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ᥫ᭡.ִֶ misguided | choi soobin | part IV

synopsis: the girl soobin has wanted since forever is dating the campus resident playboy. desperate, hopeless, and out of ideas, he comes to you—a shaman who supposedly specialises in love rituals and spiritual compatibility. only problem? you’re a total fraud.

on this night and in this light, i think i'm falling for you

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| fallingforyou — the 1975

ᥫ᭡ pairing: yearner!choi soobin x scammer shaman!reader

ᥫ᭡ genre/warnings: college au, romcom, coming of age, crack, e2l, spin-off, explicit language, sexual humour & crude jokes, drug use, alcohol use, manipulation/deception, emotional distress, bit of angst, pining, slow burn, jealousy, plotting against your fav freaky couple, 18+ mdni, second-hand embarrassment, so unhinged turn your brain off

ᥫ᭡ status: completed

ᥫ᭡ wc: 12.1k

ᥫ᭡ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist | prequel | banner

part four | the phony ᥫ᭡

Soobin just stares at the phone. Stares at the minutes. Stares at the waveforms. Stares as if the right shape of sound might suddenly change the story.

You sit there behind your folding table with rice stuck to your sleeve and salt still on your fingertips, feeling oddly offended by how silent he is. Your flat is not built for this kind of quiet. Your flat is built for chaos and swearing and you making jokes until you don’t have to feel anything.

“So,” you say, forcing a tone that tries to sound casual and fails. “Good news—we didn’t get arrested.”

Soobin doesn’t react.

You try again. “Better news. Yeonjun’s not haunted. I mean he is, spiritually, probably—but not haunted-haunted.”

Nothing. He’s still staring at the phone, thumb hovering over the stop button, not pressing it, then pressing it halfway, then pulling away as if he’s scared to end it.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Great chat.”

Soobin finally lifts his head. His expression is unreadable. His eyes look like they’ve gone somewhere else entirely and left his body behind.

Your stomach tightens. “Soobin,” you say, quieter, and you hate that you’re saying his name like that. “Say something.”

He blinks slowly. Then he presses stop on the recording. The red dot disappears.

The silence hits harder.

He sets the phone down on the table with a careful little movement, as if his hands have forgotten how to be normal. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “We’re done,” he says.

You stare. “Done?”

He nods once, jaw tight. “We’re done here.”

You open your mouth to argue, close it, then open it again since your mouth loves being a nuisance even when your heart wants to shut down. “Right,” you say, voice sharp because you don’t know how to be gentle. “So you’re just quitting.”

Soobin’s eyes flick up briefly, then away. “I’m not quitting.”

“You’re quitting,” you insist. “That’s literally what done means.”

He lets out a slow breath that sounds too controlled, the kind of breath people take when they’re trying not to crack in front of witnesses. “I can’t break them up.”

The words land heavy.

You swallow. “You don’t know that.”

He looks at you now. His eyes are bright and flat at the same time, and it makes your chest ache in a way you hate. “We heard him,” Soobin says, voice low. “He meant it.”

You want to say people lie all the time. You want to say fuckboys are convincing. You want to say I can still find a way. Your brain runs through options like a scammer’s reflex—twist it, turn it, spin a narrative.

Your mouth doesn’t move. Because you heard Yeonjun too. You hated him for it—that’s how honest it sounded.

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “This was stupid from the start.”

You flinch at that, even though you’ve been saying it for days. “It wasn’t stupid,” you snap automatically.

Soobin’s brows lift, a humourless twitch. “It wasn’t?”

You gesture wildly at your rice bowl, your table, the sheet on the floor. “You crawled under my table. You hid under a bedsheet. We threw rice at a man and told him his dick was spiritually unstable. That’s commitment. That’s not stupid.”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. For half a second you think he’s going to laugh. He doesn’t.

He drags a hand down his face slowly, like he’s trying to wipe the whole week off his skin. “I convinced myself he’d be a bad g-guy,” he admits, and his voice cracks slightly on the last word. “I needed him to be a bad guy.”

Your throat tightens.

There it is. The real thing. The thing underneath the plan. It was easy to believe he’d have another chance if Yeonjun was a villain. It was easy to tell himself he was saving her. It was easy to be righteous.

