – and always had fresh flowers by the bed. It was a room away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel, the speakeasy. Everyone. Where he could decompress and smoke his cigars in peace. 

And then, he hung up one picture of you. It was the staff photo, but he folded it up until it was just you, overexposed and smiling at the camera. You looked so beautiful, tall, nothing like the woman who walked through the doors of the hotel. You blossomed under him like a flower in spring-time.

He had more pictures taken of you. He couldn’t help himself, and he simply loved photography. You were his muse when he wasn’t even behind the camera. He hung up another photo. And another. And another. Until the whole wall was covered in you. And he was still calm – calmer than ever before. He had to be. Jihoon let himself fall back onto the bed, looking up at the wall of you, his gaze reveling in your smile, your eyes, you.

You were an imprint on his mind. An itch he couldn’t scratch. His angel. And it was then that he realized he simply couldn’t be calm anymore. Especially not when his hand started to drift towards his waistband, cigarette hanging from his lips as he unbuckled his belt. He was reaching into his pants and finding himself hard and – god, you created a monster out of him.

He wasn’t a fool. Of course, he felt perverse, shameful. But you had made him weak and he simply couldn’t stop. The pictures were beautiful – you were beautiful. And if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then maybe he could gaze upon you and find a little sense of peace while he fisted his cock until he came all over his thigh.

There was something off when he came back to 217 on Thursday. The air seemed different, a new perfume that hadn’t been there before, but he chocked it up to his imagination. His eyes were sharp though, and within seconds, he saw it: the small, wooden frame laying facedown near the door. His stare narrowed, lifting the frame back up so he could see the photo of him and his mother, taken just a few months shy of her death. He set it in place before walking around the room.

There was a shift in the bedsheets. One of the photos amongst the cluster – the close-up of your face, eyes fixed at the camera without you knowing it – had been tilted slightly. And that scent … it only got stronger the more he was in the room.

The only people that knew about this room were him and Soonyoung, who never came in here anyway because he didn’t approve of it. Soonyoung had always been the most open person, willing to understand just about everything, and it wasn’t that he was cruel to Jihoon about it. Cruelty wasn’t in his nature. When Jihoon finally finished the photo wall and decided to let someone in on the secret, he allowed Soonyoung to walk into 217 on his own.

His friend’s face was nothing short of shock.

He had stood there, staring at all the photos for a long time, before noticing the cigars on the desk, the indent of a body on the sheets. Soonyoung knew what this room was about, what kind of depravity his friend was up to as means of relaxing. It smelled of smoke and fresh roses, ink and arousal. He was momentarily disgusted, but didn’t have it in him to be shocked. This was Jihoon after all. His closest confidant, and if he was letting him in to this secret, it must be for a reason.

“Pal,” he finally said, “you can’t keep doing this.”

Jihoon waved his hand. “I’m not adding any more photos.”

“Not that. I mean this –” Soonyoung gestured around the room. “– in general. I know that you have no … ill intent behind this. I know you’re carrying a torch for her –”

“I think it’s more than just that now.”

“– But,” he continued, and then sighed, his eyes growing heavy. “What if someone finds this room?”

Jihoon shook his head. “No one will. The door doesn’t even open with the universal key.” He pulled out two distinct looking gold keys with his pocket. “217 was used for storage by my great grandfather back in the day. The lock will only open for these two keys.” He placed one of them in Soonyoung’s palm and then closed his fingers. “I want you to have the second one. Keep it safe.”

Soonyoung’s eyes flickered to his friend’s. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to be involved in this.”

“You don’t have to be involved in anything,” he chided. “Just don’t let this key out of your sight. Be my friend. Please.”

Soonyoung had always been weak to begging, and after a long moment, he nodded. That had been months ago, and he hadn’t been in 217 since. He didn’t tell a soul and tried his best to forget about his friend’s personal time. He kept the key safe, or so Jihoon thought. 

Because someone was in here. Any normal person who found this room would come to him immediately about it, call him out on his behavior or threaten to call the police, take him down for a good price. But no one did. Even hours later, as Jihoon sat in 217 and contemplated who could’ve been in here, he realized that the answer had been in front of him.

The only person that would stay quiet, the only person that would refuse to look at him after stepping inside … was you.

He heard the lock click open, and he tilted his head to see Soonyoung opening the door. He looked relieved to find him here, as if he’d been looking for him for hours. Or maybe he was simply thankful he hadn’t walked in on his friend touching himself. Nevertheless, Soonyoung was panting, out of breath, and he didn’t even give Jihoon a second to ask what was wrong before he was exclaiming, “I think someone copied my key.”

You were going back to the room.

For an entire week, you wondered if it had all been a dream. The memory kept you up most nights, making your eyes tip up to the ceiling, where room 217 was locked just above your head. What if this was your cue to run again? What if these photos got back to Han? What if Jihoon had been secretly working on turning you into him this whole time? Rational was out the window now. Not when you were in the midst of divorce and he could use any piece of leverage against you. 

The key shook in your hands as you stomped towards the room. You dared to not meet Seungkwan’s eyes this time, half-knowing that it must’ve been him who gave you this key in the first place. But why? Just to cause a stir, or was he curious himself? Maybe it wasn’t meant for you to know, and truthfully, you didn’t need the answer either. You just wanted to make sure that it was real, and then make a decision from there. What transpired this afternoon would change the trajectory of your future, if you fled this hotel or not.

You unlocked the door, key trembling in your grasp, and shut the door behind you before looking up. A gasp left your lips.

“So I didn’t scare you away?”

Back pressed against the door, you found Jihoon lounging in the desk chair, back slumped and legs spread comfortably. Instead of his typical cigar, he inhaled a drag from a cigarette before flicking some ash into a tray beside him. You swallowed hard and flattened your palms against the door, as if you could push it back. But you didn’t want to get away from him. Quite the opposite. Because you had questions and Jihoon, without a doubt, had answers.

“I don’t scare very easily anymore.” Your chin lifted to feign confidence.

Both sets of eyes shifted to the photo wall, still hanging in place, and when yours flickered back, his was already pointed on you. Transfixed. As if his gaze was always meant to find yours in a room.

“You had all these photos taken of me,” you muttered, leveling a glare at him, “and you’re using them for – what? Self pleasure, or are you actually working with Han?”

Jihoon’s brow furrowed. His stare was blank. “You think I would put my own life on the line like that by reaching out to Han about you, angel?”

You shrugged. “He must have a bounty on me though. It’s probably steep. Any hotel owner with a secret room is probably using it for …” You glanced at the sheets, which were now clean. “Nefarious activities.”

“That’s not what this room is for,” he answered. His voice was so calm, like you weren’t accusing him of anything. “And I am not, nor will I ever, be in contact with Han. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Your stare flicked to his and you bit your lip. His eyes moved down to see your teeth sink into your plump bottom lip, but you couldn’t let him distract you as you assessed his tone. And somehow … you knew he was telling the truth.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “This room didn’t start out the way that you think. It was just a place to unwind, and then … I realized you face made me feel better than any rare cigar.”

You paused, lips pursed. “You knew I’d come back.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t feel like you had to, but yes.”

“How long?” You didn’t even bother to gesture to the wall. He knew what you meant.

Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave yours as he replied, “You’re not a fool. You know how long.”

Since the photographer came to the hotel. Even if you refused to admit it to yourself, to face the reality before you – you did know it. You watched him lean forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, as he took in your schooled expression.

Finally, you moved from the door and approached the wall. You reached out, fingers brushing over one photo in particular, before plucking it off. The corner ripped, and Jihoon fought the urge to get to his feet. It was a photo of you and Jeonghan, sharing a cigarette outside the Velvet Ruby. You could practically hear the laughter embedded in the ink. This had been a good day; you remembered it fondly.

When Jihoon eventually stood from his chair, he was careful not to crowd you, keeping his hands to himself. But you were slowly walking to the bed anyway, staring at the photo like it contained a hidden meaning you couldn’t quite figure out. You turned it over in your palm, then another time, before you let your eyes glaze over the surface again. “All these photos …” You murmured. “You don’t have a version of me that’s afraid.”

Jihoon’s spine was pressed against the old drawer in front of the photo wall. His hands gripped the edge, knuckles turning white from restraint. Well-heeled men control themselves.  His voice was but a mere whisper when he said, “I wanted to remember you like this: safe, happy, beautiful. That’s the version of you this place created.”

You viewed up, crossing your legs over the edge of the bed. The confession struck you like lightning, making every hair on your body stand up and your skin prickle. You licked your lips and muttered, “If I told you this crossed the line …”

His answer was immediate: “I’ll remove every single trace of you from this room and I’ll …” He grimaced, but only for a second. “I’ll let you leave the hotel. I’ll wipe your name clean from the Velvet Ruby. I’ll let you move on.”

“And if I didn’t tell you that?” You bit your lip again.

His fingers flexed. Well-heeled men didn’t stare at married women like that. Well-heeled men didn’t imagine tugging on that lip before devouring her mouth. He did a sharp intake of breath.

“I would wait for you.” He took a beat. “Until you were ready. Until after your divorce finalized."

“The divorce will be finalized. The when part is simply up in the air. No need to be a worrywart.”

He tried to even his breathing, but the tension in the room was so thick that it could be cut with the dullest knife in his kitchen. His dark eyes never left yours, serious and unyielding. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

“I don’t want anything from you, Jihoon,” you confessed. You knew it was wrong – it was diabolical – to want him in a moment like this. To acknowledge the desire you kept inside for so long, to hear him admit to it too. But you needed to, or else you might just explode. “I guess I just want … you. No one has made me feel safe like you do. No one has given me agency like you have. I’m not the person I used to be – I’m not afraid anymore – because of you.”

“Angel, you have to know …” His voice trailed off as he ultimately let himself step forward, slowly, in your direction. “You are the most enticing creature I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. Before you, before this – everything felt cold and lonely. But your presence has invigorated something in me, something protective and primal that I know is wrong. I simply couldn’t help myself. Everything about you invites me in. You’re the predator and I’m just your weak prey.”

Your breathing stilled as you watched Jihoon sink to his knees in front of you. His hands, still scarred from ramming his fist into Han, carefully went to your hips, hardly even touching you. “So if you really want me,” he continued, “I need you to say it again, and I’ll do whatever your heart desires. As long as it means I get to touch you.”

You swallowed down the bile rising in your throat, hesitated, and then let your nimble fingers trace his mouth. “I want you, Jihoon,” you whispered.

He surged upward, standing between your long legs, and crushed his lips onto yours. You didn’t know what to do. You hadn’t been kissed like this in years. And he knew that, so with his mouth still on yours, he took your palms off the bed and placed them on his chest. Instantly, your fingers curled, fisting into the silk shirt, bringing him that much closer. He laughed into the kiss, surprised by your eagerness, as he carefully slipped his tongue into your mouth. You couldn’t remember the last time Han kissed you, especially like this. With passion, with the kind of intensity that almost scared you, but you needed him more than you let on. You pulled Jihoon closer as he licked into your mouth, and you tasted nicotine on his tongue.

He leaned back, just slightly, noticing how swollen your lips looked from just one kiss. His mouth curved a little on one side, his fingers sliding down from your jaw down your collarbone, skimming your sides, before they rested at the buttons of your blouse. Your mouth sealed and you looked at him with wide eyes. “When was the last time anyone touched you?” He asked under his breath.

“I …” You shook your head. “I can’t remember.”

He raised one hand again, the tip of his finger trailing around your rounded lips. “Don’t sweat it, angel,” he whispered, leaning in to inhale your perfume yet again. He damn near groaned at the scent. “I wanted to go slow anyway. We have all the time in the world.”

“You have to go downstairs to watch the front desk though.”

Jihoon leveled a look at you. “Trust me. We have all the time in the world.”

You nodded, and your body froze when he tugged on your bottom lip finally, sucking it in between his teeth. He couldn’t stop the sound that reverberated from his mouth anymore, and when he released your lip, he saw the ident he left behind. The mark only he could give you. 

No second guessing. No regretting. You slowly leaned back onto the plush mattress, your hair fanning out and making you look like an actual angel. Jihoon almost forgot to breathe at the sight of you. In this moment, you were all his and more. Everything he ever wanted was at his fingertips as he slowly unbuttoned your blouse and pulled your skirt down. He made sure to fold both pieces in a pile on the floor, topped off with the heels he bought you, before eyeing you yet again. 

You were wearing a cotton chemise, trimmed with white lace, and stockings underneath. Under his gaze, you were already squirming, unsure how to handle someone looking at you with so much heat. Han had never, not even when you had first met, during the initial moments of attraction. Not even when he took your innocence. Never. Now Jihoon was, and even though it made goosebumps rise on your skin, you liked it. You needed it.

“You’re a real-life angel,” he whispered, hardly loud enough for you to hear, and helped lift the chemise over your head.

Jihoon almost fell back. He wasn’t that old, and yet, the sight of you half-dressed had him gripping the wall for support. Your breasts were the perfect size, rosy nipples that perked up from his attention. A garter belt was secure to your waist, holding up your sheer black stockings, and a pair of drawers underneath it all. The wet spot soaking into the fabric was so apparent, but even if he was blind, he could smell it. Smell you. He had never smelled this kind of arousal before, the kind that begged to be touched.

He wanted to taste you right now, like this. Push your drawers to the side and suck your clit into his mouth like a proper gentleman. Tights still on as one leg curled on his shoulder. But truthfully, he was too selfish. If he didn’t see you naked in the next thirty seconds, he might just come undone.

Taking off the garter belt, he carefully unhooked your stockings, slowly rolling them down your thighs, maintaining eye contact with you. He noticed your breathing pick up a little when his fingers hooked around the waistband of your drawers, and he paused, kneeling slightly and letting his breath ghost between your legs. His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Jihoon –” You breathed.

“You’re wet,” he smirked, and your nipples hardened more. He hadn’t even touched them yet. “You’re so wet and I’ve hardly done anything.”

Your eyes closed for a moment, cheeks heating from embarrassment. “I just …” Words died on your tongue.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he whispered, peeling your drawers down and setting them aside in the pile he laid out for you. Placing your hand in his, he brought your palm to his groin, letting you feel the hardness beneath. Your eyes widened, connecting with his, and he added, “I need you too.”

You swallowed, fingers pressing down to squeeze his bulge, but he took your hand off before you could feel anymore. Lord knew that if you touch him any longer … his release would be completely wasted.

He set your hand back down on the bed and lowered his gaze. You had to be the most beautiful thing he ever saw. Completely bare, hair unfurled out like a halo, pebbled nipples and slick gathering between your thighs. To think he had you, like this, in the room where all his perverse fantasies lied … this had to be a dream. And yet, when his fingers grazed your thigh, felt your hairs quill, it was real. You were real.

“Wait,” he murmured, jogging over to the desk and grabbing a compact camera from the cabinet. He didn’t even close the drawer, too excited, and wound the knob on the camera’s frame. Your head tilted to the side, but he didn’t give you a moment to ask as he waved the camera. “Can I, angel?”

In most circumstances, you would say no. But this wasn’t most circumstances. This was Jihoon, the only man that had ever made you feel unharmed. You were his angel, his muse. God forbid, you liked the way you were seen in his eyes, under his lens.

Your chin nodded, a soft smile gracing your lips.

His cock throbbed in his pants.

Lining the viewfinder up to his eye, he adjusted the aperture to the dimly lit room the best he could. He was hardly a professional; he just enjoyed photos that much. You didn’t smile. You just laid there before him, one arm slightly behind your head so your breasts lifted. He made sure to capture the whole scene, even the wrinkles within the sheets, the slight shine of arousal from your folds. With steady hands, Jihoon held his breath as he pressed the shutter lever and took the photo. Then another, and another. He wanted to be absolutely sure when he developed this film that he captured you perfectly.

And then, he threw the camera onto the ground, not giving you a moment before he was burying his face between your legs. The immediate moan you let out was heavenly. Jihoon was sure that was what the choir sounded like when he was forced to attend church as a kid. You leaned up on your elbows, watching the way his eyes rolled back as he licked into your weeping hole. Your jaw unhinged; you’d never felt anything like this. Never once thought you would feel anything this good. His nose was hitting that part of your core that you had only touched a few times, the place that made your insides turn to mush and cause honey to drip down your thighs, as his tongue did ungodly things to you. Your moans, you realized, only spurred him on more, and he curled his tongue inside you faster.

He looked up, eyes meeting yours from between your thighs, and noticed you were sitting up to watch him. But he wanted you to enjoy this, so he slid one hand up your body and pushed down your stomach. You complied, fully lying back against the mattress, as his other bicep looped around your leg. He need to pry you open more, spread you like a feast.

Rolling up his sleeves, the last thing you expected was him sliding two fingers inside of you while taking your swollen bud in his mouth. You exhaled, hardly a moan, because you weren’t sure what sounds you could make at the moment. Your hips lifted, grinding against his face unintentionally. Jihoon groaned into your pussy and it vibrated through you, causing your nipples to perk so much that they practically hurt. Suckling your clit, he tasted your tangy flavor, and he knew then that no one, not one person, came close to you. You were meant to be his and he was meant to be yours and he would be doing this over and over again.

You weren’t sure how he did it, but he managed to shove his face impossibly deeper. He tugged at your clit, curled those fingers inside you in a come forward motion, making you reel. Your thighs began to shake. How was he able to reach places no one ever could? Your whole body was on fire, and he was still lapping at your core. “That’s it, angel,” he muttered, and you shivered at his hot breath on your swollen clit. “Soak my face. I know you can.”

“Says … says you,” you huffed out, unsure if you even could reach that peak. Had you ever with Han? Now you were questioning everything and this was certainly not the time to think back to your previous marriage.

Jihoon chuckled, and your back almost arched. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you there.”

