a/n: roughly 2k more words of kenji sato fluff! sequel to 'incoming call...' link to part i
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“ouch!”
you snickered, “ken, i told you not to get too close! she doesn’t like strangers,” you leant down to scratch the little kitten’s cheeks, and because she knew you and you were undoubtedly her best friend, she purred in contentment, all the while giving kenji sato an irritated glare.
the nickname—ken—slipped off your tongue smoothly, the same way you’d been saying it for the past few months that you’d been spending around your highschool sweetheart. even though you’d been apart for so many years and hadn’t seen each other for so long, it had been easy to slip back into an old rhythm.
“fuck, i didn’t know she’d actually bite me, she looks so tiny,” he hissed, shaking his reddened finger.
“size means nothing when it comes to animals,” you retorted, and despite the way you rolled your eyes, you still handed him an ice pack from your freezer, “take this, big baby.”
he huffed but took it anyway, pressing it to his injury.
it had become a bit of a routine—after his games, he’d come over to your clinic to visit you while you handled the late-night clean ups. the rest of the vet team headed home at closing, but with no kids or family to care for, you often spent your evenings here, keeping the animals company and handling some of the extra paper work.
“how’s emi doing, by the way?” you said as you refilled some of the water bowls. most of the animals were sleeping at this time, but you still liked to make sure they were all fed and watered. in fact, it was better to do it while they were asleep—less whinging from the little babies for treats.
“she’s doing well,” he said, and it was his turn to roll his eyes as he leant against the bench, “attitude and all, as always.”
“she’s a teenage girl,” you said with a laugh, “it’s so normal. i was one, so i can affirm.”
“mhm,” he said, eyes gleaming, “i remember.”
it was weird, toeing this line with kenji sato. so long ago, you’d been each other’s universes and after separating to go to university, the two of you had been sucked into different orbits—him going into baseball in the states, and you pursuing veterinary medicine in australia. it almost felt like fate nudging you, having the two of you run into each other—back in japan all these years later.
saving you from responding, his phone rang at that very moment. being around kenji all these weeks had gotten you used to his late night calls—how he’d have to run off to take care of the city. but this call seemed to come from one of his teammates, with the familiar way he addressed the person on the other side of the line.
he’d told you that at first he didn’t have any friends here, too busy to do anything but work. but now, he’d grown close to plenty of his teammates and of course, he had you.
“yeah well, i’m kinda busy right now actually...why?” you overheard him say as you busied yourself with some clean up and tried not to look like you were eavesdropping, “oh...oh! yeah uh—what?! what the...” his change in tone piqued your interest.
“...right, thanks for telling me, i’ll call you back later, yuta. thanks...” he hung up, and turned sharply to you, meeting your awaiting gaze, “the press caught you, uh, getting into my car.”
you frowned, confused at the problem with that, considering it wasn’t at all illegal for kenji to have friends.
“they’re blowing it up,” he said, running a hand through his hair and messing it up again, “i...i don’t mind, but i don’t want it to hurt you, that’s all.”
you waved his concerns off, “it’s whatever, to me. as long as it doesn’t harm your reputation, i don’t really have a public image to maintain. my patients don’t care who i date or don’t date.”
date? you felt flustered the moment those words left your lips. even though the two of you had been getting closer again and flirting and doing things that one would do while dating, neither of you had clarified the boundary yet.
kenji seemed equally as flustered and didn’t address what you’d said, not wanting to embarrass you, “you’re right,” he smiled crookedly, and you returned one back despite your racing heart.
***
the moment you stepped into your mum’s house, you were bombarded.
“what’s this about you dating kenji again!” she exclaimed, shutting the door behind you and ushering you into your childhood living room, “i haven’t seen that boy in decades. and since when were you—,”
“what, mum?” you cut her off sharply, even as she shoved you into a chair and poured you hot tea, sitting down opposite you eagerly, “i’m not dating him? plus, where’d you even—,”
she shoved the article in your face before you could even finish the question, her phone screen so bright that it took your eyes a second to adjust. “mum, your phone’s so bright, it can’t be good for your eyes.”
“not important, y/n,” she snapped hurriedly, “look at it.”
blinking your eyes to focus, you finally saw the image clearly. it really did look like you were dating. the window of kenji’s porsche was wound down, and you were leant over towards him, pressed so close to him in a way you didn’t remember doing, even though you knew that you’d only been reaching over to grab the gum from his glovebox. the way he was looking at you, though—you hadn’t noticed in the moment. it was really full of adoration, eyes glittering with a love you remembered so clearly from your highschool days, and his arm was reached out around you in a way you also hadn’t noticed before.
“explain,” your mum demanded, although she didn’t seem annoyed, she seemed...quite excited, the way her eyes were suspiciously bright, “i miss seeing that lovely boy around.”
embarrassed, especially as your eyes scanned over the headline—baseball star kenji sato’s new sweetheart?!—you stuttered, “uh, i ran into him a few weeks ago and we’ve been hanging out, you know, at the clinic.”
“well, then, what are you doing in his car?” she rushed, waving her phone around again, “doesn’t look like the clinic to me. and look—,” she scrolled down a bit further to another picture, this one even more incriminating.
it was you, tucked in the audience of one of kenji’s baseball games, dressed in his team colours, cheering amongst the other vip guests sitting amongst you—friends and family of the players.
“well—,”
“i’m not hearing it,” she cut you off, a grin breaking out, “you’re bringing him over! i can’t believe it—my daughter and kenji, reunited,” she sighed happily, “i was worried you would never settle down, you know.”
flustered, you didn’t even bother to object, sagging in your seat at her insistence.
***
“y/n, i’m really sorry, i didn’t think it’d be that bad,” he said hurriedly as he followed you up the stairs to your apartment, “i’m really sorry. i’m trying to get them to take it down but you know how—,”
you whirled around as you shut the door to your apartment after letting him in, “my mum wants to see you.”
“huh?”
you sighed, switching on the lights and throwing yourself onto your couch, “she saw the article and couldn’t stop going on about how i was finally settling down and how she needed to see you again.”
he ran a hand through his hair, “you...don’t mind?”
“kenji,” you sat up straight, beckoning him over, “i don’t mind. and i wouldn’t mind...”
the silence was loud, the only sound in the room the quiet humming of your lights and the traffic outside, as he sat down beside you, sinking into the cushions.
you knew you didn’t have to finish your sentence. kenji sato knew you too well. he met your eyes and pulled you close, hugging you to his chest. you breathed in his scent—clean, and a little tinted with fish. you’d found out that he often had to go fishing—diving, more like—for emi’s dinners, and that was why he was so often around your apartment block...to fish in the river like a weirdo.
“y/n...”
you hummed, waiting for him to continue as you pressed your face into his chest.
“i really meant it when i said i missed you, back when we first saw each other again,” he began, and you smiled into his skin, “i was so lonely. drained, and it was like fate—seeing you that day saved me, i swear. you were all i could think about. i couldn’t...i couldn’t imagine never seeing you again.”
“kenji,” you murmured, leaning back to look at him earnestly, “i missed you, too.”
“what i’m trying to say is,” he swallowed, looking down before looking up to meet your gaze again, “i...i wanna date you, y/n. if you’ll have me,” suddenly shy, he flushed a bit at his own words.
you smiled at how sweet it was, how shy he seemed and also how your stomach fluttered with butterflies, “ken, of course i’ll have you. you’re all i want.”
you’d barely finished your sentence when his lips met yours in a gentle, soft kiss. you couldn’t really put it into words, how it felt to kiss kenji again after all these years. it felt like coming home. it felt like taking all the colours of the sunset and smearing it across a canvas. it felt like drinking warm milk tea. you hummed into the kiss as he deepened it, pulling you closer by the nape of your neck, and you reached up to tangle your hands in his dark locks, pulling him down towards you at the same time.
you were so close to him you could feel his heartbeat—almost hear it, and you hoped he couldn’t hear how quickly yours was racing. he tasted of caramel, and you couldn’t help but sigh as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you onto his lap as you broke apart from the kiss, curling into him in a hug.
“y/n,” he murmured, keeping his arms wrapped around you, “i really, really missed you.”
you’d missed him too. his little habits, his dishevelled hair—fish smell, and all. you’d missed him more than anything.
for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and… a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his ‘partner’, mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.
🩵 pairing. formula one driver!kim mingyu x influencer!reader.
🩵 word count. 21.k.
🩵 genres/includes. romance, fluff, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: formula one. mentions of food, alcohol consumption; profanity. the alex albon-ification of mingyu, down bad/yearner!mingyu, 97z adjacent to 2019 rookies, williams slander (soz).
🩵 notes. this is part of cam&em studio’s lights out collaboration. i had somehow deluded myself that this would not be that long, but combine my two special interests and.. bam 😦 always so humbled to be among caratblr greats. ty for hosting, @camandemstudios!!! let’s go racing!!! ᯓ★
Mingyu likes to think he’s calm. Composed. The kind of driver who takes Monza in stride, doesn’t let the history or the speed or the ridiculous number of Ferrari fans turn his knees into jelly.
That’s the version of himself he would like to believe. The truth is, Monza is the track that raised him. He was fifteen the first time he snuck into the stands with a handful of friends, listening to engines scream like they could shake the sky apart. Now, he’s back as a Williams driver, pretending he’s not vibrating with the same teenage excitement. Pretending the goosebumps under his race suit are just from the morning chill.
“Still staring at the track like it’s your first crush?” Seokmin’s voice drifts over, amused and much too loud for Mingyu’s pride.
He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.
Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”
“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”
Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.
“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”
“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”
Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”
Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”
Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.
And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.
Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”
“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.
Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”
Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.
“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”
Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.
Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”
Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.
Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.
Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.
Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.
Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.
Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.
On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.
But still. No podium. Not yet.
He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.
Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.
Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.
Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13.
Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately.
Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”
Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”
Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”
“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”
That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”
Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”
“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”
“Maybe buy it dinner first.”
They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”
Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”
“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”
“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense.
But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption.
Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.
“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”
Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.
Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.
Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.
He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.
Your name.
It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing.
The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.
Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”
And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.
Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.
The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic.
Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps.
Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.
He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.
Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.
Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.
The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio.
There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”
He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.
“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”
“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”
He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.
He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.
The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”
He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”
It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish.
The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.
The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”
Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”
“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”
“…Thanks, gu—my what?”
The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.”
He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.
Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.
Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.
But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.
Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.
“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”
He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”
A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)
Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”
“What about it?”
“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”
Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”
Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.
It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.
His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.
Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.
The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.
Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum.
But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.
Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.
Partner. As in…?
He doesn’t even know you.
He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.
Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”
Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.
The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.
God, Mingyu thinks, unfair.
Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.
“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”
You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”
Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”
Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”
PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”
Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”
“And you’re certain?” PR presses.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”
“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”
PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.
The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.
He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.
He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.
What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”
James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”
“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”
The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him.
Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.
There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot.
The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.
Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.
Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at.
Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.
The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.
The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.”
Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.
Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.
A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.
He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.
“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.
“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”
Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”
“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”
The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.
Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.
By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.
Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.
Until the morning of qualifying, that is.
Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.
Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.
He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.
Deletes.
Types again. Wow!!!
Deletes harder.
What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.
With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—
He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.
He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.
But his thumb betrays him a second time.
Sent.
A beat.
Delivered changes to Seen.
Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.
Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.
Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.
| yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though.
Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply.
| min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you.
There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears.
| yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.
He grins despite himself, typing fast.
| min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.
| yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨
Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.
| min6yu_k: Guilty
| min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.
This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.
| yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything
| yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’
Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:
| min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.
Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.
| yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u
| min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍
The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:
| yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock
| yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀
The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.
He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.
Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.
“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.
Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”
“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”
He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”
“Negative, keep pushing.”
He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.
The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”
His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”
Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”
There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.
Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.
The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.
Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.
Of course. Of course.
You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”
Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.
“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”
Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”
You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.
Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.
Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.
By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.
He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again.
Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.
Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.
Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile.
Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.
Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.
The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.
“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”
“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”
“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.
The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.
Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.
Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.
Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?
But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished.
Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.
Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.
It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.
He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.
In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.
He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.
The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.
“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.
“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”
“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.
Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”
“Am not.”
Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”
Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.
On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.
For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you.
No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.
Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”
Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”
Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.
By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”
Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”
“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.
“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”
“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.
“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.
The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.
One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.
“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”
Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”
You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.
He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.
The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.
Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.
You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”
You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”
Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”
“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”
The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?
You sigh, breaking the stalemate.
“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”
That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”
The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.
He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.
But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.
Mingyu pretends not to care.
He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.
Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder.
Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.
Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.
Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.
Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”
Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”
Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”
For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.
Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”
“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”
Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”
Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.
Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.
He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”
The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.
You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.
“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”
Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”
“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”
He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”
You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.
“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”
Mingyu stares.
You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.
“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”
“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”
Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”
Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.
That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.
Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.
A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.
The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.
Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.
He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.
A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck.
Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.
For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”
Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.
“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “
Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”
The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.
And then it rains.
Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”
“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”
His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.
The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”
Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”
The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.
“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”
The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out.
He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”
Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.
When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.
The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.
“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”
Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.”
He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.
By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.
The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.
When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”
And then he sees.
It’s you.
You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.
His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”
You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.
Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”
Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?”
He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy.
You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”
He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”
That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’
He stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”
“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”
“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”
You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”
He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”
“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”
“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”
The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.
For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all.
Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.
“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”
You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”
Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”
Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.
Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.
You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”
You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.
“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.
For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.
It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?
The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.
He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.
“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”
There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.
Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4.
The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”
Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.
Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”
The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.
He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”
The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his.
His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.
It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.
Your story.
It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.
Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.
Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵
Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.
The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.
Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)
They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”
Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”
“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”
“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.
Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”
“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.
“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”
Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.
Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”
Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.
He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other.
The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.
Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.
He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.
Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.
The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”
“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”
You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”
“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”
Your brows lift. “What happened?”
Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”
You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”
“You’re doing it very poorly.”
“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”
He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”
“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.
Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.
“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”
You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”
“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”
You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”
There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.
He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”
“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.
Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”
You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.
At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.
Like an actual couple.
The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.
It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:
| min6yu_k: Hey
| min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive.
| min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore
| min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺
It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise.
Except three dots appear. Then a reply.
| yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :)
Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer.
At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.
When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption:
| min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.
You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering.
| yourusername: sardinia? how original
| yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️
He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager.
Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.
And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.
But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.
This is where it gets him:
Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.
| yourusername: help me pick?
It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.
Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.
By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.
Your reply comes minutes later.
| yourusername: perfect
| yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️
Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too?
That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.
But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has?
He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance.
Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.
Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.
| yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well
| yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮💨 is that stupid?)
His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.
“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.
Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days.
| min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????
| min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then
| min6yu_k: Because I miss you too
The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.
He calls anyway.
The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”
“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”
“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”
“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”
There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.
Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”
He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”
You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”
Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”
Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself.
The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.
Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.
He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.
Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.
A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.
You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”
That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”
You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”
Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.
Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.
He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”
You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”
The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.
He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.
He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.
He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”
“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”
“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”
You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”
“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”
You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”
“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”
“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”
“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”
The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.
At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.
You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”
Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”
And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.
You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say.
He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching.
The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.
Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.
Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.
There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.
“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”
Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.
And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.
No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.
Just open track.
Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”
“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”
P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015.
Now it’s him. Now it’s real.
The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams.
“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”
Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”
He keeps driving.
For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race.
Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.
“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.
“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”
Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.
But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”
He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.
And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.
The world resumes its natural order.
By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.
He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.
When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”
Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.
Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.
And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.
You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”
As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.
Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”
You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.
“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”
Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.
Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.
“You have to break up with her.”
That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.
Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”
“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”
“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”
Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”
“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”
He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”
Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.
Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”
His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”
Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.
The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.
He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.
“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”
Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”
The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up.
You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.
He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.
You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”
You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.
It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.
He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.
It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”
“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”
“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”
“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”
“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”
Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”
You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”
He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.
Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.
Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.
The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”
“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.
You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”
For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”
“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”
Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”
You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”
That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.
He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.
So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”
The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.
Your brows knit. “No?”
Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.
“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”
You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse.
“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”
The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.
Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”
It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—
“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”
Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”
You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”
He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.
You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”
Oh.
Oh.
His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”
Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.
His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.
You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.
When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”
Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.
Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him.
He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.
Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.”
The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.
They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.
But then—then—he sees you.
You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.
“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”
Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”
Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.
He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.
You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.
“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”
You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”
Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”
Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.
“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”
“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”
Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack.
Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday.
For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.
The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.”
His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.
He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise.
The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no.
James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed.
Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.
And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug.
He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.
He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.
Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.
He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.
And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.
Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.
He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.
He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya.
Eight laps.
Six.
His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”
Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in.
The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his.
Four laps.
He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady.
Three laps. Two.
Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.
Final lap.
The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight.
The checkered flag waves.
Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.
The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.
Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”
Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.
That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you.
“Did you see, baby?” Mingyu chokes, voice cracked and breaking. “Are you proud of me?”
the story of you, vernon, and the mortifying ordeal of having a crush.
🌼 pairing. college friends!chwe hansol x reader.
🌼 word count. 4.3k.
🌼 genres/includes. romance, friendship, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. idiots in love, friends to lovers, seungkwan & chan haunt the narrative. title from justin bieber’s daisies.
🌼 footnotes. this was commissioned; i’m currently taking comms for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts!!! read more on where to donate & how to request.
Golden hour hits the campus like a soft-filtered slap. The sky’s doing that dreamy gradient thing, and you’re sitting on a bench outside the Humanities building, knees pulled up, backpack abandoned beside you. There’s a mostly-dead daisy in your hand. You’re picking at its petals with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb defusal or online shopping during a sale.
“Loves me.”
Pluck.
“Loves me not.”
Pluck.
You sigh. Mostly for dramatic effect.
Technically, you’re waiting for Seungkwan to get out of his last class, but he’s already ten minutes late, and the daisy’s giving you more emotional whiplash than a K-drama finale.
“Who’s the victim?” a voice asks.
You jolt. Almost drop the flower. Definitely drop your cool.
Vernon is standing there in the shade, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, the hood halfway up. He’s got his usual unreadable expression on. A mix of sleepy amusement and vaguely judging curiosity.
“No victim,” you say. “Just boredom.”
He nods slowly, as if that tracks. Then, “Seungkwan told me to come get you. He bailed. Something about divine intervention in the form of a class cancellation and a sudden craving for bubble tea.”
Your nose scrunches. “He ditched me?”
“He said ‘forgot to tell you.’ Which, in his defense, sounds better than ‘strategically abandoned.’”
“Debatable.”
Vernon shrugs. He does that a lot. Shrugs, tilts his head, stands just close enough that you can smell his laundry detergent but never close enough to actually touch. It should be maddening. It kind of is.
You glance back at the flower. One sad petal left.
“You gonna finish the ritual or just let it haunt you?” he asks, amusement tinting his tone.
You hesitate. Pluck the final petal.
“Loves me not.”
“Tragic,” he says, deadpan. “I was rooting for you.”
Your laugh is too loud. You regret it immediately.
He doesn’t comment.
You and Vernon exist in the same loosely woven group of friends. Mostly arts kids, mostly unhinged, all chronically online. He’s an English major with the energy of a substitute teacher who’d rather be in a band. You share classes. Group chats. The occasional late-night ramen run.
Every so often, he says something that feels like it should mean more. Looks at you like you’re the main plot instead of comic relief.
But then he’ll yawn in the middle of your sentence or send you TikToks at 3 a.m. without a caption, and you’re back to square one. Uncertain, off-balance, and maybe a little bit whipped.
You pocket the decapitated daisy. “Guess I’m yours now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say with a slightly awkward cough. “You’re my ride. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t argue. He only falls into step beside you, hands still in his pockets. You don’t let yourself look too long. Not when he’s this close. Not when your heartbeat is pretending it’s auditioning for a percussion solo.
He glances sideways at you, then forward again. Says nothing. But you catch it—the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Small. Private.
Dangerous.
You look away before the treacherous crush blooming in your chest can take root. Not that it matters, when you have evil friends with nefarious plans.
After a mostly-silent stroll, you and Vernon step into the cozy chaos that is Brew & Bubbles, a place that smells like brown sugar and impending disaster. The bell above the door jingles with the performative cheer of a sitcom sound effect. There’s indie music playing too softly to be cool and too loudly to ignore.
Seungkwan waves from a corner booth, double fisting two drinks like he’s been waiting for this exact entrance cue. Chan sits across from him, visibly vibrating with excitement as he sips something obscenely purple.
You narrow your eyes. “Why does this feel like a setup?”
“It is a setup,” Vernon says, too calmly, already moving toward the booth.
“What?”
“Look at them.” He gestures lazily with one of his unpocketed hands. “Those are the faces of men with agendas.”
He’s not wrong.
Seungkwan beams like a stage mom. “You made it!”
Chan gestures to the two empty seats. “We got you your usual. Thought it’d be nice to hang out. The four of us. Casually. Totally normal.”
You sit down slowly, like the booth might bite. Vernon slides in next to you without hesitation, shoulder brushing yours in that easy, accidental way that shouldn’t make your heart hammer the way it does.
You glance at the drinks. Yours has a tiny heart drawn on the lid.
“Reaaal subtle, guys,” you grunt.
“Cute, right?” Seungkwan chirps. “I told the barista to give it extra love. For luck.”
Chan’s eyebrows wag. “So,” he says, all casual menace, “any sparks flying yet?”
You choke on your drink. Vernon, somehow, doesn’t blink.
“Pretty sure that’s a fire hazard,” he says wryly.
Chan elbows Seungkwan under the table. Seungkwan stage-whispers, “We’re just saying. You two spend a lot of time together. Like, suspiciously a lot.”
You glare. “I also spend a lot of time with my dog. Should I be worried about that, too?”
“He doesn’t make you laugh like Vernon does,” Seungkwan counters.
Your jaw drops. “Are you seriously comparing my friendship to a rom-com arc right now?”
Chan nods, utterly sincere. “We think you’re a slow burn.”
Vernon sips his drink like this isn’t his circus, isn’t his monkeys, isn’t the literal screenplay of his life being workshopped in front of him.
You glance at him anyway. “Are you hearing this?”
“I stopped listening somewhere around ‘sparks flying,’” he says.
Which is not helpful. But it’s him. And part of you—the traitorous, heart-eyed part—likes that he doesn’t play into their schemes. That he stays just out of reach. That the mystery keeps you on your toes even when you want to shove him off the proverbial ledge and yell just say something.
You settle for stabbing your straw through the lid. The rest of the hangout passes in a blur of teasing comments and overcompensated indifference. Vernon stays exactly as he is. Cool, unreadable, warm in proximity and nowhere else.
When he gets up to leave, he pats Seungkwan’s shoulder. “Thanks for the drink.”
Seungkwan grins. “Thanks for the chemistry.”
“Sure.” He turns to you. “You staying?”
“For now,” you say. “Someone’s gotta keep them from writing fanfiction about us.”
He smiles—tiny, knowing—and leaves without another word. The door closes behind him.
You wait five seconds. Then, you turn on Dumb and Dumber. “What the hell was that?” you seethe.
“This isn’t a YouTube compilation!” you snap. “You can’t just will a relationship into existence because you’re bored and too emotionally invested!”
Chan pouts. “We’re rooting for you.”
“Root for yourselves!”
Seungkwan slurps his drink obnoxiously. “We’d root in silence if you’d just kiss him already.”
You groan. Loudly. Into your palms. Nonetheless, there’s a warmth at the edge of your frustration. A softness that wasn’t there earlier. Because even if you’re chaotic, even if Vernon stays unreadable…
He didn’t say no. He sat next to you. He smiled.
You sip your drink absentmindedly and one of the boba pearls shoots down your throat, distracting you from all thoughts of what-could-be. Vernon remains an enigma for at least another day.
The walls are fake brick and the lights are dim enough to be charming or ominous depending on the playlist. Currently: charming. There’s something retro playing. Maybe Fleetwood Mac, maybe just the alcohol. You can’t tell anymore.
You had hoped—naively, foolishly—that Chan and Seungkwan would get the hint. That after your very impassioned TED Talk about respecting emotional boundaries, they would back off. Give you space. Let you pine in peace.
Instead, they invited you out.
“Just drinks,” Chan had said. “Chill vibes,” Seungkwan had added.