Finding out Yeonjun isn’t… shatters that whole structure. It turns Soobin’s love into what it really is—longing with no place to go.

Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. You look down immediately, biting your lip hard enough to hurt, because you refuse to cry and make this about you. You refuse to be another burden on him. You refuse to be the girl who cries at him again—especially now, especially when he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

So you do the only thing you know how to do when you want to comfort someone. You insult him. “So what?” you say, voice rough. “You’re just giving up?”

Soobin’s gaze flicks to you again, sharper this time. “Stop saying that.”

“Stop what?” you shoot back.

“Stop acting like this is something you can fix with a plan,” he says, and it’s not even angry. It’s tired. It’s resignation. “You can’t.”

You blink. It stings because it’s true. Your throat tightens anyway. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says, simply.

Silence stretches.

Mangy flicks his tail on the windowsill once, bored. A car passes outside. Life keeps going.

Soobin stands up. The movement is slow, as if his body is too heavy. He smooths his shirt down—habit returning, neatness trying to save him. He looks out of place in your studio again. Too clean for your chaos. Too polite for your mess.

He picks up his phone.

You watch his hands, the careful movements, the way he won’t look at you, and something in your chest twists sharp. “Are you leaving?” you ask, and you hate how small it sounds.

Soobin pauses at the door.

He doesn’t turn fully. He just stands there, shoulders squared, voice quiet. “Yeah.”

You want to stop him. You want to say something comforting. Something human. Something that doesn’t come out as a joke or an insult.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Because you know very well that whatever you say won’t help. You can’t give him his dream girl. You can’t rewrite reality. You can’t unhear Yeonjun.

So you do nothing.

Soobin steps out. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and the sound feels louder than the slam did earlier.

You stand there in your studio, staring at the sheet on the floor, the rice still scattered on the table, the salt on your fingers, the chair slightly off-centre. Everything looks stupid now.

You sink into your chair slowly and let your head drop forward—it hurts.

And you don’t know if it hurts for Soobin, because watching someone lose like that is brutal. Or if it hurts for you, because somewhere between the ghost lies and the threats and the screaming and the fucked-up closeness in a cupboard, you finally admitted something you’ve been avoiding.

You fucking like him. And now he’s gone. And he won’t look at you twice.

Mangy jumps down from the windowsill, pads over, and sits on your notebook again.

You stare at him, throat tight. “If you judge me,” you whisper, “I’ll sell you.”

Mangy blinks slowly, then he starts purring—which is the closest thing you get to comfort. And you hate that it makes your eyes sting again anyway.

A few weeks pass and you pretend you’re normal.

You pretend you didn’t spend days stalking a man with a rich boy under your table. You pretend you didn’t throw rice at someone’s chest and called it cleansing. You pretend you didn’t like Soobin’s stupid earnest face when he listened to you talk about your life. You pretend you didn’t watch him leave your studio and feel your chest cave in.

You pretend a lot. It’s your core skill set.

Sometimes you think about texting him. Just one message. Something casual that doesn’t scream I miss you, since you have self-respect and also fear. You even typed out what you would text once or twice.

you: u alive you: hi. hope you’re not under a table anymore you: don’t die. that would be inconvenient for my conscience

You deleted it every time.

Your business is done. He’s done. You did the job—even if it didn’t go how he wanted. Seeing him again would just reopen the wound, and you’re not into self-harm. You already have student debt for that.

You haven’t seen Kang Taehyun much either—not since you told him to fuck off and he actually listened for once. Which is the worst part—Taehyun listening. It’s like a dog suddenly gaining free will. Terrifying.

Your weeks get quieter—a sad-quiet. Your studio feels emptier without the drama, and that pisses you off. You hate that you miss the chaos. You hate that you miss Soobin. You hate that you miss both.

Then Friday comes, and you finally cave. You text Taehyun first, since you’re not a masochist.

you: fcf? you: don’t be weird you: i’m hungry and i’m not apologising

He replies in under a minute.

plug: shift finishes in 20 plug: u better not throw a drink at me again plug: also ur buying the first round. emotional damages

You snort, grab your coat, and go. The bar is almost closing when you walk in. The lights are dimmed. Half the stools are flipped. The place smells of citrus cleaner, old beer, and poor life choices. You expect it to be empty.