Then he was going back in, swirling his tongue around that bud that made your knees twitch, pushing another finger inside of you. He was preparing you for his cock, stretching you to see if you would be able to take him, although you were unaware at the time. And when you finally came after just one curl of his three fingers, he knew you’d fit him so well. He almost whimpered at the taste of your release, the way you clamped down on his three thick fingers and rode out the rest of your orgasm on his face.

As he lifted his head from between your legs, you realized he made due on his promise. You didn’t just soak his face; he was covered in you. His chin mostly, but you watched him wiped down his entire face with his sleeve and you instantly blushed with embarrassment. It was impossible to hide.

Jihoon only smiled at your flushed face, getting to his feet and leaning over you. His lips grazed your cheek, feeling how hot your skin was, as he fought with the buckle on his belt. “No need to be embarrassed. Your flavor is … out of this world,” he whispered, and then leaned back slightly to study you. After a long moment, he asked, “Has no one got you off before?”

You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m … not sure. Was it obvious to you?”

He flashed a smile. “Just a smidge.”

A sigh escaped you, and then your lashes fluttered open. “Of course, I … Han and I undoubtedly have had …” The words turned to ash on your tongue. Growing up as a woman during this time taught you to hold your tongue on all things sexual, but he understood what you were trying to say. Your hand smacked down on the bed. “I think he tried and I simply never realized that I was supposed to feel something like that after intercourse.” 

“It shouldn’t just be after intercourse, angel,” he explained, licking the corner of his lips. “He should’ve been getting you off in other ways. You were his wife. Someone to worship.”

“Again, Han tried –”

He cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping down the slope of your nose, and your lips immediately sealed. Jihoon had a way of looking at you that just completely silenced you. He was so calm, so soft, when he said, “Can we not talk about your former husband anymore so I can make love to you?”

You nodded immediately, your own hand coming up to squeeze his wrist lightly. He tried to hold himself together at your submission; the last thing he wanted was to frighten you with just how much he needed you. But it was hard. He was fucking hard. Jihoon couldn’t remember another time that he was this aroused, just like how you were minutes ago. Precum was practically seeping through his slacks and there was a pretty significant tent. Your gaze drifted to it every so often. You knew how badly he desired you, and still … you were just as excited. It made him want to push into you deep, fast, so you could feel him stretching you and reach that one spot that made you crumble.

He was a well-heeled man though. He promised to take this slow, and once you were ready … then he would really take you.

Jihoon didn’t just want to make you see stars. He wanted you to see galaxies.

He unbuttoned his shirt in front of you, wanting to make you watch. It was obvious the way your fingers twitched and your toes curled that you liked what you saw: a toned torso with  long arms and bulging biceps to match. Jihoon always felt the need to tell the women he slept with that his height was the only short part of him, but your dilated stare told him that you already suspected this. You felt it. And when he finally slipped off his belt, peeled down his slacks, you weren’t completely surprised. But your teeth still dug into your lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, because the size of him was unfair to most men.

Jihoon’s fingers were thick, but his cock was even thicker. His girth should be enough to scare you, and you tried to remain impassive. However … you weren’t sure how he was supposed to fit inside anyone – let alone you – who had only ever slept with your ex husband. He was probably still long when he was soft, but when he was hard like this … Jihoon might as well have been hiding a third appendage in his pants. Veins traveled up the shaft towards a head that was flushed ruby red, precum beading at the tip. You noticed the way his cock quivered, begging for an ounce of attention, flopping against his chiseled abdomen.

He moved forward, and suddenly, the dynamic shifted for him. He was now the predator, and you were the prey. Propping his knee on the edge of the bed, he knocked your thighs open, giving him enough room to take you. Slick oozed from between your legs, and just the sight made more precum trickle down his length. He leaned forward, his breath mingling with yours as he aligned his cock to your entrance with one hand. Using the other, he leisurely took your wrists in his grip and pinned them above your head. 

“I’m going to take you slow, angel,” he murmured, trailing his mouth down your jaw, and then your neck, before licking down the valley between your breasts. You began to squirm again, but you didn’t budge. He kept eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue so lightly around one of your nipples, then added, “If you want me to go faster, or harder, tell me. I’ll do whatever you need.”

You nodded quickly. He grinned, as if he wasn’t just about to completely ravish you with his thick cock. He pecked your lips, and then adjusted his position slightly, before you finally felt his bulbous head start to push into your tight channel. Your breath caught, your walls pressing down when he wasn’t even halfway inside. “Relax, angel,” he whispered, lowering his head again to take your hard nipple into his mouth. Just the feeling of him suckling on you like this was the best distraction, and he felt your body give way to him. 

Once he was fully sheathed, he paused and savored the tight connection between the two of you. You were almost afraid to move, praying he wouldn’t slip out just yet, no matter how uncomfortable the stretch was. Your eyes shifted over his shoulder, scanning the wall of photos. Every single picture of your face. He was devoted to you – god, was he devoted – and you knew it from the way he heaved against your nipple just from the realization of being inside you finally. In room 217. On the bed he pleasured himself on so many times to your image. 

Because it was you. It was always going to be you.

His mouth moved, pressing against the curve of your breast, as he pulled all the way out before slamming back in. You gasped, still not used to the absolute fullness inside of you, but you relaxed again as he rolled your other nipple between two fingers. He began a steady pace, looking down at you so your eyes would never leave his. He wanted to make sure he caught every expression as he fucked into you deep. “God, you feel …” He lost the will to speak, only able to huff and sigh. “Like … like heaven.”

“Really?” You breathed.

“Really,” he muttered. “Terribly so.”

Your pussy was squeezing him so tight, but he wouldn’t yield. Not unless you said so. He molded you just for him. He would ruin you for anyone else. Jihoon had to, because he couldn’t bear the thought of any other man being inside of you, not when he finally tasted heaven. And it was when you said the words, “I want more,” that he might’ve lost all restraint.

“More?” His brow furrowed down at you.

You confirmed with a nod. “Harder. Faster. Please, Jihoon.”

“Angel, you don’t –”

“I do.” Your response was so calm, stern. You knew what you were asking for, and when he was still stalling, you pushed your hips up to meet his, rubbing against his groin. “Take me how you’ve always wanted to.”

His grip on your wrists tightened, and all you heard was him mutter, “Fuck,” before every ounce of control left his body. Pulling out again, he practically pounded back into you, relentless. His new pace knocked the wind out of you, his hips fucking into you so hard that you were sure there would be bruises the next day. And you didn’t care. Because he felt so good, and you felt good, and you finally understood why your old friends used to say that sex was only good with the right person. That was Jihoon. His cock curved into you just right, hitting that one spot, and you keened, whimpering his name like it was the only thing you knew. 

“Squeeze me so good,” he grunted, meeting your completely fucked-out stare, “you know that?” 

All you could do was nod, mouth falling open as your body vibrated with pleasure.

His free hand left your nipple to hitch your leg up onto his hip, and his groan sounded otherworldly as he fucked into you even deeper than before. He had to be dreaming. No one could ever feel this good, but you did. And of course, it would be you. Wrists fidgeting in his hold, you felt your arousal gush around him just from the pleasure of being absolutely filled like this. You managed to hold your leg up, even when it felt like jelly, and his hand crept between your legs. “I’m gonna make you see stars again,” he promised, fingers finding your puffy clit, “and then I’m going to let go inside you. Sound good, angel? Because I can’t hold on much longer.”

Before you could utter a strangled word, he pinched your clit, and then pressed down on it at the same time he pushed into you hard. All you saw was white. Just as you started to let out the kind of moan that would echo through the entire hotel, he sealed his mouth over yours. He kissed you with purpose, swallowing every sound as you came for what felt like forever. Your walls contracted, clenching around his cock, until he was groaning against your lips and spiraling down the same path. He fucked his release into you, not stopping for one moment, but his hips faltered slightly. Emptying himself inside of you, you felt the stickiness begin to drip from between your thighs and the deafening squelch when he thrust into you one last time. Finally, he exhaled, collapsing on top of you as the last of his release trickled inside.  

You were both silent for a while. The sound of heavy breathing filtered throughout room 217. Jihoon finally slipped his hand off your wrists, muted red marks now blooming on your skin, and cupped your cheek so you could look at him. He admired you: hardly able to keep your eyes open, your dilated pupils, the flush on your cheeks and the sweat dotting your hairline, making your perfectly-kept hair now frizzy. You were even more beautiful like this – not put together, claimed. You were all his now. And no one – not even Han – could take you away from this hotel.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered against your kiss-bitten lips, “forever.” 

tag list: @taz-97 @bumbleteas @healingmv @skzbangchanniee @koliki @novawon @cherryhwa-02 @fancypeacepersona @namlakim @bzzare @shininghoshstar @beckxisxinxlovexwithxjin @seungkw1 @jaja-salute @j3nnch3ls3a @jhthings @kooqitas @shinysobi

[studiosvt]

Please validate your mention by reblogging the fic!

Taglist Part 1:

@nezzasworld @fancypeacepersona @sn4psh00t @gyucheolpuppy @cottonfluffclouds

@gam3bo17 @lostrandomfangirl @woo-wonwoo @smiileflower @bramos91

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@idubiluranghae @chimivx @catiekayy @ahuiahoe @prettypinkpassport

@foxinnie8 @thegoonfiles @joshuaholic @x-a-s-z @agidokkaebi 

@starryvanilla17 @whos-kkira @haodareyou @saraisabel2004 @junnhuisworld

[sknyuz]

₊‧☆⋆｡ﾟ 💾˖° 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶.𝗲𝘅𝗲 .ᐟ 𓂃⌨️⌒☆

𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁—𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲, 𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗽𝘀 .ᐟ

╰┈➤ get to know the programmer here 📡

💾 fluff | ⛓️‍💥 angst | ⚡ smut | 📟 friends/strangers to lovers | 📁 shorts (<5 min reads) 🧿 suggestive | 💿 est. relationship | 👾 headcanons | ✨ faves / popular

linked networks 🌐 @kstrucknet @studiosvt join the taglist to always be updated .ᐟ click here 📨 requests: open .ᐟ

spam reblogs are encouraged and appreciated.

seventeen.exe

70√3 — jeon wonwoo 💾📁 (tutor!wonwoo)

sunshine under the weather — lee seokmin (dk) 💾📟 (sick!dk)

heavy lifting — kim mingyu 💾⚡📟✨ (gym + college au)

my quiet place — kwon soonyoung (hoshi) 💾💿📁 (established relationship)

garden fairy — yoon jeonghan 💾💿📁 (idol!reader)

prompt #7 — lee jihoon 💾📟📁✨ (emotionally constipated woozi)

guard your heart (wip) — lee chan (dino) (royal au) preview here

threaded to you — hong jisoo (joshua) 💾💿(proposal!)

thrum — chwe hansol (vernon) 🧿

sticky! — boo seungkwan 💾📟 (office au)

anything 4 u — lee chan (dino) 💾📟

still into you — choi seungcheol (s.coups) 💾📟

chasing the moon* — wen junhui (jun) + xu minghao (the8) 💾⛓️‍💥

✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*

weakheroclass.exe

i can fix him! - the trilogy masterlist

before the storm — na baekjin ⛓️‍💥💿 ✨

how whc boys would kiss you — 💾👾✨

collarless — geum seongje — ⛓️‍💥💿🧿✨

academic rival!na baekjin — 💾📟📁

boyfriend!baku — 💾💿📁

how whc boys show intimacy — 💾👾

sweet (mute!reader) — geum seongje 💾⛓️‍💥📟

how whc boys handle a break up ⛓️‍💥👾

afterglow — oh beomseok 💾⛓️‍💥

still, i choose you — na baekjin 💾⛓️‍💥

going down on the boys of whc ⚡️

meet me halfway — go hyuntak (gotak) 💾📟

cheers to youth - na baekjin (prequel to before the storm)💾📟

✧・ﾟ*: system last updated: 2nd of june, 2025 ✧・ﾟ*:

✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*:✧・ﾟ*

discontinued groups

theboyz.exe (closed)

chocolate cliché — ju haknyeon 💾 📟📁

7:43am — kim sunwoo 💾📟 📁

9:00pm — eric sohn 💾 💿📁

haunted house — ji changmin (q) 💾 📟📁 (childhood bffs)

morning after your wedding with ju haknyeon — 💾💿📁

sknyuz © 2025 | all rights reserved. unauthorized reproduction, revising or distribution of this material, as well as the use in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence is strictly prohibited.

[alexrogers44]

My Color & My Bias(es) Tag Game

How to: take this quiz and find photos of your bias(es) that matches the color!

Thanks for the tag @norixseaweed

I will tag (no pressure you don't have to do it) @inno-baraah10 @wooahaelemons @hencheri

[reisdoll]

oh gem this is SO cute thank you for the tag pooks ♥︎

this took a while cause i was trying to find pictures that fit the colour scheme.. its so hard to find duo pics for teamies in this scheme fml </3

⠀ ‧₊＃ ͟ ❀͟🧂❜ ──！ @slytherinshua @callisrecords @lacedwithmsg @lvrwithadollarsign @seokminfilm @talkingsaxy and anyone else

[seokminfilm]

i don't think you guys understand how big of a pantone color connoisseur i am...anyways this was SO cute omg </3

try it! @himewonu @hanniescookie @realmofclouds @sknyuz @liusgarden @deekaykaykay @jeontric @kwnnies @kissbyoon and anyone else who wants to join in!

[sknyuz]

[sknyuz]

christmas presence (j.w.w.)

synopsis: wonwoo’s presence is the only gift you ever really wanted this christmas.

genre: christmas special, established relationship, slice of life, hurt/comfort.

pairing: jeon wonwoo x (fem.)reader

word count: ~700 words.

author’s note: finally putting out this holiday fic exchange for @studiosvt's #holidayficexchange25 event !! and the writer i pulled is... drumroll please... ella @lovelylonelinesssvt !! i am so sorry for the late post, been caught up in uni backlogs and comin home from christmas TT but >><< i hope this captured the cozy, slightly bittersweet(?) winter vibes you were looking for... nothing too crazy in terms of dramatics that i usually write about lolol i could only do so much with the word cap !! but i hope this is ur cup of hot chocolate ;3 happy holidays ^^

the silence in the apartment you shared has a weight to it lately.

the kind of silence that sticks to the back of your throat, thick and dry. wonwoo is still at his desk, a dark silhouette against the blue glow of his monitor. the light catches the edge of his glasses, making him look distant, like he’s part of the code instead of the room.

it’s christmas eve and the tree in the corner is sad. half the lights are burnt out and it’s dropping needles every time the heater kicks on. you remember buying it with him, the way his nose turned red in the cold and how he’d laughed when you picked the scrawniest one you could afford. “our first christmas tree.” you’d whispered under your breath.

now, it just feels like a chore you haven't finished.

“wonwoo,” you say, barely a sound.

he doesn't even flinch, the rhythmic click-clack of his keyboard is the only thing filling the space between you.

“wonwoo, it’s almost midnight.”

“five minutes,” he murmurs. he doesn't even blink. “i just need to hit this deadline so i don't have to think about it tomorrow.”

it’s always five minutes. those minutes usually stretch until you’re falling asleep alone, the tv flickering on a loop. you’re tired of waiting for a version of him that isn't busy.

you stand up, your joints feeling stiff, and walk over to the tree. you don't start decorating. instead, you start taking the ornaments off. the plastic bin makes a dull thud as you slide it across the floor.

the typing stops. the sudden absence of the sound makes your ears ring.

“what are you doing?” his voice is low, a bit rough from the hours of silence.

“taking it down,” you say, not looking back. your chest feels tight. “there’s no point in having it up if we’re just sitting in the dark anyway.”

you hear his chair creak. then, the sound of his footsteps: slow and heavy, until he’s standing right behind you. he smells like the coffee he’s been drinking since noon and the faint, cold scent of the window glass.

he doesn't give a big speech or do a grand gesture, wonwoo wasn’t like that. he just reaches out quietly—the most wonwoo thing ever—his hand hovering over your shoulder before he finally lets it rest there. his touch is warm, a sharp contrast to how cold the room feels.

“don’t,” he says softly.

you finally turn around. he looks tired. not just work-tired, but the kind of look that comes from realizing you’ve almost lost yourself from all the work. he looks at the half-empty bin and then back at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“i got caught up,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. his glasses are cold against your skin, but his breath is shaky. “i’m sorry. i know i’ve been... not... here.”

“not present,” he corrects himself, as he finally finds the words.

he doesn't try to justify it with talk about 'the future' or 'the promotion.' he just stands there in the mess of the half-lit living room and holds onto you like he’s trying to find his way back.

the laptop screen is still glowing in the background, but he doesn't look at it. instead, he reaches into the bin and pulls out a small, mismatched ornament—a cheap little star you’d found at a thrift store.

“give me a minute?” he asks. it’s not the 'five minutes' from before. it’s a request.

you watch him get down on the floor, his long limbs looking awkward as he crawls under the tree to find the plug. he messes with the wires, his hair falling over his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he isn't a silhouette or a corporate slave. he’s just wonwoo.

your wonwoo.

when the lights finally flicker on—warm and gold, reflecting in the window—he stays on the floor. he reaches for your hand, pulling you down until you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest.

he wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair. he’s quiet for a long time, just breathing with you while the snow starts to blur the city lights outside.

“merry christmas,” he whispers against your neck. he sounds like he finally made it home.

you lean back, letting him take your weight, the gold light of the tree blurring into something soft and forgiving. you feel the warmth from his arms press against your waist, melting into his embrace.

“merry christmas, wonwoo.”

[callisrecords]

17 Seconds 2 Score 🏁 Masterlist

The lights are on. The crowd is waiting. The countdown’s over and the players are ready. 17 Seconds 2 Score kicks off with a full roster of thirteen athletes, thirteen sports, and one shared love for the game.