You walked in five minutes ago, and Vernon was already at the bar.
Of course he was.
He’s sitting on a high stool, half-sunk into his varsity jacket, elbow on the bar, hand lazily nursing a glass of something amber. He looks bored in that way he always does. Halfway between here and another universe entirely.
Then he sees you, and he perks up.
It’s subtle. Barely a shift. His spine straightens. His hand lifts in a vague half-wave, like he’s not sure how much effort you deserve tonight. The smile that follows—small, not quite smirk, not quite soft—is unmistakably for you.
You hate how your heart reacts. It’s got no self-respect.
You make your way over, aware of every step, every breath. Chan and Seungkwan are mysteriously missing. Probably in the bathroom plotting your fake wedding or updating their shared doc titled Operation: Will They or Won’t They.
You slide onto the stool next to Vernon. He tilts his head in greeting.
“You made it,” he says.
“You say that like it wasn’t a trap.”
He chuckles. It’s low. Brief. Worth it.
“I figured,” he says. “Seungkwan sent me a GIF of Cupid with a bazooka. Thought it was a meme. Apparently it was an itinerary.”
Your snort earns you an amused glance that lingers.
You order something you won’t regret and take in the neon-stained room. The crowd’s thickening. A group near the back is already doing bad karaoke. It smells like lime and college debt.
“You look nice,” Vernon says suddenly, like he just remembered compliments exist.
You glance at him, trying to ignore the way your pulse has begun to thrum. “You say that like I don’t always.”
He leans in, elbow brushing yours. “That’s on me, then.”
You freeze. Just for a second. “Getting sentimental?” you manage.
“Maybe,” he shoots back. “It’s the lighting.”
You sip your drink to cover the way your brain shorts out. He’s close now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne. Cedar, citrus, something sharp. He turns slightly to hear you better, head tilted, lips parted slightly as he soundlessly mouths to the song that’s playing. It’s the kind of attention that makes you forget your own point.
You say something halfway coherent. He laughs. A real one this time. For a beat, it feels like the rest of the bar drops out of focus.
Then someone bumps your chair. You shift instinctively. He reaches out—steadying hand at the small of your back. It’s only a second’s worth of a touch, but your whole body registers it like gospel.
He doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t need to.
You talk a little more. About nothing and everything. A shared professor who clearly hates joy. A mutual friend’s new hair. The way campus feels different at night.
And then, he’s standing, lips pursed in a somewhat apologetic grin. “I’ve got an early class,” he says. “Should probably pretend I’m a responsible adult.”
You nod. Too fast. Too neutral.
He looks at you for a long moment. Like he wants to say something else. What comes out—
“Text me when you get home, yeah?”
You nod. Slower this time, to show that you fully intend to do what he’s asking of you. “Yeah.”
His smile tilts just to the right side of fond and disappears into the night. You stay there, nursing your fruity cocktail and the shambles of your emotional maturity.
Your friends reappear five minutes later, suspiciously smug. “You good?” Seungkwan asks as he steals a sip from your drink.
Chan, from behind him, sing-songs, “You look dazed. Something happen?”
You don’t answer.
You just stare at the door Vernon left through.
And feel your heart, traitorous as ever, whisper: Again. Please. Again.
They’re dragging you out for a detour less than seven minus later. The dive bar’s door swings shut behind you; the air is cooler now, biting at your cheeks and tugging at your sleeves. Seungkwan and Chan stumble out after you, loud and loose, mid-argument about something both extremely trivial and deeply urgent.
“Just say it’s better with pineapple!” Chan is insisting, arms flailing the same way one might orchestrate a concerto.
“It’s a war crime on dough,” Seungkwan declares, clutching his phone as if it’s a mic. “I will die on this hill. And be buried with dignity.”
You’re just about to jump in when you catch sight of Vernon.
He’s just down the sidewalk, hood up, face lit by the blue glow of his phone screen. One hand’s jammed in his pocket. The other holds a cigarette.
You stop walking.
He looks up. Notices you. Offers a small nod—neither invitation nor dismissal. Just presence.
“Uber problems?” you ask, approaching tentatively.
He exhales smoke and frustration in the same breath. “App’s crashing. Or maybe I’m cursed.”
Behind you, Seungkwan screeches something about culinary betrayal, and Chan almost trips over a bike rack.
You ignore the circus. Eyes on Vernon. On the cigarette.
He catches the shift in your expression. How your mouth goes tight, how your arms cross twitch at your sides. “What?” he asks, voice edged with softness and amusement.
You hesitate. Then shrug, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere near obvious discomfort. “Just—never liked the smell,” you say. “Of smoke. Cigarettes.”
He watches you for a beat. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. Then, without a word, he flicks the cigarette to the ground and steps on it.
You’re pretty sure you’ll die if you think too hard about it.
“That your ride?” Chan slurs behind you, pointing as a car pulls up to the curb.
Vernon glances at his phone. “Yeah.”
He looks at you again. Doesn’t explain himself. Doesn’t make a joke. “Night,” he only says with a curt nod.
“Night,” you echo.
He gets in. The door shuts. The car drives off. You stand there longer than necessary.
You tell yourself: it didn’t mean anything, didn’t mean anything, didn’t mean anything. It’s not a gesture. You’re not about to read into a man putting out a cigarette just because you didn’t like it.
Seungkwan, unrepentant, appears at your side, dramatic sigh at the ready. “He quit smoking for you. That’s, like, two Taylor Swift songs at minimum.”
“Shut up,” you groan, even as your ribs echo with the sound of Vernon’s lighter never flicking back on.
It’s been days since the dive bar.
Since Vernon’s hand on the small of your back. Since the cigarette stubbed out like a secret you weren’t meant to see.
You should be over it by now. You should be thinking about normal things. Laundry, overdue assignments, how your shampoo is running out. Not pacing your room like a B-movie detective unraveling a case called The Mystery of How to Text Your Friend Who You’re Definitely Not In Love With.
He’s your friend.
You’re friends.
You’ve split fries together. You’ve watched him cry-laugh at Seungkwan’s impressions. You’ve seen him lose rock-paper-scissors five times in a row with terrifying consistency. There is no reason to feel like you’re defusing a bomb every time you try to open your messages with him.
And yet, here you are. Phone in hand. Sweating like someone who’s been accused of a crime. The crime? Caring.
Your chest feels like a glass overfilled at the lip. One more drop, and the whole thing goes.
“No one’s gonna die if you text him,” you mutter to yourself, pacing tight circles near your bed. “Probably. Statistically. Probably.”
You scroll through your message history. It’s a minimalist masterpiece. A museum of almosts. The Louvre of lowercase apathy. Vernon, in his monosyllables and dry sarcasm. You’re not even mad. You’re just—
“Haunted by hope,” you whisper, tragically.
You type: hey, u alive?
Delete.
Then: survived any more haunted ubers lately?
Delete. Too obvious. Too thirsty. Too normal.
You toss your phone onto the be, and it bounces to the edge. You snatch it back two seconds later like you didn’t just swear off texting for the next calendar year. Fuck it.
You: hey
Send.
Bold. Revolutionary. Absolutely useless.
The typing bubble appears anyway.
Your heart performs a circus trick. Then crashes through the safety net. Then disappears.
Reappears, when your phone pings.
Vernon: yo
You stare. At the lowercase. At the casual brutality of it. It’s a brush-off in Helvetica.
You: good talk
You: inspiring, really
More dots.
Vernon: u started it
You squint at your screen like it owes you answers. It does not oblige.
You: and regretting it every second
Vernon: rude
A beat. You almost toss the phone again. Almost declare emotional bankruptcy. Almost pretend this never happened and go hyperfixate on folding laundry.
But then Vernon double texts.
Vernon: was thinking abt what u said. abt the smoking
You freeze mid-step. Mid-thought. Mid-breath. A third text comes in.
Vernon: wasn’t tryna be that guy. my bad.
You sit, hard, as if gravity has remembered you all at once. This can’t be real. It makes no sense whatsoever. Your fingers are shaking a bit as you type out a response.
You: you weren’t being That Guy. i was just being weird about it lol
Vernon: still. thanks for tellin me
You: … thanks for listening.
Silence. But not the kind that makes you spiral. The kind that settles. Like weight you didn’t know you needed. You’d be happy for it to end there, but it keeps going. You’re surprised you haven’t keeled over just yet.
Vernon: u get dinner yet?
You: are you offering or being nosy?
Vernon: both
You: i ate. but i’ll pretend i didn’t if you need a reason to hang out 😛
No typing bubble. Regret kicks you in the teeth. “Too soon,” you hiss to yourself, “too soon, too soon.”
You: ignore me lol
He does not ignore you.
Vernon: tomorrow?
You stare at the text for more time than what is probably socially accepted. .
You: sure
Vernon: cool. i’ll find a non-haunted ride this time
You: try not to dissolve in the rain.
Vernon: no promises lololol
You let the phone drop into your lap. Stare at the ceiling like it might offer clarity.
You have no idea what any of this means.
It’s objectively not a date. Probably.
You’ve replayed the chat thread so many times, your phone autocorrects ‘Vernon’ to ‘??’ Which feels about right. He's always been something of a question mark—smirking in the margins, sliding in and out of conversations like he’s allergic to attention unless he’s in the mood for it. Which is rare. Which is why this dinner is driving you a little insane.
It’s just fast food. Greasy trays. Fluorescent lights. A place that smells like deep-fried childhood and broken soft serve machines. Someone’s toddler is screaming in the corner. The soda fountain is wheezing.
Romance is clearly dead. If this is a date, it’s on life support.
So you dress down. Hoodie. Jeans. Sneakers you pretend you didn’t clean an hour ago. Maybe you spent ten minutes deciding which hoodie felt the most effortlessly chill—whatever. Not a date.
And yet, you still nearly trip over yourself walking in.
Vernon’s already there. Leaned back in a booth, hood halfway up, eyes on his phone. One leg outstretched. He looks up when you arrive, and—okay, maybe this is in your head—but you swear he sits up straighter again.
“Hey,” you say, like you haven’t been sweating bullets over how to greet him. A hug? A nod? A secret handshake you invent on the spot and immediately regret?
“Hey,” he says, and gestures at the seat across from him with a fry. Casual. As if he doesn’t know this is the most one-on-one time you’ve ever spent together.
You sit. He pushes the tray toward you. Two burgers. One with pickles removed. Your usual.
“Wait, how’d you—?”
“You always complain about pickles when we go out. Figured I’d save you the drama.”
You want to make a joke about him being observant in a suspiciously romantic way, but your brain’s too busy melting.
He’s wearing a crewneck under the hoodie. You recognize it from a photo on Seungkwan’s Instagram. Something dumb with everyone squished into a karaoke booth. You remember thinking, back then, that Vernon looked good in grey. You think it again now. It feels more dangerous this time.
The thing about Vernon is—he’s different when there’s a crowd. Not shy, just… relaxed to the point of invisibility. He surfaces with a dry comment or a weirdly insightful take, then vanishes again. A fog. A vibe. The kind that lingers in your hoodie when you get home and wonder why your heart hurts a little.
Right now, across this chipped laminate table, he’s more present than he’s ever been. Louder. Looser. Smiling with his whole mouth, not just the left corner. Making a dumb face when the ketchup packet explodes. Leaning in when you talk like there’s nothing else in this sticky, half-lit room worth noticing.
“D’you remember that time Seungkwan tried to stage an intervention because I missed two group dinners in a row?” he says, mid-chew.
“He made PowerPoint slides.”
“With transitions.”
“Sound effects.”
“And a Where Is Vernon Now? map graphic.”
You laugh. God, you actually laugh. Loud enough that the toddler stops screaming for a second.
Conversation happens in fits and starts. Never awkward, just stretchy. It’s a sweater being pulled over your head. Sometimes Vernon says something and you stare, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Sometimes he stares at you like he’s trying to figure out the same.
He asks you what you’ve been reading lately and listens. Not just head-nodding, waiting-for-his-turn-to-talk listening. Real listening. The kind that makes you feel like maybe you are a little bit interesting, actually. The kind that makes you want to say more, just to see how he’ll look at you when you do.
At some point, your fries disappear. The table’s a battlefield of crumpled napkins and half-laughs. Vernon leans back, stretches like a cat, eyes lazy but bright. You want to ask him a hundred things and none at all.
It’s not a date.
But if it were, it’d be a good one.
Actually, even if it’s not—it still is.
The walk back after is slow, reluctant. Each step is a study in nonchalance, which of course means you’re hyper-aware of everything: your aglet tapping the pavement, the rustle of his hoodie sleeve every time your arms almost touch.
You keep your hands in your pockets. Mostly so you don’t do anything stupid. Like grab his sleeve. Or his hand. Or his face. Your brain has become a carousel of forbidden actions, spinning with possibility and peril.
Vernon’s walking just a little closer than usual. Shoulders brushing sometimes, sometimes not. It’s maddening. It’s intoxicating. It’s so subtle it makes you want to scream. He’s not saying much, which would usually make you spiral, but for once, the silence feels like it’s holding something, not avoiding it.
Vernon’s a creature of mild vanishings. Soundless exits. Doorframes hovered in. But he’s here now. Walking next to you. Not looking away.
The street’s quiet beyond the shuffle of shoes and the low whirr of campus lamplight buzzing overhead. The moon’s doing its best impression of a spotlight. It’s cinematic, if you squint. You open your mouth—close it. You try again.
“So… this was fun,” you say lamely.
“Yeah,” he says. Smiles sideways. “Even though it was objectively not a date.”
Your laugh comes out half a breath. “Right. Obviously.”
It hangs there. In the space between one lamp post and the next. The kind of moment that begs to be broken, or filled, or maybe just stared at until it transforms into something else.
Then, suddenly—he stops walking.
You halt too, almost stumbling. “What?”
He crouches, poking at a crack in the sidewalk.
“Are you—are you scavenging?”
“Reclaiming,” he says, and stands. In his hand: a daisy. A little bent, a little dirt-speckled, but unmistakably whole.
Your heart stutters.
He holds it out to you. “Saw you do this once. Thought we’d give it a try again tonight.”
There’s a second where you think he’s joking. Vernon’s like that. Always two layers beneath whatever he says. This, conversely, feels unfiltered.
As if the laws of physics have agreed to take the night off, you both find yourself standing under a streetlight, trading daisy plucks like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Loves me.”
“Loves me not.”
Your fingers brush as the petals fall. One by one. Casual. Careful. Calibrated. You’re very aware of how close your shoulders are now. Of the heat lingering at the edge of each breath.
“Loves me.”
“Loves me not.”
Your voice wavers. There’s one petal left.
He doesn’t reach for it.
You glance at him, and the look on his face is—
Soft. Expectant.
“Loves—”
He kisses you before you can finish.
There’s no frenzy, no rush. This is certain and slow, like a sentence he’s been waiting to say for weeks and finally found the words for. Loves you.
Your eyes flutter shut. The daisy slips from your hand, landing somewhere between your shoes. Crushed under the weight of prophecy fulfilled.
It’s all so simple, which is the wildest part. There’s no swelling music. No thunderclap. Just the press of his mouth, the hand that moves instinctively to your waist, the inhale you both forget to take.
Because now you’re thinking of the way he remembers your order. The way he lights up when he sees you. The way he puts out cigarettes without making you ask. The way he never made a big deal of any of it.
You’re thinking of every almost. Every not-a-date. Every sidelong glance across a room. The time he offered you his hoodie without asking. The way he noticed you hate pickles. The way his leg would nudge yours under the table, the way he’s let your friends poke and prod because there are worse than being teased with somebody you actually do kind of like.
And how maybe—maybe—he’s felt this way since the very beginning.
You pull back just enough to whisper: “So… you sure this wasn’t a date?”
You feel the curve of his grin as he chases your mouth for another kiss.
“Well,” he breathes against your lips, “it is now.”
summary: eren yeager is spiderman. of course, nobody knows. not even you. not yet.
pairings: spiderman!eren yeager x reader
genre: college/university au, fluff, angst
a/n: this is part six of a short story! it is also posted on my ao3 <3 other parts linked on my masterlist!
🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷
You dropped him, not thinking.
Spiderman—Eren—caught his own footing and then said, “I’m really sorry, I tried to get there as fast as I could, but you were already hurt by then.” He glanced down guiltily, and then continued, “I should have—,”
“Eren,” you repeated, eyes flickering between his face and his suit, the red and blue markings of the superhero that had become so familiar to you. You couldn’t—couldn’t put it together. Eren opened his mouth to explain, but nothing really came out, and so the two of you stood in silence for a long moment, at a standstill.
“I—shit,” he said at last, inelegantly.
“Eren,” you said again, this time more insistently, “You…” you stepped closer to him, eyes wide. You couldn’t quite pinpoint what you were feeling. Shock, for sure. Betrayal? No, not quite. Fear? Concern? All of your emotions mixed together to form a storm of uncertainty that made you search Eren’s familiar face for answers—his green eyes, dark brows, brown hair that flopped over his forehead. He looked earnest, but his brow was furrowed in guilt, maybe a bit of shame.
“Yeah,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes, “It’s my fault that you’ve been…” he swallowed, “getting in all this trouble.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, reaching out to touch you but then stopping, hesitating, halfway. “I’m not. I should have been more careful that time, and the villains would never have targeted you the way they have been—,”
“Eren,” you cut him off, grabbing him by his arm, making him pause and look at where you were touching him, “You saved me.”
“I…” his eyes dragged from where you were holding him, upwards, slowly, until he met your eyes. You hated how uncertain he looked. It wasn’t like him.
“You can shut the fuck up about putting me in danger,” you continued, your grip on his arm tightening, “If you hadn’t shown up that day the robbery occurred, all those months ago, I would have been stabbed then and there.” You released his arm, and it slipped back to his side slowly.
He studied you, his eyes full of so much emotion, guilt morphing to gratitude, to adoration, to—
The next thing he said was your name, and then he said it again, gaze not leaving yours. “I’m really,” he swallowed, “I’m really sorry for disappearing that day, at the party.” Suddenly, he looked dejected as he explained, “I really wanted to walk you home, that day. You looked so pretty,” his hand came up and touched your face, softly. Your eyes shuttered.
“And then afterwards,” he said, “I was dead on my feet for days. I couldn’t—that’s why I wasn’t able to be around, and I’m sorry for making you worry.”
“That’s,” you shook your head, a bit incredulous, “That’s nothing, Eren. You’re literally fucking Spiderman.”
You knew the moment the words left your lips that Eren wouldn’t be able to help himself, and the immediate curve of his mouth confirmed your suspicions when he rebutted, “I’m not exactly fucking Spiderman.”
“Shut the hell up,” you grumbled, hitting him on the shoulder hard enough for him to wince, “I knew you were going to say that.” And yet, even as you tried your very hardest to feign annoyance, you couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face, matching Eren’s own expression. “You’re so irritating,” you added, rolling your eyes.
“You love me,” he said in a sing-song voice, and you responded by dragging him to the couch and shoving him to sit down, turning away to dig around for your first aid kit in your drawer so that he couldn’t see the blush on your face.
“Take off your suit,” you instructed when you finally returned back to the couch, your composure successfully restored.
“Bossy, today,” Eren replied, but he complied anyway, leaving him in a much more normal outfit, just a regular t-shirt and—well, he wasn’t wearing pants, leaving him in just his underwear, so you tried not to look.
“You’re not wearing pants,” you pointed out, inspecting the damage that had been done to his face. Most of the wounds had begun to heal, like they usually did when you patched him up, and with your recent revelations of his identity, the phenomenon made a lot more sense.
“No,” he agreed easily, “have you seen how tight the spandex suit is? You try wear that thing over jeans.” He pointed at the costume that was now in an unorganised heap on the floor. You frowned at it. Was it really okay to leave a high-tech suit like that just on your living room floor? Shouldn’t he at least fold it up?
As if reading your mind, Eren said, “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t get wrinkled.”
You snorted, “I just thought a superhero would take better care of his things, that’s all.” You settled on taking a cotton ball and dabbing away the blood that was still left on his face, even after his cuts and bruises had mostly faded away.
“I take very good care of the things that matter,” Eren corrected, taking hold of your hand meaningfully, forcing you to pause in your dabbing. For a moment, the air between the two of you seemed to stand still.
This time there was nowhere for you to hide your blush. Instead, you sputtered out, “You—you’re impossible.” You bit your lip to try to stop your smile, but Eren tsked, his fingers brushing gently over your mouth to make you release it.
“Don’t do that,” he said , “I want to see your pretty smile.”
Stunned speechless. That was what you were, even as your face felt hotter than the sun. Eren grinned at you, seeming very happy with himself. Then, he stood and said, “You sit, now. You’re probably beat up worse than me.” He took you by your shoulders and sat you down in the same spot he had just been, plucking the cotton ball from between your fingers.
Still feeling a little stupefied, you struggled to control your heart rate when Eren tossed the used cotton and replaced it with a new one, cleaning you up the same way you had done for him.
“You reckon you need the hospital?” Eren said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was soft, and you felt your breath hitch as his fingers brushed over your lips again, “You were hit pretty hard.”
“I feel fine.” You said over the sound of your racing heartbeat.
He made a noise that sounded a little like disagreement, but at your insistent glare he relented, “We’ll go later if you feel any worse, then.”
The two of you fell into a comfortable silence for a bit, but Eren seemed deep in thought. When he was finally done, he tossed the used first aid equipment into the bin, helped you pack up the first aid kit in its usual draw, and then settled down quietly in the seat next to you.
Abruptly, he pulled you into his side, and your breath caught in your throat as you suddenly felt so warm—so safe, and it was strange, that things were so different yet still the same. Always the same. This was Eren, your friend, your best friend, the same guy who never failed to make your heart skip a beat, make you blush like nobody else seemed to be able to do, and you couldn’t help the sigh that slipped from your lips when he took your hand in his.
He said your name, and you turned to look at him. The sunlight in the window was slipping into evening, the living room darkening. Had it really been so long that it was turning to night, now? What remained of the slivers of sunlight cast shadows across Eren’s face that made him look ethereal in a way that almost flustered you.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he confessed, the words seeming to release the tension that had hung like a taut string in the air, electrifying the room. “For a really, really long time.”
“Eren…”
Finally, he turned, interlacing your fingers with his absently as he continued, almost like he couldn’t stop, “I’ve never felt like this before. Every time I look at you, it’s like you’re…” he searched for the word while his emerald eyes searched your face, “you’re just…everything,” he decided, settling on the word after a brief pause, “and I’ve never wanted to protect something—someone—so badly in my life.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing. You were unable to look away from him, as though there was an irresistable pull between your gazes, like the inevitable attraction between the two poles of a magnet, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You opened your mouth to reply—you had no idea what—your heartbeat was thundering, but before you could say anything, Eren continued, braving on.
“I’d like to keep protecting you,” he said, “loving you. If you’ll let me.”
Love.
That was what this was. This pull, the moments where you felt like you couldn’t think of anything but him. Suddenly, the world felt like it had melted away, and as the last of the sunlight slipped from the sky, leaving the glow of the moon illuminating your small living room, you breathed, “Eren, you mean…” your own throat bobbed.
“I love you,” he affirmed, almost pleadingly, his eyes wide with earnest, “I love you.”
You squeezed his hand, suddenly feeling out of breath, “Eren, you’ll always have me. I…I’ve wanted you for a long time, too,” you admitted, thinking of all the times your heart had leapt when he knocked on your front door, the late nights spent cooking or watching movies or doing mundane things. All the times you’d cleaned up his injuries while he ranted about his schoolwork, his trouble with his friends, all of his worries. You thought of Spiderman, how he had never failed to appear whenever you needed help, whenever you were in trouble. You thought of Spiderman, the superhero who had walked you home.
Your voice welled with emotion when you confessed, “I love you, too.”
It was almost cathartic. As the words hung in the air, you swore you felt a weight lift from your shoulders. Then, Eren was beaming—his smile so bright it almost made up for the lack of sunlight in the room, his eyes sparkling like jewels as he took your face in his hands and said, softly, “Spiderman’s girl, right?”