It isn’t.

Choi Soobin is sat at the bar. Your stomach drops so hard it feels like a physical thing.

He’s not hunched, broken or wrecked how you expected. He’s sitting straight, shoulders squared, coat neat, hair done, looking expensive and composed in an infuriating way that makes it seem like he’s already moved on and you’re the only idiot still carrying it.

There’s a glass in front of him that looks like whisky—untouched.

He’s staring at it as if he’s waiting for it to give him answers. His hands rest on the bar, fingers relaxed. His face is blank like he’s trying not to feel.

You pause in the doorway for half a second, brain screaming turn around. Your legs don’t listen.

Taehyun is behind the counter, wiping down the same spot in slow circles. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He just lifts his chin in greeting, then goes back to wiping like you never had a fight and you never stormed out and you never blocked him for two days like a dramatic teenager.

That’s the thing about you and Taehyun. You’ve known each other too long for apologies. You either talk or you don’t. You either show up or you don’t. The rest is noise.

You walk to the bar and slide onto the stool next to Soobin without asking permission. He doesn’t react at first.

Then you say, “Hi.”

His head turns slowly. Surprise flickers across his face. A brief crack in his composure like he didn’t expect to see you here, right beside him, acting normal. “Hi,” he replies, voice level.

You stare at the untouched whisky. “Are you drinking?”

He glances at the glass. “No.”

You nod. “Why is it there then?”

“So I can look at it,” he says, deadpan.

You blink. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

He exhales through his nose, almost amused. “It’s been a depressing few weeks.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you do the only thing you know how to do—you make it worse. “Congratulations,” you say. “You’ve finally caught up to my lifestyle.”

Soobin’s mouth twitches. It doesn’t become a smile. It tries.

You look at his face properly now. He looks… okay. Not okay in the sense of healed. Okay as in functioning—clean, put together, no visible spiral, no haunted eyes, no table grapes trauma written across his forehead.

That’s what hits you. You expected him to look ruined. You expected drunk Soobin, wrecked Soobin, I haven’t slept Soobin. Instead he looks like a man wearing composure because composure is the only thing he can hold onto without falling apart.

It makes something in your chest go heavy. You hate that too. You clear your throat. “So. What have you been up to?”

Soobin’s gaze stays forward for a second, then he turns to you again. “Lectures.”

“Fun,” you say.

“Assignments,” he adds.

“Even better.”

He glances at you sideways. “You?”

You shrug. “Scams. Rent. Cat. Depression.”

Soobin blinks. “That’s… an interesting list.”

“It’s a CV,” you reply. “I’m employable.”

Taehyun makes a sound behind the bar that might be a laugh. He doesn’t look over. He keeps wiping.

Soobin’s eyes flick to Taehyun. “You waiting for him to finish working?”

“Sadly,” you say. “He belongs here. This is his habitat.”

Taehyun finally looks up, eyes flat. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” you reply. “Develop shame.”

Taehyun points at the whisky in front of Soobin. “You actually going to drink that or are you just torturing yourself?”

Soobin’s jaw tightens slightly. “I’m fine.”

Taehyun hums. “Sure.”

You turn to Soobin. “You look fine.”

Soobin’s eyes flick to you, sharp for half a second. “I am fine.”

“You’re so good at that sentence,” you say. “You should get it printed on a t-shirt.”

He doesn’t answer. He looks back at the glass instead.

The silence stretches, loaded.

Taehyun finishes wiping, checks the clock, then starts pulling his apron off with an end-of-shift relief. He hooks it over his arm, grabs his coat from under the counter, then looks at you like this was always the plan.

“Ready for FCF?” you ask, nodding toward him.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “FCF.”

Soobin’s head turns slightly. “What’s FCF?”

You and Taehyun look at each other. It’s quick, wordless, the kind of shared glance that comes from history—the kind that says should we?

Taehyun’s smile turns devilish. “Fried Chicken Friday.”

Soobin blinks. “That’s a… thing?”

“It’s a tradition,” you say.

“It’s a coping mechanism,” Taehyun adds.