Each story takes you somewhere new: a different arena, a different rhythm, a different kind of race against the clock. From everything between hope and heartbreak, to victory and loss, 17S2S brings to you games that’ll have you on the edge of your seat—no matter if it’s the field, court, or track. Come join us for the tiebreaker marathon where the pressure’s high, the stakes are real, and sometimes, the heart is the biggest prize of all.

Airing between December 2nd and 9th!

Coaching committee : Jay ( @ppyopulii ), Hershey ( @junplusone ) and Calli ( @callisrecords )

READERS’ NOTICE:

Please note that some stories are rated 18+ for mature themes. Check each individual fic's rating and tags before reading. Support your favorite players responsibly, and remember to play fair and read safe.

THE LINEUP

title: Love! Set! Replay! ; brought to you by @nerdycheol pairing: tennis players seungcheol x reader wc: tbd synopsis: Three years ago, Seungcheol walked out of your life without a word, leaving you with questions you never found answers to and a heart that never healed the same. You told yourself you’d moved on—that you didn’t need him, didn’t miss him, didn’t care. But now he is back, standing across the court as if nothing has changed, except everything has. content warnings: tbd

🎾 watch highlights ! 🎾watch the match !

title: your move ; brought to you by @ppyopulii pairing: chess-player!yoon jeonghan x chess-player!reader wc: 5k (est.) synopsis: Yoon Jeonghan is determined to get your love life back on track. You, on the other hand, are more concerned with his insouciant behavior as the university chess team’s Board #1, when the intercollegiate tournament is only a month away. He strikes a deal: download Serenity, Hybe University’s newest dating app, and he promises to talk to the coach about swapping your positions for the game. Your scoff, but the clock is ticking. His king is in your sights. It’s your move. content warnings: cursing, banter, do they love or hate each other?, this takes place in the hybehax universe!

♟️ watch highlights ! ♟️watch the match !

title: Stretch, Hydrate, Fall in Love ; brought to you by @supi-wupi pairing: prodigy figure skater!joshua x physical therapist!reader wc: 4.4k synopsis: Fluff, slow burn romance, sports AU (figure skating), trainer x athlete, mutual pining, contemporary, slice of life content warnings: mild injury & recovery (physical therapy context), tension, light teasing

⛸️ watch highlights ! ⛸️ watch the routine !

title: where we land ; brought to you by @vernonverse pairing: taekwondoin!wen junhui x rhythm gymnast!reader wc: tbd synopsis: Four years after an almost career-ending injury—and a heartbreak that never healed—you, China’s former rhythmic gymnastics prodigy, return for the Olympics and upcoming competitions. When budget cuts force you to train alongside Wen Junhui, your ex–best friend and ex-boyfriend, now China’s Taekwondo golden boy, old wounds reopen. content warnings: tbd

🥋 watch highlights ! 🥋 watch the match!

title: the stubborn olympics ; brought to you by @hannieoftheyear pairing: swimmer!soonyoung x journalist!reader wc: 10k (est.) synopsis: For the last issue of the year, the school's newspaper assigns each top writer a sport to cover for the end of the season. You're ready to impress everyone and to make your last article shine, until you have to follow the annoying swimming team's captain around so he accepts to give you an interview. content warnings: they're stubborn and very annoying, virgin shaming, explicit smut, more tbd

🏊‍♂️ watch highlights ! 🏊‍♂️ watch the event !

title: shoot your shot! ; brought to you by @heartepub pairing: sport shooter!wonwoo x photojournalist!reader wc: tbd synopsis: it’s only ever been a crush: a pretty face to glimpse in the sidelines—when not covered by the lens, that is. but when your photo of him at the olympics goes viral, wonwoo’s teammates insist that it’s a sign. one drunken scheme and newly-bought camera later, he can only hope he’s as natural of a shooter here, too. content warnings: tbd

🔫 watch highlights ! 🔫 watch the event !

title: korigatachi. ; brought to you by @shinysobi pairing: go game player! yn x manager! woozi wc: tbd synopsis: she's been playing the game since she was four years old, which means she's been playing it for twenty-four years now. she's tired, but when chaos comes walking into her life, hand-in-hand with danger, it bears a name: lee jihoon. and for once in her wretched life, she feels a spark behind her ribcage. content warnings: detailed description of mental illness, violence, sexual content, alcohol consumption and smoking.

⚫ watch highlights ! ⚫ watch the game !

title: hors scène (off-stage) ; brought to you by @sknyuz pairing: ballerina!xu minghao x ballerina!reader wc: 10k (est.) synopsis: you and xu minghao are the two best, most annoying rivals at lé diamant ballet academy, where minghao is the picture of pristine perfection demanded by the academy, earning him his ambassadorship. that image shatters when vernon drags you to an underground b-boy battle, where you discover minghao’s explosive secret life hors scène. now, you hold the truth that could destroy his career. your rivalry gets messier when you are forced to partner for a critical pas de deux, where keeping his secret becomes the highest-stakes performance of all. content warnings: tbd

🩰 watch highlights ! 🩰 watch the performance !

title: best served hot ; brought to you by @cheers-to-you-th pairing: volleyball player!mingyu x reader wc: tbd synopsis: After three years away, you return to Seoul expecting the cold streets and quiet loneliness of winter—not the warmth of your grandmother’s tiny jjigae restaurant waiting just as you left it. You’re only back to help while she recovers, to keep the lights on and the broth simmering, but when the door swings open and Mingyu—now the star of Korea’s top volleyball team and the same boy who once made you forget how to speak—walks in like no time has passed at all, the past you thought you’d outgrown comes rushing back. content warnings: tbd

🏐 watch highlights ! 🏐 watch the match !

title: hung like a horse ; brought to you by @okiedokrie paring: Horse Hybrid!Track and Field Athlete!Dokyeom x Trainer!Reader wc: 10k (est.) synopsis: Training your horse hybrid for his upcoming race is really difficult when you can't take the guy seriously. You don't really pray that he wins, only that he's normal on the day of the race. The only way to make the guy normal is to horse around with him. content warnings: smut, horse puns, more tbd

👟 watch highlights ! 👟 watch the event !

title: match point ; brought to you by @callisrecords pairing: badminton player!seungkwan x f!reader wc: 25k (est.) synopsis: When a burst pipe leaves national athlete Boo Seungkwan temporarily homeless, the universe decides to have a laugh and send him to the one person he’s been too busy to see—his best friend. What should’ve been an easy, familiar arrangement turns strangely complicated; between his chaotic training schedule and the small ways you keep circling each other, nothing feels as simple as it used to. Living together blurs lines you’ve never questioned before. There's a net neither of you have crossed, but maybe it's time to break the match point. content warnings: rough language, slowburn, they're idiots in love?, banter more tbd

🏸 watch highlights ! 🏸 watch the match !

title: baby steps ; brought to you by @studioeisa pairing: chwe hansol x rock climbing instructor!reader wc: tbd synopsis: much like every twenty-something-year-old going through a life-changing breakup, vernon has done it all. a marathon? check. a solo trip to japan? check. none of it has helped. there's still a void in his heart that's the shape of his ex-girlfriend. in a ditch attempt to hashtag heal, vernon signs up at your climbing gym. surely this would have no repercussions whatsoever! content warnings: tbd

🧗‍♂️ watch highlights ! 🧗‍♂️ watch the event !

title: off season ; brought to you by @mylovesstuffs pairing: baseball player!lee chan × fem!reader wc: tbd synopsis: every summer, the hometown baseball field feels smaller — but when lee chan comes back, it somehow lights up again. you’ve known chan since you were kids; he was the boy who lived down the street. he was the one who taught you how to throw a proper curveball and who swore he’d make it to the big leagues one day. years later, he did. now, he’s home for the first time in years: tired, bruised, and different. his teammates see him as the golden ticket, but to you, he’s still the boy who used to call your name across the field. there’s just one problem — he didn’t come back alone. content warnings: tbd

⚾ watch highlights ! ⚾ watch the game !

[sknyuz]

WE ARE SOOO BACK, MINGHAO NATION !!! this the comeback fic of a lifetime fr so excited especially that my good friend, calli, is hosting hihi <33

[sknyuz]

untethered | geum seongje (the collarless prequel)

> > > read collarless here < < <

synopsis — a fierce rooftop brawl with the ganghak wolf sparks a bond of chaos and desire, where nights of passion and a violent frenzy bind you—until your quest for an untethered new life unravels it all, away from the broken one he wants to stay in with you.

pairing — geum seongje x ex!reader

genre — strangers to lovers to toxic exes, angst

cw — violence, blood, smoking, sweaarrringgg, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, suggestive content

wc — ~2k

notes: this one's for you, collarless anon !! i finally pushed through and finished the prequel to collarless becase of YOU !! it feels nice to wrap them up like this like i did with baekjin, except this one is still quite angst-y comapred to that one lol. hope everyone haves fun reading this messy, dumpster fire of a couple :) xoxo

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

you first crossed paths with geum seongje on the rain-slicked rooftops of an abandoned warehouse in yeongdeungpo's outskirts—a neutral ground where strays like you settled scores away from school territories. it was late 2023, before the union tightened its grip on the district. you ran with a loose crew from the fringes, untied to any school like eunjang or ganghak, surviving on odd jobs and turf scraps. "independent contractors," you called it—extortion here, a beatdown there. but gangs felt like chains, and you hated the leash.

seongje was a legend: the wolf of ganghak, collarless, with a rep for soloing entire groups. whispers painted him as feral—sharp teeth, no mercy, eyes lit with the thrill of pain. that night, your crew had beef with hyeongshin punks encroaching on your spot. you showed up alone, fists taped, ready to settle it quietly.

he’d already handled it. by the time you climbed the fire escape, the rooftop was a mess: three hyeongshin kids groaning on the concrete, blood pooling in puddles. seongje stood in the center, lighting a cigarette under the drizzle, tracksuit torn at the shoulder, unwinded.

"the fuck are you?" he growled, exhaling smoke like a dragon.

"your backup, apparently," you shot back, stepping over a body. "this was my hit. you poached it."

he laughed—a low, barking sound that sent a shiver down your spine. not fear. excitement. "poached? kid, this rooftop’s open season. if you’re slow, you’re meat."

you should’ve walked away. but his grin, that untamed spark, hooked you. "prove it," you said, dropping your stance.

the fight was electric. he came at you like a storm—fast jabs, a knee to your gut that stole your breath. but you matched him: a hook to his jaw, an elbow splitting his lip. no weapons, just raw fury. he was stronger, but you were smarter, dodging grapples, countering with precision. rain made it slippery; you ended up grappling on the edge, his hand fisting your shirt, your knee pressed to his ribs.

"yield," he snarled, breath hot against your ear.

"make me," you whispered.

he didn’t. instead, he pulled you closer, and the fight blurred—lips crashing, teeth clashing, hands roaming like the violence never stopped. it was messy, desperate, like two strays claiming territory.

that night sparked it all. you met in shadows: abandoned lots, back alleys, away from prying eyes. seongje wasn’t romantic—no flowers, no dates. it was stolen moments between fights. he’d show up at your hideout, bruised from ganghak scraps; you’d patch him up, trading stories. it took him a while, but he started sharing fragments: his shitty home life, no family, and fighting as his outlet. "i’m a wolf, y/n. no pack, no rules." you shared your scars—how you clawed out of a toxic crew and vowed never to be leashed again.

your nights with seongje blurred into a rhythm of raw intensity. you’d crash at his dingy apartment—walls cracked, reeking of stale smoke and cheap ramen—or he’d slip into yours, the door barely locked before hands were everywhere. it was never gentle; seongje marked you like territory, lips and teeth leaving bruises on your neck and chest, dark hickeys blooming as claims that you were his. "mine," he’d growl against your skin, possessive and feral, before slipping out at dawn, when you’d wake to the ghost of his touch, a reminder in the mirror that echoed your own wild streak.

the rare "dates" happened past midnight, well into the witching hours, when the city slept and strays like you roamed every alley. you’d grab takeout from street vendors—spicy tteokbokki steaming in styrofoam bowls, crispy mandu, maybe some kimbap if you were lucky—and climb to a random rooftop, legs dangling over the edge. no words needed at first; just the hum of neon below, the burn of gochujang on your tongue while his shoulder brushed yours. he’d light a cigarette, exhaling into the night, and you’d steal drags, the smoke curling between shared glances. those moments felt almost normal—seongje finally quiet amid the chaos, where vulnerability peeked through. he’d mutter about a recent fight, you’d laugh at his cocky retellings, and for a heartbeat, it was just you two in this mess you've both gotten yourselves in.

the chemistry was undeniable. you balanced him: your calculated calm to his chaos. fights turned to foreplay; makeouts to spars. he called you "babe" with that smirk, like a challenge. for months, it worked—equals, collarless in a world of unions and hierarchies.

by late junior year, you felt the street life grinding you down. fights left more than bruises: doubts about wasting your potential in yeongdeungpo’s underbelly. you’d always been sharp, acing tests when you bothered with school. one night, after a scrap split your lip and left you bruised and battered, clothes ripped and scratched as of by wild animals, you stared at your apartment’s cracked ceiling and decided: enough. no more full-time gang bullshit. it just wasn't worth risking your life for anymore. you're too grown to do it for the thrill, and the dirty money just wasn't appealing to you anymore. you cut back—taking only low-risk jobs, ghosting your crew when they pushed. instead, you poured energy into something real.

you enrolled in a night hagwon* in a quieter district corner, a fluorescent-lit cram school packed with kids grinding for finals and the csat. it wasn’t glamorous: endless mock exams, vocabulary drills, math problems that burned your brain. but it felt smooth. days gained structure—mornings at a convenience store (legal gigs, no shady hustles), afternoons tying up old loose ends, evenings buried in textbooks. your grades climbed; you dreamed of uni—maybe business, law, far from fists and turf wars. life was running smoothly, like you’d finally grabbed the wheel instead of letting the streets steer.

*hagwon = cram school

seongje noticed. at first, he teased, lounging on your bed while you studied, feet propped like he owned the place. "look at you, babe—going full-on scholar. next, you’ll wear a uniform and starting bowing to your teachers." you’d roll your eyes, tossing crumpled paper at him, a warmth in the banter. he’d pull you away for "breaks," lips on your neck, hands reminding you of the wild you were taming.

but the cracks deepened. as you pulled away from chaos, he leaned harder into it. the yeongdeungpo union was expanding, baekjin scouting talent like a predator building his pack. seongje took small union gigs—nothing official, just "testing waters," he’d say. you’d argue during rare meets, your book bag slung over one shoulder, his cigarette smoke thick in the air.

"this union’s a leash, seongje. you join, you’re no better than hyeongshin drones."

he’d scoff, flicking ash. "and you think cramming for csats makes you free? trading one cage for another—exams, jobs, that bullshit boring life."

it stung—you felt it too. the farther you got from the streets, the farther you felt from him. your worlds diverged. you’d come home from cram school buzzing with small wins—a perfect practice test score—while he’d be wired from a union skirmish, eyes alight with feral hunger. stolen moments felt forced; spars turned to real arguments, punches pulling short but words cutting deep.

the toxicity festered. he’d show up late to meets, reeking of blood and smoke, eyes narrowing at your textbooks like they stole you from him. once, after you ditched a fight invite for a mock exam, he cornered you outside your apartment, fresh from a brawl, lip bleeding. before you could speak, he grabbed your face, fingers rough, and forced a kiss on you—metal on his tongue, blood or cigarette ash, bitter and desperate. you shoved him back, heart racing, wiping your mouth.

"don’t," you snapped, voice low. "you don’t get to do that when you’re half-dead from their errands."

he smirked, but his eyes were dark, hurt. "what, i’m not good enough now that you’re playing good girl?"

you’d hesitate before fight invites, prioritizing hagwon over alleys. it hurt—like you were outgrowing the stray he’d fallen for, and he resented you for it. he’d manipulate the guilt: "you’re leaving me behind, y/n. all this getting your ‘life together’ shit’s an excuse to bail." deep down, you wondered during late nights if this smoothness—your new life—was worth the growing distance, the way his touches grew desperate, like he was clinging to a version of you slipping away.

it blew up on a humid summer night in an empty parking lot near ganghak. you’d been ambushed on the way home from cram school—some no-name punks from a rival crew, probably hyeongshin stragglers, pissed you’d ghosted their scene. there were five of them, too many for you alone, even with your newfound focus. they came at you hard: a fist to your jaw sent you staggering, and a kick to your ribs dropped you to the asphalt. your notes scattered, pages catching the damp air, as you tried to fight back. a punch grazed your cheek, splitting skin; another hit your stomach, stealing your breath. you were losing—badly—blood in your mouth, vision blurring, when you heard boots on pavement and a familiar, feral snarl.

seongje appeared like a storm, flanked by three strangers—some new lackeys you’d never seen, their faces hard and unfamiliar. they moved like a pack, precise and brutal. seongje didn’t hesitate: he grabbed the nearest punk, slamming him into a concrete pillar, his fist a blur. the lackeys tore through the rest—knees to guts, elbows to skulls, efficient and merciless. in seconds, the attackers were down, groaning or out cold, blood mixing with puddles.

seongje stood over them, breathing heavy, wiping blood from his knuckles. he lit a cigarette, casual as ever, while you picked upyour scattered notes, avoiding his gaze, your ribs screaming with every breath. he glanced at you, that hungry grin flickering, but his eyes held something new—pride, maybe, or possession.

seongje had accepted baekjin’s offer—official union dog. he told you casually, cigarette dangling, while you clutched your scattered and dirtied notes.

"you’re joking," you rasped, voice flat, spitting blood.