You flushed, leaning into the warmth of his hand against your skin, “No,” you put your hands on his sides, gentle, and then dragged your touch up, across his chest, to his shoulders, then finally interlaced your fingers around the back of his neck, “Eren’s.”
He made a choking noise that made you let out a quiet laugh, but—
Warm.
Eren was kissing you—your laugh fading into the evening air as his grip on your face became firmer. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you leant into his touch. His kiss was gentle, probing, a little bit uncertain, but his hands were secure as he tugged you into his lap, as though he wanted every inch of you to be pressed against him.
“Eren,” you gasped when his lips trailed down towards your jaw, down to your neck, and he groaned, pressing his face into your skin. You tangled your fingers in his dark hair and tugged, your face flushed as you tilted back to let him kiss down the column of your throat. His hands slid down your sides and settled at your waist, squeezing the skin there in a way that made you shudder with want.
“You’re,” he managed, “so beautiful.”
Your pulse stuttered when you met his eyes—pupils blown so that the green of his eyes was consumed with black, lips flushed a soft pink from your kiss. Under the moonlight, his skin seemed to glow with silver light, and you couldn’t help it—you gripped him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him into another bruising kiss. This time, the kiss was hungry, greedy—you pulled harder at his shirt to get him infinitely closer to you, whimpering when he bit at your lip. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. Your whole body pulsed with heat, feeling his hands trail up your shirt, his touch cool against your burning skin.
“Fuck Spiderman,” he murmured into your mouth, “I’ll just kiss you forever.”
“Thought you weren’t fucking Spiderman,” you retorted playfully, breath still heavy.
Eren’s glare was sharp and playfully unimpressed, but it only served to heat you up more, and then suddenly the two of you were losing yourselves in each other, the light of the moon the only witness to your love.
***
“I feel like,” you remarked, “you villains need to come up with something new one of these days.”
“Shut up, bitch,” the criminal snapped, threateningly dangling you over the edge. It was a bridge, this time, so you didn’t even find yourself feeling too scared. It was miles lower than the Freedom Tower, and it looked like even if you fell, you’d get a nice, cushioned landing into the water, anyway.
Not how that works, Eren’s voice seemed to grumble in the back of your mind, and you couldn’t help the smile that tilted up the corners of your lips at the memory. He’d been so annoyed this morning when you’d suggested this idea to him, after he’d mentioned his struggles in trying to catch this particular criminal character with his past few attempts.
“Spiderman’s gonna come for you,” the criminal threatened darkly, “and then we’ll get him for good, this time.”
You snorted, “Spiderman’s gonna come for you.”
Your kidnapper let out a loud, frustrated yell and moved to hit you, but it was suddenly cut short as he was smashed into the ground by a large, flying object.
A large, flying…car? Yes, sure enough, a car had gone soaring right in front of you, smashing the criminal underneath its weight, the metal crumpling a bit at the impact, the glass of the windows shattering as it landed.
And then, before you could fully register the police that were arriving on the scene, the sound of sirens and the car alarms going off nearby from the shaking of the ground, you were snatched right off your feet and suddenly you were flying through the air, swinging through the city.
“It worked,” you said smugly to your saviour, who only grumbled in annoyance. Spiderman’s grip on you was familiar and comforting, but he pointedly ignored you as he swung you through the city. So, you continued to prod, “I told you it would.”
“I don’t like using you as bait,” he finally replied, sounding very unhappy.
“It turned out fine,” you insisted, “you got him in one go!” You raised your fist as if to give him a fist bump and laughed when he smacked it away, feigning annoyance even though you knew he was amused. You could just tell. It was like a sixth sense. A spidey-sense.
“You’re ridiculous,” Spiderman insisted, “We’re never doing that again.”
“I think we will.”
“You’re gonna be in danger—again,” he argued, yelling over the sound of the wind whipping against your faces.
“I’m not really in danger,” you pointed out, “I always know you’ve got me.”
Finally, he looked down at you. His gaze was soft, this time, the eyes of his visor widened affectionately as he heaved a sigh of relent, giving in to you. He’d let you win, this time.
summary: eren yeager is spiderman. of course, nobody knows. not even you. not yet.
pairings: spiderman!eren yeager x reader
genre: college/university au, fluff, angst
a/n: this is part five of a short story! it is also posted on my ao3 <3 other parts linked on my masterlist!
🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷
eren’s perspective
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Eren hesitated as he passed by his suit, scrunched up on the floor by his bed. He thought over if he might need to bring it—he was only going over to hang out with you so there shouldn’t be anything that comes up. Besides, he was doing all of this unpaid labour anyway—the police could take care of the city for a few hours…
Right?
Just as he reached for the doorknob, the memory of you dangling off the edge of the Freedom Tower crept into his mind unbidden, and he immediately turned back to grab it. Yes, the police could take care of the city, but he had to take care of you.
Just in case, Eren told himself as he stuffed the to the bottom of his bag, zipping it up securely. Just in case.
Jean was gaming in his room, like usual, and as far as Eren knew, their other housemates were at uni, so he was able to slip out uninterrupted. It was a short walk over to your place on campus, and as he took in the sight of the city in the afternoon, Eren was glad that for once, the two of you were meeting at a perfectly reasonable hour. The past few times he’d seen you had been late, after his patrols through the city, or that one time after rescuing you from certain death.
As he made his way through the streets, he texted you to let you know that he was on his way. You responded that you were returning from doing groceries at the supermarket and that you should be able to meet him at your door. Eren was unable to help the upturn of his lips when you followed your message with a picture of your grocery basket, at the top of which sat a bag of mini mint chocolate Kit Kat bars. The very same ones you hated but he loved. And a bag of berry-flavoured sourpatch kids.
you: got ur favs
eren: i could kiss u rn
He switched off his phone before he could see your reply, feeling really satisfied with himself. Teasing you was always fun, and he loved how you pretended to be unbothered despite your unwilling blush. It was cute as hell.
Eren was barely fifteen minutes into his walk when he felt it. That unmistakeable sense of dread that overwhelmed him, made him stop in his tracks, made the people walking behind him trip over his feet and slam into his back.
You.
You were in trouble.
Even as the other pedestrians cursed at him for stopping for no reason in the middle of the street, Eren couldn’t manage a reply. He could barely regain his bearings, and it took him several precious seconds longer than it should have for him to take a turn into a discrete alleyway to get his suit on.
You.
His senses were screaming at him—danger, danger, danger—and he was lightning as he pulled himself to the rooftops, flinging himself between buildings towards exactly where you were—where his sixth sense was taking him.
What the fuck was going on? Criminals didn’t usually commit robberies in broad daylight like this, and Eren ran through the list of possibilities rapidly, hissing in frustration and dread. He imagined, again, you, dangling off the edge of the Freedom Tower and—
No, there was no way it was a criminal. You were fine. You had to be. Unless…unless…
Eren swore, loudly. There was no way it was—
His worst fears were confirmed when he laid eyes on the scene, soaring in from above. You were there, crouched against the storefront, coughing up blood as the unmistakeable figure of Nanowraith raised his boot and slammed it against your chest once, twice—trapping you against the wall as the crowd screamed and fled the scene.
There was the sound of smashing glass and concrete as Nanowraith’s blaster fired and you dodged it by a hair’s breadth. Eren didn’t think. He just moved. He wasn’t even sure if he could win this, but he didn’t think.
He swung his fist.
***
your perspective
“Get the fuck away from me!” You yelled, pulling the little boy behind you. You were trying to get to a good spot for him to run away, but there was no way that would happen now—he would just get shot if he tried to flee. You had just been grocery shopping and thinking about Eren’s text messages and thinking about Eren—when suddenly the store had exploded and this boy had gotten caught up in the mess with you—
Your heart was thundering in your chest. This child was a bystander in an attack that was obviously meant for you. It was perfectly clear that Nanowraith’s intention had been to capture you or perhaps kill you to lure Spiderman out, or get to him, or something, and your mind was racing to think of ways to get this boy to safety.
Nanowraith’s face was even more gruesome close up and in person. He had red, glowing snake eyes that looked to be some sort of mask—maybe part of his suit? His body was reinforced with all sorts of machinery and technology, and when he spoke, his tongue was forked, his canines sharper than the glass that had shattered around you.
“Spiderman not around?” Nanowraith taunted, blasting the concrete at your feet in an act of intimidation, blowing you backwards so hard that you hit your head hard against the glass of the storefront. In the chaos, you shoved the little boy to the side, shoved him out of the way, and you cast a glance at him to make sure somebody had taken him before turning your glare back to the villain that was storming towards you.
“The best way to defeat a superhero,” the villain continued, “is to kill what’s most dear to them.” With a blow to your chest, and another, and a third, you couldn’t help the blood that you choked out, which Nanowraith watched with a sadistic laugh. He raised his arm, aiming his blaster at you. You were almost hit—the sound so deafening your ears rung, missing it by just a hairs breadth, and then—
BANG!
Suddenly, the reptilian villain was slammed into the ground, and there was nothing but a blur of red, blue and black as Nanowraith skidded across the concrete, scraping from the impact, and then your eyes focused and it was Spiderman—of course it was. Of course it was Spiderman, the same hero who somehow always knew when to show up, when you needed his help.
Despite the emergency unravelling in front of your eyes, you mourned your plans with Eren, which you would inevitably have to miss now. Would you even survive to see him again? You really weren’t sure.
Spiderman was holding his own, this time, seeming much angrier than usual. He wasn’t even speaking like he usually did in his fights—instead, he was fully zeroed in on each movement, and seemed to be purposefully drawing the villain away from you, until—
You screamed when Nanowraith blasted directly at his face. The superhero managed to move, but it still hit his shoulder, grazing his suit and revealing reddened, bloody skin underneath. The hero didn’t seem put off, but you could barely hear anything over the rushing of your blood. You tried to get up, tried to—
“Run!” Spiderman yelled out at you, even when another one of Nanowraith’s hits landed on his jaw, sending him skidding backwards. Persistently, Spiderman immediately flung himself forward with his web, dodging Nanowraith’s attack with just enough speed to retaliate and regain the villain’s attention. Still, he was clearly at a disadvantage—the villain was unharmed and Spiderman was bleeding, even as his shoulder wound seemed to seal up before your very eyes.
You couldn’t stand by and do nothing. There was no way. Spiderman was your saviour—he had put himself before villains for you countless amount of times, for a reason you couldn’t quite comprehend. He’d walked you home, had comforted you, had made sure you got back safe even though he didn’t have to. You could barely feel your own injuries with the adrenaline that was rushing through your veins, the roaring in your ears.
It was with this that you gritted your teeth and took hold of one of the pieces of broken metal railing—a long, heavy thing that had broken off from the sidewalk when Nanowraith had blasted at the concrete, and you stood, eyes alight with fire.
BAM!
With all the force you could manage, you slammed the metal into Nanowraith’s back. He was hard as the metal, and the impact almost made you stumble but it made him stumble more—caught him off guard.
Caught him off guard enough for Spiderman to grab a hold of his arm and slam him into the ground, pinning him down.
“Don’t,” Spiderman growled, his breaths heavy, “touch her.”
Without hesitation, Spiderman delivered blow after blow after blow to the villain, cracking at his rock-hard suit until the black metal of Nanowraith’s armour was cracking, shattering under the impacts. All you could hear was cracking glass, cracking metal, cracking concrete as the villain was beaten into the ground.
The concrete was smashed under the force, and when Nanowraith was completely done for—not dead, you noted, but passed out, incapacitated, armour and blasters destroyed, that was when the police appeared.
Convenient, you cursed, what the fuck was law enforcement doing this whole time? Did they not once think to help?
When they finally took the incapacitated villain away, Spiderman was still breathing heavily, staring at the indent that he’d made in the ground.
Slowly, he turned to look at you, “You…you’re okay?” He said quietly, between breaths.
“Y-yeah,” you told him, heart still racing.
“That’s good,” he said, “Really…really good—,”
Without warning, the superhero collapsed, right into your arms.
***
Where do you take an injured superhero after a brawl with a villain?
That was a question you thought you’d never need to ask yourself. In the chaos of the aftermath, you’d slipped away, not wanting to be questioned by anybody. Especially not the press.
You were in no state to talk. In fact, you were pretty sure you were badly injured from the shrapnel and how hard Nanowraith had kicked you, but you couldn’t let yourself succumb to it—refused to collapse as you took the superhero to your place.
It was ridiculous, if you thought about it. You almost wanted to laugh. What had your life come to? It only made sense to take Spiderman to your place—where else could you go? You prayed that in the chaos, nobody would question it. You had half a mind to cover his face with your jacket so that nobody would notice.
By some miracle you managed to make it back home in one piece, panting and struggling to catch your breath from carrying a full-grown man. For once, you were grateful that you lived on the first floor.
It was after you’d shut your front door behind you, Spiderman leant against your side like a dead weight, that he finally stirred.
The first word out of his mouth was your name. You weren’t looking at him, your gaze fixated on the couch where you were planning on putting him.
Then, “I—I’m sorry I’m late.”
“What are you talking about?” You scoffed.
“We were meant to meet at your door, right?”
You froze.
When you turned to face him, heart thundering, Spiderman was taking off his mask with bloodied hands.
The curve of a familiar smile was the first thing you saw, and then the cheekbones, then a pair of wide green eyes, and then you realised—
You stumbled back. You weren’t sure you were breathing.
hi!! i just wanted to tell you how much i love your spider-man series, its actually so heartwarming. also i admire the fact that you’re literally more than halfway done with it within 2 days, thats actually insane my lazy ass could never. anyways, love you sm!!
hii i'm so so glad to hear it, i'm having lots of fun writing it hahaha! lots of love <3
summary: eren yeager is spiderman. of course, nobody knows. not even you. not yet.
pairings: spiderman!eren yeager x reader
genre: college/university au, fluff, angst
a/n: this is part four of a short story! it is also posted on my ao3, linked here <3 other parts linked on my masterlist!
🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷
your perspective
When nobody answered after your third knock on the door, you let yourself in. Whoever had left last had left it hanging half open. As dangerous as that was, especially at this time of night, you were grateful that it made it much easier for you to get in. You slipped through the familiar walkway towards Eren’s room.
You’d visited Eren a fair few times, and then come over to do work with Jean sometimes on your shared lab reports, so it was safe to say that you found your way to Eren’s room pretty easily. There didn’t seem to be anyone home, save for the sounds of gaming and yelling coming from Jean’s door which was right opposite Eren’s.
Hesitantly, you called out, “Eren?”
There was no reply, and you peeked through his half-open door to see that the room was empty, not a trace of the boy in sight. The sight, though—it was chaos. Eren had never been tidiest guy, but it was always a relatively normal amount of mess. Today, though, the carpeted floor of his room was covered in paper, each a various amount of scrunched up. They were full of diagrams, scribbles, plans that looked too high-tech for you to comprehend.
His bed was unmade, as if he’d just jumped straight out of it. The window was ajar, letting in a breeze that rustled the empty food packets that were strewn over his desk. It all looked to be freshly eaten—as in, it seemed like he’d been cooped up in here, living off snacks without going out to make proper food. Your brow furrowed when you caught sight of his computer, still open on one of the most recent articles about Spiderman.
It was one about you, actually—at least, speculation about Nanowraith’s most recent comments about Spiderman’s supposed girlfriend. There was an extremely unflattering image of you hanging off the Freedom Tower, but your face was too blurry to be recognisable. It was so zoomed in that all you could see was a blur of pixels, for which you were grateful. You hadn’t done your makeup that day, you scoffed.
“Looking for Eren?”
You turned, and Jean was there, his headphones around his neck and a can of coke in his hands. He leant against his own doorframe, giving you a sideways smile.
“Oh, yeah,” you said, suddenly feeling like you’d been caught doing something really sneaky even though you really hadn’t been.
“Think he went out,” Jean told you, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door, “Don’t know where, though. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” You shook your head with a small smile, “I just wanted to check that he was okay after he ran off at the party that time.”
In fact, you’d been swamped with worry over the past few days that you hadn’t seen Eren. He’d largely been missing, and his responses had been very few and far between whenever you tried to text him. You had hoped he’d be at home at this time of night, and so you’d made the trek over to his sharehouse after your late evening classes at uni.
“That was weird,” Jean agreed, “He’s been holed up since then. I think he’s been really sick,” he frowned, “probably went out to get some fresh air.”
You mirrored Jean’s frown. That had been something you’d considered, too. He really had been acting weird that night, and you felt a fresh wave of concern wash over you.
“Alright,” You told Jean kindly, “Thanks. I’ll see you at our lab tomorrow!” Jean gave you a mock salute and you shut Eren’s door softly before making your way back out of the apartment. When you stepped outside, the cool night air greeted you and you exhaled, feeling a bit resigned. You were exhausted after your class, but had lugged some snacks in your bag that you’d intended to gift to Eren, especially since you’d deduced he must’ve been feeling sick.
You supposed you’d just eat them yourself. Sighing again, you shut the front door behind you and then wove your way through the all-too-familiar streets. The traffic was quieter than usual, though you it was really late. When was the last time you’d been out this late at night?
The thought suddenly chilled you to the bone. The memories of your previous villain encounter crept upon you unwillingly, and you started to shiver, the wind suddenly feeling icy against your skin.
Crossing your arms around yourself, you sucked in a breath and quickened your pace, keeping your eyes and ears alert—
“It’s dangerous to be out this late, you know.”
Whipping around and wielding your phone and keys as a weapon, you opened your mouth to scream—the voice was too close, and you subconsciously began to plan the route to the nearest police station—
When you saw who it was, though, you breathed out and lowered your arms.
Spiderman.
Dangling from the roof of the next building, the superhero slowly swung the short distance to join you where you were. Instinctively you stumbled back a little, shocked to suddenly be so close. Tall—Spiderman was really, really tall.
“Spiderman,” you managed, regaining your balance as you willed your heartrate to slow.
“That’s me,” he said cheerfully.
“What are you doing?” You eyed him warily, suspiciously, “Is there a villain here?”
He gave you an affronted look, “I’m the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman. Am I not allowed to hang out around the neighbourhood?” The two of you began to walk, and suddenly you realised how grateful you were that he’d shown up. Immediately, your earlier worries and anxiety had dissipated. Having a superhero around was very handy like that.
You snorted. Again, you were reminded with how strange it felt to hear the very same guy who beat up supervillains be so casual around you. At that thought, your mind rewinded to the memory of him being slammed into the concrete by Nanowraith so hard that the concrete had been smashed.
“Have you been doing okay?” You decided to ask, breaking the brief silence.
“Of course,” he said immediately. His reply was a little too fast, though, and you gave him another pointed look.
“Okay, yes, I got the shit beat out of me,” Spiderman relented, rubbing the back of his neck almost sheepishly, “But I got better! Clearly.”
You took a good look at him at that, silently observing his expression. There wasn’t much out of the ordinary—he looked pretty much the exact same as he always did. Leaning in a little, you did notice some scuffs on his suit, evidence that his fight had been real, and recent. He also seemed to have a bit of a limp which he was clearly trying very hard to hide, so you didn’t point it out.
“I’m glad,” you replied, jabbing him a little with your elbow, “I wouldn’t know what I’d do if I got kidnapped and you were out of commission.” The two of you walked at a very comfortable pace, and it was strange how familiar it felt, even though you were walking home with a complete stranger. Well, not a complete stranger, you reminded yourself, again picturing the way he’d snatched you out of the sky just a few nights ago.
“I’d never let that happen,” he promised, the white eyes of his visor widening earnestly.
“You can’t possibly be there for me every time.”
“Watch me,” he huffed, “You can count on me. Really.”
You couldn’t help the appreciative, fond smile that made its way to your face. You were glad for this short distraction from your mountains of worry about school and then about Eren, too.
“Where were you headed?” Spiderman said, clearing his throat. He peered into your tote bag, “Are those snacks?”
“Oh, yeah,” you said with a shrug and a sigh, “My best friend’s been out of it, so I went to see if he was home.”
“You were gonna give him these snacks?” He reached into your bag and picked out the top packet. They were Eren’s favourite—the sourpatch kids, but specifically in the berry mix flavour.
You nodded, “You can have them, if you want. I’ll get more tomorrow, if he’s home then.” It wasn’t any trouble, really. After all Spiderman had done for you, you really thought he deserved to take the candy, if he wanted. Did superheroes eat candy, though? You pondered, as Spiderman returned the sourpatch kids to your bag.
“It’s alright,” he said amicably, “I wouldn’t want to take it away from the intended recipient,” he smiled, a bright thing, “Your friend is lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have him.”
Spiderman was silent for a bit, and there was only the sound of your unsynchronised footsteps for a moment. Your thoughts returned to Eren, imagining where he was now. Was he wandering the streets alone? The image made you frown. Someone so sick shouldn’t be out at this hour.
“I’m sure he can handle himself,” Spiderman patted your shoulder, “You shouldn’t worry too much.”
“I know,” you relented, “I just miss him, a bit.”
“A bit?”
“A lot,” you amended.
“He must be sick,” Spiderman suggested, “Otherwise he’s just being a dick, by ignoring you.”
You laughed, “You don’t even know him.”
“I’m the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman,” Spiderman insisted, “I know everyone and everything that happens in the neighbourhood. It’s my domain, you could say. Besides, I have a bit of a sixth sense, if you know what I mean.” He tapped at his temple, and you couldn’t help but giggle at his antics.
You hummed. As you turned the corner onto the street of your dorm building, you told Spiderman, “I just live here. Should be good to go up, so you can go take care of the other neighbours in the neighbourhood.”
He laughed at that. Still, he stayed until you’d made it back, and waited until he saw the lights of your dorm switch on through your window before swinging off into the night.
***
eren’s perspective
Eren felt like a royal dick now. Slipping through the window of his bedroom and shutting it behind him, he swore under his breath as he ripped off his mask and took off his suit, changing into his regular pyjamas. How the fuck had he missed your visit by mere minutes? You’d even made the effort to come over after your late classes, and he had chosen that time, of all times, to go out for a walk?
You’d looked so down, too, when he’d first seen you. Scared, too, and the idea made him feel a little heartbroken. Of course, he knew it was partially—if not totally—his fault that you were in so much danger these days. He could hardly look at you without becoming overwhelmed with guilt.
He had been careless, drawing so much attention to you. Now, he had no choice but to keep doing it just to keep you safe, always keeping his spidey-senses active to make sure that you wouldn’t be taken without him knowing by some fuckingcriminal.
Then, he’d seen the snacks in your bag, and his heart had broken more. You’d picked out all of his favourites. Even the ones that he knew you hated but ate just for his sake, like the mini mint chocolate Kit Kat bars.
His knees buckled a little as he hit the edge of his bed and threw himself over his unmade covers. Truth be told, he’d been mostly passed out for the past few days after being beat into the ground by Nanowraith. He’d hit his head really hard, and any normal human would probably have cracked their skull and died on the spot.
Thankfully, he wasn’t any normal human. And also, he’d purposely updated his suit to be able to take on insane amounts of impact, so it mostly hadn’t been a concern. At the end of the day, though, he was still a human, and he could bleed just like one, too. He had broken too many bones to count in the most recent scuffle, and it had taken him everything he had to not pass out on the scene and flee in time. Thankfully, Armin lived close enough for him to go to his dorm and get patched up.
It didn’t take much for him to heal—ever since being bitten by that spider, Eren had healed remarkably fast, and so after sleeping for a day or two, his bones had fully fused back together, and his bruises were gone. He was left with a bit of a limp in his leg that he was pretty sure you noticed, but had been nice enough not to point out.
Groaning in frustration at himself, he pulled up his phone and opened up your chat history, quickly typing up a message:
hey if ur free tmr afternoon, can i come over?
He pressed send, the message delivering almost immediately. His fingers hovered over the keys before he finally added an extra message:
summary: eren yeager is spiderman. of course, nobody knows. not even you. not yet.
pairings: spiderman!eren yeager x reader
genre: college/university au, fluff, angst
a/n: this is part three of a short story! it is also posted on my ao3, linked here <3 find part one here and part two here!
🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷
“Why are you so dressed up?” Eren demanded, grabbing you by your shoulders and leaning in as if to get a good look at your face. Feeling slightly embarrassed, you avoided his insistent gaze.
“Jean invited me to a party,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face as you finally looked at him, shoving his arms off you in what you hoped was a playful manner.
He looked a little bit surprised, “You still talk to Jean?” Slipping off his shoes, he settled himself into his usual spot on your couch. Your dorm was small, but Eren’s presence never failed to make it look smaller. Your bed, small couch, kitchen and bathroom all in the same space—but regardless, you had been enjoying having your own space.
It also begged less questions whenever Eren decided to drop by, which was often.
“He’s my lab partner,” you informed him, “he was wondering about you, actually. Said you’ve been holing up in your room these days.”
Eren ran a hand through his hair and exhaled in frustration, “Shit, yeah. I’ve been swamped with work these few weeks.” He threw his head back against the couch and shut his eyes, “Can you convince me not to drop out?”
You rolled your eyes, leaving Eren to resume your makeup routine at the mirror in your bathroom. Instead of responding to his question, you called out, “You don’t need to keep coming over if you’re so busy.”
“You kicking me out?” His tone had taken on a teasing lilt, as it so often did these days.
With a scoff, you replied, “Even if I was, you wouldn’t leave.”
“You know me too well.”
Your conversation fell into silence and when you finished your makeup routine and stepped out, Eren was waving his phone at you, trying to show you some of his text messages. He was moving them way too quickly for you to see anything, though.
“Jean said I can come,” he said proudly, not seeming to notice the way you were struggling to read what he was trying to show you, how you squinted at his phone screen.
You frowned, “I’m glad, but didn’t you just say you’re swamped?”
“One night can’t hurt,” he shrugged, leaning back against the couch again, “It’ll be good to see everyone.” Opening one eye to look at you properly, he continued, “You look hot, by the way.”
You replied, “I haven’t even put on my outfit yet.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he waved you off, “you’re making me feel like I need to go back and change.”
At his comment, you took a good look at Eren’s outfit. It wasn’t too different from what he usually wore, a black sweatshirt with the collar of his t-shirt poking out at the neckline. His silver necklace trailing past his clavicles, sitting at his sternum. He wore the same pair of baggy grey-blue jeans he always wore. Briefly, you dared to wonder how often he washed it. Did he ever? You swore you never saw him without them…
Banishing thoughts of Eren’s probably horrible laundry habits, you instead focused on his face as you said, “You look fine.”
He replied a little indignantly, a little playfully, “I tell you that you look hot and ‘fine’ is all I get?”
You rolled your eyes, “You’re wearing what you usually wear, Eren. It looks good. Fine.”
Eren proceeded to sulk and you didn’t deign his moaning and groaning any further response as you slipped off to your closet to pull out the outfit you’d chosen—it was pretty simple, just your baggy black jeans and a tight, off-shoulder black top. It had been so long since you’d gone out that you almost forgot what people normally wore at these functions.
When you were finally ready, Eren seemed to have pulled himself together, and like he so often did, he walked with you through the dark yet busy streets, making your usual banter and small talk. You appreciated how easy it was to talk to Eren—you never really had to think too hard if at all. He knew what to say to fill the silence, and sometimes you didn’t find it so bad to just sit in silence with him, either.
Connie’s place was a short walk away. He had moved off-campus and opted for his own place at the start of the year, which meant that he was often the host of parties for his friend group. It was convenient, you had to admit, to have somebody close by with a free place.
“Are you drinking tonight?” Eren asked, as the two of you slipped through Connie’s unlocked front door. The noise of the party was almost overwhelming in the next room, and you had to strain a bit to hear his question. The unmistakable sounds of Sasha yelling at Jean could be heard even through the walls.
“Yeah, probably a bit,” You said with a shrug, “Are you?” You cast him a side-long glance.
“Don’t think so.”
You raised a brow, “How come? Being sober this month, are you?”
“If I get drunk, who else is gonna be able to make sure you get home safe?” He said with an impish grin, but it sounded a bit like a deflection. Nonetheless, you were too distracted by your own flush to really question him any further.
“Don’t be weird,” You shoved his shoulder, and it was at that moment you heard your name being called out as you pushed through the door into Connie’s living room.
Despite the deafening noise, there actually weren’t that many people here, yet. You supposed you and Eren were relatively early. You were glad for it, though; despite your eagerness to come, talking to too many new people at once had never been your favourite activity the same way that Eren seemed to love doing it. There were several familiar faces—Sasha sitting on the couch, sprawled across Jean who seemed to be struggling to fight her off. Reiner and Bertolt by the kitchen, seeming to be mixing up some drinks. Annie and Pieck sat around the kitchen bench, chatting with Reiner and Bertolt.
“Eren, you came too?” Sasha exclaimed, eyeing the two of you and giving you a pointed, suspicious look that you waved off.
“Been a while since you’ve joined us, man,” Connie said, clapping Eren on his shoulder, and you watched as the two of them did what boys did, their one-armed back-clap side hug.
“Good to see you, Connie,” Eren replied easily, as Connie turned his gaze to you, looking pleasantly surprised.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, either,” Connie remarked, “Has Eren been gate-keeping you?”
You laughed, “He wishes.”
“You’ve been busy, though,” Connie continued, pulling you into a friendly hug, “Getting kidnapped and all. That was pretty crazy to see.” Eren stiffened beside you, but you didn’t notice.
You shrugged and gave the same response that you gave Jean, “Same old, same old.”
“She doesn’t have to worry,” Eren cut in, grinning, “I’ve got her.”
“Pretty sure Spiderman’s got her,” Connie snorted, leading the two of you to the couch where Sasha and Jean had started wrestling, “Guy seems to be down bad for her, or something.”
“I’m just too charming,” you sighed, “Even superheroes can’t resist me.”
“Maybe you can introduce him to us,” Connie suggested as he passed you and Eren cruisers, “Would be nice to have an extra bodyguard. You know, in case we get noise complaints.” Connie gestured around the room, referring to the booming music that made it hard to have conversations.
“I think Spiderman’s a bit busy to deal with noise complaints, Connie,” Eren grumbled.
“Hey,” Connie protested, “He’s the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman. Neighbourhood complaints should be his first priority. That’s like, his whole brand.”
You sipped your drink and watched as Eren seemed to get a little flustered at that, for some reason. Instead of replying, Eren mirrored your actions, taking a big swig of his drink too.
Then, you remembered, “Thought you said you weren’t drinking?”
Eren’s eyes widened in alarm and he immediately set the drink down, “Shit, yeah.”
“I’m kidding,” you said, a bit confused at why he was so panicked, “You can drink. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
Eren shook his head, pushing the drink further away, “Nah, I’m good. Just slipped my mind.” He pushed a hand through his hair, dishevelling it and then turned to Connie, “You got any coke?”
Immediately, Connie pushed off the couch and took Eren towards the kitchen, leaving you to sit on the couch alone. Well, not fully—Sasha and Jean had finally finished wrestling, and so the three of you ended up chatting until Eren came back.
Even though you rarely went to parties these days, you found yourself enjoying your time at Connie’s. It really was good to see everyone after what felt like a long time, and you were glad to see Eren chatting to everybody too, the way he always did. At your insistence, he even played a few games of cup pong with you, even though he knew that you sucked ass.
It was after your third game, a few hours into the night, when Eren suddenly dropped the ping-pong ball—it slipped from his grip, uncharacteristically, considering how good he normally was. He went straight as a rod, his eyes widening as he stumbled back from the table a little and then suddenly blurted out, “I’ve gotta go.”
“Eren,” you couldn’t help the mixture of confusion and concern that seeped into your tone, “Is everything alright? Are you feeling sick?”
“No, no, I’m good,” he said, starting to almost run towards the door, “I just—something came up, sorry, I’ll see you later, promise! Just—um, gotta dip!”
Before you could respond and faster than seemed possible, he was gone. You even rushed towards the door to see which way he had run off, but there was just no sign of him. Was it possible for him to disappear off the block within a millisecond, just like that? Even for a guy as athletic as Eren, it seemed impossible.
Worried, you pulled up your phone to call him, but then somebody touched your arm and drew your attention. When you looked up, you met the wide blue eyes of Armin Arlert, one of Eren’s best friends.
Armin wasn’t Eren’s friend from baseball like Jean was. Instead, as far as you knew, the two of them had grown up together and happened to move to the same college after high school. You rarely spoke to Armin because he was in a completely different program and had never stayed in the same dorm halls as you, so you rarely crossed paths. Everything you knew of the boy was through word-of-mouth, through Eren mostly. Which was why you felt a bit taken-aback that he had come up to speak to you so suddenly.
“Eren’s alright,” he told you with a kind smile, “He’s probably just rushing off to finish off a last-minute assignment. Bet he forgot it was due.”
You breathed out, a bit exasperated, “He’s really been swamped lately, hasn’t he?”
“He has,” Armin agreed, “Don’t worry. If you would like somebody to walk back to the dorms with you, I can come with. I’m heading in that direction, anyway.”
***
The news was blaring with live reports of Spiderman’s latest fight. Deep in the city, the superhero was a blur of red and blue in the video as the reporter gave their live commentary on exactly what was going on.
You sank into your couch, watching the report with more concern than you felt warranted. This was Spiderman! As much as you had interacted with him, he was still a superhero in his own right, and you shouldn’t worry for him. He’d always be fine.
Eren’s sudden disappearance had been nagging at the back of your mind, even as Armin had brought you over to join him and Mikasa where they were snacking on Sasha’s stash of potato chips. The two of them were Eren’s childhood friends, and that had pretty much been all you knew about them. But, they’d steered the conversation far from Eren as though they were trying to make you forget about his earlier, weird behaviour.
As promised, Armin had walked you home. He said that he lived just down the block in one of the other dorm buildings, and you were at least glad that you had gotten to know him a little better. Armin was nice, and it made sense in your mind why Eren would want to keep someone as reliable and kind as him close.
“—new villain, self-proclaimed Nanowraith, doesn’t seem to have any mercy for our friendly neighbourhood Spiderman—,”
The voice of the news reporter brought you out of your thoughts, and you refocused on the scene in front of you. Sure enough, the villain Nanowraith, a nasty-looking snake-inspired creature, was beating the shit out of Spiderman. With every blow that Spiderman delivered, the villain seemed to land twice as many, and the poor guy looked to really be struggling.
You gritted your teeth unconsciously. Spiderman took a particularly hard blow and was flung halfway across the building, slamming against the ground so hard you had to look away. The concrete cracked under the impact.
“No girlfriend today, Spidey?” You heard Nanowraith’s words, booming out over the sound of the lashing wind. The news reporter immediately caught on too and started to give a rundown of Spiderman’s supposed love interest, the girl who seemed to always get caught up in his fights. You tuned out of this voiceover, instead narrowing in on Spiderman’s unusual reaction.
For some reason, those words seemed to light a flame in Spiderman. “Don’t fucking bring her into this!” The usually friendly hero spat, his tone full of venom. The eyes of his mask narrowed and suddenly he was flying, faster than you’d ever seen, his webs whipping through the air and entangling his opponent in the fluid until Nanowraith was trapped.
Stalking towards the villain, the news reporter fell silent as Spiderman gripped the villain by his collar with inhuman strength and leaned close, hissing out words that the camera didn’t quite catch. Just as he lifted his fist to deliver the final blow, the villain laughed—a horrible, malicious sound—and then seemed to dissipate into thin air. No, not into thin air—through a portal that had opened behind him, sucked into nothingness.
“—it appears that villain Nanowraith has escaped—,”
You reached for the remote to switch off the television. Just before the screen winked off, you caught sight of Spiderman shooting out a web and vanishing into the night without another word.
summary: it turns out that being invited back to your highschool town for your best friend’s wedding meant running into some of your exes. hot exes. worst of all, the two of you were paired together to walk down the aisle. could your luck get any worse?
*
you couldn’t believe your eyes.
of course, when your high school best friend, jisoo, had asked you to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, you hadn’t hesitated. even though it had been several years since you had seen her, you were touched that she had thought of you. there was no way you would have agreed if you had known that it was going to be like this, but judging by her bright beam, she had no idea exactly what she was getting you into.
what the fuck was going on? you started to feel a bit dazed as you looked down at the person—the groomsman—that you had been paired with for the ceremony, and for many of the festivities. his picture was absolutely normal—in fact, you’d even venture to say he looked good these days, considering you hadn’t seen him since college. his features had grown and matured, of course they had, and in this particular picture of him, there was a massive grin on his face. you could just make out the edge of a girl on the edge of the photo that had been cropped out, his arm around her shoulders. fucking hell.
“aw come on y/n, why do you look so down about it?” jisoo pouted, shaking you by your shoulders, “i know you haven’t met mingyu before, but i promise promise promise he’s a really nice guy, okay?”
you could barely form a coherent thought, let alone a reply. but you did feel a thread of guilt at the fact that she thought you were unhappy—you were, but that was beside the point—and instead smiled at her as genuinely as you could manage and replied, “sorry jisoo, i’m sure he’s great.”
she beamed brighter, somehow, and then turned to one of her other friends to tell the next bridesmaid who her partner would be.
you hadn’t come here expecting to find out something so grim. in fact, jisoo had said it was a casual brunch with the bridesmaids—just something for you all to get to know each other before the actual big day, and you assumed her fiancé and the groomsmen were doing something similar this morning. and yet now, you feared you were at risk of heart failure.
then, to make things worse, your phone pinged with a notification:
mingyu: didn’t know you were friends with jisoo. lol.
horrified, you thought back to when the last time the two of you texted must have been—maybe third year of uni? fourth year, before he moved back to seoul after graduation? it was a haze in your mind. at the time, you had been certain he would have been the one, but, well…
you: mingyu, what the fuck.
mingyu: friendly as ever, aren’t you
you didn’t deign that a reply, clenching your phone tightly as you switched it off and tried to tune out the sense of impending doom that was churning in your mind.
***
it was just your luck that you happened to run into him way before you ever needed to, as well. you cursed your own shitty life as he undoubtedly spotted you in the aisle and began to approach, even as you pretended not to see him and started to panic-grab random jars off the shelf in an attempt to flee. as he approached, you subtly tried to shuffle away, but he grabbed you by the arm before you could take another step.
“funny seeing you here,” he remarked lightly, before turning his eyes to the can that you had grabbed in your moment of stress, “sardines? nice choice. bit too fishy for my taste, though, i’d have to say.”
“mingyu,” you huffed, ripping your arm out of his grip, heartbeat pounding, “i didn’t ask for your opinion.” you really tried not to look up, for fear that you would be charmed into submission by his hot as fuck face. hot as fuck face for a dick of a guy, that was what it was. how unfair this universe was. (mingyu wasn’t even a dick, which made everything way worse. still, you convinced yourself. you had to. you had no choice).
he didn’t really address your reply, and instead said, “how long have you been back here for?”
“came back last week,” you muttered, “since jisoo was having her breakfast thing.” you hadn’t wanted to come back to your high school town; in fact, now that your parents had moved away and because the hotels here costed a pretty penny, you hadn’t come back in just under a decade. of course, for jisoo, you had shelled it out, but still.
“same,” he pondered, “interesting, how small the world is. how do you know jisoo anyway?”
you resisted the urge to run away or yell or do something rash, instead reminding yourself that you were a fully grown adult now, and running into a college ex should be nothing. people became friends with their college exes. people hung out with their exes all the time. it was so normal. it was so normal.
“we both went to high school here,” you said shortly, “how do you know her fiancé?”
“me and seunghan met back in seoul at a work conference,” he said with a shrug, “crazy small world.” he assessed you and then said, “and how are you doing?”
you hated how normal it felt to talk to him. in your mind, you had painted him as this faraway, non-existent consequence of your trauma, your only long-term relationship ever, and now that he was here it all felt too real again. it was an insane thought.
“good,” you managed, still trying not to look at his face even as he intently looked at yours, “you know, the usual stuff. teaching. that kinda thing.”
“what do you teach now?”
“financial maths,” you responded quickly, “felt natural, you know.”
“you were always better at that than me,” he reminisced, and you hated it. you wanted to run away—this was not the time to get nostalgic, most certainly not with an ex with whom you had once dreamed of having a white picket fence and three kids with. no. no way.
“i—yeah, i guess,” you said, choking a bit on your own spit.
“we should catch up,” mingyu added, “i guess we can talk more at the wedding?”
you couldn’t even form a coherent thought, just nodded before you could think, and then mingyu was gone, and you were left standing in the aisle with your sardines and grocery basket like a fucking idiot.
you hated it. how easily he could still make you lose your bearings. you weren’t a child anymore! you urged yourself to pull it together, and then strode towards the check out. you were going to go to another grocery store. there was no way you were going to run into mingyu again.
***
what was it you were saying about your shitty luck again?
oh yeah, it’s fucking shitty. because why the fuck was mingyu here again, this time at the coffee shop that you always came to back in highschool, chatting with seunghan, sitting in your spot in the corner?
somehow, somehow you had managed to run into him every single day since finding out about being paired up with him, and there had only been three days until the wedding. was the universe genuinely against you?
when he very obviously met your eyes though, you really didn’t want to be a dick and ignore him. he really hadn’t been anything but nice since that day at the grocery store, and it wasn’t like he’d ever really done anything to you.
right?
so, you waved back, and then he was beckoning you over and seunghan was looking at you and then you wanted to melt into the floor and drown in the lava.
“you already met y/n?” seunghan raised a brow, glancing curiously between the two of you.
“we saw each other at the store—,” you began, at the same time that mingyu said, “oh, she’s my ex-girlfriend—,”
the both of you cut yourselves off at the same time, and you couldn’t help the flush that filled the skin of your cheekbones, flaming. seunghan, bless him, just laughed to dissipate the awkwardness and said, “oh, wow, i had no idea. i can tell jisoo, if—,”
“seunghan, you shouldn’t trouble a bride the day before her wedding,” mingyu dismissed, just as you were about to take on his offer, and then mingyu glanced at you, “me and y/n get on swimmingly.”
you bit your tongue.
seunghan looked genuinely amused, and then said, “looking to reignite an old flame, are you, mingyu?”
mingyu said nothing to that, which made everything worse, because now your heart was racing and your face was burning and you still hadn’t even drank your latte yet and you didn’t even have your regular corner seat free to enjoy it—
ping!
seunghan’s phone went off, just as you opened your mouth to dismiss yourself, and you cursed mentally as seunghan picked up his phone, vacating your usual seat. he even beckoned you to sit down before he ducked outside to take the call, so you had no choice but to sit.
shitty luck, you repeated in your head as you met mingyu’s wide, dark eyes, face still feeling a bit hot. instead of saying anything (not that you felt capable of making any intelligible comments anyway) you took a sip of your coffee.
“you’re really fucking—,” mingyu struggled for a second, swallowing before saying, “really fucking cute, y/n.”
your expression must have said enough, because mingyu laughed at whatever face you made, and then continued, “see, that’s what i mean. i was a little nervous, but you’re the same.” his voice was fond, a little too fond, and it was your turn to swallow, clearing your throat nervously.
“you—you’re not too bad, either.” you immediately wished you’d never spoken, flushing, but maybe seeing his face light up like that wasn’t so bad, you realised as he beamed the way he always used to, the exact way you remembered.
maybe seunghan had been right. maybe there really was the start of a flame here (a small one. a spark. maybe just kindle?)
either way, as you looked at him, you realised that nothing much had changed at all.
summary: eren yeager is spiderman. of course, nobody knows. not even you. not yet.
pairings: spiderman! eren Yeager x reader
genre: college/university au, fluff, angst
a/n: this is part two of a short story! it is also posted on my ao3, linked here <3 find part one here!
🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷
“Damn,” Sasha whistled, sounding really impressed even as you buried your face into your arms on your desk. “You were busy last night.” Even though the two of you were sitting in your 9am lecture, there was very little listening going on.
Open on her phone was this morning’s news report: SPIDERMAN TO THE RESCUE: FREE FALL FROM THE FREEDOM TOWER?
Of course, it was all about how an unidentified girl—you, of course—had been dangling off the Freedom Tower and free-fell until Spiderman had swooped in and saved her. The news reporters didn’t have your identity, but they did make note that it seemed to be the same girl being used as bait every time. Not a feeling that bode well with you, to say the least.
You thanked the universe that nobody else other than your friends would know that it had been you. The last thing you wanted was any sort of publicity, especially not that kind.
“Sasha,” you grumbled, turning your head to look at her, “At this point, I feel like I should be paid for all this kidnapping I go through.”
Sasha was still fixated on the video when she replied, “Maybe you can ask Spiderman for a scholarship.”
You snorted, “I doubt he’d be eager to pay for a random college girl’s tuition.”
Sasha turned to you sharply, her phone forgotten on her lap, “You’re not just any random girl, though. Spidey clearly knows you.”
You sighed. To be honest, you were pretty sure the reason why you were being targeted was all because of a misunderstanding. The memory was still clear as day in your mind because you remembered being shocked by it too—it had been almost half a year ago, now. You’d been shopping in a convenience store when there had been a robbery and you were caught in the midst of it—had a knife held to your throat as the thieves threatened the cashier. When Spiderman had inevitably shown up, he’d been much angrier than normal at the perpetrators and whipped you right back to safety before going back to deal with the rest of the situation.
Similar events had continued to happen, where Spiderman always seemed to prioritise your safety above all else, and it hadn’t taken long for the villains and petty criminals to start catching up to it. Spiderman’s sweetheart, they called you, even though you were sure he was just prioritising the most vulnerable in the room when he saved you first. Right? What other reason could there be?
Thinking about it too much made you feel dizzy and a bit sick in the stomach. You curled into yourself, slouching and leaning with your elbows on the desk as you tried to focus on the drone of the lecturer at the front of the room. There was barely anybody in attendance in this class, and if it wasn’t for Sasha, you most certainly would have slept in.
“You seem tired,” Sasha said after a while, immediately diverting your attention away from the lecture again. Why was Sasha even at the lecture if she was just going to keep rewatching the news again and again?
“Stayed up with Eren,” you sighed, feeling the drowsiness drag your eyelids down at her words.
She raised her brows suspiciously.
You waved her off, “You know how he is,” you said with a shrug, “Eren’s always checking on me.”
“He’s down bad.”
You shot her a glare, “No, he’s not.” Even so, you weren’t sure you believed it yourself. You, for one, were definitely down something for Eren Yeager, as much as you didn’t want to admit it to anyone else. You fought down a flush under Sasha’s scrutinising stare.
She snorted, “Never thought you two would be best friends the way you are.”
You hummed. It was strange, you supposed. Eren was an athletic guy, always hanging around his teammates, and the two of you weren’t even in the same degree program. You’d met at orientation, since your roommates in first year had been dating at the time. After your roommates broke up, the two of you happened to stay friends. It was luck that you two got close and stayed close.
“So,” Sasha continued, casting you a devious look that made you instantly suspicious, “Spiderman’s sweetheart. Who would you say is hotter? Eren Yeager or Spiderman?”
***
Sitting outside the door to your next class, your microbiology lab, you found yourself reading the news articles too, unable to help the curiosity. You scrolled until you found one that didn’t have any mentions of you falling, instead focusing on Spiderman:
SPIDERMAN DEFEATS VILLAIN ‘DOC’: CITY REJOICES
After weeks battling against new villain, dubbed ‘Doc’ by Spiderman himself, New York City can finally rest peacefully after Spiderman’s victory against the villain just last night.
“Piece of cake!” the hero remarked when interviewed, “Always glad to do my part.”
The article went on and on about the police commentary and the damaged areas to avoid, but your eyes were glued on the image attached underneath Spiderman’s quote. It was a cute photograph in all meanings of the word. The hero you’d become so familiar with was holding up a peace sign, the insect-eyes of his visor widened in what seemed to be a pleasant expression. You couldn’t look past the blood that coated his arms, his face, even though the masked hero appeared to be smiling.