“It’s grease and booze and bitching,” you finish.

Soobin looks between you both, something faintly curious in his eyes. “You do it every Friday?”

“Religiously,” Taehyun says.

Soobin hesitates. “And you’re going now?”

You lift a brow. “Yeah. Wanna come? Unless you want to sit here and stare at your whisky like it’s going to apologise to you.”

Taehyun tugs his coat on. “We’re going,” he says, then looks at Soobin. “You coming or not?”

Soobin pauses. He looks at his untouched glass. He looks at the bar. He looks at you. Something shifts in his expression—tiny, reluctant, tired. Then he nods once. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll come.”

Taehyun’s eyes brighten. “Good.”

You slide off your stool, tug your coat tighter, then glance at Soobin as he stands. “Don’t be weird,” you warn.

Soobin looks at you, deadpan. “You’re the weird one.”

You snort. “Fair.”

Taehyun pushes open the door to the cold night and gestures out. “Come on then. FCF.”

And somehow—against all your logic, and all your stubbornness, and all the ways you told yourself you’d never see him again—Choi Soobin follows you both out into the dark.

Choi Soobin doesn’t mean to come.

He means to say no, thanks, he’s got an early lecture, he’s tired, he’s fine—he’s always fine, he doesn’t need fried chicken and whatever stupid ritual you and Taehyun have built. He means to leave the bar and go home and stare at his ceiling in peace, the way he’s been doing for weeks.

Then you look at him and say, “Don’t be weird,” and Taehyun says, “FCF,” and Soobin hears himself say, “Alright.”

And now he’s outside in the cold night with both of you. The air bites his cheeks, and he realises that he’s already made the first bad decision.

He follows you to the off-licence where you buy too much beer—not even the nice kind, just stacks of cans that clink in the carrier bag. Taehyun holds them like he’s carrying groceries for his mum. You hold them like you’ve done this before. Soobin holds them like he’s about to be caught by campus security and expelled on the spot.

“This is already too much,” he says, watching Taehyun grab another four-pack.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “You’ve never been to a proper FCF.”

“I’ve had fried chicken before,” Soobin replies.

You look at him, deadpan. “Not spiritually.”

Soobin blinks. “What does that mean?”

“It means shut up and walk,” you say, then you lift the bag of beer higher. “Also you’re carrying this, Rich Boy.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “I’m not—”

You stare at his coat. At his shoes. At the way his bank card would probably work on the first tap. “Yeah. Sure.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Taehyun cuts in. “Mate, don’t fight it. She calls everyone rich. It’s her hobby.”

“It is not my hobby,” you say. “It’s my coping mechanism.”

Soobin doesn’t know what to do with that sentence, so he just carries the beer and tries to behave.

Then you take him to the chicken shop and buy too many boxes of chicken and chips. The smell of hot grease and spice hits him immediately, making his stomach lurch in either hunger or anxiety. You both eat chips out of the box while you walk, since apparently you’re feral and civilisation doesn’t apply to you.

Soobin holds his box carefully, hands clean, posture polite. He takes one bite and tries not to react.

You clock him anyway. “You don’t like it.”

“I like it,” he says.

“You’re lying,” you reply. “Your face is doing something.”

Soobin chews, then swallows. “It’s—spicy.”

Taehyun laughs. “Spicy. He says spicy like he’s reviewing a dish on a cooking show.”

You point at Soobin. “You’re not allowed to have a sensitive palate. You’re a man.”

Soobin looks horrified. “That’s not how—”

“It is how,” you cut in. “If you can threaten to report us to our universities, you can handle seasoning.”

Soobin shuts his mouth, chewing slowly, and wonders how the hell he ended up here again—outside, carrying beer, eating fried chicken in the street, following two scammers into whatever criminal activity they’ve decided is self-care.

Taehyun turns down a side road.

Soobin follows, since he has no spine when it comes to leaving situations. The streetlights get fewer. The pavement gets quieter. The air gets colder. The buildings start looking older, emptier, half-renovated and abandoned, windows boarded, brickwork stained.

Soobin slows. “Where are we going?”

“Our spot,” you say.

“So you don’t have a spot,” he replies, and it comes out sharper than he means it to. “You have a crime scene.”