"nah. it’s smart. power, y/n. we could rule together—if you weren’t playing house with textbooks."

"we? fuck that. i left that life—you can't just leash me back up to choke. you’re volunteering for one while i’m trying to get out?"

the argument turned nuclear. words flew like knives: him calling you a sellout for chasing "fake, unrealistic dreams," you calling him a pathetic mutt begging for baekjin’s scraps. it devolved into a real fight—no holds barred. you landed a right hook, drawing blood, your hagwon-honed focus sharpening your strikes. he tackled you to the asphalt, pinning your arms. "stop fighting me!" he yelled, eyes wild, rage mixed with raw fear.

"or what? you’ll sic your pack on me? while i study for a future you can’t even imagine?"

he hesitated—long enough for you to knee him off, scrambling up. "we’re done, seongje. enjoy your collar. i’m done being stuck with your mess. you have no place in the life i'm building anymore."

you walked away, heart pounding, tasting blood (yours or his?), backpack heavy like armor. he didn’t chase. weeks later, you heard he fully dove into union life, swiftly climbing up the ranks to become baekjin’s right-hand man, fighting like he was purging something—maybe you.

but strays always remember home. months later, when he shows up in the territory you're guarding for—bruised lip from your punch, that shit-eating grin and wild eyes—you're hit with the sudden reality that this isn't the seongje you once loved anymore.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 @triciawritesstuff @prettywhenicry4 @dripoftheseus @rosieparkk @gacktsa @sopitadearvejas @satorustorm @mirwors @sqacewalkr @l5byrinth @sarcastic-cookie @v3n0m35 @vitaminbtob @armani78 @bbangbies @snowflakemoon3 @kibtsuji @yuuuumii @slovesyouuu @f1-lh44 @hajunz  @snowflakemoon3 @hoe4wonwoo @pluslandminun @bleedingwhiteroses222 @dahlia-blossom @reiofsuns2001 @yuuuumii @feralmaneater @fandomout @ilovethe141 @coffee-ii @vind1cta @brianafyz @pradajaehyun @qvrrer @putrescentpoet @talkingsaxy

[sknyuz]

i miss making short and cute drabbles for svt *!!* leave some in my asks pls <333 as i finish up some back logged fics in my drafts... heh

i wouldn't mind a wonwoo or dk request

[sknyuz]

open channel | w.j.h.

stepping into the haas f1 garage means more than just being good at what you do—you’ve inherited the headset once worn by your father, now the vital voice guiding their first seat driver, wen junhui, on track. junhui is sharp and distant, but your clear calls cut through the noise in a way that unsettles his perfect composure. between late-night debriefs, testing laps, and the chaos of race weekends, a quiet rhythm starts to build—something that feels dangerously close to something more.

pairing — f1 driver!wen junhui x reader

genre — part of the lights out collab by @camandemstudios, f1 au, motorsports au, haas f1, slowburn romance, romantic tension, secret(?) relationship, drama

cw — intense descriptions of racing crashes, past trauma, panic attack depiction, workplace tension, skinship, kissing, drooling, SMUT like—smut smut (unprotected sex, fingering, breeding kink?), aftercare, swearing

word count — 17k(?) this got out of hand pretty quickly

author’s note — huge thank you to cam [@highvern] and em [@gyuswhore] for inviting me to be part of the lights out! collab <333 this piece has been almost two months in the making (finished while i was down bad with the flu, rip). if you’re a regular on my blog, you know i don’t usually dive into smut—but let me tell you, this might be the smuttiest smut i’ve ever smutted in my whole writing career.

it starts with the smell of oil and burnt rubber—the same scent that clung to your dad’s hands when you were five, sitting cross-legged in the back of your kart garage, watching him scribble notes on telemetry charts.

somehow, you’re back here. not in that exact garage, but in a world that smells the same, hums the same—an ecosystem of adrenaline, high-stakes precision, and the sharp sting of carbon brake dust.

“don’t hover like that, you’ll look nervous,” comes a voice behind you. familiar, sharp, warm. laura müller, chief race engineer for haas f1, the first woman to ever claim that title, and the one who decided to take you under her wing. “stand tall. these boys smell fear.”

“not nervous,” you mutter, adjusting the headset that feels too big even though it’s custom-fit. “just… recalibrating.”

she snorts. “well, looks like my baby chick’s got the vocabulary of a senior strategist. you’ll be fine.”

you try not to look like you’re clinging to those words. because the truth is, you are nervous. new paddock. new team. same old weight on your shoulders. everyone knows whose daughter you are—the haas veteran, with his salt and pepper beard, officially retiring after two decades as the trusted race engineer for their most enigmatic driver.

wen junhui. a young but already seasoned driver—your driver now. ice prince of the paddock. untouchable on track and unreadable off it. karting since he was a kid, in f1 by eighteen, and a consistent name in the points ever since.

you haven’t seen him in person for years—not since you stopped following your dad into the garage. lately, it’s only ever been through a screen: his onboard cams, clipped comms, lap data flashing across your monitor. you’ve studied his pace, dissected his rain drives like some people watch old films.

but the cameras never got it quite right. in person, there’s a weight to him the broadcast can’t capture—shoulders squared, presence steady, the faint trace of boyish charm from years ago now sharpened into something quieter, heavier. older.

and now, you’re supposed to be his voice in the chaos.

when junhui finally walks into the garage, it’s like a shift in air pressure—quiet, sharp, certain. he scans the space, quick and efficient, until his gaze lands on you.

he takes you in for a moment—head to toe, then back to your eyes—and says, voice low but clear,

“baby chick.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

his mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “the old man’s kid. didn’t think i’d see you in here without him.”

he doesn’t linger on your face for long before someone from the crew steps up with his balaclava and helmet, pulling him into the practiced rhythm of pre-season prep. gloves handed off, visor polished, radio checks murmured around him like a well-rehearsed song. he moves through it all without fuss, but with the kind of economy you only see in people who’ve been doing this since before they could drive on the road.

you stand off to the side, watching the way he adjusts the strap under his chin without even looking, shifting his weight as someone tugs at his race suit.

laura leans toward you, her voice low but amused. “don’t just stand there like a spare part. get ready too, baby chick. you’re on comms the moment he’s out.”

“right,” you murmur, forcing your feet toward your station. the headset suddenly feels heavier when you slot it back on, the faint hiss of open channel buzzing in your ears.

by the time junhui slides into the cockpit, the garage is a flurry of last checks—engineers bent over laptops, tires already warming, mechanics crouched near the front wing. the air smells of hot rubber and faint ozone.

you flip through your notes, reminding yourself of the first lap briefing your dad drilled into you years ago: baseline warm-up, brake temps, short-shift on the first straight, steady through sector three. the words are muscle memory, but this is the first time they’ll come out in your voice.

someone gives the all-clear. laura nods to you.

you press the comm button, your voice steady—hopefully. “radio check.”

“loud and clear,” comes the reply, slightly muffled through his helmet mic.

you give him the standard pre-run report, every word clipped and precise. when you finish, there’s a brief crackle over the line, then—

“alright, baby chick,” junhui says, calm but threaded with something almost teasing. “let’s see what you’ve got.”

the engine note spikes, and he rolls out of the garage.

the first lap is meant to be gentle—gentle for an f1 car, anyway. junhui coaxes the haas through the first few corners, the tires still waking up, the steering wheel twitching in his hands as the track surface changes under him. your updates come in like clockwork: brake temps, sector times, delta comparisons. you keep your tone even, reading from the data feed without letting your breath hitch.

but in the second sector, he clips the apex cleanly and you’re there in his ear, your voice threading through the roar of the engine. it’s not loud—you’re not shouting—but it cuts through the noise the way sunlight catches on glass.

“careful on turn nine, rear right’s running a little hot,” you tell him, clear and certain.

he blinks, thrown off for just a fraction—not because of what you said, but because of how sharp it lands in his helmet, clearer than he expected. the split-second distraction is enough for him to be a touch late on the throttle. nothing major—just enough for the telemetry to flag it.

you roll straight into the next call. “good on fuel mix, you can push a bit more in the next straight.”

he’s locked in again by turn eleven, the rest of the lap flowing smooth and clean.

in the garage, you watch his sector times tick green, the live feed showing the car slicing through the track with mechanical precision. laura shoots you a look—not quite impressed, not quite surprised. ‘could be better.’ her face reads.

by the time he pulls into the pit lane, the lap counter’s ticked past a handful of clean runs. you’re still talking him through the cooldown, voice steady, making sure the tires and brakes are treated kindly on the way back in.

the car stops on the marks, jacks lift it in one smooth motion, and the helmet comes off. the cameras never quite get it right—junhui’s face is sharper in person, more grounded than the light, easy charm he shows on tv. there’s a heaviness in the way he carries himself now, like the years between the last time you saw him and this moment are sitting somewhere on his shoulders.

he steps down from the chassis, unclips his gloves, and walks straight to the monitors instead of the drinks cooler.

you swivel slightly in your chair, headset still on, and start the rundown without missing a beat.

“sector two’s solid, but turn nine’s costing you a few tenths. rear right’s cooling now, but we’ll adjust pressures before the next run. brake migration’s okay—you felt any push in turn three?”

he shakes his head, leaning one hand on the back of your chair as he glances at the screen. “felt fine. just a little late on the throttle after nine.”

“mm,” you hum, tapping in a note for laura. “we’ll tweak your entry line there.”

you run through the points the way you would with anyone—lap times, pressure tweaks, the small line change through nine. no fuss, no extra talk, just what needs fixing.

your pen pauses for a fraction of a second as he steps back, unzipping his suit halfway and grabbing a water bottle, tilting it to his lips for a slow sip. from the corner of your eye, over the clipboard in your hands, you catch the dark fabric of his undershirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, a faint sheen at his collarbone catching the lights. you swallow at the same time he does, tugging lightly at your own collar, throat dry.

you glance back down at your notes, but can’t help sneaking another look, water bottle half-empty in his hand, hair falling just past his eyebrows.

junhui catches it, of course. every driver notices, even in the corners of their vision—brow quirking just slightly, like he’s cataloguing the moment without saying a word. when laura finishes the debrief and calls out, “good job, kiddos,” he rolls his eyes at her term of endearment, half-amused. not the youngest in the garage anymore—technically, you’re still about a few years younger than the star, but he’s learned to tolerate the playful jabs from his seniors.

he’s already moving toward the lounge area where drivers grab a quick snack or a drink, maybe rinse off the sweat before the next session. you barely register him leaving until his figure rounds the corner and disappears, and only then do you blink, snapping back to your notes, heart still a little fast without even realizing why.

near the other end of the garage, jihoon, the team’s second seat driver, is sliding into his own cockpit, calm and collected. you catch a glimpse of him through the monitors as he revs the engine, the contrast between his relaxed style and junhui’s intense precision striking. jihoon gives a small wave toward the engineers, headset already on, before settling into the flow of his own laps. you notice how naturally he fits into the rhythm of the garage, a quiet, confident presence that seems to mirror—but never overshadow—junhui’s intensity.

off-season testing doesn’t have the glamour of a race weekend. the grandstands sit empty, the air stripped of the noise and spectacle that usually surround the grid. there’s no champagne, no blaring national anthems, no podium ceremony, no commentators hyping up the start lights. just the constant whine of engines pushing through lap after lap, the metallic tang of brake dust clinging to the back of your throat, and the low hum of engineers hunched over laptops, arguing over tenths of a second like they’re life or death.

the days blur together in the garage. fluorescent strips hum overhead, casting sharp light on stacks of worn tires and open toolkits. half-finished telemetry notes get scrawled across clipboards and forgotten coffee cups crowd the workstations. every run feels like both a rehearsal and a gamble—will the new setup hold, or will another variable throw the whole lap off course?

at first, junhui seemed folded into the rhythm of the team itself, answering with the bare minimum, his presence pared down to something efficient and cool, moving through the garage like another piece of machinery—efficient in his answers, distant in his demeanor, clinical in the way he treated every lap as data rather than feeling.

but after a few sessions, something shifted. junhui no longer walked straight past the engineers’ desks once he was out of the car; instead, he’d drift toward your monitor, helmet still under one arm, sweat dampening the curls that slipped loose from under his balaclava. he leaned over just enough to catch the scrolling lines of data as you spoke, eyes tracking faster than you expected from someone who usually let the numbers speak for themselves.

once, he reached past you, gloved finger tapping a dip in the graph so precise you almost laughed at how sharp his eye was.

“rear stepped out here. exit speed wasn’t there.”

you tilted your head, a little surprised. “you noticed that?”

he gave a small shrug, though he didn’t move away. “hard not to. felt like the car wanted to spin itself sideways.” he lingered by your chair, watching as your fingers flew across the keyboard, logging the note.

when you pressed enter, the adjustment slotting neatly into the chart, you felt his gaze flicker to you instead of the screen. there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but not the cold mask he usually wore, either.

jihoon, sitting a few monitors down, ran his own second-seat laps, but you caught him glancing over now and then whenever junhui leaned close to check the data on your screen. he didn’t say much—just a faint hum or a muttered, “looks like you two are in sync,” when he passed behind your chair, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.

you blinked at him, half-smiling, before turning back to your notes. junhui, for his part, let out a low, nonchalant hum as he leaned over the screen, almost as if noticing you had caught the apex perfectly—but he didn’t linger, didn’t make it obvious. it was enough, though. enough for your shoulders to settle a little straighter, your fingers moving with more certainty across the keyboard.

later, as he leaned back to grab a sip of water, jihoon murmured again from across the garage, voice just audible over the hum of engines: “you’re getting good at this, huh?”

“just doing my job,” you replied, fingers already flying over the keyboard.

jihoon shrugged, unconcerned. “sure, sure. but it shows.”

and in the corner of your vision, junhui’s hum returned softly as he adjusted his headset, casual, almost teasing—and somehow it made you feel a little more in your element.

“nicely done today,” he said, tone calm but edged with something softer. “clean calls. made it easier to stay on top of the car.”

the words were simple, almost throwaway, but they landed heavier than you expected. no one had said anything about your comms all week, not beyond laura’s quick corrections or teasing reminders. from him, though—meant or not—it sounded like something close to trust.

he was more present in the garage now, leaning over his monitor just a beat longer, catching lines in your notes you hadn’t even realized you’d written. during debriefs, he spoke up more, offering his input instead of waiting for you to lead the way. sometimes his feedback slipped into half-jokes, aimed at you with that easy, fleeting grin:

“so what’s the verdict, baby chick? do i get a passing grade?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, though a corner of your mouth twitched. he rolled his eyes every time, gaze briefly catching yours before he shifted his attention back to the screens. it was subtle, but the kind of thing that made the long hours feel less heavy.

off-grid, baby chick stuck. he said it without thinking when he handed you a coffee in the morning.

over the past few sessions, he’d started letting it slip more often, the nickname weaving its way into even your routine debriefs, softening the edges of your tense exchanges.

one time, you were hunched over the screen, eyebrows bunched as you traced a line of data a little too closely. he leaned over, peering at the same chart.

“you’re squinting too hard, baby chick,” he said casually, voice low enough for just the two of you. “i can’t have you giving yourself a headache before the season even starts.”

you glanced up, and your chest skipped a beat. off-grid, his voice was real—no static, no headset filter—just him, leaning close enough that the warmth threaded down your spine. “…i’m fine. obviously,” you muttered, trying to sound composed, though the sudden proximity in tone made your fingers grip the edge of the clipboard tighter than intended, tensing up in a way you never did during practice laps.

sometimes, you hear the nickname when you caught him scrolling through data on a clipboard and swiped the sheet out of his hands. other times it was quiet, almost reluctant, as if he was testing how much warmth he could afford to show. and of course, you had laura to blame—she kept calling you that during debriefs, a teasing jab that had clearly lodged itself in junhui’s head. now you had three people calling you baby chick: laura, your old man, and wen junhui. stellar lineup. it slowly became a thread, tugging at the edges of the distance that had once stretched between you and the driver.

on-grid, he kept it professional, crisp and precise in his calls. but every once in a while, after a particularly smooth lap or a flawless pit entry, his voice would cut through your headset with a trace of amusement that made your chest lift just a little:

“copy that, baby chick. looks like i did my homework last night.”

you’d roll your eyes, pen scratching across the telemetry sheet like nothing had changed, but beneath it, there was that familiar flutter of satisfaction—the same way you felt watching a car slice through a corner perfectly, only this time, it wasn’t just the car. it was him, finally leaning in, finally letting the tension ease, a little laugh threading through the quiet chaos of the garage.

of course, there were bound to be bad days. in a sport built on fractions of a second, they were unavoidable. the grid thrived on pressure—drivers expected to deliver perfection every lap, while engineers are chasing solutions before the stopwatch could expose their flaws. testing was no different. some days the car sang beneath him, every sector green. other days, like this one, it fought him in every corner.

you could tell from the moment the car left the pit lane that something was off. into the first corner, the front end refused to bite, the tires skimming over the line instead of digging in. he wrestled the steering wheel through the apex, but the chassis didn’t want to follow, dragging him wider than the entry allowed. by the middle of the lap, every correction looked heavier than the last—sharp flicks of the wheel, throttle feathered in frustration. whenever he tried to accelerate out of a corner, the car felt sluggish, bleeding speed before it even had the chance to build.

the radio crackled with static and the clipped edge of his breathing, irritation bleeding through in every word. by the third lap, his tone was tight enough to make the garage fall into a sharper silence than usual. when he finally rolled back in, the hiss of the tires cooling was drowned by the sound of velcro ripping, gloves yanked off with more force than necessary.

the debrief that followed was brittle. he sat forward in his chair, answers curt and sharp, like every question was a test he didn’t have the patience to pass. you pressed for details, careful, but each response landed like a dare—short, biting, as if he was waiting for you to contradict him. before the session notes were even finished, he pushed back from the table. the scrape of his chair against the floor, the thud of the garage door closing behind him—it all seemed louder than the car had sounded on track.

laura only reached over and squeezed your shoulder, her mouth pulling into the faintest half-smile. let him stew, her look said. he’ll come back when he’s ready.

well, whatever stew laura was talking about started feeling like perpetual soup with how junhui basically avoided anyone from the team. he kept to himself all afternoon, drifting between the car and the garage wall, until one by one the engineers packed up and the garage emptied into silence. you retreated to your assigned living space near the paddock, sprawled across the small couch with the clipboard still in your lap, and figured that was that—until your phone lit up well past midnight.

your phone buzzed across the small table, the screen glowing in the dim light of the living space. unknown number. you hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, then pressed it.