Frowning, you hoped that he was okay. He’d helped you so much, after all. Had personally saved you and made sure you were okay before going off to fight a villain. In your mind, you found it a little hard to reconcile the fact that the guy who had saved you was the same guy who defeated all of these bad guys all the time. He seemed so…normal?
You sounded crazy, you realised with a scoff, switching off your phone as you caught someone approaching you in your peripheral vision. Glancing upwards, you met the eyes of your lab partner, Jean Kirstein. Lifting your hand in a wave, he smiled in return, but his expression was veiled with concern.
“You okay?” He asked, and for a brief moment you were confused, until—
You sighed, “You figured out it’s me?” You had been friends with Jean since last semester, but you’d always known of him. Since you met Sasha in a lecture back in first year, you’d constantly heard of Jean, since the two of them had gone to highschool together, although you hadn’t officially met him until you partnered with him last semester for another course.
“Sasha spilled,” Jean explained, “Was she not supposed to?”
“Nah,” You shook your head, “It’s fine. It’s just you guys.” You couldn’t help but feel a bit awkward, shuffling a bit as you continued, “I’m fine, by the way. Same old, same old.”
Jean’s brows knitted together, and you winced when you realised it wasn’t exactly the most reassuring answer you could’ve given.
“What I mean is,” you elaborated insistently, “Spiderman’s got me.”
Finally, Jean smiled, “That’s right! Spiderman’s sweetheart, right? That’s what they’re all saying about you.”
You made a noise of dissent, half a scoff and half a laugh, “It’s shit.”
“You’re a pretty girl,” Jean commented with a shrug, “It’s not inconceivable that a superhero would fall in love with you.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you felt a bit dizzy afterwards, “Pretty inconceivable, I’d say. The villains just have the wrong idea.”
Jean looked a bit dubious but didn’t press further, because the doors to the lab were pushed open by your lab demonstrators and students started to file in, and so the two of you turned to follow.
“Just stay safe,” Jean finally said, as the two of you unpacked your lab coats and goggles, “It’s real shit that you’re getting put through.”
You sighed, “I know, Jean. I will.”
The rest of your lab went on swimmingly. Standard stuff that you were mostly zoned out for, and more than once you almost burnt yourself whilst trying to sterilise the equipment with the Bunsen burner.
“Did you get any sleep?” Jean asked, watching you with concern as you hissed, running your burnt finger under the tap to cool your skin. “The attack happened at night, right? So, you got back late?”
“Yeah,” you grumbled.
Jean sighed, “You know, I was going to invite you to a party tonight, but maybe you should sleep—,”
“Who’s party?” You cut him off, immediately alert. As tired as you were, you loved parties because you loved to watch the drama unfold, preferably if Sasha was there too. It was like free entertainment, on top of having free alcohol.
Jean rolled his eyes, “Alcoholic.” Jean poured his Agar plate as he answered, “It’s at Connie’s. He’s the bald guy, remember him?”
You did. Jean, Sasha and Connie were fast friends, so naturally you’d seen Connie a fair number of times, as little as you knew about the guy.
“I think I’ll go if you guys are,” you decided, helping Jean set his complete plate down, covering it with its lid, “I haven’t gone out in ages, since Eren stopped.”
Jean replied, “That’s right, he’s been pretty busy lately, hasn’t he?”
“Hasn’t he been at all your trainings?” You said absently. The two of them were both on college baseball team, and even though they butted heads, you knew that they respected each other. They were the top players, after all. Their mutual respect was why they’d opted to sharehouse with each other, along with some of their other mutual friends.
“Yeah, but,” Jean waved you off, “outside of that. Hasn’t been partying like he always used to. Always holed up in his room.”
“Maybe he’s finally settled down,” You suggested with a snort. Even you knew that couldn’t be true.
“No,” Jean said immediately, “Eren gets no girls these days.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’, “He’s just been hanging out alone in his room. Maybe he’s more of a nerd than we all thought.”
You hummed thoughtfully, conjuring an image of Eren with notes spread all across his table, leaning over them with his blue-light glasses atop his head. It wasn’t completely unrealistic—you knew that as an engineering student, Eren had his hands full with schoolwork just the same way you and Jean were in premed. Eren had always seemed much more well-balanced than you, though, always making time to socialise. You made a mental note to check that he was doing okay.
summary: eren yeager is spiderman. of course, nobody knows. not even you. not yet.
pairings: spiderman!eren yeager x reader
genre: college/university au, fluff, angst
a/n: this is part one of a short story! it's also posted on my ao3, linked here <3
🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷🕸️✩°★°⋆ 🎧✮🕸🕷
“You know,” you said dryly, sighing even as your captor bound up your hands with a rope you’d become all too familiar with, “I’m kind of sick and tired of this.”
The villain tsked behind his dark mask but didn’t reply as he tightened the binds and then kicked your feet loose off the edge of the skyscraper until you were hanging in midair. Despite yourself, your heart skipped a beat, and your breath hitched even as you tried to remain the image of a perfectly calm, cool and collected kidnapping victim.
“Spiderman probably won’t even come,” you leered in a sing-song voice, trying to do anything but look down at the infinite abyss of air below your feet, your fate secured only by a single, aged and swinging rope.
Maybe leering your kidnapper wasn’t a great idea. Especially not when you were currently hanging off the top of the Freedom Tower, the wind whipping at your cheeks so hard that it felt like your skin would peel right off your bones verysoon. The whistling of the air in your ears became a roar as it combined with the rushing of your blood, and you tried to keep your eyes trained on the dark of the night sky around you rather than the rushing of New York City’s rush hour traffic thousands of feet below.
Stars, you tried to distract yourself, you loved the stars. You would love to live another day to see more of them. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and you doubted it would be the last, but still…
“You talk too much,” the villain finally growled out, dropping your rope even lower—a threat, but one that you were used to. It made you wince all the same as your body swung dangerously. You prayed that this wouldn’t make it onto the news, even though you knew that it eventually, probably, definitely would. You hadn’t even gotten dressed up today, after finishing off your labs. It was entering exam season, and being a fourth-year pre-med student wasn’t light work. Getting kidnapped every other week really wasn’t helping either.
You opened your mouth, “I think I talk a perfectly normal—,”
The air was snatched out of your throat. All you could see was the blur of lights, the chaos of traffic below, and the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. You could barely register the dropping feeling in your gut, too drowned in your own shock. You squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t even manage tears in your shock. Couldn’t even scream.
Hanging from skyscrapers wasn’t new. Dropping from one though—you had never actually died, before. Despite your earlier words, Spiderman had always—
“Gotcha.”
Warm. The familiar feeling of arms was around you, and suddenly you were snatched you out of the air. You gulped in air, your lungs feeling like they’d collapsed. When you tried to scream, your throat was too dry to make any sound.
“Hey, hey. You’re alright.”
“S-spiderman,” you gasped out, voice more of a hoarse croak. You managed to open your eyes, just barely, just enough to peer at your saviour. Sure enough, the same familiar face that had always, without fail, come to your rescue met your gaze. His eyes were wide—well, the ones in his red-and-blue mask—and he blinked down at you in wonderment, almost—at least, that was what you thought it was.
“Oh—um, yeah that’s me!” He said, suddenly sounding a little nervous and looking away almost awkwardly? Could you say that about a world-famous superhero? Instead of looking at you, he fixed his gaze forward and swung you through the buildings, gradually taking you lower and lower until he safely dropped you off on the sidewalk in one of the quieter streets.
“Thanks,” you managed, stumbling and finding yourself leaning against the wall, still trying to catch your breath, “You cut it a bit close this time. Any later and I—,” you heaved a breath, suddenly feeling like throwing up, “I would’ve been a splatter on the road.”
Despite his earlier light demeanour, Spiderman’s expression became grim, and he seemed to pause, deep in murderous thought, before he said, “You gonna be alright to get home?”
“Oh,” you said, suddenly feeling a little guilty about your own jab at him. It had meant to be a bit of a joke, maybe to lighten the mood, but you supposed it might’ve come off a bit insulting to a superhero. “Y-yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Great. Gotta stop Doc from causing more trouble,” he gestured up at the sky, turning his gaze upwards. Doc—the nickname for the most recent villain of the city, seemingly out for Spiderman’s blood, like they always were. Were they fixated on the idea that if they took out Spiderman, the city would be theirs? Did all supervillains have such low faith in the general law enforcement of the New York City?
Before you could respond, Spiderman had shot out a web from his hands, swung himself upward, and with a quick thwip, he was gone.
***
On your walk home, you couldn’t help but deliberate on how exactly you were going to apologise to Spiderman. You supposed you should have been more grateful after he’d saved you from certain death, rather than insulting his lateness. It really hadn’t been your intention, but after replaying the conversation over and over, you couldn’t help but feel like maybe his sudden switch in attitude had been because of your unappreciative words.
Superheros must be busy, after all. There was no way he’d be able to get you every single time.
“Shit,” you sighed, making your way up the stairs of your dorm building. You lived on the first floor, and briefly wondered if that was the reason all these villains could find you so easily. Should you invest in better security? Why the fuck were they after you anyway, just an average college student?
Kicking off your shoes and shrugging off your coat, you found yourself collapsing onto the couch and trying to catch your breath again—not from the stairs (well, maybe a bit)—but instead, from the sudden memory of hanging off the side of the skyscraper. The overwhelming feeling like your life had been forfeit. Feeling so certain that you were going to die, and yet not knowing what to think, what to do. Not being able to do anything.
Your breathing quickened, and you felt the tears start to well in your eyes even as you willed them away. How many college students could say they’d had that experience? Maybe you should put that on your med school written applications, you thought bitterly, clenching your fist in the cushions.
Knock. Knock.
You straightened, tears immediately drying. Who the hell was knocking at this time? Right after you’d been kidnapped too? There was nobody who’d look for you at this hour, you were sure, and suddenly your heart was dropping to your stomach at the thought of being taken again—
“Hello? Are you home?”
Immediately, you couldn’t help the relieved smile that broke across your face. The familiar voice almost immediately made you feel at ease, and suddenly your doom was forgotten. Instead, you felt quite light on your feet as you hopped over to the door, peeping through the peephole just to be sure—
Despite the familiar face, what you saw made your eyes widen in panic. What the—
Tearing the door open, you whisper-shouted, “Eren! What the hell happened to you?” You gripped his upper arm, dragging him into your apartment before shutting the door behind him. It wasn’t rare that your friend—best friend—Eren Yeager would come over late at night, just to say hi. Sometimes to drop off snacks, but most of the time just to see how you were doing or what you were doing. You’d thought it was weird when he’d first started doing it, but he supposed with how often you were getting kidnapped, it was really nice of him to care about you so much. Reasonable, at least.
And yet, his face was beaten to a pulp. Well, maybe you were exaggerating a little. There was a cut across his brow, which dripped blood down his cheeks. It looked like he’d accidentally smeared it across the bruises on his high cheekbones, making him look like he’d just been through the ringer. The bruises were nasty, blossoming into purple marks that you were sure hurt like hell. His lip was busted, too, but not as badly as his brow. His dark hair, which he usually kept impeccable care of, was matted with blood and tangled as if it had been whipped by the sea wind.
“Eren,” you said, a bit more quietly as you pushed him to sit down on your couch, fussing through your kitchen drawers to find your first aid kit, “What happened?” you repeated, feeling furious and worried and scared, when he didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, he had a bit of a dazed, almost relieved expression on his face as he said, “You’re okay.”
You gave him a weird look, “Eren, of course I’m okay. You’re the one who’s covered in blood.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Eren!” You scolded, “It’s not the time to be joking right now!”
“I’m being serious!” His hand on your cheek made you turn to meet his wide, green eyes. Even with the blood, you felt your breath hitch a little bit, and he said a bit more quietly, “I’m just glad to see you.”
You swallowed, fighting the flush that threatened to crawl its way up your neck, “You’re being weird.” Really weird. And really not helping the embarrassing crush you’d had on him ever since you met him in your first year at college here.
Eren laughed a little, a rare, tinkling laugh so different to his usual loudness, “Can I not be happy you’re here?” His tone lilted into a teasing one as he continued, “Couldn’t have asked for a prettier doctor to nurse me back to health.”
You swatted at his hand with a cotton bud, freeing your face from his touch so that he wouldn’t feel the heat on your skin and muttered, “Shut up.” Instead of looking at his eyes, you focused on cleaning up the cut on his face. The bleeding had slowed—remarkably quickly, you noted absently as you dried up his wound. You’d helped Eren clean up his injuries a few times—being an athlete, his injuries weren’t a rarity, but he’d never come over and looked this horrible before. Well, not horrible—obviously he was hot—but—
None of your thoughts were helping with the flush on your face.
“Getting a little bit red there, doc,” Eren said lightly, the corners of his lips lifting.
You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes, “I know you’re trying to distract me from asking about what happened to you.” You weren’t dumb. Eren should know that, after so many years. It sucked that he was such a talented distraction.
He sighed, “Can’t get anything past you, can I?” His touch was soft this time, taking your hands gently, making you pause your dabbing at his wounds. He took your hands in his and pressed them to his lips, speaking quietly, “Just got a bit caught up after training,” he looked at you, and in this position, with you crouched just over his lap, he had to look up a little to meet your eyes, making him look all the more pleading. A rarity, considering how much taller he was than you. “Some of the guys weren’t too happy with me.”
You sighed, “Eren, you shouldn’t let them get to you.”
His emerald gaze was earnest, and maybe a little angry, as he said, “How can I when they threaten my girl?”
“I—,” you were too caught off-guard, and you knew by his satisfied grin that he’d succeeded, “I’m not your girl!”
“Aren’t you?” He mused, pressing another kiss to your hands, “Everyone seems to think so.” His brows lowered, furrowing in what almost seemed like frustration, “I hate seeing you get hurt.”
“I’m not hurt, Eren,” you pointed out, still feeling a bit light-headed as his words bounced around your brain like ping-pong balls, “You are.” You returned to dabbing at his blood, even as most of it had already crusted up. You probably needed saline, but more than cleaning up, you just wanted something to occupy your hands before you got too flustered to move or talk or even breathe.
“Yeah,” he exhaled deeply through his nose, giving you a light smile that seemed to carry too many layers of worry, more than what seemed necessary given the situation, “You’re right.” He touched your hair gently, adoringly, “I’m worried for nothing, aren’t I?”
“I’m the one who should be worried,” you retorted, smacking him in the head. He winced indignantly but didn’t object when you continued, “You show up here every few weeks with a new injury. Are you being a bully at training?”
“Hey!” He protested, “You know me. I would never hurt a fly.”
You raised a brow dubiously, “Pretty sure I saw you kill one the other day.” Finally satisfied with your work, you started to pack up your first-aid kit and directed Eren to stand up. You were grateful that your earlier embarrassment had fully faded.
“Not the point,” Eren insisted, “Sometimes I just get pissed off by the things they say,” he shrugged, but winced a little again as though it hurt, even as he tried to hide it. Rolling out his shoulder, he continued, “You don’t have to worry. I can handle myself.”
“Did you hurt your shoulder?” You asked sharply.
“Shit, really can’t get anything past you,” Eren grumbled.
summary: it turns out that being invited back to your highschool town for your best friend’s wedding meant running into some of your exes. hot exes. worst of all, the two of you were paired together to walk down the aisle. could your luck get any worse?
*
you couldn’t believe your eyes.
of course, when your high school best friend, jisoo, had asked you to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, you hadn’t hesitated. even though it had been several years since you had seen her, you were touched that she had thought of you. there was no way you would have agreed if you had known that it was going to be like this, but judging by her bright beam, she had no idea exactly what she was getting you into.
what the fuck was going on? you started to feel a bit dazed as you looked down at the person—the groomsman—that you had been paired with for the ceremony, and for many of the festivities. his picture was absolutely normal—in fact, you’d even venture to say he looked good these days, considering you hadn’t seen him since college. his features had grown and matured, of course they had, and in this particular picture of him, there was a massive grin on his face. you could just make out the edge of a girl on the edge of the photo that had been cropped out, his arm around her shoulders. fucking hell.
“aw come on y/n, why do you look so down about it?” jisoo pouted, shaking you by your shoulders, “i know you haven’t met mingyu before, but i promise promise promise he’s a really nice guy, okay?”
you could barely form a coherent thought, let alone a reply. but you did feel a thread of guilt at the fact that she thought you were unhappy—you were, but that was beside the point—and instead smiled at her as genuinely as you could manage and replied, “sorry jisoo, i’m sure he’s great.”
she beamed brighter, somehow, and then turned to one of her other friends to tell the next bridesmaid who her partner would be.
you hadn’t come here expecting to find out something so grim. in fact, jisoo had said it was a casual brunch with the bridesmaids—just something for you all to get to know each other before the actual big day, and you assumed her fiancé and the groomsmen were doing something similar this morning. and yet now, you feared you were at risk of heart failure.
then, to make things worse, your phone pinged with a notification:
mingyu: didn’t know you were friends with jisoo. lol.
horrified, you thought back to when the last time the two of you texted must have been—maybe third year of uni? fourth year, before he moved back to seoul after graduation? it was a haze in your mind. at the time, you had been certain he would have been the one, but, well…
you: mingyu, what the fuck.
mingyu: friendly as ever, aren’t you
you didn’t deign that a reply, clenching your phone tightly as you switched it off and tried to tune out the sense of impending doom that was churning in your mind.
***
it was just your luck that you happened to run into him way before you ever needed to, as well. you cursed your own shitty life as he undoubtedly spotted you in the aisle and began to approach, even as you pretended not to see him and started to panic-grab random jars off the shelf in an attempt to flee. as he approached, you subtly tried to shuffle away, but he grabbed you by the arm before you could take another step.
“funny seeing you here,” he remarked lightly, before turning his eyes to the can that you had grabbed in your moment of stress, “sardines? nice choice. bit too fishy for my taste, though, i’d have to say.”
“mingyu,” you huffed, ripping your arm out of his grip, heartbeat pounding, “i didn’t ask for your opinion.” you really tried not to look up, for fear that you would be charmed into submission by his hot as fuck face. hot as fuck face for a dick of a guy, that was what it was. how unfair this universe was. (mingyu wasn’t even a dick, which made everything way worse. still, you convinced yourself. you had to. you had no choice).
he didn’t really address your reply, and instead said, “how long have you been back here for?”
“came back last week,” you muttered, “since jisoo was having her breakfast thing.” you hadn’t wanted to come back to your high school town; in fact, now that your parents had moved away and because the hotels here costed a pretty penny, you hadn’t come back in just under a decade. of course, for jisoo, you had shelled it out, but still.
“same,” he pondered, “interesting, how small the world is. how do you know jisoo anyway?”
you resisted the urge to run away or yell or do something rash, instead reminding yourself that you were a fully grown adult now, and running into a college ex should be nothing. people became friends with their college exes. people hung out with their exes all the time. it was so normal. it was so normal.
“we both went to high school here,” you said shortly, “how do you know her fiancé?”
“me and seunghan met back in seoul at a work conference,” he said with a shrug, “crazy small world.” he assessed you and then said, “and how are you doing?”
you hated how normal it felt to talk to him. in your mind, you had painted him as this faraway, non-existent consequence of your trauma, your only long-term relationship ever, and now that he was here it all felt too real again. it was an insane thought.
“good,” you managed, still trying not to look at his face even as he intently looked at yours, “you know, the usual stuff. teaching. that kinda thing.”
“what do you teach now?”
“financial maths,” you responded quickly, “felt natural, you know.”
“you were always better at that than me,” he reminisced, and you hated it. you wanted to run away—this was not the time to get nostalgic, most certainly not with an ex with whom you had once dreamed of having a white picket fence and three kids with. no. no way.
“i—yeah, i guess,” you said, choking a bit on your own spit.
“we should catch up,” mingyu added, “i guess we can talk more at the wedding?”
you couldn’t even form a coherent thought, just nodded before you could think, and then mingyu was gone, and you were left standing in the aisle with your sardines and grocery basket like a fucking idiot.
you hated it. how easily he could still make you lose your bearings. you weren’t a child anymore! you urged yourself to pull it together, and then strode towards the check out. you were going to go to another grocery store. there was no way you were going to run into mingyu again.
***
what was it you were saying about your shitty luck again?
oh yeah, it’s fucking shitty. because why the fuck was mingyu here again, this time at the coffee shop that you always came to back in highschool, chatting with seunghan, sitting in your spot in the corner?
somehow, somehow you had managed to run into him every single day since finding out about being paired up with him, and there had only been three days until the wedding. was the universe genuinely against you?
when he very obviously met your eyes though, you really didn’t want to be a dick and ignore him. he really hadn’t been anything but nice since that day at the grocery store, and it wasn’t like he’d ever really done anything to you.
right?
so, you waved back, and then he was beckoning you over and seunghan was looking at you and then you wanted to melt into the floor and drown in the lava.
“you already met y/n?” seunghan raised a brow, glancing curiously between the two of you.
“we saw each other at the store—,” you began, at the same time that mingyu said, “oh, she’s my ex-girlfriend—,”
the both of you cut yourselves off at the same time, and you couldn’t help the flush that filled the skin of your cheekbones, flaming. seunghan, bless him, just laughed to dissipate the awkwardness and said, “oh, wow, i had no idea. i can tell jisoo, if—,”
“seunghan, you shouldn’t trouble a bride the day before her wedding,” mingyu dismissed, just as you were about to take on his offer, and then mingyu glanced at you, “me and y/n get on swimmingly.”
you bit your tongue.
seunghan looked genuinely amused, and then said, “looking to reignite an old flame, are you, mingyu?”
mingyu said nothing to that, which made everything worse, because now your heart was racing and your face was burning and you still hadn’t even drank your latte yet and you didn’t even have your regular corner seat free to enjoy it—
ping!
seunghan’s phone went off, just as you opened your mouth to dismiss yourself, and you cursed mentally as seunghan picked up his phone, vacating your usual seat. he even beckoned you to sit down before he ducked outside to take the call, so you had no choice but to sit.
shitty luck, you repeated in your head as you met mingyu’s wide, dark eyes, face still feeling a bit hot. instead of saying anything (not that you felt capable of making any intelligible comments anyway) you took a sip of your coffee.
“you’re really fucking—,” mingyu struggled for a second, swallowing before saying, “really fucking cute, y/n.”
your expression must have said enough, because mingyu laughed at whatever face you made, and then continued, “see, that’s what i mean. i was a little nervous, but you’re the same.” his voice was fond, a little too fond, and it was your turn to swallow, clearing your throat nervously.
“you—you’re not too bad, either.” you immediately wished you’d never spoken, flushing, but maybe seeing his face light up like that wasn’t so bad, you realised as he beamed the way he always used to, the exact way you remembered.
maybe seunghan had been right. maybe there really was the start of a flame here (a small one. a spark. maybe just kindle?)
either way, as you looked at him, you realised that nothing much had changed at all.
you're stuck in a car with a beautiful boy, your glorious history, and eight hours of road. what else is there to do but talk about the deepest of truths?
🐚 pairing. exes!joshua x reader.
🐚 word count. 12.9k.
🐚 genres. romance, friendship, light angst.
🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???, breakup dynamics, road trip shenanigans, dialogue heavy. loosely based on a musical (title lifted from there, too), synopsis references richard siken's you are jeff. one scene parallels tlfy's goodbye until tomorrow / i could never rescue you.
🐚 footnotes. when i joined caratblr, @chugging-antiseptic-dye was the very first friend i made. i would not have it any other way. a: i will adore you for as long as there are waves pulling to the shore. shubho jonmodin ‹𝟹 much gratitude to my beta readers: @heartepub for her eye, @chanranghaeys for her wit, and @lovetaroandtaemin for her kindness. my masterlist
🎵 when i am with you (i am real)
You find him in his element—knee-deep in saltwater, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked precariously under one arm as he gestures toward a tank brimming with juvenile stingrays.
You wait behind the glass where the public is meant to stay. Leaning against the railing, you watch him without meaning to. It used to be that this was your favorite version of him: ocean-brained and utterly focused, calm in a way most people aren’t allowed to be in their everyday lives. It still is, you suppose, though now there’s a knot of something bittersweet twisted through the feeling.