Taehyun grins. “Welcome.”

You stop in front of a building with a metal gate half bent, a warning sign that says NO ENTRY hanging crooked.

Soobin stares at it. “That says no entry.”

You tilt your head. “So you can read.”

He looks at you. “This is trespassing.”

Taehyun nods. “Yeah.”

Soobin’s voice tightens. “Why are you saying that so calmly?”

You shrug. “Vibes.”

Soobin blinks. “Vibes?”

“Vibes,” you repeat.

Taehyun slips through the gate first, ducking under a broken chain with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. You follow without hesitation. Soobin falters, then steps through after you, clutching the beer bag like it’s a hostage.

The inside smells of damp, dust and old concrete. The kind of place where a horror movie would start and people would die in the first ten minutes.

Soobin whispers, “This is insane.”

“You’re the one who ate grapes under tables for eleven nights,” you whisper back, and the reminder hits him right in the shame.

He shuts up.

You find the emergency staircase and start climbing. The steps are metal and cold, echoing under your shoes. You take them fast. Taehyun takes them faster. Soobin takes them carefully, since he’d rather not break his neck in a building he’s not meant to be in.

Halfway up, he asks, breathing a little harder, “How did you even find this?”

Taehyun calls back without turning around, “We grew up in the countryside. When we get bored, we climb shit.”

Soobin thinks about his own adolescence—quiet, structured and safe. He thinks about you and Taehyun—younger, climbing abandoned buildings for entertainment because your town had nothing else. Something in his chest shifts, uncomfortable.

He reaches the rooftop and stops dead. The view is breathtakingly stupid.

The city spreads out under him, lights scattered, roads cutting through, buildings rising, the horizon soft with the hint of spring. The air up here is cleaner, colder, and the breeze hits his face in a way that makes him feel awake.

You walk to the edge and lean on the railing like you belong here.

Taehyun drops the carrier bags and starts unloading cans and chicken boxes, setting everything out with a weird level of organisation.

Soobin stands there for a beat, taking it in, then he realises he’s smiling.

He wipes it off his face immediately.

You notice anyway. You always notice. “You’re impressed,” you say.

“I’m not impressed,” he replies.

“You are,” you insist. “Your eyes are doing the thing.”

Soobin frowns. “What thing?”

“The thing where they don’t look miserable,” you say.

Taehyun cracks a can and tosses one to Soobin. He catches it awkwardly. The metal is cold against his palm.

“You drink,” Taehyun says, like it’s a command.

Soobin hesitates. “I don’t usually—”

You cut in. “Don’t start. You smoked in my living room.”

Soobin’s ears go hot. “That was an accident.”

“That was a choice,” you correct.

Taehyun lifts his can. “To bad choices.”

You lift yours. “To crimes.”

Soobin stares at both of you, then lifts his can slowly. “To—vibes,” he says, and he hates that he’s doing this, and he hates that you both burst out laughing.

He drinks. It tastes of bitter piss. He coughs. You laugh harder.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “How do you drink this?”

Taehyun shrugs. “Practice.”

You add, “Trauma.”

Soobin takes another sip, determined to survive the night without being the boring one. The bitterness eases slightly. Or his tongue gives up.

Cans open. Chicken boxes get demolished. The rooftop becomes a messy little party of three, the city below ignoring you completely.

Somehow, without him fully clocking when it happens, Soobin stops thinking about Yeonjun for a while. He stops thinking about the girl. He stops thinking about the ache in his chest.

He starts thinking about the way you laugh when Taehyun says something stupid. The way Taehyun looks softer when you’re not fighting. The way the wind hits his face and makes him feel alive.

It annoys him. It also feels good.

“This is illegal,” Soobin says at some point, holding a can and staring at the edge.

You nod. “Obviously.”

Taehyun shrugs. “Allegedly.”

Soobin looks at you. “You’re not scared.”

You glance at him, then point at the view. “Why would I be scared? Nobody’s up here except us.”

“So you do this often?” he says.

You smirk. “We used to. When we first moved here. When the city felt too big and we felt too small. We’d come up here and pretend we owned it.”

Soobin’s throat tightens at that sentence, even though it’s casual.