“hello?” you said cautiously, sitting up a little straighter.

“you still awake?” the voice was low, rough around the edges with fatigue, but there was that unmistakable warmth threading through it—the kind that made the hair at the back of your neck prickle and sent a quiet rush down your spine.

you froze for half a heartbeat, heart stuttering. “…who’s this?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt, though every instinct screamed that you already knew.

“it’s junhui,” he said, quieter this time, almost like he was reluctant to admit it. “couldn’t sleep. today keeps running through my head.”

you blinked, chest tightening just a fraction, because of course you knew who it was. the words, the cadence, the weight in his tone—it could only be junhui. and somehow, even through a phone speaker, it felt like he’d stepped right into the room.

 “you mean the car that hated you all afternoon?” you asked, voice deliberately casual.

“exactly that one,” he admitted, a breathy little laugh escaping him this time, and there was a pause heavy with exasperation. “i know the data says what went wrong, but… i can’t stop thinking about it. every lap, every corner. i feel like i ruined the whole session.”

you leaned back against the wall, softening your voice. “you didn’t ruin anything. the car was off, yes, but that’s exactly what testing is for. we figure it out, we learn. it’s not a race yet.”

there was a quiet rustle on the other end. “you sound way too calm for someone i’ve been calling ‘baby chick’ all week.”

“someone’s gotta keep your overdramatic self in check,” you shot back, smirking even though he couldn’t see you.

he let out a humorless chuckle, the sound carrying more relief than amusement. “fine, fine. but i mean it—every time i think about turn nine, i keep seeing it wrong in my head. it’s like the car betrayed me.”

you hummed, picking up the edge of your notebook. “then let’s go over it together. tell me what you felt, i’ll tell you what the data says. we’ll fix it before the next session.”

“alright, baby chick,” he said, softer this time, almost reluctant. “let’s do that.”

just like that, the tone in his voice didn’t feel empty anymore. the night might have been late, but somehow, with the faint crackle of his voice and the quiet of the living space around you, it felt like the start of something steadier—something neither of you had expected in the middle of the pre-season chaos.

by the time the season opener in bahrain rolled around, it was clear: all the off-season groundwork had paid off. you and junhui were a well-oiled machine now, the countless hours of testing, late-night debriefs, and small, teasing moments off-grid translating into something seamless on-track. even with the faint haze of jetlag hanging over the garage, there was a quiet understanding between you two that needed no words.

that morning, you shared a silent coffee in the garage, the early fluorescent lights reflecting off polished chassis and monitors. junhui leaned against the wall, hands wrapped around the warm cup, eyes on the screens but somehow aware of you without glancing. “good morning, baby chick,” he murmured, and it was both a greeting and a reminder of the rhythm you’d built together. you smirked, offering a teasing glance. “good morning. ready to ruin some lap times?”

he let out a short laugh, but it was genuine. “let’s not start exaggerating just yet.”

the first practice session—fp1—was a reality check. junhui’s lines were sharp, but the car still had its quirks after shipping, and the unfamiliar track kept him from absolute flow. sector times ticked by as he pushed the limits, and by the end of the session, he landed in 8th place—solid, but not quite the pace he wanted. you ran through the debrief calmly, pointing out small adjustments in brake bias, tire management, and entry lines.

free practice 2 was tougher. the heat was rising, the tires degrading faster than expected, and a slight misjudgment in turn four cost him dearly. he crossed the line in 11th, frustration creeping into his tone over the comms. that night, as had become a habit, his call came.

“baby chick,” he said quietly, voice tight, almost breaking through the static. “i keep replaying free practice 2. turns four and seven… i messed them up. the tire temps, the brake bias—i don’t know, i just—i can’t stop thinking about it. if we don’t fix this, i’ll be fighting the car all weekend.”

you leaned back, keeping your voice steady, soft but firm enough to cut through the tension. “hey, listen. it’s okay. we know exactly what went wrong. every lap, every sector—we’ve got it. i’ll get you running smoothly back out there. you’re not alone in this.”

a long pause stretched between you, just the quiet buzz of the line. eventually, he let out a breathy laugh, tension bleeding out slowly. “you really make it sound easy.”

“it’s not easy,” you said, smile in your voice. “but we’ll handle it—together. that’s the point. i’ve got your back.”

the conversation dragged on, hours bleeding past midnight as he ran through telemetry, notes, and imagined corrections. somewhere past 1 AM, the exhaustion hit you like a wave. your eyes fluttered shut, your head resting against the edge of the desk. soft, unsteady snores slipped into the line.

junhui froze mid-sentence, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “...did you just—?” he muttered, but his voice softened, almost reluctant. he didn’t interrupt, let the rhythm of your breathing and soft snoring fill the call. minutes passed. slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. eventually, a yawn slipped past him too, the quiet of your sleep somehow lulling him into stillness.

when he finally realized you’d dozed off, junhui didn’t interrupt. he stayed quiet for a few more moments, a yawn escaping from his own lips as he listened to the soft rise and fall of your breathing through the line. eventually, the comm fell silent on its own, the call cutting off naturally in the middle of the night. no fanfare, no dramatic sign-off—just the lingering comfort that, in the middle of chaos, you could find stillness together, even through a late-night line and the soft, unintentional rhythm of sleep.

the next morning, the garage hummed with pre-qualifying energy, the scent of rubber and fuel already thick in the air. junhui strode in, race suit half-zipped, hair still slightly tousled from sleep, but there was a lightness to him that hadn’t been there before. laura, leaning against a workbench with a tablet in hand, caught his eye and smirked. “well, look at you. slept well, kiddo? you’re looking a bit chirpier today, aren’t ya?”

“best night in weeks,” he said lightly, stretching like he owned the room. and for a moment, you realized that whatever tension had shadowed him in the past—junhui the ice prince, unreadable and distant—had softened. the late-night debriefs hadn’t left him restless; instead, they seemed to have unburdened him, given him a quiet confidence. the storm of previous sessions felt like it had eased, and now, here he was, full of energy, grin easy and genuine, ready to tackle qualifying like he was already halfway through the weekend.

free practice 3 had gone smoothly—junhui finishing 7th, a solid base to work from, and the car feeling just responsive enough to tease better pace. you watched him stretch by the pit wall afterward, gloves loosened, helmet off, the hint of a grin breaking through the usual concentration.

before you know it, junhui is already preparing for the qualifying, tightening back the straps on his gloves back on, adjusting the wrist fasteners with meticulous care, and sliding his helmet slightly forward to check the visor’s angle. as he flexed his fingers over the wheel, he called over, just loud enough for you to hear, “ready for us, baby chick?” and you smirked, sliding your pen between your fingers.

“ready for us,” you echoed, voice firm but light, and keyed the comms as the session rolled in.

when the qualifying session began, the garage buzzed with electricity, engineers crowding around flickering timing screens, telemetry lines dancing. junhui eased into the cockpit with the smooth precision of someone who’d done this a thousand times—but there was a difference now. his movements were lighter, less rigid, a quiet confidence in every gesture. he adjusted the steering wheel, flicked the brake bias, and settled his helmet, his gaze flicking to you at the pit wall for a fleeting second—a spark, a silent tether that made your pulse skip. you gave a quick nod, lips twitching into a half-smile, and he mirrored it, a subtle quirk of his mouth before he faced the track.

your headset crackled as he rolled out, his voice low and warm through the static. “let’s make it count.” and you grinned, keying the comms with a crisp, “copy, jun. clean air, go for it.”

the chemistry between you sparked like the hum of the engine, seamless and instinctive. your calls—brake points, apexes, throttle tweaks—flowed like a dance, his responses immediate, trusting, as if your voice was part of his instincts. “push into turn three, you’ve got grip,” you said, voice steady, edged with excitement. he hummed, “got it,” and the telemetry spiked as he nailed the corner, the car singing.

through q1 and q2, junhui carved up the field, your voice threading through his helmet, sharp and steady. “beautiful, jun, keep it tight,” you murmured after a clean sector, his soft chuckle crackling back, “flattering me mid-lap, eh?” the way he said it was almost deadpan, yet his banter made your chest warm, but he clipped the next apex perfectly, feeding off your energy.

in q3, the stakes spiked, the timing screens a war of tenths. you leaned into the monitor, heart syncing with the car’s revs. “you’re flying, jun—sector one’s green, hunt that top five,” you said, voice urgent but grounding. he pushed hard, tires screaming, “commit on turn nine,” you added, and he threaded the chicane with surgical precision, exit clean and fast.

the checkered flag waved, and the screens froze: 4th place, a hard-fought slot just behind the leaders, proof of your shared rhythm. the garage erupted, but your eyes were on junhui rolling back to the pit lane, helmet tilting like he knew you were watching. “nice work, baby chick,” he said over the comms, breathless but warm, a teasing edge that tightened your chest with pride and something deeper. “couldn’t have done it without you.”

you keyed the comms, grinning. “told you we’d make it count, jun. p4’s yours—let’s get ready for tomorrow.” his laugh crackled through, soft and boyish, a private spark in the storm, the chemistry between you burning brighter than the timing screens.

and get ready you did. that night, another late-night call stretched past midnight, junhui’s voice soft but focused as you dissected telemetry, trading notes on tire wear and braking zones over the phone. his occasional teasing—“you’re gonna be thinking about working even in your sleep, baby chick”—kept the mood light, grounding you both in the rhythm you’d built.

come morning, you sat across from him in the team lounge, his trenta iced americano sweating between you, too big to finish so he decided to share, your fingers brushing as you passed the cup. you pored over data sheets, his shoulder close enough to nudge yours when he pointed out a tweak to the turn nine entry, the quiet intimacy of the moment settling like a warm hum in your chest.

race day dawned, the hungaroring pulsing with heat and anticipation. your headset buzzed to life as he rolled out, and the familiar crackle of his voice threaded through the comms. “this one’s for haas,” he said, calm but carrying that easy warmth that had replaced the old distance. and even though he said “haas,” the way he said it—the pause, the curve of his voice, the subtle weight behind it—made it feel like he really meant 'us'.

this made your chest tighten in a way that was both grounding and dizzying, and you keyed in your first updates, your tone precise, clipped, yet somehow softer than during the hectic practice sessions.

each lap was a conversation. you fed him sector times, tire temps, brake pressure nuances; he responded with micro-adjustments, apexing corners with perfect timing, modulating throttle and brake as if he were reading your voice as clearly as the track ahead. free practice 1’s habits had taught you both patience; now, in the pressure cooker of qualifying, every note from the notebook, every whispered joke from your late-night call, fell into place seamlessly.

apex after apex, exit after exit, the car seemed to flow through his hands like water. he hit the braking zones crisply, carried speed through the mid-corner weight shifts, and clipped the final kerbs with minimal correction. each lap shaved tenths of a second off the previous, the rhythm you two had built manifesting in real time.

the garage exploded, engineers shouting, fists pumping, your own voice breaking through the headset with a triumphant yell. “yes, jun! that's podium, you absolute legend!” you cried, grinning so wide it hurt, hands slamming the console in excitement. as the checkered flag waved, the timing screens froze on his best lap: 3rd place, a podium finish—just beyond the fastest two, a triumph earned from months of off-season groundwork and building a connection through data and shared fire for the motorsport between driver and engineer.

and yet, it wasn’t just the numbers. it was the way he leaned back in the cockpit, helmet tilted slightly, a small, almost repressed, but unmistakable grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. it was the way your voice had guided him, threaded through each sector, each apex, each braking point. it was the “for us” that had started over the open channel, echoing silently through headsets, now starting to come alive in every decision he made, every movement behind the wheel.

from across the garage, jihoon’s monitor blinked with his own results—8th place, racking up solid points for the team. he gave a quick fist-pump toward his engineers before letting his attention shift toward you and then to junhui for a fraction of a second. nothing more than a casual glance, but enough to register—jihoon was quietly noting the budding connection, the subtle energy building between you and junhui, even if he didn’t say a word.

parc fermé loomed ahead, officials already moving, ready to check tire temps, tools at the ready. as junhui rolled past, his gloved hand brushed yours, brief but deliberate—a grounding touch, a small acknowledgment that this was yours as much as his.

the gesture was fleeting, swallowed up by the rush of procedure, yet it left an unmistakable warmth in its wake. the rest of the garage buzzed with congratulations, engineers slapping shoulders and checking screens, but in the quiet between the clamor, you caught his eye and smiled. a simple nod, a shared acknowledgment: this—everything—was as much yours as it was his. somehow, that understanding, and your shared rhythm, had carried both of you farther than either numbers or talent could alone.

later, the podium awaited. junhui climbed the steps with that same quiet composure, his demeanor cold, almost steely—a practiced mask of the ice prince who’d long mastered the art of keeping the world at arm’s length. but as the champagne was brought to his lips, the golden liquid catching the sunlight, that exterior softened, melting away under the warmth of the moment. his eyes crinkled, a genuine smile breaking through as the applause washed over him, the crowd’s roar blending with the fizz of the spray.

even from below the podium, you felt it: the subtle warmth of triumph that had started quietly over the open channel, a spark between you that now burned bright in his gaze, as if the victory wasn’t just his, but yours together.

“junhui’s showing that the ice prince has awakened once again,” a reporter’s voice carried over the broadcast, almost blending into the crowd noise. “and what a start for haas in the opening gp of bahrain—a stellar podium finish, along with lee jihoon adding valuable points in 8th, haas has both cars in the top ten. all eyes, of course, are not only on haas’ famous ice prince, but also on the first seat's new race engineer; she comes practically descended from greatness, following in her father’s footsteps, and her dynamic with wen junhui has already become the talk of fans and paddock insiders alike, leaving them eager to see what this rising duo will bring in the races ahead.”

over the months, your voice became as much a part of junhui’s cockpit as the wheel or pedals. the way he called over the radio, calm but threaded with that half-teasing warmth, felt like a quiet acknowledgment that this—both the car and the comms—was now a shared space.

on the grid, the occasional near-slip still happened, though he tried to keep it contained. one morning, headset buzzing, he muttered mid-adjustment:

“did you see that, ba—? barely grazed that apex,” he corrected, almost too fast to register, then continued with perfect composure. you caught the hitch—a faint echo of baby chick, the nickname he’d used freely during off-season and free practice when comms were private and unbroadcasted—but here, on the grid, with the possibility of engineers, team staff, or even social media clipping it for highlights, he would try not to use it too much, maybe even gatekeeping the nickname, subtly shifting it into something innocuous. you couldn’t help a quiet smile.

you learned to read the pauses, the micro-laughs, the gentle quirks in his voice when he trusted your calls, when he let the stress of the lap fade into collaboration rather than tension. the nickname lingered like a charm; even the engineers would glance over, smirking, but junhui never acknowledged it beyond the quiet warmth in his comms.

the results reflected it too. over the course of the season, he'd cinch a handful of top-five finishes, a string of consistent points finishes just outside the podium, and even the rare 11th-place grid that could have frustrated him—he approached it with steady focus, trusting your guidance rather than letting the setback dictate the pace.

and the media noticed. suddenly, you were in the mix too, a quiet curiosity at the edge of interviews, paddock walks, and press conferences. questions aimed at junhui inevitably shifted toward you:

“how’s the dynamic with your new race engineer?”

he’d deflect, clipped and professional at first. but the subtle easing, the small smiles when he mentioned sector improvements or tire management—it didn’t go unnoticed. cameras caught it, reporters jotted notes about the ice prince showing cracks in the most endearing way: a trust that wasn’t performative, a rhythm built quietly over months.

you learned to dodge the persistent flashes and questions, offering short, calm answers, letting your presence speak as much as words. when asked, you’d mention small tweaks, sector insights, the teamwork that made those mid-pack and top-five finishes possible, never revealing more than the data allowed—but everyone could see it. junhui was speaking differently through the radio now, lighter, more human. and somewhere in that exchange, between practice laps, tire pressures, and qualifying grids, a subtle narrative formed: the untouchable driver was softening, and the quiet engineer in the background—the voice who’d guide him—was part of the reason.

before you know it, the season has leapt forward—the summer haze of hungary looming, tarmac baking under the unrelenting sun. free practice 1 had offered a slightly underwhelming result, 10th place, the car responsive but not yet singing. now, fp2 begins, and the heat is relentless, tires screaming under every corner.

junhui pushes harder than ever, chasing the perfect line, tires shrieking against the hot asphalt. the car grips through turn five, apex clipped just right, but as he rolls into turn six, the rear suddenly steps out. a flick of the wheel isn’t enough—then the car spins violently, the rear sliding wide. rubber screams as metal scrapes against the barrier, sparks flying from the undertray. the suspension groans under the impact.

for a breathless moment, everything freezes—the radio silent, the timing screens flashing red, engineers shouting over the comms, and the pit wall erupting in chaos. the car lies twisted against the barriers, tires still spinning weakly, bodywork crumpled. you can almost feel the violence of the hit reverberate through the screens.

your pulse spikes, every beat hammering in your ears. the headset buzzes faintly, but your brain catches only fragments: the red lights on the timing screen, the car crumpled against the barriers. a cold pit opens in your stomach, that familiar sinking weight you know too well—panic curling around your ribs like smoke.