It’s been five months since the breakup.
Two months since you moved most of your things out of the apartment. And four days since you both agreed that, yes, you still needed to drive down the coast and meet with the landlady to finalize the lease termination in person.
She doesn’t do email. She barely does phones. You’d considered cancelling, asking a friend to go in your place, but the truth is: the car is his, the rent is in both your names, and the landlady likes you best.
So here you are.
Joshua’s hair is darker than you remember, still damp from a rinse or maybe the ocean itself, curling slightly where it clings to his neck. His voice carries over the burble of pumps and the low hum of fluorescent lights.
He’s explaining something to a group of interns. Something about migration patterns and how the moon affects spawning cycles. You can’t hear the details, but you recognize the rhythm of his teaching voice, the way he softens facts with metaphors, how his hands move like punctuation marks.
When Joshua finally steps out from behind the staff door, he looks surprised to see you already waiting. He does that thing. That thing, with his eyes and brows—an upward arch, a spark of recognition beneath the doe-like brown.
“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. He doesn't hug you, doesn't reach out, but his smile is familiar. A little tired. A little sad. “You came early.”
You shrug. “Was in the area. Figured I'd save you a text.”
He nods, like that makes sense, like there’s no undercurrent tugging beneath the ease of it. Like this isn’t the first time you're seeing each other outside of grocery store collisions or terse text threads about forwarding addresses.
“Car’s in the back lot,” he says. “I just need to clean up. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.”
You follow him down a hallway that smells like seawater and bleach. He walks ahead, and you let your eyes fall to the way his shoulders move, broad and careful. You still know the shape of them beneath your palms. You wonder if he still sleeps on the right side of the bed, if he still keeps his entire body under the covers because he’s scared something will pull at his feet while he’s asleep.
It’s going to be a long drive.
You both know it. Neither of you says a word about it.
Joshua’s office is tucked just off the wet lab, behind a sliding glass door smudged with fingerprints and the unmistakable trail of saltwater. You slip inside while he ducks into the locker room to change, the lingering scent of ocean and coffee grounds curling in the air.
It’s a cluttered little box of a room—papers stacked like tiny towers, annotated marine maps tacked to the walls, a few photos of past dives and coral surveys pinned up like trophies. There’s even a Polaroid of the two of you on the shelf beside his monitor, buried halfway behind a half-drunk bottle of electrolyte water.
You don’t move it. But you don’t look away either.
“Hey, stranger.”
You blink, turning toward the voice. Seokmin’s already grinning at you, his damp curls flattened beneath a backward cap, a towel slung around his neck. Behind him, Jeonghan lounges in the doorway with all the idle elegance of someone who’s been doing absolutely nothing for the past hour.
“Hi, Seokmin,” you say, mustering a polite smile. “Jeonghan.”
Seokmin bounds in with too much energy for someone who’s allegedly been tagging sea turtles since 4 a.m. “Wow, it’s been a while. You look great. Seriously. Like, breakup glow-up levels of great.”
You blink, startled. “Thanks?”
Jeonghan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything right away—just folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, like he’s studying you. You don’t like it. That look. Like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he knows everything.
You’d been friends with them once, although it was probably more out of association than anything. They were Joshua’s co-workers. You were the girl he brought to company events; the wallpaper of his phone once you got past the lockscreen of Dolphy the dolphin leaping into the air.
When you and Joshua broke up, you figured you might never see the duo again. Until now, that is.
“Are you two really going to drive all the way to the coast together?” Jeonghan asks, voice light. “Sounds... cozy.”
“We’re saving gas,” you say. Too quickly. “And rent affairs don’t settle themselves.”
Seokmin nods far too earnestly, eyes wide with some strange sympathy. “Right, totally. Very environmentally conscious. That’s great,” he babbles. “And practical. And—wow, honestly, I just think it’s so mature of you both.”
You glance at Jeonghan, but he’s looking at you like he can read between every word. Your mouth goes dry.
“It’s not like we’re sharing a hotel room or anything,” you add, heat prickling your neck.
“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a little too smoothly. “Of course not.”
You open your mouth to say something—what exactly, you’re not sure—but the locker room door swings open, and Joshua steps out, shrugging a hoodie over his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that faded t-shirt you used to sleep in on cold nights. It’s the smallest detail, and it punches the air from your lungs.
“Guys,” he calls, eyes flicking to his friends, then to you. “Are you hounding her already?”
“Never,” Seokmin says, scandalized.
“We were just saying she looks great,” Jeonghan adds innocently. “Glowing, really.”
Joshua rolls his eyes and crosses the room, not bothering to hide the way his hand brushes the small of your back as he stops beside you. It’s not quite possessive, not quite apologetic. It’s almost like a habit, even, and that somehow makes it infinitely worse.
“You ready?” he asks.
You nod, stepping away from Seokmin’s saccharine smile and Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. “Ready.”
Joshua gives his workmates one last look. “Try not to make it weird next time.”
“No promises,” Jeonghan calls.
You don’t look back. You can still feel their stares long after the office door swings shut behind you.
The walk to the parking lot isn’t awkward, not really, but it sits heavy on your shoulders like a coat you forgot you were wearing. Joshua doesn’t fill the silence with small talk the way he used to. You’re grateful and uneasy about that in equal measure.
When you reach the car, it’s like stepping into a memory. The same beat-up Hyundai with the faded blue paint and the bumper sticker that says, Protect Our Oceans— slightly peeling at the edges now, with the art faded. The salt air and the sun hasn’t been kind to it, but it runs fine. Always has. You remember that stupid sticker because you bought it at an aquarium gift shop on a whim, and Joshua had kissed you breathless when you slapped it onto his car without asking.
He unlocks the doors and, like always, walks around to open the passenger side for you.
You blink at him. “Still doing that, huh?”
Joshua glances up at you, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Muscle memory.”
“Chivalry,” you correct, sliding into the seat. “Or remorse. One of those.”
He huffs a soft laugh and closes the door behind you.
Inside, the car smells the same—like lemon air freshener and something slightly sulfury. His dashboard is still cluttered with receipts and paper coffee cups. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched haphazardly on the dash. One of the little rubber sea creature figurines you used to collect is still wedged in the air vent.
You reach out and flick the tiny plastic octopus. “Wow. Can’t believe you still have this. I figured you’d Marie Kondo everything I left behind.”
Joshua settles into the driver’s seat, buckling in. “It didn’t spark rage, so I kept it.”
You snort. “I think you’re misusing the philosophy.”
The GPS clicks on, a familiar robotic voice announcing the route. Estimated time to destination: eight hours and seventeen minutes.
You glance at Joshua. “Still time to turn back. We can Venmo the landlady and call it a day.”
He shakes his head, pulling out of the lot. “You know she refuses to use the app,” he grumbles. “Thinks it’s a government tracking device.”
You lean back in your seat and sigh. “Perfect. Just what this trip needed: more analog bureaucracy.”
Joshua laughs again, softer this time. You both stare straight ahead, the road stretching long and wide before you. Somewhere in that space, the heaviness begins to lift.
You think the first hour will be easy.
Of course you do. You’ve done long drives before, with less than eight hours of fuel between you. And besides, this is Joshua.
You’ve survived all sorts of terrain together—coastal roads with the windows down, long drives through the mountains while his hand rested on your thigh, that one disastrous trip to Jeju where it rained so hard he missed a turn and the GPS rerouted you onto a cliffside road you’re still convinced was cursed. That one ended in tears. And a kiss. And a long night spent in a guesthouse where the power went out twice.
But this is different.
Now, you’re in the passenger seat of the same car, the leather warmed by the late morning sun, and Joshua isn’t even humming. You keep your eyes on the road or your phone or the shifting landscape outside the window. Anywhere but on him.
He drives the way he always does—left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the AUX cable when the Bluetooth fails (as it often does). You’d always liked that about him. That he never filled silence just for the sake of it, that he gave it space to stretch out, to become something sacred.
Now, it just feels like distance.
“You okay?” he asks in an even voice.
You glance at him. The highway curves, and so does his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”
He nods, then looks like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he echoes, but you know he’s lying, too. His nose scrunches up for a half-second. It only ever does that when he’s faking.
Another few minutes pass. The GPS chimes a reminder about your next turn in 112 kilometers. You both pretend like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
You used to talk about everything in the car. Plans, dreams, where you’d want to settle down when Joshua got a more permanent assignment. You’d nap on the longer drives, and he’d let you sleep, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t catch him.
Sometimes, he’d narrate the scenery just to hear you groan about how sentimental he was. There’d be music, sometimes arguments over the playlist. But even the fights were better than this new, tentative silence that makes your lungs feel tight.
You wish the GPS had a button for: Take me back to when it was easy.
“Want some music?” you ask finally, reaching for the console.
“Sure,” he says, and that’s all.
You put on a playlist and settle back, biting the inside of your cheek when the first few notes of a familiar song play. One he used to sing absentmindedly while driving. One that used to make you smile.
He doesn’t sing now.
The song ends.
The road stretches on.
Joshua doesn’t say much for the next half hour, and neither do you.
You try not to count how many times you look towards him. You lose count anyway. The GPS announces that there are six hours and thirty-nine minutes left in the trip. That’s plenty of time, you think, for things to get worse.
When Joshua speaks again, it’s so civil that you contemplate getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way instead. “There’s a diner up ahead. You wanna stop for lunch?”
You know the place—he’s taken you there before. Vinyl booths, terrible coffee, and pancakes that somehow taste like grilled cheese. It had always been charming in a very Joshua kind of way.
But a sit-down meal feels intimate. Too intimate. Like pretending nothing ever ended. You don’t have the energy to put on a show, to act like a couple, or friends, or strangers who were forced to be there together for the sake of a meal.
“Can we just get takeout?” you ask. “Eat in the car?”
Joshua glances at you, brows lifting. “You don’t wanna sit down? Stretch your legs?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Your neck does that thing when you’re annoyed.”
“It’s not annoyance. I just don’t think lunch should feel like a date.”
That lands a little too sharply. Joshua blinks at the road ahead, exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t trying to make it one,” he murmurs, the edge of his petulance in his voice reminding you of days where you might’ve willed his upset away with a kiss to the tip of his nose.
Silence stretches between you, taut and cold. You rub your hands together in your lap.
“I just think,” you say more carefully, “eating in your car is a good compromise. Halfway point.”
Joshua doesn’t respond at first, but then his lips twitch. “Halfway point. Like everything else with us.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound poetic.”
“It kind of is.”
The tension eases just a little. Enough that when he pulls into the diner lot, you go in together, order your usuals with barely a glance at the menu. When the cashier asks if it’s for here or to-go, Joshua looks at you before answering.
“To-go, please,” he says, smiling faintly.
Back in the car, you pass him the paper bag and slide the drinks into the cupholders like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe you have. He gives you your fries without asking, and you split the last onion ring exactly like you used to—right down the middle, no more, no less.
“We’re ridiculous,” you say through a mouthful of burger.
Joshua leans back in his seat, chewing. “Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dignified.”
“Right,” you say with an eye roll. “That’s why you ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream.”
He lifts it like a trophy. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of diabetes?”
Joshua laughs, full and bright, and for a second, you forget that you’re not supposed to still be in love with him.
For a second, it feels like that chapter never ended.
Joshua wipes the last of his fries against the inside of his sauce carton before tossing it back into the paper bag, eyeing your half-eaten sandwich like he’s tempted to finish that, too. You don’t point it out. He’s always been the type to clean plates, especially yours, when you left food untouched for too long.
The silence feels less sharp than the last one, but not yet comfortable. It’s the kind that sits in the middle seat like an awkward chaperone.
He slurps down the rest of his milkshake, the straw giving an annoying little gurgle. Then, just as you’re debating how soon you can ask to queue up a podcast without it sounding like a lifeline, he speaks.
“We can’t spend the rest of the trip like this.”
You blink. “Like what?”
Joshua lifts his gaze to meet yours, pointed and unflinching. “Like we’re walking on eggshells. Like we didn’t share an apartment, a bed, a life for two years.”
He’s right, of course, but who were you if you weren’t arguing for the sake of it? “I’ve told you everything that’s happened to me since the breakup,” you shoot back. “If you want the weather report from last Tuesday, I can give that too.”
“I don’t want the weather report.” He levels you with a stare, then softens. “I want more than just a status update.”
You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he leans back with a little sigh and an even smaller smile. “Do you remember our first date?”
You do.
Too well, in fact.
An indie cafe with too many hanging plants and not enough tables. You’d sat across from each other with your knees knocking and your drinks forgotten. He’d suggested the list, half-sincere, half as a joke. You had humored him because his eyes crinkled so sweetly when he grinned, and you liked how he said your name like a song he already knew the melody to.
“Pull it up,” he says now. “Let’s revisit it.”
Your mouth curls into a grimace. "Joshua—"
“Pull it up,” he repeats, firmer. He’s already gathering up your trash along with his, crumpling napkins and squashing cartons, as if taking away your excuses along with the waste.
“This is stupid,” you huff, not bothering to hide your exasperation.
“Probably,” he shrugs, stepping out of the car. “But so are we.”
As the door shuts and he heads toward the garbage bin, you pick up your phone with reluctant fingers. It takes only a few taps to find it again. A New York Times article, a psychologist’s experiment, a curated path to intimacy in less than 40 questions.
The title glares up at you, both a threat and a promise.
The 36 Questions to Fall in Love.
Joshua merges back onto the highway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other fiddling with the A/C knob until the air turns from too cold to just bearable. You hold your phone in your lap, glaring at the list he told you to pull up.
“You’re impossible,” you say flatly.
“Come on,” he grins, eyes now on the road. “It’s been four years. Think of it as a science experiment. Research question: Have we changed? Independent variables: us, circa year one.”
You exhale slowly, scrolling down to the first question. “Fine. But if I cry, I’m blaming you.”
“Looking forward to it.”
You read: “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”
He hums. “Still Adam Levine.”
“You said that last time.”
“Yeah, and I still want him to serenade me over dumplings. What about you?”
You pause. “I said Robin Williams.”
“You did.” He glances at you briefly. “You still would?”
Your voice softens. “Yeah. More than ever.”
Joshua nods, not saying more. The next question: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?”
“God, no,” he answers. “The idea of people knowing my grocery list terrifies me.”
“You said that exact sentence before.”
“Then I’m nothing if not consistent.”
You consider. “I think... maybe a little. Not movie-star famous, but like, niche-famous. Someone kids cite in their thesis papers.”
“I always said you’d be a terrifying cult classic.”
“And you’d be the first of my followers.”
He just laughs.
You ask the next question. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”
Glancing over at Joshua, you sound almost accusatory. “You said no.”
“Still true.”
“Still sociopathic,” you mutter. “I rehearse everything. Even pizza orders.”
“You did. And you still turn red when they ask if you want extra cheese.”
You try to glare, but he looks too pleased with himself. That’d been his role, way back when. Designated orderer, designated caller, designated voice at the counter saying We asked for no pickles. ‘We’, because he never threw you under the bus when it mattered—every time else was fair game.
You read on. “What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?”
Joshua’s voice mellows out. “That one I might change. Used to be pools, no tourists, good weather. Now... I think it’s waking up late, coffee with someone I like, doing nothing important.”
You stare out the window. “You said hiking and tide pools,” you recall, tone just a little too wistful.
“Yeah. That was when I thought I had something to prove.”
“Mine’s the same. French toast. Blankets. A book.”
His smile is small. “Still easy to please.”
You persevere. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”
“I sang to the clownfish this morning. They’re judgmental bastards.”
“That counts. And to yourself?”
He falters. A beat. Another. “I don’t remember,” he says, like singing was now something he could only give to others and not to himself. You try not to overthink it. He goes on to accuse you, “You used to sing in the shower. Loudly.”
“Still do. But I sang to my niece last week. She made me do six rounds of Baby Shark.”
“A timeless classic.”
You grin despite yourself, heart ticking a little faster. You knew this would be strange. You didn’t expect it to feel so oddly comforting.
He breaks the quiet. “Told you it wouldn’t kill us.”
“We’re only five questions in,” you warn. “Plenty of time to implode.”
He just smiles, knuckles brushing the gearshift.
“Onward, then.”
Questions six and seven are easy. Your answers to those haven’t changed much. You would rather live to the age of 90 and retain the mind of a 30-year-old; Joshua’s secret hunch about how he might die would always be something about the water, knowing how he could never stay away from it. There’s a pang of something in your chest. This sinking feeling caught between disappointment and relief, over the fact that there were still some things that stayed the same.
You stall a little at question eight.
“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”
Your phone screen lights up with the prompt, and you roll it over in your palm like it might yield an easier answer if you look at it long enough. Next to you, Joshua keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel slackens.
He must remember, too.
The first time you answered this question, you were strangers seated across from each other. A mutual friend had sworn you'd get along. There had been no pressure—just coffee and curiosity, laughter over things neither of you really understood yet.
“We both like documentaries,” you had said then, too quickly, a little flustered.
“We’re both good listeners,” he had added.
The third one had taken a while. You remember biting into your food, chewing slowly, the hum of the café’s playlist blending with the chatter around you.
“I think,” Joshua had said, after a beat, “we both really want to be understood.”
You remember the way your gaze had lifted then, meeting his across the table. You hadn’t said it, but you’d thought it: That’s not a guess. That’s a direct hit.
Now, four years later, a breakup and a road trip between you, the question lands differently.
“We both like silence,” you say eventually, to break it.
Joshua lets out a small huff of a laugh. “You used to say that was a bad thing.”
“It was. When we didn’t know what the silence meant.”
A nod from him. “But now?”
You glance sideways, catch the way his profile is lit by the late afternoon sun. “Now, I think we know.”
You don’t have to expound. He knows. You know. Silence is not your enemy, the same way you are not each other’s enemy.
“We both overthink everything,” he adds next. “Especially what the other person is thinking.”
That makes you grin, despite yourself. You always thought of yourself to be a bit of a people pleaser, while Joshua just so happened to lack a proper brain-to-mouth filter. You tap your finger against the phone, as if tallying it up. “Documentaries still count?”
“You tell me.”
You think about the way you’d fall asleep to David Attenborough narrating sea creatures. How Joshua would shake his head, but stay up beside you anyway. The way your conversations would spiral into philosophical debates over conservation, ethics, humanity.
You had learned to love the things he loved, learned to love him by seeing the world through his eyes. And he had loved you back. Loved the intent, loved the work, loved the way you overstayed your welcome every single time.
“Yeah,” you decide. “Guess so.”
Silence laps at the car again, but it’s softer now. Not a chasm, just space.
Then Joshua speaks again, voice low and steady.
“If it doesn’t count,” he says slowly, as if each word is a minefield to navigate. “We could just say we both still care for each other.”
You don’t protest. You don’t need to.
You both go through the next four questions with twin wavering resolves.
You ask, For what in your life do you feel most grateful?, and you do your best not to flinch when he squeezes your name between mentions of waterproof dry bags and mechanical pencils.
When you read out If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?, you tell him about wishing you had better examples for love—but you don’t quip that maybe it would’ve saved your relationship.
The two of you sidestep and navigate like your lives depend on it. Joshua’s tapping the steering wheel like he’s in rhythm with a song only he knows. A comfortable lapse hovers for the next few minutes as the miles disappear into the road behind you. You think you’re in the clear. That the minefield is behind you.
Then, the GPS voice gently announces a turn. A new fork, a new direction.
The second set of questions.
You scroll down the list, phone warm in your hand. “Thirteen,” you say. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?”
Joshua doesn’t answer right away.
You look towards him. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes still trained on the road. He exhales slowly, the sound more tired than thoughtful.
“If I made the right call,” he says. “About us.”
It twinges like a pinched nerve.
You wish you had something eloquent to say, some wry comment about him never trusting the scientific method, but all you manage is a short, “Oh.”
Oh, because the breakup is an unwelcome third guest chaperoning you in the car. Oh, because you had both told your friends it was mutual—but if you were to get technical about it, Joshua was the one who brought it up. Oh, because that would have been your answer to the question, too.
Instead, you choose to say, “I think I’d want to know if I’ll ever feel like I’m doing enough.”
Joshua doesn’t say anything to that.
“Fourteen,” you try again. “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”
“You already know mine,” he says. “Marine biology, living near the coast, helping with coastal restoration programs. I did it.”
You nod, expecting the conversation to move on, but he doesn’t let it.
“What about you?”
“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. “Same answer as before, I guess. I always thought I’d do something with my psychology degree. Make something that helps. You know. But money talks.”
Joshua snorts, but this isn’t like the small, amused sounds of earlier. No, this is preemptive of the Joshua you’d always loathed a little bit. The one who could be derisive, the one buried underneath the gentleman.
“You said the exact same thing two years ago,” he points out, and the tone of his voice grates.
You bristle. “And your point is?”
“My point is,” he says, voice sharpening, “you keep talking like you’re stuck, but you’re the one who won’t move."
The air tightens between you. He takes one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely.
“I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You said you wanted more.”
“And you wanted me to upend my entire life for an ideal,” you shoot back.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Your voice is louder than you intended. The words are more pointed than they needed to be. This is too familiar—this twisting spiral of disappointment and miscommunication, the way your arguments always started from a flicker and turned into a full blaze.
Joshua exhales. “I just want you to be happy. You used to talk about doing something meaningful with your life.”
“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”
He looks like he wants to challenge that—but just as he opens his mouth, the car jolts.
Hard.
Something thumps beneath you, loud and jarring. Your body lurches forward with the sudden stop, but before you can react, Joshua’s arm darts across your chest, steady and instinctive.
The car groans. You both freeze.
“What the hell,” Joshua breathes, flicking the hazards on as he pulls over.
You’re stunned, held in place by his outstretched arm. It’s only when he turns to look at you, concern overriding the tension in his expression, that you realize he’s still bracing you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and urgent.
You nod, lips parted but unable to speak.
Because even now, after all this time, his first instinct is to protect you.
Five hours away. That’s how far you are from your destination.
It’s nothing major. Something about the floor of the car, something that will need repairs so Joshua can drive safe. But the nearest repair shop isn’t going to open until seven in the morning, and Joshua bitches about sleeping in the car for 15 minutes before you finally agree to a motel. Which, of course, has only one room available.
The door creaks open with a wheeze of rusted hinges, revealing a room that looks like it time-traveled straight out of a 70s crime thriller. You both pause on the threshold, blinking at the single bed in the center of the room. The comforter is a paisley fever dream, the walls painted a suspicious shade of beige. A ceiling fan wobbles threateningly above.
And then, as if on cue, you both burst out laughing.
You lean against the chipped door frame, wiping tears from your eyes. “Jeonghan cursed us,” you proclaim. “I knew it. He saw us in that hallway and whispered some old-timey hex under his breath. Probably used sea salt and seashells.”
Joshua drops his bags with a thud and grins, running a hand through his hair. “You’re giving him way too much credit. If anything, this is God. This is Him writing fan fiction. You know—slow burn, exes to lovers, only-one-bed trope.”
“Ah, right,” you say, nodding solemnly. “God’s on AO3 now. What’s next? Coffee shop AU?”
“Don’t tempt Him,” Joshua laughs, flopping onto the bed with a bounce that makes the entire frame groan. “He might give us matching aprons tomorrow morning.”
You look around and spot the world's saddest mini fridge and a TV that probably doesn’t work. There’s a vending machine outside humming like a chainsaw. The neon sign of the motel glows red through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a faint hellish light.
If this was hell, it wasn’t all that bad.
“Well,” you say, toeing off your shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “At least it’s clean.”
“That is a bold assumption,” Joshua mutters, inspecting a mysterious stain on the carpet.
Another beat passes. You're both still chuckling softly, disbelief softening into something warmer. Something easier.
You lie back beside him, careful to leave a healthy, polite distance between your bodies. “You know, for all the fights, I missed this part. The chaos. The way the universe used to screw with us.”
Joshua turns his head, gazing at you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Yeah. Me too.”