He takes another drink. Then another. And another.

At some point, his body starts getting warm. The wind feels less cold. His face feels loose. His thoughts get slower. His mouth starts feeling brave.

He hates that too.

You lean on the railing and point out toward the horizon. “In a few hours, the sun comes up,” you say. “It’ll hit the buildings first, then everything goes gold. Makes the whole place look… softer.”

Soobin blinks at you. “You stay up here until sunrise?”

You glance back at him, unimpressed. “Vibes.”

Taehyun laughs, already a little slurred. “She says vibes for everything.”

“So it’s just vibes,” Soobin repeats, and he’s half laughing now, half baffled.

“Yes,” you say. “Drink.”

Soobin drinks.

The cans pile up. The chicken boxes get flattened. Taehyun gets quieter, his laughter fading into tiredness. For a man who works behind a bar, he’s a lightweight. It’s embarrassing. He slumps against the wall, head tipping back, eyelids heavy.

“You alright?” you ask him.

Taehyun waves a hand. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just—” He stops. His eyes close. His chin dips. Five cans and he’s out cold, mouth slightly open, hoodie bunched around his neck. He’s snoring within minutes, soft and pathetic.

You stare at him. “Wow.”

Soobin stares too, then mutters, “He’s the bartender.”

“He’s also a liar,” you reply. “He pretends he’s built for it. He’s not.”

Soobin laughs under his breath. It surprises him.

You glance at him. “You’re laughing again.”

He clears his throat, tries to straighten his face. “I’m not.”

You lift a brow. “You are.”

Soobin takes another drink and doesn’t argue.

The rooftop quiets down without Taehyun’s voice, leaving just the city hum below, the wind, and the occasional car far away. You and Soobin sit with your backs against the railing, legs stretched out, a plastic bag beside you where you’ve stacked the empty boxes and cans with weird neatness.

Soobin watches you do it. “You’re tidying your trash.”

You glare. “I’m not leaving it up here. I’m a criminal, not a cunt.”

He nods slowly, amused. “Right.” He takes another drink. The warm buzz in his body grows heavier. His limbs feel loose. His mouth feels honest in a way he doesn’t trust.

He glances at you and thinks, against his will—he likes this version of you. The one that isn’t screaming. The one that isn’t lying. The one that’s just here, pointing at the skyline like it’s yours.

He immediately hates himself for thinking it. He takes another drink anyway.

Choi Soobin is drunk enough that his thoughts have stopped sprinting. They’re still messy and loud. They’ve just slowed down from panic slideshow to sad documentary with occasional adverts for regret. He clears his throat. His voice comes out quieter than he intends. “You and Taehyun… are you a we?”

You glance at him, eyes sharp even through alcohol. “Yeah.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. He hates that the answer hits. He hates that it stings. He also hates that he wants to ask anyway, since asking means he cares.

Soobin nods, then his chest tightens again, that heavy feeling he’s been trying to ignore all night. It’s been there since you walked into the bar and sat beside him like you belonged there. It’s been there when you and Taehyun bickered and moved around each other with an easy familiarity. It’s been there every time you said we, and the we didn’t include him.

He didn’t understand it at first. He thought it was just jealousy. He thought it was just him being pathetic again. Now, sitting up here with Taehyun snoring and you staring at the skyline, he realises it’s simpler than that.

It’s exclusion—history he wasn’t part of.

“Right,” he says.

You snort softly. “What? You jealous?”

Soobin immediately reacts. “No.”

You lift a brow. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he insists, voice too stiff.

You lean your head back against the railing, looking pleased with yourself. “You are. It’s fine. Everyone’s jealous of me and my annoying brother.”

Soobin blinks. “Your what?”

You turn your head toward him. “Taehyun.”

Soobin glances at the sleeping figure by the wall. Taehyun’s face is turned to the side, hair in his eyes, mouth slightly open, completely gone. If he was anyone else, Soobin would find it pathetic. Since it’s Taehyun, it’s just irritating.

“Brother,” Soobin repeats.

“Not biological,” you add quickly, waving a hand. “Before your good-boy brain starts doing a family tree.”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. “You’re not related?”

“No,” you say, deadpan. “He’s just been in my life long enough to qualify as a lifelong infection.”