“junhui? junhui, talk to me!” your voice cracks, sharp, almost breathless.

still nothing. the world narrows. the cheering from the grandstands, the flags, the chatter of engineers—all fades into a ringing hum. your fingers hover over the comms as if touching them could will him back. your throat tightens. chest rising and falling too fast.

for a heartbeat—or a thousand, you’re unsure—you’re frozen, caught between wanting to move and the panic that roots you to the spot. your mind flashes briefly to a distant crash, the echo of your own buried memory: the sudden helplessness, the sirens, the screeching metal, the way time stretches and contracts all at once. you blink, trying to shove it down, trying to tell yourself it’s different this time—but the weight presses harder. reality locks in: junhui out there alone, and your hands shake over the console, fingers hovering, useless.

and then, a voice, clipped but alive, cuts through the fog: “…need recovery, car’s off.”

the words are small, even a little strained, but alive. you sag against the console, every muscle loosening in relief and residual tension, hands slamming down as if to reset your own heartbeat.

“recovery team en route.” your voice comes out raspy, weakened from the earlier tension, ‘he’s okay. he’s okay.’ you whisper it to yourself over and over, letting the pit chaos swirl around you while your chest slowly eases, mind grasping for normalcy amid the aftershock.

after the crash, junhui is quickly escorted by the recovery and medical teams. the pit fades behind you as you pace, heart still hammering, every flicker on the timing screens a reminder of what could have gone wrong. the minutes stretch long, stretched taut with worry, until finally word comes: he’s been cleared. no serious injuries.

you move toward the usual debrief room, where the team—laura, jihoon and his own engineer—usually gathers to review data after sessions. the door swings open, and there he is. even from a few steps away, your chest clenches: his hair is tousled, cheeks flushed from the exertion and adrenaline, racing heart mirrored in the flush of his skin. the meticulous composure that defines him at the track is soft around the edges, human in a way that makes your relief nearly physical.

right as the door closes, without thinking, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. the familiar scent of him, the warmth of his body, the rapid beat of his pulse against your own—it all hits at once. “oh god… junhui. you’re here,” you murmur, voice trembling.

he steadies you gently, hand brushing your back as he exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him. “i’m alright,” he says, voice low but steady. “thanks to you.”

you can’t quite register why he’d be thanking you—you weren’t even in the car, in the pit, or touching the wheel—but there’s no time to dwell. the tight knot of panic in your chest loosens just a fraction, and all that matters is that he’s here, right in front of you, flushed from adrenaline, breathing, and alive.

that night at the hotel—whole floor dedicated to haas, engineers tucked into their suites, jihoon and junhui a floor above—you’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes. you don’t even check the ID; you answer, heart already skipping.

“can you open the door for me, baby chick?” his voice is quiet, almost vulnerable, stripped of the usual crispness over the radio.

you freeze for a heartbeat, chest tightening. it’s not a quick check-in—it’s him, seeking you out. the faint echo of adrenaline still lingers in his tone, mingled with the warmth you’ve come to recognize.

slowly, you swing your legs out of bed, pressing your feet against the floor. every step toward the door feels weighted, your fingers brushing the handle as your chest hammers. you twist the knob, push, and there he is: the tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and soft pajamas make him look like he belongs here

you let him in, closing the door softly behind him. he steps closer, just a breath away, and then—almost instinctively—he pulls you against his chest. his arms wrap around you firmly, grounding, and you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “thank you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your hair. it’s different this time—softer, almost reverent. you remember him thanking you earlier at the track, and the repetition catches your attention. “junhui… why are you thanking me again?” you ask quietly, tilting your head to meet his eyes.

he exhales, a deep sigh escaping him. “when i heard you call my name over the radio back there…?  it snapped me back,” he admits, voice low but steady. “it brought me back to my senses. you—you kept me together.”

he pulls away slightly, brushing hair from your face to look at you properly. “i can’t help it… i’m sorry. i couldn’t just call you tonight,” he says, voice low, almost hesitant, like he’s admitting something he can’t let anybody else know.

junhui cups your cheek gently, thumb brushing lightly over your skin. his eyes search yours, lingering, and when his lips meet yours, it’s sudden but tender—a bubble of tension from the day finally popping. the warmth of his lips, the subtle tremor in his hands, the faint scent of the hotel room mingled with him—it all presses in, grounding you on the spot.

he presses closer, hands sliding around your waist as if to anchor both of you, and you lean into him instinctively. the soft fabric of his pajamas brushes your arms, the quiet hum of the air conditioning, the dim light spilling across the room—it all fades, leaving only the quiet warmth between you. your heartbeat seems to echo in your ears, the lingering adrenaline of the day melting into something quieter.

slowly, he guides you to the couch, still holding you close, lips brushing yours as he steadies you. his tousled hair falls slightly over his forehead, cheeks flushed from emotion rather than exertion, eyes soft and searching. the contrast of the chaos of the weekend and this intimate moment hits you—the track, the crash, the tension—they’re all gone here. only him, only you.

“you kept me together today,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, voice low, shaky but steady. 

your hands tighten around him. “i felt it too,” you whisper. “we’ve… been holding each other up, haven’t we?”

he nods, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before returning to your lips. every brush of his lips, every press of his hands, carries the weight of shared fear, trust, and relief. the tension of the GP weekend, the near-crash, the long hours—it all slips away in that quiet moment. you’re in each other’s arms, letting the rhythm you’ve built over months sink in fully.

junhui pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, thumb still brushing your cheek. his voice is low, careful, almost hesitant. “what about you? how did you feel back there?”

you tense slightly, caught off guard. the question isn’t accusatory—it’s tender and patient. junhui knows it wasn’t your first time seeing something like that on the track, but he also knows the weight that a crash carries, especially to you.

you swallow, eyes flicking away, trying to avoid his gaze. he doesn’t rush you. his hand lingers, warm against your skin, grounding you. “i… i don’t know,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “i just… everything came back. it felt… almost familiar.”

he nods, the faintest squeeze in his palm, a silent acknowledgment of the memory stirring. surely enough, your mind drifts—suddenly, unbidden, to that day on the karting track.

you were fourteen, adrenaline and fear coiling tight, the crash violent and jarring, leaving your chest hollow with panic. junhui had been there too, older by a few years, eyes wide as he watched the metal frame bite into the tarmac, your kart crumpled, silence stretching too long. radio silence followed for years, the memory tucked away like a fragile shard you didn’t dare touch.

and now—years later—junhui at eighteen, stepping into the F1 paddock, eyes scanning the garage, telemetry screens, helmets, and suddenly landing on you. the same instinctive recognition, that echo of the past, catching in his chest. your father’s familiar call drifts through his memory: “baby chick, come on, take a look,” and the nickname makes a quiet, ghostly loop in his mind.

he had glimpsed you again in the middle of chaos, alive, steady, but that flicker—the same presence he’d feared losing years ago—tugs at something deep in him.

your father had brought you into the garage a few more times after that, letting you watch from the sidelines as junhui practiced off-season, as if trying to reassure both of you that the world hadn’t ended in that instant. but eventually, as the season started, you disappeared again—off to school, to life, leaving only echoes of that day behind.

and now, here you are, standing in front of him again, as vital and grounding as ever, his new race engineer, and the rhythm you two share ready to carry you through the weekend.

that night, you fall asleep tangled in junhui’s arms, the quiet warmth of him pressing you into the softness of the hotel sheets. the chaos of the GP weekend, the crash, the tension—it all dissolves into the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours.

when you wake, the room is empty. for a moment your chest tightens, then your phone buzzes on the nightstand. a short message, crisp but familiar:

“early start today. didn’t want to wake you. coffee waiting in the garage.”

you press your thumb against the screen, a small smile tugging at your lips. the thought of him there, patient and steady, waiting for you with a warm cup and that quiet presence, carries you through the morning, grounding you before the day even begins.

you push open the garage doors just past noon, the heat of the day already pressing against the metal walls. the coffee junhui had mentioned is already steaming on your usual seat, the mug perfectly in place. the man himself is there, race suit half-zipped and bunched at his waist, gloves laid out beside him, helmet tucked under one arm. he looks up, catching your eyes, and a small, easy smile breaks across his face.

“hey, baby chick, just woke up?” he says, voice teasing but warm, gesturing toward the seat. you grin, sliding into your usual spot. the brief exchange feels grounding, a quiet counterpoint to the chaos of the weekend.

you both lean over the data from the morning sessions. fp1 had been steady, lines mostly clean, balance improving. fp2 was messy, the crash still fresh in your mind, the adjustments necessary to stabilize the car now more urgent. you run through brake bias and suspension tweaks, discussing tire strategies—all the micro-adjustments that could turn the weekend around. junhui listens, asks questions, and offers insights of his own.

once the final discussions are settled, the car is prepped, the adjustments confirmed. the tension in the garage shifts slightly, anticipation threading the air—free practice 3 is coming up in the afternoon, and both of you are ready.

the paddock hums to life in the afternoon heat, engines warming, tires squealing as junhui slips into the cockpit. his suit is zipped tight now, gloves on, helmet settled, and he gives you a quick acknowledgement over the comms.

lap after lap, he finds rhythm, weaving through traffic, but the remnants of the earlier weekend chaos still linger. your voice threads through the headset, crisp and steady, every word guiding him—reminding him of braking points, apexes, and throttle modulation. a slight oversteer here, a minor understeer there, and he corrects instinctively, each adjustment echoing the trust you’ve built. by the end of the session, he crosses the line, timing screens confirming 9th place—not dazzling, but solid, a foundation for the push toward qualifying.

qualifying comes almost instantly, the afternoon sun hanging heavy over the paddock. junhui slices through the lap, every corner and braking zone perfectly threaded by your calls over the headset. by the end, timing screens settle: 6th place, a solid climb from free practice.

he rolls back into the garage, helmet off, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. you’re already there, rising from your usual seat, and before he can even reach the console, you pull him into your arms. he melts into the embrace, hands resting lightly on your back, forehead pressed against yours, a quiet exhale escaping both of you. for a heartbeat, the weekend chaos—the crashes, the traffic, the sweat—is forgotten.

“well excuse me,” a familiar, slightly bitter voice cuts through, and you pull back just enough to see jihoon standing there, giving you a look that says ‘move aside’ as he motions to the door behind you, leading to the lounge room, eyes narrowed. the grid steward’s decision has landed him with a penalty, moving him way back to 17th on the grid, and he’s not thrilled.

junhui’s hand lingers on your waist, grounding himself as he offers a small shrug toward jihoon, while you take a step back, letting the tension of the moment settle around the three of you.

laura clears her throat from behind you, voice clipped but not unkind. “love the… uh, camaraderie you two have built here,” she says, brow lifting slightly as she motions toward junhui’s hand still resting on your waist, “but we need to get to work—debrief, discuss improvements, all that.”

you glance at junhui, who clears his throat, gaze avoiding laura’s as he loosened his hold on you just enough to nod, and you step aside. the moment lingers only briefly before your focus shifts back to the screens of data and telemetry being displayed.

the next day rolls in quieter than you expected, lunch spread between you and junhui at one of the folding tables in the garage. you’re halfway through a sub, notebook open at your elbow, while he goes on about turn 1 like it’s a personal vendetta.

“i don’t know what it is about that turn,” he says, shaking his head, “i keep losing time on exit.”

you chew, jot a quick note, then point at the map with the tip of your pen. “you’re braking a fraction too early here. the line’s clean, but it’s killing your momentum out.”

junhui leans over, scanning your scribble, eyes narrowing in thought. “so later brake, hold the gear a little longer?”

“exactly,” you say around another bite, the taste of bread and mustard mixing with the sharp tang of strategy. “you’ll carry more speed into the straight.”

he rolls his eyes playfully, tilting his head at your half-finished sub. “do you ever stop thinking like a driver?”

you smirk without looking up, “i bet i could execute turn 1 better than ya.”

he snorts when you bring up turn 1, rolling his eyes like he’s heard that line a thousand times. “everyone and their grandma knows turn 1’s a lottery ticket,” he mutters, brushing it off.

so instead you nudge the conversation toward another section of the track—turns 10 through 13. “that whole left-right-left-right sequence,” you say, and he immediately perks up. he doesn’t need the reminder, not when every driver’s felt how easy it is to get greedy there, one wrong input sending the car unsettled. medium-high speed, constant direction changes, the kind of rhythm that only feels right when you’re threading the needle.

junhui hums, thoughtful. “when i hook that section up, it feels like flying. but if i miss the line even a little, it all unravels before i can catch it.” his tone’s casual, but you can hear the respect in it—a driver’s kind of reverence for corners that punish impatience and reward precision.

after lunch, there’s three of you now, laura strolling in after her own meal. you’re all holed up in the engineering room, telemetry glowing on the big screens while the hum of the garage leaks through the walls. laura’s got a tablet balanced in one hand, running through final checks with the calm precision you’ve come to recognize as her version of pre-race nerves. junhui’s already in his base layer, zipper tugged halfway up as he adjusts the fit across his chest, restless energy rolling off him in waves.

this is the last race before summer break—the last push before two weeks of silence, where engines go cold and everyone finally exhales. you can feel it in the air: sharper edges, heavier focus, like the whole paddock wants to wring one final result out of the season’s first half.

junhui drums his fingers against the arm of the chair, glancing between you and laura. “long run pace looked decent yesterday,” he says, voice low but steady, “but i need clean air early. stuck in traffic here, you just cook the tires.”

“then don’t get stuck,” laura quips without looking up, and the corner of his mouth quirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

she finally shuts her tablet with a soft snap, standing. “i need to check in on jihoon and his engineer too. i’ll see you out there, baby chick. jun.” she nods once at both of you before slipping out the door, leaving the room just a little too quiet in her absence.

you don’t realize how close junhui’s gaze has been lingering until it pins you there, steady, like he’s waiting for you to move first. his fingers still on the armrest, then curl, and in the next moment you’re in his lap, his mouth on yours—warm, insistent, the kind of kiss that steals every last ounce of air you thought you had. his hand slides up your side, the rough drag of his thumb against your shirt sending a shiver down your spine.

“we shouldn’t,” you manage between kisses, though it doesn’t sound convincing, not with how your hands are already fisted in his race suit, tugging him closer.

junhui pulls back just enough to catch his breath, lips brushing yours when he murmurs, almost teasing, “come on. no good luck kiss?” his smile is crooked, boyish in a way that doesn’t match the sharp focus he’ll wear on track in a few hours.

your laugh slips out before you can stop it, shaky from how wrecked your composure already feels. “that’s not what this is,” you tell him, though your grip on his suit betrays you, knuckles still pressed into his chest.

“sure it isn’t,” he says, voice dipping playful, sing-song almost, but there’s heat in his eyes that doesn’t let you take it lightly. his thumb grazes under the hem of your shirt again, deliberate, and you swear he’s doing it just to watch you squirm.

“jun—” you start, meaning to warn him, to remind him that anyone could walk back through that door, but then he tilts his head and kisses you again, quick and smug this time, like he’s stolen something and knows you’ll let him.

“i’ll drive better with it,” he adds, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. “science.”

junhui is everything but a scientist—he’s a sharp driver in formula 1 with killer instinct, sure, but the way he’s got you pressed against the workbench, mouth hot and unrelenting on yours, has you wondering if maybe he’s figured out some other kind of formula after all.

his hand is steady on your waist, tugging you closer, as if trying to prove his little theory by experimenting—your knees weak, your breath stuttering, your voice lost somewhere between half-hearted protests.

“see?” he mumbles against your lips, breath warm, cocky and boyish at once. “proof.”

and damn it, maybe your little makeout session with jun in the engineering room really is rewriting your entire understanding of science.

after that whole “science experiment,” as jun insists on calling it with that smug glint in his eye, you’re back in the garage like nothing happened. the fluorescent lights are harsher here, bouncing off carbon fiber and steel, the familiar hum of drills and chatter filling the space. but your lips still tingle, and your head’s still a little light.

junhui’s already halfway into his race suit, tugging the zipper up with that easy swagger, like he didn’t just corner you in the engineering room and kiss you breathless. he sits down, leans forward so the mechanic can check over the straps, hair mussed in a way that makes you bite the inside of your cheek.

you hover a step too close, pretending to double-check his earpiece, pretending the faint pink on your cheeks is just from the heat of the garage.

once everything’s checked and cleared, junhui leans just quick enough to pinch your cheek lightly before stepping back toward his car. the engineers give final nods, tools tucked away, monitors showing green across the board.

he slides into the cockpit like he was born to it, hands finding the wheel, body settling perfectly against the seat, helmet resting on his head as he tucks himself in under the halo. every adjustment precise, practiced, but there’s a quiet confidence now, the kind that comes from knowing both the car—and you—are steady and ready.

you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips as you step back, watching him slot in, a perfect picture of calm before the storm.

the lights above the grid flare red, one by one, then snuff out. “lights out, let’s push, jun!” you call over the comms, voice sharp, steady, carrying just enough urgency to thread through the roar of engines.

junhui’s hands clamp the wheel, jaw tight, eyes forward. the car surges, tires biting asphalt, the grid a blur of color and movement. he eases into the first few corners, your words guiding him: “hold your line turn one, clean exit, watch sector two.”

each call is a pulse between you, threading into him as naturally as his heartbeat. apexes hit with precision, throttle modulated perfectly, brakes kissed at the right moments. the hungaroring stretches ahead, tight and punishing, but your voice keeps him centered.

over sixty laps in and cars whiz past, engines screaming, but junhui threads through the chaos with deliberate precision. “hold the line on the outside of turn six,” you call, voice steady, almost a tether for him. he tilts the car just right, tires complaining, and emerges ahead, clean.

through the following corners, he times the braking zones, clips the apexes, and swings wide only when it sets up a better exit. “inside turn nine, you’ve got room—commit,” you add. he bites the curb, carries speed, and the rival beside him drifts back, boxed out by skill and instinct.

every shift, every modulation of throttle and brake, is a conversation. you confirm his maneuvers, a small praise after each successful pass. “perfect line, jun,” you whisper through the comms. his slight hum of acknowledgment makes the tension in the cockpit a little lighter, the overtakes a little more precise.

by the time the straight opens up, he’s carved through enough positions to put himself in striking distance of the leaders, every call you make threading seamlessly with the car, the driver, and the rhythm of the race.

your voice threads through the comms, calm but urgent. “jun, car ahead, outside turn three—hold it… yes, perfect, stay with him.” tires protest, brakes squeal, but he shifts just right, and the rival drifts wide. clean. sharp. he’s alongside, taking second.