For a while, you both just lie there, listening to the ceiling fan squeal and the cars woosh pasts on the highway. Laughing quietly at the impossible, fanfictional mess you’ve found yourselves in yet again.
Loving Joshua had felt a bit like that. A fairytale. A song. And so the ending of it all—the last chapter, the final notes—had left you feeling cheated. There was a time where you believed the love might have lasted; it sucks to be proven otherwise.
Joshua pulls himself up, socked feet nudging yours underneath the yellowing duvet. He looks up at you with something reverent in his eyes, the kind of look that used to come just before he said something dumb and sincere all at once.
“You know we can’t stop now,” he says. “It’s not every day we get to be stranded in a town with population thirty and a single bed between us.”
You shake your head, still smiling from earlier. “You’re really pushing the limits of what counts as a romantic setting.”
“I’m just saying,” he continues. “We made it this far. Might as well keep going. Question fifteen.”
What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?
You settle into the other side of the bed, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his knee. “Finishing grad school while holding down a full-time job. That, or not screaming at that one VP during our quarterly meeting.”
Joshua laughs. “Oh, I remember that guy. You hated him with the passion of a million suns.”
“That hasn’t changed. You?”
He thinks for a moment. “Publishing my research paper last year. The one on coral regeneration. That felt big. Like it could actually change something.”
It’s a good answer. You nod. “Alright. Question sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?”
Joshua leans back, hands behind his head. “Loyalty. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.”
You hum. “I get that. And maybe the ability to sit in silence without it being weird. Just… coexisting.”
You both fall quiet. That used to be the two of you. Afternoons of independent hobbies, evenings of parallel play. You were both perfectly fine, fully functional people outside of your relationship. You were not two halves of a whole.
A part of you wonders if that’s where you went wrong. If completion was precedent to a proper romance. But you also know that’d been your strongest suit—letting the love guide, not consume. Letting it linger, not fester.
“Question seventeen,” you say, scrolling down your phone. “Most treasured memory.” You steal a glance. “Back then, yours was that beach day with your mom, right?”
Joshua nods slowly. “Still important. But… I think it’s changed.”
He looks out the small motel window, takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to plunge into the deep end of something. “Remember the time we got caught in that summer storm in Jeju?” he muses. “We were soaked, freezing, and the only place open was that sad diner with the flickering lights. You looked miserable. But you laughed anyway. God, you laughed so hard. I think I knew I loved you then.”
Your throat tightens. You hated that night. Everything went wrong, and you thought it was a sign this new boyfriend of yours wasn’t meant for you. But Joshua had been an even bigger diva than you—enough to make you forget your misery, to have you giggling despite the fact you were borderline pneumonic, showering in ice-cold water.
“That was a good night,” you say.
He offers you a half-smile, one that communicates just how aware he is of your indulgence. He knows you complained to your friends, that you logged the entry into your diary with notes of Never again!!! and The Jeju curse is real. But he also knows you loved him, even then, even with your shoes full of water and your lips too chapped to press against his.
“Your turn,” he urges.
You shrug, suddenly aware of your hands in your lap. “There’s a lot. But… that one birthday you surprised me with the rooftop dinner. I had the worst week, and you just… knew.”
Neither of you have to expound. Not on the work week that had wrung you dry, not on the chocolate chip cookies he had learned to bake especially for that evening. You had burst into tears when you saw the candlelit dinner and the monstrous bouquet of mismatched flowers; Joshua had cooed reassurances into the top of your hair, whispering sweet nothings like Pretty girls shouldn’t cry on their birthday. Come on, love, smile.
“Question eighteen,” you continue, because dwelling on the way he looked then is almost enough to have you relapsing. “Most terrible memory.”
You don’t answer right away.
“Back then,” you say slowly, “it was something stupid. Failing my first stats exam. But now…”
You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.
“It was the night we decided to end it,” you admit. “The part where I packed up and left. Closing the door. That part hurt the most.”
Joshua exhales. “Ditto,” he says, and you don’t call him a cop out. You don’t accuse him of not being as hurt as you. You just—you let him have that, too.
It’s a terrible memory.
The room is quiet again. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers. Inside, two people who once knew each other like the back of their hands try to find their way back through questions that are starting to feel like maps.
Joshua doesn’t hesitate to read out question nineteen.
“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”
You shift slightly on the edge of the bed, knees curled toward you like you could fold yourself into a simpler version of this night. “I’d probably quit my job,” you say slowly. “Travel. See my parents more often. Start writing again. Not wait for the perfect time to do everything.”
He hums. “I’d probably take a few sabbaticals. Go diving in the Galápagos,” he says. “Set my mom up with a good house. Maybe... I don't know. Make a documentary. Something that puts all the little things I love in one place.”
You glance at him, watching the way he fidgets with a corner of the blanket between his fingers. He’s leaning against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A familiar pose, from when he used to read in bed. The memory tugs, and you almost say something—almost add what neither of you have said.
You’d want to call him. One last road trip, maybe. One last laugh over something ridiculous.
A kiss, if he were feeling particularly generous. Not to see if it could salvage, but just to remember the way it’d made you feel alive.
But you don’t say it. And neither does he.
Instead, he offers you a smile that doesn’t look real at all. “You tired?”
You nod. You lie. “A bit.”
Joshua pushes himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. You get the bed. I’ll take the cockroach-infested couch chair.”
You glance at the lumpy thing in the corner and raise an eyebrow. “You’ll get scoliosis.”
“I’m a marine biologist, not a chiropractor,” he quips. “I’ll survive.”
You roll your eyes, already pulling the blanket over you. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow and can’t feel your back, I’m not driving.”
He chuckles. “Forever a passenger princess.”
As he dims the lights, he adds, “The experiment continues tomorrow.”
You don’t answer. You let your eyes fall shut, the room quieting into the rustle of sheets and soft motel noises. Since the breakup, you’ve been having trouble with sleep. The melatonin gummies have helped somewhat; you don’t have any on hand, though, after expecting the two of you would make the trip a one-and-done.
Now, though, your breathing slows quicker than it has in weeks. You have a fleeting thought that it has something to do with Joshua being in the same room—as if your body is fine-tuned to relax and uncoil in his presence, so used to the notion that he would always keep you safe.
In your dream, you are somewhere coastal.
The salt air clings to your skin. Joshua is there, too.
Older and sunburned, wrinkled and still yours. He’s smiling at you like nothing ever hurt between you, his eyes curled in those crescents you were always so weak for.
Knee-deep in the water, he reaches out a hand.
You take it without thinking.
The mechanic gives Joshua the all-clear just before nine in the morning. The two of you make do with a gas station breakfast—powdered donuts and hot coffee that taste vaguely of cardboard—and then you’re back on the road.
The sky is clear, and the early morning light softens the world around you in a way that makes it feel like yesterday’s sharp edges never happened.
You think, maybe, that Joshua’s forgotten about the questions. Maybe last night was a fluke. A relic of nostalgia mixed with insomnia. Maybe the two of you can ride the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to acoustic playlists and the occasional podcast.
Except Joshua is a bitch who never forgets.
“Okay,” he says, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Where were we?”
You sigh dramatically. “We’re still on that?”
“Of course,” he replies cheekily. “We’re in too deep to give up.”
You scroll back on your phone, eyes scanning the familiar list. You breeze through questions 20 and 21—both of you agreeing that you value honesty in relationships and sharing that you talk to your family almost every week. It’s easy. Almost comfortable.
Then comes question 22.
“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.”
You remember how this went the first time. How clumsy and awkward you both were, strangers trying to map out the shape of each other with vague guesses. You’d said something like, You seem like a good listener, and Joshua had commented on your style.
All surface.
Now, there’s too much underneath.
Joshua clears his throat. “You go first.”
You consider calling him a narcissist, but you opt out. “Okay. Uh,” you start. “You’re—steadfast. Once you decide something matters to you, you stay. Even when it’s hard.”
He hums. “You’re perceptive. You always notice the things no one else does.”
“You’re thoughtful,” you go on. “You remember things—like people’s favorite snacks or how they take their coffee. It’s never loud, but it’s there.”
“You’re funny,” he says, a little more quickly. “In a smart way. You don’t always say the joke out loud, but when you do, it lands.”
You laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve called me funny.”
“I call you funny in my head all the time,” he replies.
You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you look down at your phone.
“You’re earnest,” you offer. “Even when you try not to be. Especially then.”
His grip on the wheel tightens for a split second before relaxing again. “You care deeply. About people. About doing the right thing. Even when it tears you up.”
Joshua drives just a little below the speed limit, as if trying to stretch this moment out. You don’t say it out loud, but you both know you’ve passed five.
You wonder if that’s the point.
The hum of the car is soft under the quiet that settles again between you. The GPS chirps—still three hours to go. Still three hours of pretending it doesn’t sting to sit this close to him. Still three hours of pretending like this is just a ride and not a slow unraveling of everything you’d packed away.
You read the next prompt aloud, your voice only slightly more confident now: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling...’”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Three each? That's excessive.”
You shrug. “Take it up with Dr. Arthur Aron.”
Joshua rolls his shoulders. “Okay. One: We are both doing our best to not make this weirder than it already is.”
“One: We are both extremely bad at not making things weird,” you counter.
He laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that softens something in your chest. “Two: we both care more than we probably should.”
You hesitate. Then, “Two: We both don’t really know what to do with all the leftover feelings.”
Joshua exhales like you had punched the air out of him.
So far, everything has alluded to this. To the eventual conclusion that you both had things you still wanted to say. Joshua was never slick; you know why he’s insisting on playing this game.
He’s hoping to find closure—some twisted semblance of it—in between questions one to thirty-six. Or maybe he’s hoping to find something else. A hint. A reason. An opening. You don’t know for sure, but you know Joshua Hong is the type of person that always has a motive.
Leftover feelings is just a nice way to put it.
“Three,” he goes on, as if he physically can’t bring himself to address your second statement, “We both remember everything. Even if we pretend we don’t.”
You look at him. His hands on the wheel, that little crease between his brows that forms when he's thinking too hard. You say, quietly, “We are both still here. In this car. On this trip. That counts for my last one, right?”
He doesn't answer right away. Then he says, voice lighter than it’s been all day, “Are you still okay with all this?”
It feels like the first real question he’s asked you—not part of a list, not pulled from a script, not something rehearsed. It’s a moment of benevolence, an offer for an out. If you told him your heart was cracking open, he’d find one of his own playlists and you would throw in the white flag at the start of set three.
You turn toward the window. “I’m okay if you are,” you say, because it’s true, because you’re indecisive, because you kind of want answers, too.
From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Okay.” A pause. “Then we keep going.”
You move on to question twenty-six.
“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’”
Joshua shifts his grip on the wheel. The road outside blurs into long stretches of beige and green, but neither of you is looking at it.
He exhales. “...small wins.”
You think of the refrigerator in your shared apartment, the one with fish-themed magnets and Joshua’s accomplishment reports pinned up like kindergarten drawings. You think of his evening prayers, the sleepy mumbles of Hey God, it’s me, Joshua, and the gratitude for no traffic or healthy corals. You think of the crumpled look on his face when you couldn’t quite understand why he was so happy over something, the way his shoulders would fall when you couldn’t share in his small but certain happiness.
You give your own answer. “...my fears.”
It lands heavier than it should. There are notebooks full of pages upon pages of writing, words you should have probably divulged to Joshua but chose not to. There are sweaters, and hoodies, and jackets with loose threads around the sleeves, from all the times you’d gotten scared but took it out on yourself instead of saying something. There are memories of Joshua—on his knees, slamming the door—asking for you to give him an inch. You never did budge.
The car suddenly feels small. Too small for the weight of things unsaid.
“Twenty-seven,” you announce, voice wavering. “If you were going to become close friends, please share what would be important for him or her to know.”
You look at Joshua. His jaw tenses. It’s a query that works best in the context of the study. The questions are a first-date gig, meant for strangers looking to be friends or friends praying to be lovers.
Not exes. Not you and Joshua.
“That I get quiet when I’m overwhelmed,” he responds. “That it doesn’t mean I’m shutting people out. I just need space to think.”
You give a jerky nod, then answer, “That I overthink most things. That I’ll ask for reassurance even when I know the answer.”
He glances at you. “You still do that?”
“Yeah.”
The silence this time is different—not the awkward kind from the first hour of the trip, but something rawer. Tension prickles at the base of your neck.
You tap the GPS map. “Can you pull over at the next gas station? I have to pee,” you say, even though your bladder is the furthest from full.
Joshua grunts his approval.
A few minutes later, he turns off the road. You murmur a quick thanks before slipping out of the car.
The restroom is fluorescent-lit and smells faintly of soap and old tiles. You grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, staring into the mirror.
“You’re fine,” you tell your reflection. “You’re fine. Don’t go there again.”
You splash cold water on your face, the shock of it grounding. You know what this is starting to feel like. A ledge, a pattern, a memory dressed up like something new.
You’re not sure if you can fall again and survive the landing.
Behind your reflection, the bathroom door creaks open. You dry your face and brace yourself to step back into the heat of the day—and into a car that feels more like a confession booth with every mile.
Joshua drums his fingers along the curve of the wheel, elbow resting by the window as highway signs blur past. Your hair is still slightly damp at the edges from where you splashed your face. The radio hums low between you, some soft indie band murmuring about lost time.
“Two more hours,” he informs you. Not quite a warning, not quite a relief.
You nod, thumbing through the article on your phone. “Eight more questions.”
He exhales a laugh. “Maybe space it out? Take your time with the hard ones?”
“I’ll take a break after the next one,” you say. “Number twenty-eight.”
There’s a half-smile on his face, like he remembers the first time twenty-eight was posed. “The big one.”
You clear your throat and read aloud: “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time.”
You both laugh, maybe a little too hard. You’re thinking of the first date—how you’d nervously said you liked that he was punctual, how he’d said he liked your jacket. Neither of you were very brave, then, or honest.
Will you be now?
“Okay,” he says, tapping the wheel in rhythm to the Billy Joel song that has started to croon. “I’ll go first.”
You don’t stop him.
He speaks slowly, at first. As if he’s the weight of each word. You had expected maybe one or two big things, but the fact that there’s an upcoming break seems to embolden him.
He says he likes how you read people before they know they’re being read. He says he likes how you tilt your head when you’re thinking too hard. That you always ask baristas how their day’s going. That you cry during movies, but always pretend it’s allergies. That you never half-listen to someone when they talk.
Each word feels like it’s making the air between you warmer. Thinner. More charged.
He goes on, and on, and on. Some things, you already know. Some things, it’s the first time you’ve heard.
Some things, you thought he had hated—only to find out it was the complete opposite.
Some things, you’re surprised he even noticed.
When he patters off, he looks a bit sheepish, like he hadn’t expected to ramble. Neither of you steal a glance at the car’s analog clock. There’s no need to check, to confirm he spent perhaps a little too long extolling your virtues and waxing poetics you no longer felt like you deserved.
You inhale.
“I like how you look like you’re trying not to smile when you are,” you start. “I like that you leave voice memos instead of texts when you’re tired. That you care about fish more than people sometimes, but you’ll never admit it. That you always carry two chargers. That you know the scientific names for all your favorite corals but still call them ‘little guys’ when you talk about them.”
Your list goes on, and on, and on. You like the calluses on his fingers from the years of guitar-playing. You like the soothing cadence of his voice when he’s reading something out loud. You like the slightly absurd way he sits, and the empathy he gives out as easily as one gives out gum, and the expressions he makes when somebody does something questionable.
You stutter to a stop, knowing you’ve said as much—maybe even a little more—as him. The entire time, you’d kept your eyes on the road, but now you dare yourself to look. You regret it immediately.
He’s gnawing at his lower lip, fighting back a smile. You don’t know how long he’s been trying to hold it back, but from the ruddiness of his cheeks, you’d say it’s been a couple of minutes. “Don’t say all that,” he manages.
“Why not?” you say defensively.
“Makes me want to kiss you,” he says outright, so softly it folds itself between the cracks of your ribcage. “And I’m not supposed to want that anymore.”
His eyes flick over to you. You meet his gaze for half a second longer than is wise.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Hong,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse wavers.
He does as he’s told, but the smile on his face still tries its damnedest not to break.
The silence between you now is lighter, almost companionable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. You’re both tired, but not from each other—at least not in the same way you were when the drive began.
There’s still an ache, a wariness, but it’s no longer sharp. Just an awareness of proximity and time passed.
Outside the window, the highway begins to bleed into coastal roads, winding through the kind of sleepy seaside towns that barely show up on a map. You catch a whiff of salt in the breeze when Joshua cracks the window open. The air is briny and cool, and your landlady’s city can’t be more than ten minutes away now.
“Bring up the next one,” Joshua prompts. “Question twenty-nine.”
You unlock your phone and read aloud, “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”
You think for a second before answering. “One time during a client pitch, I said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’ Completely straight-faced. No one corrected me. I didn’t even realize until hours later.”
Joshua barks out a laugh. “That’s… incredible.”
“Corporate girlie era. Not my best work.”
The road narrows, bending toward the sea. Then, he says, “A few weeks after the breakup, I accidentally called you during a team meeting. Like, I butt-dialed you. I was underwater a lot at the time, so I’d listen to your old voicemails whenever I could. Guess my phone got confused. Everyone heard it. The voicemail. You were talking about soup.”
You blink. “Soup?”
He nods solemnly. “Tom kha kai. You were mad I ate yours.”
You stare at him. He tries to act like it’s nothing, like the voicemail wasn’t from very early into your relationship, but his ears are pink.
“That’s…” You want to say sweet, or something else foolish. “Embarrassing. Yeah. I get it.”
He nods, but doesn’t meet your eyes.
Neither of you speak after that. The silence returns, soft and warm. The car turns down a familiar street, and the ocean gleams in the distance like it remembers you both.
Your landlady—sorry, ex-landlady—Minjung lives in a cheerful, sea-salted bungalow at the end of a sloping road. The pavement gives way to pebbles and gull cries. It’s the type of house you and Joshua once joked about retiring in.
There’s none of those jokes today.
The two of you pull up just after one in the afternoon, both exhausted but trying not to show it. The air smells like fried dough, and there’s a breeze that tangles your hair the second you step out.
Minjung opens the door almost as soon as you knock. She’s wearing her usual floral house dress, grey hair pinned up in a neat bun, and when she sees you both standing side by side on her porch, her eyebrows lift so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.
“Oh, you both made it,” she says. Her voice is kind but pointed. “Together, even.”
You and Joshua smile politely, murmuring greetings as you step inside. The living room is exactly how you remember it: mismatched furniture, a faint smell of liniment, crocheted doilies covering every available surface. She ushers you in, offers you barley tea you both politely decline, and sits with a huff in her favorite armchair.
The conversation is short and mostly administrative. Paperwork is signed, keys are handed over, deposits are discussed. She asks if you've found new places to live, and you both assure her you have. When the last form is signed, she takes a long look at the two of you.
“I’m surprised,” she says plainly, “that you two didn’t make it. I had a good feeling about you.”
You glance at Joshua, whose smile is tight but not insincere. “We had a good run,” he says, voice gentle, and that’s somehow the part of this whole endeavor that tears you up the most.
Minjung hums, not quite convinced. But she pats your hand and says she wishes you both well. You thank her.
It’s done. After everything, it’s finally done.
No more shared bills or split chores. No more arguing about groceries or laundry schedules. Just clean breaks, and quiet endings, and another eight hours back home you’ll probably sleep through.
You’re on the porch again, about to step off the last stair, when Minjung opens the door behind you.
“By the way,” she calls out. “You two didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I have a—what do you kids call it? Van-me? Venmo? Yes, that. I have that now.”
She shuts the door in your faces before either of you can respond.
You and Joshua stare at each other. For a beat, silence.
Then, laughter. Real, deep, absurd laughter.
You double over, hands on your knees. Joshua leans against the porch rail, laughing so hard he wheezes. Your cheeks hurt, your eyes blur, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re laughing with him like you used to—like nothing ever changed.
“I hate us,” you manage between giggles.
“She really let us suffer through all that,” Joshua gasps. “An eight-hour drive, a motel with one bed, all for... this.”
You can’t stop laughing. Not for a while. And when you finally do, breathless and dazed, you’re not sure what the ache in your chest means anymore.
Joshua invites you to the beach after Minjung’s door shuts behind the both of you. He says it casually, like he’s not asking you to walk across a tightrope of memory, but just to sit, to rest, to let the waves be the only thing talking for a while.
You agree. Because it’s the least you can give him, considering the fact he’s in for another long drive. Because Joshua said that nothing in the world made him happier than the beach, and you.
“We should finish the questions,” he says, already headed toward the shoreline. “Might as well. Before we have to get back in the car.”
You follow him. It’s easier to, now.
The wind’s picked up, but not so much that it makes the air cold. Just enough to push your hair around your face and coat your skin with salt. The two of you find a smooth stretch of sand near the water, a small incline that gives you a view of the waves curling back on themselves. The city behind you is quiet and gray, the kind of place where time seems to wait a little longer between minutes.
You settle in beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. Joshua stretches his legs out in front of him, leans back on his palms.
You open your phone and pull the list up again. “Alright,” you say, trying to make your voice light, “question thirty. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”
He hums. You think he's stalling, but when he answers, it’s immediate.
“By myself? Last month. One of my undergrads turned in a paper about the death of coral ecosystems and how they linked it to their relationship with their dad. It hit me. I cried in the breakroom.”
“And in front of someone?”
He glances at you. “Right now doesn’t count, right?”
You smile. You don't answer.
“You?”
You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “By myself, probably... a couple weeks ago. Work stuff. And in front of someone?” You give him a look. “When we broke up.”
He nods like he remembers, and you know he does.
Question thirty-one. “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”
Joshua chuckles. “This is like the third time they’ve asked this.”
“Reinforcement is key.”
He looks at you. Not in the way he used to—hungry and open—but with a quiet sort of affection, like he's memorizing without needing to possess. Really looks at you.
“I like how you look when the wind hits your hair. Like you're always on the verge of something. Running or staying,” he says.
You roll your eyes, but your heart doesn’t get the memo.
“You’re such a sap.”
“You used to like that about me.”
“Still do,” you mutter.
Joshua doesn’t press it. You give him your answer—something about the way his eyes light up when he’s watching the sunset. He takes it with grace, angling his face a little more towards the horizon like he’s trying to remind you of what you love about him. As if you’d need a reminder.
Question thirty-two. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”
You take longer with this one.
He answers first. “Grief. Not because it can’t be joked about, but because not everyone gets to laugh about it. You have to earn that.”
You look at him.
“What?” he says.
“That was... insightful.”
“I’m a marine biologist, not a clown.”
You huff out a laugh. Your chest is tight, and your heart is full, and your throat is dry with words you shouldn’t say.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
You tell him you agree with him, and he doesn’t claim you’re trying to field the query. He knows you’ve earned the right to say the same thing.
The waves crash in slow rhythm, and the sun slips further down the sky. Joshua turns his head slightly toward you, just enough for the breeze to tousle the hair at his temple.
“We doing all thirty-six today?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.
You shrug. “We’re here, aren’t we?”
The wind answers for you both.
It tugs at your sleeves and hair, but not enough to be cruel. Just enough to remind you where you are: a little too far from home, and closer to something else you can't quite name.
“Alright,” you murmur, tapping into your phone. “Thirty-three. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”
You expect him to hesitate. Instead, he answers softly, “That I forgive my dad.”
You glance at him. He stares out at the water, eyes glazed over and jaw tense, but his voice is even. “I kept waiting for the right time. For him to earn it, maybe. But some things... you give, not because they deserve it, but because you need to let it go.”
You nod, even though he isn’t looking. You don't ask questions. You don’t press. It feels sacred, what he said.
He turns to you. “What about you?”
You think for a long moment. The waves come in, and the waves go out.
“That I’m proud of myself,” you say, eventually, your voice cracking around the confession. “That I spent so long trying to be someone worth loving, I never stopped to tell myself I'd made it.”
Joshua’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m proud of you, too,” he says.