Soobin’s chest loosens slightly. It’s subtle. He notices it anyway, and it annoys him. Relief should not feel this good. “You’ve known him that long?” he says.

You nod once. “Since we were kids.”

He looks back at the city, the lights, the buildings, the roads. “So you moved here together?”

“We moved for uni,” you say. “Same year. Same broke energy. Same the city will fix us delusion.”

Soobin watches Taehyun snore and feels that heavy feeling shift again—less sharp now. He says, quieter, “You two are close.”

You shrug. “He’s all I’ve got up here.”

Soobin’s throat tightens slightly. He hates that sentence. It makes him think of the way you said it’s just you and your grandma. It makes him think of your shitty father and how you should have received more love while you were growing up.

He doesn’t say any of that. He takes another sip instead.

“You’re not close with your family, are you?” you say, out of nowhere.

Soobin turns his head toward you. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you reply. “You talk about your dad the way people talk about a bank.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “He’s fine.”

You stare at him. “That’s your favourite sentence.”

Soobin exhales through his nose. “He bought me a car.”

“You keep saying that,” you say. “As if that’s a hug.”

Soobin looks away. His voice comes out quieter. “It’s what he does.”

You tilt your head. “He buys instead of speaks.”

Soobin’s fingers tighten around the can. He can feel the cold metal biting his skin. He nods once, slow. “When he’s proud,” he admits, “he gives money. When he’s sorry, he gives money. When he doesn’t know what to say, he gives money.”

You snort. “So he’s emotionally illiterate with a wallet.”

Soobin almost laughs. He almost defends his dad—he doesn’t, since both of those things feel exhausting.

You continue, voice casual, as if you’re not digging into his ribs. “Does he ever just—talk to you?”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. He swallows. “Not really.”

You go quiet for a beat.

Soobin hears it in the silence. The way you understand that sentence too well.

He takes another sip and stares at the city, thinking of how strange it is that he’s up on a rooftop with two people who don’t fit into his life at all, and yet something about it feels… easier than the weeks he spent being fine.

You shift beside him. Your shoulder brushes his lightly.

Soobin stiffens out of habit, then relaxes again when nothing bad happens. He hates that his body is learning you. He hates that he doesn’t hate it.

You nod toward the horizon. Soobin follows your gaze. The sky starts changing colour so slowly that he almost misses it.

You shift beside Soobin, restless, eyes on the horizon. You’ve got that look again—the one you get when you’re about to be delighted by something simple, like you can still be surprised by beauty even though your life is a bin fire.

Soobin watches you instead of the sky, and he tells himself it’s just habit, he’s just keeping track of the situation. He tells himself he’s being aware.

He’s lying.

You sit up suddenly. “Oh my God.”

Soobin flinches slightly. “What?”

“It’s starting,” you say, already scrambling to your feet.

“What’s starting?” he asks, slow, since his brain is running on beer and confusion.

You point with the kind of urgency people reserve for fires. “The sunrise, you idiot.”

Soobin blinks, then pushes himself up too, joints stiff, head light, stomach warm. He joins you at the railing, elbows resting on cold metal.

The horizon has softened. There’s a thin band of pale colour spreading across it, faint at first, then stronger—like the sky is rubbing sleep out of its eyes. You make a small squeal and press your hands to the railing, leaning forward as if the city needs you to witness it properly.

Soobin doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

Because you look ridiculous right now—excited over a sunrise on an illegal rooftop, eyes bright, mouth open in awe, body leaning into the moment. You’re not pretending to be tough. You’re not swearing. You’re not performing I don’t care. You’re just… here, unguarded.

The sun starts creeping up, and the city changes with it. The buildings go from grey to soft gold. The windows catch light and throw it back. The whole place looks cleaner than it actually is, like daylight is a filter.

You breathe out, and the sound is quiet and reverent.

Soobin realises he’s holding his own breath.

Something shifts in his chest. It’s not the heavy ache he’s been living with. It’s not the jealousy. It’s not the sadness. It’s something warmer and more confusing, something that makes his stomach flutter like he’s fourteen again and stupid.

He should be miserable. He should be thinking about her. He should be thinking about how he lost. He should be thinking about how Yeonjun meant it when he said he loves her.