“beautiful, jun! that’s it, keep it tight!” you breathe. the podium is close. he knows he can push further.

corners rush past, each one precise, car slicing through the track. “patience… we can take this, jun, we can take this!” your words tether him, steady him when lines feel impossible, when the car threatens to chatter. for a moment it’s just you and him—every shift, every nudge of throttle, a private rhythm.

the final straight stretches ahead. sun glinting off asphalt. “jun, line’s yours—right foot steady… hold it… now, push!” your voice cracks with urgency. he leans into it, wheels gripping, heart synced to yours across the radio.

the lead car wobbles slightly. “now! go now!” you shout. he slides past, clean, nose ahead. the crowd fades. the world shrinks. just him. just the machine. just you.

“yes, jun! that’s it, you did it—hold it, hold it!” your heartbeat matches the engine, pulse hammering, hands tight on the console. every second, every word, every quiet trust—it’s yours too.

he crosses the line, victorious. the checkered flag waves. you’re still alive in his headset, jolting up from your seat and letting out a victorious roar along with the rest of the garage. “unreal, jun… unbelievable. first place to follow us into summer break... you owned that.”

then, soft, a grin in his voice. “i knew that good-luck charm would come in handy.” and you laugh, breathless, and it’s just a little moment shared between the two of you—before the podium, before the crowd, before everything.

everything’s a blur. the roar of the crowd, flashes of cameras, faces cheering—but you barely catch a proper glimpse of jun until he’s already on the podium, the sunlight catching the gold on his trophy.

during the post-podium photo op with the rest of the haas team, he moves almost instinctively, one arm around the trophy, the other sliding around your waist, steady. the cameras click and the lenses glare, but you notice the way he glances at you before anyone else, a quiet acknowledgment in the middle of the chaos.

the trophy is heavy in his hand, but he values you more. you—the voice that threaded through every lap, the calm in the storm, the reason he kept his head when the car spun, the reason he found the rhythm again. in this moment, gold doesn’t compare. you’re the victory he’s proudest of.

back at the haas motorhome, he pulls you aside into an empty lounge room and presses a quick kiss to your temple, a small, private gesture before the team gets back together to celebrate some more. the world snaps around him, but in that glance, that touch, it’s clear—you were the reason for all this.

fast forward to that night—you finally retreat into your hotel room and nearly collapse into bed, exhaustion clawing at every muscle. but before you even hit the sheets, something catches your eye. a coat bag sits there, neatly placed, a small card resting gently atop it.

you pick it up, fingers brushing the edges. the handwriting is unmistakable. “picked this out just for you—thought it might come in handy tonight.”

inside, a dress. crimson, elegant, refined—the kind of luxury piece you’d only imagine seeing in a glossy magazine. every curve, every seam, deliberate. every fold made to fit you. you can almost hear junhui’s voice in your head, the quiet pride in sending you off like this.

the celebration—the yacht party marking the start of summer break—flashes through your mind. you’d almost forgotten, buried in the aftermath of the hungarian gp. tonight, the hungaroring’s chaos gives way to something lighter, a chance to breathe, to celebrate, and to step into the summer glow—dressed not just in crimson, but in a piece picked by him, for you.

you flip the card over. in smaller, almost scribbled letters, junhui’s handwriting trails across the back:

“careful. you might outshine the trophy, baby chick. wear it like you mean it.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes, the warmth curling in your chest. even from a distance, even in this little gesture, he’s somehow making you feel like the most important part of all of it.

you spread out the dress on the bed, fingers brushing over the smooth crimson fabric. the evening light from the window catches the subtle sheen, and your pulse quickens. makeup comes next—soft but defining, a careful sweep of shadow, a hint of liner, lips kissed with a shade that echoes the dress.

finally, you slip into it. the fabric hugs your form in all the right places, the color striking, the cut elegant and refined. you spin once, testing the sway, and it’s perfect—every detail, every fold, every shimmer in the light.

the yacht hums with life—soft golden lights strung overhead, music weaving through laughter and chatter, the scent of sea salt mingling with fine hors d’oeuvres. in the center, the three podium trophies gleam, catching reflections from every angle, a silent reminder of the day’s triumph.

and then your eyes find junhui, standing near the trophies, sharp in a burgundy suit, darker than your crimson dress but just enough to echo it. he catches your gaze almost instantly, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve stepped into a moment meant only for the two of you amidst the bustle of the celebration.

he’s talking with norris, gesturing subtly toward you, his hand resting at the small of your back as he introduces you. “couldn’t have done it without her,” he says softly, pride threading through the words.

norris smiles, leaning slightly as he nods in acknowledgment. “absolutely, a solid race engineer keeps the driver’s mind clear out there. i can see why he trusts you so much.” he pauses, then chuckles lightly. his gaze wanders over to some of the people from his team waving him over, “well, i’ll leave you two to it—sounds like you’re the real secret weapon behind this podium.”

junhui leans closer, guiding you gently away from the cluster of people. “you came at the perfect time,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. “earlier… couldn’t even turn around without half the paddock in my space. i’m glad you’re here, baby chick.”

his lips brush the side of your face in a soft, fleeting kiss, a seemingly casual greeting, along with the friendly handshakes and hellos you both exchange with the rest of the crowd. to everyone else, you’re just part of the celebration—but between the two of you, it's subtle affection, maybe even intimacy.

you and junhui weave through the yacht together, a quiet pair amid the shimmer of lights and music. glasses are raised and clinked here and there—champagne catching the glow of the evening, a toast to haas’ triumph over the weekend, jihoon even cinching a solid 10th place from seventeenth on the grid, to jun’s own podium finish on top, and to the relentless work of every engineer and driver.

“to haas,” junhui announces, his fingers brushing yours as you lift your glasses together, voice low but steady.

“to surviving hungary in one piece,” you reply with a grin, and he chuckles, eyes sparkling under the warm lighting.

each toast, each shared sip, is a small celebration not just of the results on track but of the rhythm you’ve built together—the quiet trust threading through every lap. between the laughter, the music, and the murmurs of congratulations from the paddock elite, there’s a private, steady pulse running between the two of you.

you finish your drinks, catching his gaze. he nudges you gently, playful but intimate, and you let him guide you across the yacht, a silent partner in celebration, a tether to the calm amid the yacht’s glittering chaos.

you slip away from the main throng, following junhui to a quieter corner of the yacht. the lights here are softer, muted, the clinking of glasses and murmurs of conversation fading into the background. in your hands, a flute of champagne—maybe your sixth, maybe your eighth, you can’t quite remember; the weekend’s triumphs and chaos have blended into a blissful haze.

jun’s hand snakes around your waist, anchoring you gently. you let out a quiet giggle, raising your glass to hide your flushed cheeks, the warmth from his proximity settling into you.

he tips his glass against yours, the soft clink ringing a little louder in the quiet corner you’ve both stolen away to. the bass of the party hums faintly in the background, muffled by the walls and water beyond, but here it’s just the two of you, champagne fizzing and cheeks warm. his arm settles heavier at your waist, fingers pressing gently, not letting you float too far away.

“you know,” junhui starts, voice lower now, touched with that kind of honesty he doesn’t really hand out in the garage, “i never thought you’d end up here.“ his smile crooks, almost self-deprecating, eyes flicking down at your flushed face.“back then, you were just… hiding behind your dad and laura like a little chick. wouldn’t even look me in the eye.“

you huff, trying to bury your grin behind the rim of your glass. “i wasn’t that shy.“

“you were“’ he insists, laughing softly. “always trailing two steps behind, clutching the data sheets like they’d save your life. i used to wonder how long you’d last in the paddock.“ his thumb traces a slow line at your side, steady even as your pulse skitters. “but look at you now. radioing me through practice, keeping the whole team sharp, drinking me under the table tonight…“ he glances down at your glass, at the way your hand shakes just slightly, “—maybe not that last part.“

you swat at him, nearly spilling champagne, and he catches your wrist with an easy reflex, fingers warm against your skin. for a moment the teasing fades, his eyes catching yours in the soft glow of the yacht’s side lights. “i didn’t think,“ he says quieter this time, “that the girl who couldn’t even meet my eyes would be the one i can’t seem to stop looking at now.“

your laugh slips out, light and embarrassed, and you try to hide your flushed cheeks by taking a sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against your lips. his hand has already found its place at your waist though, steady and grounding, keeping you close no matter how much you try to shrink from the weight of his words.

“back then…” jun trails, his gaze drifting, softer now. “i thought i’d never see you again. when you stopped karting, after…” he takes a breath, the words catching on memory.

your smile falters, the hazy blur of champagne clearing just enough for the sting to settle in your chest. “right… you were also there,” you murmur, almost to yourself, but jun hears it. his hand moves, thumb brushing against your side, a subtle anchor. “i was,” he confirms quietly. “i know how it must feel for you. seeing me out there, seeing a bad crash like that again. it must bring everything back.” his gaze lingers on yours, steady, gentle. “all the more reason for me to do better. to push myself not to make mistakes.” a pause, so intimate it makes your breath catch. “for you.”

the lights and sequins and music of the party feel far away now. it’s just him, the champagne going warm in your hand, and the weight of his promise sitting between you both.

he leans in just enough that you feel the brush of his hair near your temple, voice pitched low so it feels like he’s letting you in on something just between the two of you. a tiny, crooked grin at the corner of his mouth as he murmurs—

“what do you say we get out of here, baby chick, hm?”

your forehead stays pressed against his, the steady weight of his gaze holding you there until your chest feels too tight, too warm, like your whole body’s gone loose and jelly-soft under it. the hum of the party fades somewhere behind you, laughter and clinking glasses muffled like they belong to another world.

your lips part before you even think about it, a quiet, almost broken, “yeah…” slipping out.

and that’s all he needs. jun’s grin deepens, satisfied but not smug, and in the next breath his coat is already around your shoulders, his hand resting firm at your back as he guides you toward the exit of the yacht, already mapping it out in a split second—like the decision was always his to make, and you’ve just given him the final key.

the city’s neon pulse flickers through the suite’s tall windows, a faint hum fading into the background. inside, it’s just you and junhui, the air thick with victory’s afterglow and something heavier, unspoken. he stands close, his presence filling the room like the low growl of an engine before lights out. his fingers move to his shirt, unbuttoning it with slow, deliberate flicks, the fabric parting to reveal the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone from the hungarian heat. his eyes lock on you, sharp and steady, like he’s mapping a circuit, every glance tracing your edges with the precision he brings to a braking zone.

you reach for your own clothes, fingers brushing the luxury fabric of the crimson dress—his dress, the one he chose, left waiting with that scribbled note. but before you can tug it free, his hand lands on your shoulder, firm yet gentle, steadying you. “let me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough from the day but warm, a command wrapped in care. his fingers slide to the lacing at your back, undoing it with the same focus he uses to hit an apex, the dress loosening under his touch, a silent promise that he’s the one guiding this moment, just as he guides the car through a dangerous turn.

his hand finds your waist, fingers firm, guiding you with the ease of a driver hitting an apex just right. the crimson dress slides from your shoulders, pooling at your hips. it’s no accident he picked it, every seam and curve a quiet claim, a way of saying you’re mine without saying a word. his fingers brush the fabric as it falls, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment he dressed you in his colors, the crimson a mirror to the fire he carries on the grid.

“easy,” he murmurs, voice rough from the day but warm, cutting through the quiet like a clean gear shift. his lips find your neck, then lower, tracing the curve of your chest. his tongue flicks out, a teasing swirl around your nipple, and you gasp, a soft sound that makes his grip tighten, pulling you closer. it’s the same focus he brings to the track—every reaction noted, every shiver cataloged, like he’s learning a circuit corner by corner. he’s not just touching you; he’s mapping you, memorizing every line with the care he takes to nail a chicane.

you feel him through his dress pants, hard against your thigh, a quiet insistence that matches the coiled energy he holds before a bold overtake. your hand slides to his chest, fingers brushing the open shirt, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his skin, syncing with yours like a perfectly timed lap. he pulls back, eyes searching, a silent check-in like he’s waiting for your signal to commit to the next turn.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely a whisper, but it lands heavy, grounding you in the moment.

“yeah,” you breathe, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss—slow, hungry, the faint champagne taste fading into something rawer, deeper. his tongue brushes yours, deliberate, savoring each moment. his hand slides lower, easing the crimson dress off completely, fingers tracing the curve of your hip where the fabric had clung, his claim now bare against your skin.

you shift, thigh pressing against the firm line of him, and he lets out a low groan, muffled against your neck. his teeth graze your pulse, a soft nip that pulls a shaky breath from you, and you tug his hair, earning a hum that vibrates through your skin. it’s the control he wields in the cockpit—quiet, precise, ready to snap when the moment calls for it.

“jun…” your voice is half plea, half question, and his lips curve against your skin, like he’s already read your next move. his hand slides to your lower back, anchoring you, and you feel the heat of him, the promise held back by the thinnest thread of restraint.

“tell me what you want, baby chick,” he says, voice low, teasing but heavy with intent, the nickname lands soft, stripped of the garage’s playful edge, now a private tether between you.

his laugh is a breath, warm and rough, and he guides you back against the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. his hands move with purpose—sliding along your sides, brushing your skin, mapping every curve like he’s chasing pole position. the dress is gone, his shirt discarded, and his chest presses warm against yours. his eyes rake over you, dark and intent, like he’s studying a circuit he’s determined to dominate.

“beautiful,” he says, quiet and raw, like he’s seeing you anew despite the months of shared laps and late-night calls. his lips find yours again, deeper, more urgent, and the distance between you dissolves. his hand slides down, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh, and you shiver, pressing closer, feeling the heat through the thin fabric still between you. his mouth trails back to your chest, tongue circling with that relentless focus.

his fingers glide up your thigh, teasing, light as a whisper, but there’s purpose in every brush, like he’s savoring the way your skin prickles under his touch. the room feels heavy, the city’s hum a faint pulse beyond the windows, drowned by the heat sparking between you. your breath catches as his hand drifts lower, hovering just above where you’re already aching, pulse hammering. junhui’s eyes lock on yours, dark, searching, a flicker of hunger that makes your stomach twist.

“still good?” he murmurs, voice low, softened by the way he’s watching you, thumb grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. it’s a question—but it’s loaded, daring you to give in.

“y-yeah,” you breathe, voice shaky, barely holding together as his fingers slip lower, parting you with a gentle, teasing touch that’s almost too much. he’s watching every move—your lips parting, your eyes fluttering shut, the way your fingers claw into the sheets like they’re your lifeline.

he finds you, slick and warm, and a low hum rumbles from his throat, almost a growl. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he says, voice thick, and the words hit like a spark, making you shiver. his fingers trace circles, light at first, then firmer, each motion pulling a soft whimper from you as your hips shift, chasing him.

he presses a finger inside, curling deep, and your body tenses, a sharp gasp escaping as he hits that spot that sends fire through you. “found it,” he says, voice low, a hint of smugness laced within, and he does it again, stroking just right until you’re arching into him, desperate for more. “jun…” you moan, voice cracking, and your hand flies to his wrist, gripping tight, not to stop him but to anchor yourself as the pleasure spikes, overwhelming.

he’s quick—his other hand catches your wrist, pinning it to the bed, firm but gentle, his grip a warm cage. “easy, baby chick,” he murmurs, voice a low command, thick with want. “let me take care of you.” you try to nod, but it’s a mess, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as his fingers move, curling, stroking, a second joining the first, stretching you just enough to make your head spin.

“mmh… f-feels so good,” you manage, voice a broken, needy mess, words spilling between moans as your hips rock against his hand, chasing the heat coiling tight in your core. you’re unraveling, a whimpering, trembling wreck, and he knows it—his eyes darken, a smug little smile tugging at his lips as he watches you fall apart.