He says it not because it’s some concession, not because it’s a consolation prize he wants to give you in the face of your honesty. He says it because he means it, the same way he probably meant it when he said he was proud of you for starting your corporate job, proud of you for opening a jar without his help, proud of you for this, and that, and simply existing.
You smile at him. He smiles back. It’s the moment you will carry in your pocket when it’s all over, the one you’ll replay when the morning comes and no trace of Joshua is left.
“Question thirty-four.” You clear your throat. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?”
“This feels like a game show.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Final answer, Hong?”
He grins, but it fades quickly, as if he’s realizing just how serious the question is. “There’s this box,” he says, “in my closet. Letters, ticket stubs, Polaroids. I guess I thought I’d forget otherwise.”
You know the box. You’d added to it once. Movies you had watched. Grocery receipts. Post-Its with crude drawings of sea animals that he deemed worthy of keeping despite your disgruntled protest.
That had always been Joshua’s way—loving every part of you, every scrap and morsel, even the ones you didn’t think deserved love. Especially the ones you didn’t think deserved love.
You turn back to the sea, silence stretching between you. You’re not sure what your answer to the question is. Everything you own feels replaceable lately.
You open your mouth. Then close it.
And then, softly, “There’s a necklace. My mom gave it to me before college. It wasn’t worth much, but... it made me feel safe. Like I was tethered to someone.”
He knows the necklace. He’d fixed it once. You were hysterical when it broke, and he painstakingly gathered every broken charm, every loose bead. He watched three YouTube videos and treated the necklace with such care that it came back to you good as new.
You stopped wearing it shortly after, though, out of fear that it would snap again. That Joshua might some day not be around to fix it one more time.
Joshua reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, gently, as if asking permission without words. You let him.
For the first time in months, you feel tethered again.
The question lingers between you like sea mist: soft, hazy, impossible to ignore. Joshua is still holding your hand, thumb barely moving, but the warmth of it spreads up your arm like it's been waiting all this time to find a home there again.
You read out loud thirty-five. “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?”
You share a look, then, simultaneously—the same way you had when you first encountered the questions—you both say, “Skip.”
“Thirty-six,” you go on, voice a little thinner than you'd like. “Share a personal problem. Ask for advice. Then—”
“—have the other person reflect back how you seem to be feeling,” Joshua finishes for you. His smile is faint but real. “I remember that one.”
The tide hums its low lullaby, and for a while, you pretend to be thinking.
You both stare out at the ocean instead of each other, even as the last question hovers between you, even as his fingers shift—no longer just clasping, but sliding between yours, interlocking like they used to.
Like it’s the last time he'll get to do it. Maybe it is.
Then, you crack. Partly because the entire trip has been absurd, because thirty-six questions got you here in the first place and was now bringing you back.
Partly because you think it’s the last time you’ll have this, too.
You laugh. It escapes like air from a balloon, breathless and tinged with disbelief. “I have a personal problem,” you admit, looking down at your joined hands. “It’s really serious.”
Joshua tilts his head toward you, brows raised.
You meet his eyes. The world around you fades into pale sand and blue waves. “I really, really want to kiss my ex right now.”
His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.
And then, softly, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “I can fix that.”
He leans in, and you meet him halfway.
His free hand slides to your cheek, yours to his chest. His heartbeat—usually so certain and steady—hammers underneath your palm. There is nothing scientific about the way it undoes you.
Whatever comes next, you’ll figure it out later. For now, the question has been asked.
The answer is this.
Four years ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart on your sleeve.
After running through the thirty-six questions, you had asked him between giggles whether he was in looove with you now. He had looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
You got some ice cream for dessert. You had felt like you were floating, as if your feet weren’t touching the floor, and the feeling only worsened when he tried and failed to be cool about holding your hand.
At the door of your dormitory, he had kissed you good night. A proper kiss. And when he’d leaned in, you put a hand to his chest and told him to leave the night clean and quiet. Leave it at that, you had said against his lips.
That one, perfect kiss. We’ll have more, you had promised, and he responded with I’m going to collect.
You had watched him turn the corner and go. Right before disappearing, he glanced over his shoulder and flashed you a giddy smile.
The ocean gives—
Five months ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart in his hands.
The conversation ended with less than thirty-six questions. There is only so much times you can argue, and compromise, before the spats threaten to spill into resentment. In a small voice, you had asked him if he still loved you. Yes, he had said breathlessly, but you and I both know love isn’t always enough.
In the freezer, a tub of his favorite ice cream waited. One you had picked up in the grocery store, remembering him. It would remain there, cold and sweet and untouched, because the argument started mid-dinner and ended with you feeling like you were an astronaut jettisoned into space. One that would never come back down to Earth.
At the door of the apartment, he had kissed the crown of your hair with quivering lips. You were the one with a friend nearby, the one with a place you could stay at before the two of you had to figure out the shared apartment. Joshua had tried to kiss you properly, but you shook your head wordlessly.
Clean and quiet.
All Joshua could do was love you hard. All you could do was let him go.
You had gotten into a cab. Right before you turned the corner, you twisted in the seat to look in the rear window.
Joshua had been by the gate, watching you leave.
The ocean takes away—
It was easier than you thought, quitting your job.
After the roadtrip, that seemed like Joshua’s parting gift. The realization that you had wanted to do something meaningful with your degree, that running or staying was always a choice you could make.
And so you put in your two-week notice, and looked up Master’s programs, and got a part-time job at a non-government organization with an advocacy you believed in. You had been looking for an excuse to change your life, anyway, and here it was.
It was not like anything happened after the kiss by the beach. Somehow, it had reminded you of that first night—how you had advised Joshua not to push his luck.
He knew, you knew, that the kiss was perfect as is. To try and steal another would do neither of you any good.
He hadn’t answered question thirty-six. The kiss took away that opportunity, and so the two of you simply got back into his car without another word.
You slept the entire ride back and woke up to Joshua listening to some podcast about investigating subtidal zone organisms using a light source. He dropped you off at your apartment, wished you well with a one-armed hug, and drove off into the night.
It’s not like you’d been expecting a follow-up text, but it sure would have been nice.
You don’t dwell on it. You transition your replacement and tie up all loose ends. On your last day in the office, you pack up your desk. Whale-themed calendar, coral-shaped push pins, blue Post-It’s.
“I’ve always loved that about you,” a co-worker says in passing as you rearrange your belongings like a perverse Tetris game. “All the sea stuff.”
It hits you, only then, that you’d been a walking, talking documentary for all the things Joshua Hong loved. You could almost cry at the realization. Instead, you laugh politely.
You’re logging out of your work computer for the very last time when the Mail app pings. You’re inclined to ignore it, to just open it up on your phone and be done with everything, but the preview in the notification has your brows furrowing.
summary: jisoo knows you like the back of his hand. he hopes. (he does). which almost makes asking you out for valentine’s day even more intimidating.
pairing: joshua (svt) x you
genre: college au, fluff
*
“hey alexa,” joshua called out into the emptiness of his bedroom, “what the fuck am i supposed to do?”
the sound of jeonghan’s quip cut through the air before alexa could even process joshua’s complaint, “don’t think ai is equipped to help with your relationship problems.” jeonghan rounded the corner and popped his head through the door, an amused smirk quirking up the corner of his lips.
“there are no relationship problems!” joshua buried his hands in his hair, “there’s no relationship problems, that’s the problem,” his tone trailed off hopelessly as he banged his forehead onto the table hoping that the brief pain would knock some sense into his brain.
“haven’t you two known each other for like, most of college? i’m sure she won’t mind no matter what you do,” jeonghan offered, and joshua knew he was trying to be helpful but the advice only made him feel worse.
“you know that feeling,” joshua began, spinning around on his chair to face his friend, “when you know someone too well? when you feel like they’ve seen everything and nothing will surprise them? fuck, she’ll probably notice something in my expression the day before or like sniff me out when i slip up on a sentence or something.” usually, he loved how detail-oriented you were, but in moments like these, he wished you were a bit more oblivious.
“you’re giving her too much credit, man,” jeonghan said with a shrug, “don’t think she’s going to be that perceptive.” he appreciatively eyed the pastel bouquet and origami paper that joshua had strewn across his desk and then said, “there’s no way she’d see all of this coming.
“you don’t know her,” joshua groaned, already fearing the worst. he’d spent the better part of the week planning all your valentine’s day gifts—brainstorming and ripping his hair out and agitating over making every detail perfect. he was not about to let you sniff anything out or become at all suspicious beforehand.
he truly did know you too well, because his very first dilemma arose just an hour later, after jeonghan had left for his evening class and he was alone in his apartment, putting together your gift when his phone had pinged with a message.
from: y/nnie
josh wyd
to: y/nnie
lmao wtf so random
immediately he knew he’d fucked up. because texts at this time from you were a daily occurrence, and his response was too fucking unnatural. but unfortunately he’d been so preoccupied with folding origami puppies and tucking them into the bouquet he’d picked out earlier this morning and surprised by your text that he replied without thinking.
as he went to edit the message, your read receipt came through and he resisted the urge to cry as your typing bubble showed up.
from: y/nnie
don’t be weird...
from: y/nnie
if ur free i’m gonna come over i’m dropping something off
from: y/nnie
jeonghan said ur home
joshua’s eyes widened as he cast a glance over the ginormous mess on his desk. he’d been planning to meet you later tonight anyway, yes, but not immediately! he still had to put together the last of the origami animals and also finish off wrapping your actual gift...
but then again, if he said no, you would for sure instantly know something was up anyway, so there was absolutely no winning. not unless he became an origami monster immediately and finished your bouquet within the next five minutes.
panicked, he started to type a response:
to: y/nnie
give me like twenty min pls
ty
from: y/nnie
alr
cya
tossing his phone onto his bed, he locked into the origami flower youtube video that he was up to. he didn’t think he’d ever been so focused before, not even during his final exams, not even during his driving test, not even ever. there were high stakes at play here, and he was not about to let all his plans fall apart. in fact, he tried to convince himself, you coming over was a blessing. the thought of seeing you did put a smile on his face, as stressed as he was about the lopsided paper tulips that he was currently mass producing.
within ten minutes, he’d tucked the final ones of his origami projects between the pastel petals of the bouquet he’d picked out earlier in the morning and began to survey his next project: the actual gift.
gritting his teeth determinedly, he set to work.
*
joshua was being weird, you’d decided, as you switched off your phone with a frown. why did it feel like he was so nervous? you visited him and jeonghan’s dorm all the time, it wasn’t like an out of the blue event, right...?
the doubts continued to cloud your train of thought as you surveyed the gifts that you’d prepared. flowers, of course, for your best boy. bead sets, a new phone case, matching smiski hippers for the two of you, his favourite snacks...you’d gotten everything he’d mentioned wanting. (except for the apartment by the seaside. you weren’t financially successful enough yet for that. one day).
as far as relationships went, yours and joshua’s was relatively fresh despite having known each other ever since the first week of freshman year. you’d been together for two months give or take, just in time to settle down for a proper valentine’s day—your first with a boyfriend, and you were determined to make it the best.
you’d even purposefully visited him almost every evening so that your visit today wouldn’t seem as suspicious. you hoped he wasn’t suspicious. as you switched your phone back on and read over your chats again, you realised maybe you did come across a little nervous...drop something off? you were lucky he didn’t question it today. it was so vague, and at the same time, lowkey obvious considering the date...
you hoped he’d overlook it.
the trek to joshua and jeonghan’s apartment wasn’t far at all. in fact, he lived one building down the road, so carrying all your gift boxes wasn’t that much of a hassle. you’d made the walk so often that you knew it better than the back of your hand, so when you arrived at his door, you couldn’t help the familiar smile that curved on your lips.
“josh!” you called out alongside your knock.
you heard his faint response and then some banging around before the door finally opened.
“HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!”
your overlapping voices made your eyes widen in shock. when you finally registered the sight in front of you, you realised joshua was also holding an armful of gifts—a massive bouquet of origami and real flowers blended together so prettily, and another bag of pristinely wrapped presents.
he seemed equally as shocked—his hair a little unkempt but still cute, glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose as he blinked at you through the doorway—at all of the stuff that you were holding out to him.
“y/n,” he managed, as you huffed a laugh of disbelief, “there’s—what—wait, i was going to surprise you.” he glanced down pointedly at all the things in his arms, and you laughed in earnest.
“you did, josh,” you said with an amused giggle, finally stepping into the apartment and letting joshua shut the door behind you, “i think we scared the shit out of each other.”
you set down the bouquet you’d brought on his dining table as he did the same to the bouquet he had prepared, before he was ushering you to sit down, a faint blush on his cheeks as he said, “i can’t believe this.”
“great minds think alike!” you exclaimed, as you noticed the little puppies he’d tucked into the flowers, “wait, josh, hold on—,” you did a double take as you looked closer at the bouquet, “did you put sonny angels in the flowers?”
he sat down beside you and rolled his eyes in an ‘obviously’ way, “they’re your favourite, aren’t they?”
“stop it,” you said in disbelief, your surprise continuing to multiply, “you’re so crazy josh. this is why i love you.”
“because of the sonny angels in the flowers?”
it was your turn to roll your eyes as you shoved him a little, “no, idiot. because we know each other too well.”
when suguru looked at you, he saw the future. his future, carved into the brown and gold of your irises. he cannot imagine wanting to look anywhere else.
maybe that was why he’d ended up here.
“suguru,” he heard your voice say softly, barely audible through the wood of your door. there was no need for you to open it for you to know who it was. you’d always known him and his cursed energy better than anybody else.
“please,” he replied.
finally, slowly, you open the door. your hair is dark, braided the way you always had it. he was shocked that you were awake at this hour, although he supposed perhaps his energy was hard to miss for a sorcerer as powerful as you were. always on edge. always on guard. he wished he could build a world where you would not have to be that way.
i want to be free, you had told him once, curled up in his arms, tangled in his sheets. the memory made his heart clench, especially as your surveyed him now, your eyes judgemental but flickering with concern despite yourself.
“suguru,” you repeated, “you know i have to kill you.”
“i know,” he said.
you pursed your lips, and he waited, silent. there was nothing to say. the unsaid apologies that hung in the tense air between the two of you gave way to the silence, and suguru couldn’t bring himself to form words. he was staring—he knew—and he didn’t know how to do anything else. how long had it been since he’d seen you?
despite your words, they were toneless. you did not call upon your technique, or your energy, and he did not move. finally, heaving a sigh, you broke the silence and shuffled aside to let him in. wordlessly, he followed you into your apartment, and the door shut with a click behind the two of you.
suguru had never been here. the two of you had always lived on campus when you were at jujutsu high, and he’d left before his graduation. he wondered, for a second, how you and satoru would’ve celebrated. did you have a cake? perhaps cinnamon, as you’d always loved? it was one thing that you and satoru had in common, at least, aside from your special grade status.
he brushed the thoughts away.
“suguru,” you said again, as if you couldn’t say anything else, as you stilled and turned to face him. this time, your eyes were a little bit wet, glinting in the silver of the moonlight that filtered through your half-open blinds, “why are you here?” your voice lilted, a desperate tone colouring your words, and his heart clenched, again.
instead of letting him reply, you continued, “i have to kill you. you know that, right?”
“you won’t,” suguru said.
and you said nothing. instead, you turned towards the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water without a sound. there was no fear—not with you. you were the person who knew him the best, and the both of you knew that if you fought, there would be no victor. you would undoubtedly kill eachother and bring the entire city down with you.
“i won’t,” you conceded, passing him a glass, too, “if it were anybody else, they would have. even satoru.” it was suguru’s turn to be silent, until you continued, “i am weak for that.”
he tsked, but didn’t protest, instead lifting the glass to his lips and taking a generous sip, “you know i need you.”
your eyes turned sharp, “i am not joining your exploitative cult, suguru.”
“you deserve better,” he implored, setting the water back down, “i promised you better.”
“you fucked that over,” you said quietly, your soft tone a juxtaposition to your own vulgarity, “these days, i want nothing to do with you. in fact, you’re being immensely selfish by showing up here, you know? satoru will know i’ve seen you by your residuals, and i will have no explanation for leaving you alive.”
“you still see satoru?”
you huffed, “of course i do, you idiot. i work with him. i’m a teacher, now.”
suguru stilled. he let himself imagine it—your softspoken nature had always chafed with satoru’s loudness, but he could see the two of you being a formidable pair. power, entangled with a passion for protecting others. the most powerful sorcerers of the era, raising the next generation. it had perhaps been a farfetched dream the three of you had shared, once upon a time.
you were right, though. suguru had given all of that up. he had made his choice.
he clenched his fist and replied, “i don’t want to be enemies, y/n.”
“we’re not,” you said offhandedly, “not unless you try to kill me.” you considered him, and his severe expression, before continuing, “i’m not as righteous as satoru, i will admit. i have my own selfish desires, my own...” you quickly looked away from his face, swallowing, “i will always protect others, suguru. that’s what we all swore to do.”
those words were sharp and hung in the air like icicles.
“you can stay, tonight, if you need,” you said, putting your glass in the sink with a resigned clink, “but tomorrow...”
“thank you,” suguru said, heart feeling oddly heavy as he watched you pad back towards your bedroom, down the hall.
you didn’t reply. you just switched off the lights and shut your bedroom door behind you.
***
in some ways, your technique was as destructive as satoru’s, if not more. it was a simple one—boring, said blue-eyed boy had even mocked when you’d first met him—but you felt that it suited you. the earth. you could use every part of it—the soil flowing at your command, the magma rumbling to life beneath your feet whenever you needed it.
“sensei,” megumi said from beside you, his tone hesitant, “what are you doing?”
you bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the irritation bubble to the surface. not at megumi—no, never at this sweet boy—but towards the man you knew was waiting for you in the rubble. of course, suguru had known that satoru was overseas, and that you would be dispatched for the exorcism of this particular grade one cursed spirit that had appeared in tokyo. a cursed spirit that, the moment you’d stepped into the threshold of the abandoned hospital, was covered in an all-too-familiar cursed energy residual that you wanted to take down the building in your irritation.
megumi technically wasn’t a student at jujutsu high yet—he was an incoming first year next year—but satoru had been taking him on missions since they met, and eventually satoru encouraged him to tag along with you, too, to see how different techniques worked. field trips, he’d called them, even though you knew he just wanted to push his work off onto you.
carefully, you directed megumi to step over the rubble and ignored his question, “c’mon, megumi. you can scout. it’s safe here.”
in a blink, his demon dogs rose from the dark of the shadow, and you smiled as they eagerly rushed forward at his instruction to do the work you had asked of him. he had really gotten good at summoning those shikigami, you admired as he stepped back with little effort.
“i’m familiar with this particular curse,” you explained, “i can sense the residuals. these are the residuals of a grade one curse. you can tell by how sticky it is,” you demonstrated to megumi, scraping off some of the remnants of the curse from the dirty, dusty walls to show him.
“how can you touch it?” megumi said, a bit mystified, “i don’t think gojo can even—,”
“he can,” you retorted, “he just doesn’t want to get his hands dirty.” your voice lilted with a laugh and megumi even cracked a small smile.
as you led megumi into the building, you thought about what suguru might be wanting to say to you, to lure you out like this. true to his word, that time he had stayed with you those years ago, he had left the next morning and then never shown his face again. although, you knew he was alive—everyone did, with how much havoc he wreaked and how much extra work he caused you. all the exorcisms. the cleanup. you were irritated.
“suguru,” you called into the empty room, “i know you’re here.”
“who—,” megumi’s question was cut off by a loud shriek, one that chilled you to the bone. it wasn’t anything you were unused to, but still...
huffing an annoyed sigh, you told megumi, “give me a sec,” before whirling on your heel into one of the hospital rooms, the very one the shriek had come from. cutting through the air, you had the curse pinned to the ground in half a blink. reinforcing your fist with cursed energy, you clenched your right hand as tightly as you could around the curse’s skull, crushing, crushing, crushing—
the curse warbled as its head collapsed in on itself with a resounding crack. the curse warbled. holding it in place with your right hand still around its crushed skull, you beckoned megumi forward.
“’gumi,” you said, “you kill it.”
megumi balked. but as you handed him your knife, he reached with steady hands in a smooth motion—
slash.
“good job!” you exclaimed, watching as the curse melted into purple goop, “you’ve been training.”
“that was easy,” megumi grumbled, even though he did look a little bit flustered at your compliments, “only because you already had it down, sensei.”
you ruffled his hair, “i’m creating safe learning opportunities for you in the field.”
he didn’t argue, even though he did look a little disgruntled. instead, he said, “i thought i’m meant to be learning about your cursed technique. you never even use it, sensei. you’re just...” megumi glanced down at your hands, “using your fists all the time.”
you laughed, “you’ll see it soon enough.”
***
after following you through the winding, never-ending depths of the hospital corridors for what felt like hours, megumi was ready to go home for the sushi that you had promised him earlier.
he had long called his dogs back. you had wanted him to practice using them to exorcise curses, and so you had—the two of you had exorcised five or six more cursed spirits before you finally stopped. when megumi looked up, he noticed that there was a man at the other end of this particular hall.
he was dressed in traditional monk’s robes that fell all the way to the ground, his face cast in shadow in an eerily dark way. even though megumi was inexperienced, young and nowhere near as strong as you were, even he could sense the cursed energy roiling off of this man in formidable waves.
it chilled him to the bone.
“megumi,” you said quietly, not taking your gaze off of the man in front of you, “stay behind me.”
he did not argue. he had never seen your technique before. as much as he knew you were strong, he had no idea how you would match up against someone of this calibre—someone so immensely powerful that megumi’s desire to go home and eat sushi multiplied ten-fold.
still, your next words drew his attention.
“suguru,” you intoned, your voice cold but coloured with the barest tinge of emotion, “if you wanted to see me so badly, you could’ve just asked.”
how did you know this man? this sorcerer...this curse user?
the man—suguru—laughed, his lips quirking up in an amused smile that was equally soft as it was cruel, “i wouldn’t hurt your student, y/n. especially not the bearer of the ten shadows, the son of—,”
the strange man had barely got the last words out before he vanished right before megumi’s eyes. eyes wide, he turned to you, only to realise you were breathing heavily—more out of anger than exhaustion—your hand raised in a fist in front of you as you snapped, “cursed technique: void.”
as he followed your gaze, he realised that the man had not vanished. rather, you had—somehow—torn the earth from under the other side of the hospital—vanished it, or something—and the other half of the hospital fell away, leaving only your side of the corridor standing. megumi wondered if the curse user was somewhere buried in the pile of rubble that was rapidly disappearing into the sinkhole that you had made in the earth beneath the hospital. somehow, it was purely chaotic yet so perfectly controlled. the section of the hospital that the two of you were in had not so much as faltered, even though the other half was completely gone.
it was the first time he was feeling your cursed energy, in full. it coated you in every sense of the word, encasing you in a layer of sticky fire that made megumi recoil a little bit. how did you hide all of this energy so well?
“is he dead?” megumi asked, still in shock.
“no,” you said shortly, “but we should go.” you took his hand in your own, and without warning, leapt into the very sinkhole the curse user had been swallowed up by.
megumi barely had time to scream before he was being spat out from the earth into the courtyard of jujutsu high.
“what—,”
“you wanted to see it!” you exclaimed, your eyes much lighter now, even though your expression was still a little bit guarded, as much as you were trying to appear at ease, “my cursed technique.”
“i thought it was earth manipulation?”
“well,” you said, tapping your temple, “there’s lots of different applications of the earth, megumi.” as if to demonstrate, you let your cursed energy flare a little bit at your fingertips and a small volcano erupted through the flower beds that were by the boys’ dormitories, bursting timidly with raw, hot magma, “look at that!”
“that’s crazy,” megumi said. he was unable to say anything else.
“now,” you said casually as the volcano died down and sank back into the earth, flattening down as if it had never been there, “you stay here, okay? maki will take care of you,” you clenched your jaw, eyes darkening, “i’ve got a bit of a curse user to deal with!”
in a blink, you were swallowed up by the earth and gone.