“fuck, look at you,” he says, voice rough, thumb brushing your clit in tight, relentless circles that make your vision blur. “so fucking pretty like this.” his fingers curl deeper, hitting that spot again, and you cry out, thighs trembling, a desperate, “jun—please,” tumbling from your lips. you’re not even sure what you’re begging for, just more, just him, the edge so close it’s dizzying.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear, breath hot against your skin. his fingers don’t stop, relentless, stroking that spot until your whole body shakes, pleasure coiling tighter, sharper. “fuck, i’ve been wanting to do this so badly, you have no idea,” he murmurs, voice cracking with a raw, desperate edge that makes your chest ache. his other hand moves to his belt, the leather slipping free with a soft clink, fingers deft as he undoes the button, then the zipper, the sound sharp in the quiet room. he tugs his underwear down just enough, freeing himself, his cock already throbbing, glistening with a sheen of precum, a testament to how much he’s been holding back, how much he’s needed you.

his fingers stay curled inside you, unmoving now, a steady pressure that keeps you teetering on the edge but denies you release. you buck your hips, desperate, trying to grind against his hand, but he holds firm, keeping you pinned, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to ground you. “not yet,” he says, voice low, dominant but trembling with want, like he’s fighting to keep control. all those hurried kisses in the debrief room, sneaking around when laura steps out, avoiding the media like the plague—“shit, it’s been killing me too, baby chick. i need to feel you.”

you whimper, a broken, needy sound, your body trembling as his fingers stay still, buried deep, the pleasure sharp but just out of reach. “jun, please,” you gasp, voice slurred, a moaning mess, hips twitching uselessly against his unmoving hand. he leans closer, lips grazing your ear again, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight tremor in his breath. “relax, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, commanding, but laced with that same desperation that’s got him leaking, aching for you. “let me feel you. let go.”

he pulls his fingers out, slick with your juices, and brings them to his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he tastes you, a low groan rumbling from his throat. “tastes so good,” he murmurs, voice thick with need, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness, your body aching for something to fill you again. but he’s already moving, arms wrapping around your thighs, fingers gripping tight as he drags you closer, the rough pull making your breath hitch. one hand grips his cock, lining himself up at your entrance, the tip brushing against you, teasing, while his other hand keeps your thigh angled, holding you open for him.

“holy shit,” he breathes, voice shaking as he guides himself in, slow, agonizing, every inch stretching you, your walls clenching tight around him. he bottoms out, fully seated, and pauses, eyes squeezed shut, a low, guttural “fuck” slipping from his lips as he feels you grip him. one hand moves to your waist, steadying you, anchoring himself, while the other stays on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin as he starts to move, slow but deep, each thrust deliberate, like he’s savoring every second inside you. “you’re so fucking perfect,” he groans, voice raw, desperate, his hips rolling with a rhythm that’s desperate with need, like he’s been starving for this, for you.

your hands claw at his shoulders, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each thrust hitting deep, sending sparks through your core. “jun… more,” you gasp, voice trembling, needy, your hips rocking up to meet him, chasing the intensity. “please—harder.” the words spill out, raw and desperate, and his eyes snap to yours, dark and wild, like you’ve just flipped a switch.

“fuck, you want it rough?” he rasps, a strained chuckle, almost a growl, escaping his lips, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulls back, then slams into you, harder this time, the force making you cry out, a broken moan that echoes in the quiet room. “like that, baby?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, “you like it that much, huh?” he teases, almost breathless, his thrusts picking up speed, each one deeper, faster, the slap of skin against skin filling the air. your thighs tremble, his hand still gripping one to keep you angled just right, his cock driving into you with a relentless rhythm that has you unraveling—a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him.

“n-need you… jun, please, don’t stop,” you beg, voice slurred, your head tipping back as the pleasure coils tighter, your body shaking with every thrust. his hand on your waist slides up, fingers splaying across your stomach, grounding you even as he pounds into you, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. “so good, so fucking good,” you moan, words tumbling out, incoherent, your nails raking down his back as you try to hold on.

“shit, you’re driving me insane,” he groans, voice thick with desperation, his hips snapping faster, harder, the heat of him filling you, stretching you, making your walls clench tighter around him. “been wanting you like this forever,” he murmurs, leaning down, lips crashing into yours, messy and hungry, swallowing your moans as he fucks you deeper, the bed creaking under the force of it. his grip on your thigh tightens, almost bruising, but it only makes you want him more.

you kiss back pathetically, sloppy and desperate, practically drooling as you moan into his mouth, the taste of him mixing with the heat of your need. he grunts against you, low and rough, his groans vibrating through the kiss, each sound a testament to how much he’s losing himself in you. “fuck, i’m close,” he pants, voice strained, hips snapping harder, faster, his cock throbbing inside you, pushing you right to the brink.

“i-i am too,” you stammer, voice a broken mess, your thighs locking around his hips, pulling him deeper, refusing to let him go. “jun, please—fill me up,” you beg, words raw, shameless, a desperate plea for him to give you everything. “need you… need you inside me.” your voice is a filthy, trembling whisper, and it hits him hard—his eyes darken, a low, guttural groan spilling from his lips as he drives into you, harder, deeper, like he’s been waiting for you to ask, to want him just as badly.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he growls, voice thick with need as he sings you praises, his thrusts relentless now, each one sending you spiraling, your moans louder, messier, your body arching into him as the pleasure builds to a breaking point. “gonna give you what you want, baby,” he groans into your mouth, breathing hot and heavy.

the heat between you explodes, raw and messy, your body shuddering as the climax hits, a wave of white-hot pleasure that has you screaming his name, a broken, “jun—fuck!” ripping from your throat. your walls clamp down around him, pulsing, milking him as you come undone, thighs trembling, nails biting into his shoulders, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you moan into his, sloppy and unhinged. he groans back, a deep, desperate sound, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release, your filthy plea—fill me up—echoing in his head. “shit, you’re so fucking good,” he gasps, voice cracking, and with one final, deep thrust, he spills inside you, hot and thick, filling you just like you begged, his cock throbbing as he unloads, each pulse drawing a low, guttural moan from his throat. he practically collapses onto you, barely holding himself up, his body trembling as his hands find your hair, fingers slipping between the tangled, sweaty strands, cradling your head close. his other hand slides beneath your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he needs every inch of you pressed to his skin.

you’re a trembling, sweaty mess beneath him, gasping, body shaking with aftershocks, your thighs still locked around him, keeping him buried deep as you both ride it out. his hands grip you tight, one tangled in your hair, the other bruising your waist, like he’s afraid to let go, afraid you’ll slip away. your moans mix with his, a filthy, incoherent symphony of pleasure, lips brushing, tongues sloppy, the taste of him and you and the heat of it all blending into something overwhelming. “shh, baby, i’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice soft now, soothing, his lips trailing gentle kisses along your jaw, your cheek, as you whimper, still twitching beneath him, oversensitive and dazed. “you did so good, so fucking good,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers stroking through your hair, grounding you as the pleasure ebbs into a warm, hazy glow.

you’re barely conscious, body limp and heavy with bliss, your eyes fluttering shut as you sink into the sheets, a soft, sated hum escaping your lips. “jun…” you murmur, voice a sleepy, slurred whisper, his name falling out like a quiet prayer as you drift, too blissed out to stay awake. he stays there, pressed against you, his own breathing slowing, his lips brushing your forehead as he soothes you through the afterglow, whispering sweet nothings that lull you deeper into that hazy, dreamlike state.

sometime later—minutes, maybe hours, you’re too far gone to tell—he shifts, carefully pulling out, his touch gentle as he untangles himself from you. you stir faintly, another soft call of his name slipping from your lips, but you don’t wake, just nuzzle deeper into the pillow, body limp and sated. he moves quietly, grabbing a clean, damp towel from the bathroom, his touch tender as he cleans you up, wiping away the sticky mess between your thighs with careful, reverent strokes. he dresses you in one of his oversized branded shirts, the fabric soft and smelling faintly of him, enveloping you like a warm embrace. his fingers linger on your skin as he pulls the shirt over your head, smoothing it down with a gentleness that makes your heart ache even in your half-asleep state.

“sleep, baby chick,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his hands still cradling you, one in your hair, the other resting lightly against your back. he tucks you against him, pulling the covers over you both, his warmth wrapping around you like a cocoon. you don’t wake, but you shift closer, instinctively curling into his chest, a faint smile curving your lips as his arms tighten around you, protective and adoring, as the world fades into the quiet intimacy of the night—a stark contrast to how it all began hours ago, under the glittering lights of the yacht, the clink of champagne glasses, and the electric buzz of the crowd, all fading now into this private, tender moment where it’s just you and him, wrapped in each other, the rest of the world a distant memory.

the morning light filters through the heavy curtains, soft and golden, casting lazy streaks across the tangled sheets. you stir, body heavy with the lingering ache of last night, the memory of junhui’s touch still warm on your skin. his oversized branded shirt clings to you, the fabric soft and faintly scented with his cologne, a quiet reminder of how he’d dressed you so carefully after you drifted to sleep, spent and sated from the intensity of it all. you shift, feeling the dull soreness between your thighs, a flush creeping up your cheeks as the vivid images replay—his fingers, his lips, the way he’d filled you, the messy, desperate heat that had consumed you both.

you blink slowly, eyes adjusting to the room, and realize you’re alone in the bed. the space beside you is still warm, the sheets rumpled where he’d been, and you hear the faint rustle of paper bags and the soft clink of dishes from the penthouse kitchen down the hall. the scent of something savory—soy sauce, sesame, maybe congee with century eggs—drifts through the air, grounding you in the present. your heart does a soft flip, knowing he’s out there, already moving through the morning with that quiet care he’d shown you after everything last night.

you swing your legs over the side of the bed, wincing slightly at the tenderness, and pad barefoot across the cool hardwood floor. his shirt hangs loose on you, grazing your thighs, and you tug at the hem, feeling a mix of shy and giddy as you make your way toward the kitchen. the penthouse is quiet now, the chaos of last night’s yacht party—the pulsing music, the clinking glasses, the hum of voices under the starlit deck—fading into a distant memory. this morning is a soft, intimate pause in his high-speed world, just you and him.

in the kitchen, junhui stands at the counter, his back to you, hair tousled and catching the morning light. he’s in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, unpacking delivery bags from a Chinese restaurant, the counter a spread of takeout containers—cardboard and foil, some still steaming, others neatly stacked. he’s reheating a bowl of congee in the microwave, the soft hum of the appliance mixing with the rustle of bags as he sets out a plate of fluffy baozi and a small pot of tea, the aroma of jasmine curling into the air. he turns, catching sight of you, and his face softens into a grin, eyes crinkling with that familiar warmth that makes your chest ache.

“morning, baby chick,” he says, voice low and a little rough from sleep, but there’s a tenderness there that makes your heart stutter. “summer break, baby—no race weekend to worry about next week, just you and me, off the grid.” his words are soft but deliberate, a promise wrapped in that easy, confident tone, and the thought of uninterrupted time with him sends a warm flutter through you. “you sleep okay?”

you nod, stepping closer, feeling the pull of him like gravity. “yeah,” you murmur, voice soft, still a little shy from the intensity of last night. “you?”

“better than ever,” he says, his grin widening as he sets a takeout container down and closes the distance between you. his hands find your hips, gentle but sure, pulling you against him. “you look good in my shirt,” he adds, eyes flicking down to the way the fabric skims your thighs, a spark of heat flickering in his gaze. “makes me wanna keep you here all summer, just like this.”

you flush, ducking your head, but he tilts your chin up with a finger, his touch feather-light. “none of that,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. it’s slow, sweet, a contrast to the hungry, sloppy kisses from last night, but it still sends a shiver through you, your hands finding his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.

“you didn’t have to order all this,” you say, glancing at the spread of takeout containers, your voice a little shaky from the warmth of his closeness. “but it smells amazing.”

“had to take care of my girl,” he says, simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. his hands slide up your sides, one slipping into your hair, fingers threading through the strands still messy from sleep and last night’s fervor. “you feeling okay? after… you know.” his voice drops, a touch of concern mixing with the heat in his eyes, and you know he’s thinking about the way he’d fucked you into the mattress, relentless and desperate.

you nod, cheeks burning. “a little sore,” you admit, voice quiet, “but… good. really good.” you bite your lip, and his gaze tracks the movement, his thumb brushing across your jaw.

“good,” he echoes, voice low, a little smug but softened by the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters. “why don’t we stay here in hungary for a couple more days, yeah?” he says, his voice soft but with a playful edge, his fingers tightening slightly on your hip. “no rush to leave, no one to bother us. just you and me, baby chick, holed up in this penthouse.” the idea of lingering in this bubble with him, away from the world, makes your heart race, and you nod, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

he guides you to the table, pulling out a chair for you with a gentle nudge. “sit. eat. i’m not letting you out of here until you’re fed.” you laugh, soft and airy, settling into the chair as he slides a bowl of reheated congee toward you, flecked with green onions and slivers of century egg, alongside a plate of baozi, their dough soft and steaming. he sits across from you, but his hand finds yours on the table, fingers lacing together like it’s second nature. you eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the clink of spoons and the hum of the city outside the only sounds, until your phone buzzes on the counter, a sharp vibration that cuts through the quiet.

you ignore it for now, though, the situation—you and junhui—at hand is your priority as of the moment. “so… us,” you start, voice soft, a little hesitant as you set your spoon down, your fingers tightening around his, trying to anchor yourself amidst the chaos. “what are we, jun? after last night…” you trail off, heart pounding, unsure how to define the shift, the way his touch feels like it’s claimed you, the way his eyes hold you like you’re his whole world.

his gaze lifts up to meet your own, eyes softening, the teasing edge gone for a moment. “you’re mine, baby chick,” he says, voice low but certain, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “and i’m yours. no games, no labels we don’t need—just us, like this, for as long as you want.” he leans across the table, his other hand cupping your cheek, and the sincerity in his gaze makes your breath catch. “i’ve been wanting you for too long to let this be anything less.”

you smile, shy but warm, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket, a shield against the storm of notifications still buzzing on your phone. “i want that too,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, and he exhales, like he’d been holding his breath, his grin returning, softer but no less bright.

“good,” he says, softer this time, and he leans across the table to kiss you again, a quick, warm press of his lips that feels like a promise. “because i’m not done with you yet, baby chick. we’ve got all summer to figure out what else you like.” his voice is teasing, but there’s a heat there, a spark that makes your stomach flip.

but your attention is snapped back to your phone, you glance over, but before you can reach for it, another notification pings, then another, and suddenly it’s a frenzy of buzzing, the screen lighting up with a flood of messages. your stomach twists, a flicker of unease creeping in as you stand and grab the phone.

the notifications are from the haas team group chat—your colleagues, engineers, even the PR team, sending links to articles with messages like, “have you seen this?” and “you two are trending!” your heart skips as you open one, the headline blaring: “F1’s New Power Couple? Haas Driver and Engineer Spark Romance Rumors.” the article gushes about you and junhui, an on-grid romance between a driver and an engineer, calling it a “surprise love story” with photos from the yacht last night—stolen glances, his hand on your waist, the two of you slipping away into the night. some comments are cute, fans swooning over the idea of an “engineer-driver love story,” but others are brutal, questioning your professionalism, calling you a “walking HR nightmare,” speculating about drama if you break up, claiming you’ll drag jun down with you, tainting his focus on the grid.

before you can even process the words, your phone rings, the screen flashing laura’s name—the team manager herself. your stomach drops, and you glance at jun, who’s watching you now, his brow furrowed with concern. “everything okay?” he asks, voice low, his hand reaching over the counter, squeezing yours gently. you can’t answer, your thumb hesitantly hovering over the phone as you press accept, laura’s voice already crackling through the speaker, sharp and urgent, pulling you out of the soft, intimate bubble of the morning and into the storm of the outside world.

to be continued.

congratulations, you’ve crossed the finish line with a podium-worthy read, completing this story in record time !!! what a ride !! thank you so much for racing through this with me, it means the world to have written such a fun fic in another fandom i take part in. and also get this: while i was doing some last-minute edits on this fic, BOTHHH haas drivers scored points at the dutch GP, and hadjar snagged a podium >0< !! i barely ever write smut but this one had me typing at like almost 100wpm lmao… it was a total doozy to get through, but i swear i had the most fun writing it. also, quick apology in advance for any mistakes or holes in the f1 technicalities/references—i promise i tried my best lol. hope you guys enjoy it as much as i did !!

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ seventeen ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm @babilou-pov @crowneve @callisrecords @triciawritesstuff @sopitadearvejas @slytherinshua @chronicfic @xh01bri @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @snowflakemoon3 @bbangbies @kibtsuji @dahlia-blossom @dhaliaa1211 @symphonies-of-poenies @judesbae @rivercattail @reiofsuns2001

[sknyuz]

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ seventeen ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm @babilou-pov @crowneve @callisrecords @triciawritesstuff @sopitadearvejas @slytherinshua @chronicfic @xh01bri @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @snowflakemoon3 @bbangbies @kibtsuji @dahlia-blossom @dhaliaa1211 @symphonies-of-poenies @judesbae @rivercattail @reiofsuns2001 @loveellegance @jjnnyy @metaphorandmoonlight @seokjinthescientist @putrescentpoet

[sknyuz]

It is me!! (The collarless anon!)

(⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡💓💓🥳🎁🎁

Id love to see their relationship before they broke up and what happened to make them break up, cause it had to be super bad 😮‍💨 it's what I voted for back in the spring cause it makes more sense to do that first before anything else :-)

I

omg that's great, i actually started the prequel back then and i think i can finish it now !! pretty sure ur somewhere in the whc taglist alr so watch out !!

[sknyuz]

COLLARLESS!!! 🛐🛐

this has *got* to be collarless anon again 😭 lmk what you wanna see anon *!!* let's make it finally happen 🫡

[sknyuz]

happiest birthday maki boo 🫶🏼

aww thank you, ate kyu <33

[sknyuz]

would like to know what most of the ppl following me would like to see more of !!

what should i write more of?

seventeen

weak hero class 1+2

other (groups/dramas) *reply below !!

Voting ended onSep 5, 2025

[sknyuz]

Happy birthday!!

🥳🎁💓

THANK YOU HIHI >>0<<

[sknyuz]

hi maki my pookie it’s been a while since i opened tumblr !! i miss u so so bad 😞

- 🥞

oh my gosh i'm so sorry i've been so inactive on here,,, i'm excited to get back to writing during my term break though, you'll see more from me in november ^^ what a sweet surprise, i actually turn 21 today *!!* thank you for thinking of me on my birthday <33 what a nice coincidence >>0<<