Instead, he’s watching you get lit up by sunrise and feeling something that doesn’t belong in his body right now.

You glance sideways and catch him staring. Your brows lift slightly. “What?”

Soobin blinks, caught. He looks away too fast, then hates himself for it. “Nothing.”

“You’re doing the nothing thing,” you say, amused. “Your face is loud.”

Soobin’s ears warm. He forces himself to look back at the skyline, jaw tight. “I’m just… looking.”

“At the city?” you say.

He pauses. Then, honest and quiet, “At you.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

He freezes immediately after, heart kicking.

You go still too. Then your mouth twitches. “That was almost romantic,” you say, and your tone is light, but there’s something fragile under it.

Soobin swallows hard. He wants to make it a joke—he can’t find one, too drunk for clever.

You turn back to the sunrise, and he sees it—your eyes are shiny. Not the glossy, drunk kind. The kind that comes with wonder. The kind you had when you talked about your grandma. The kind you had when you pointed out the horizon like it was proof the world can still do something nice.

A tear slips out. You wipe at it quickly, irritated at yourself. “Ugh. Don’t.”

Soobin’s body moves before his brain catches up. He leans in, reaches out, and wipes the tear away with his thumb.

The touch is gentle. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. Your skin is warm from the cold air and alcohol and whatever you are inside.

You go still under his hand.

Soobin goes still too, thumb lingering for half a beat too long.

He can smell beer on your breath when you exhale, and something sweet—gum, maybe. He can feel your pulse in your cheek through his thumb. He can feel how close you are, close enough that if he leans another inch—

He does—just a fraction, unthinking, drawn in.

Your face tilts up slightly, instinctive, as if your body understands something his brain is still trying to deny. Your lips are close—too close.

Soobin’s stomach flips hard.

For one breath, he almost kisses you.

And then his brain finally catches up and punches him in the head with shame. What the fuck is he doing?

Is he really about to do this right now? On a rooftop? With you? After everything?

Is he using you as a rebound? Is he turning you into a comfort object? Is he making you a replacement for the girl he can’t have?

The thought hits him so violently that his whole body recoils. He flinches away as if you’ve burned him, his hand dropping from your cheek too fast.

The air between you snaps cold.

You blink at him, expression shifting in real time. For half a second there’s hurt there—small, quick, honest—then it slides away as if you’ve watched it shut itself down.

Your mouth flattens. Your eyes harden. You turn back to the city, shoulders squaring. “I understand,” you say, voice calm.

Soobin’s chest tightens. He knows you don’t. He doesn’t even understand.

He opens his mouth anyway, desperate to fix it, desperate to explain, desperate to stop that look from settling on your face. “I—”

You lift a hand slightly, cutting him off without even looking at him. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t fine. It feels like a door closing.

Soobin stands there, heart hammering, shame crawling up his throat. He wants to say the right thing. He wants to say I’m sorry, but he’s already said sorry a thousand times in his life and it’s never saved anything.

He wants to say I wasn’t trying to use you. He wants to say I don’t know what I’m doing. He wants to say I think I’m starting to like you and it terrifies me.

His mouth stays empty.

Because that’s what Choi Soobin does. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. He’s afraid of saying the right thing and changing the trajectory of his life.

So he does the only thing his body knows how to do when it’s overwhelmed.

He nods.

And the sunrise keeps happening without him, gold spreading across the city while the space between you turns sharp and silent.

Your studio looks like a natural disaster happened in it and then decided to take a second pass just to be petty.

Suitcase open on the floor. Clothes piled half in, half out. Socks everywhere. Toiletries rolling around. Your notebook is on the bed with the page still open where you scribbled DO NOT CRY AGAIN in block capitals, as if a reminder has ever stopped your face from betraying you.

Mangy is sat on top of a folded jumper, watching you pack with the offended expression of a creature who just found out his staff is going on holiday without clearing it with him first.

You’re halfway through deciding whether to take your good hoodie or your I don’t care if I die in this hoodie when your front door opens—Taehyun letting himself in like he pays rent.

“Hello?” you shout.

“It’s me,” Taehyun calls back, already walking down the hall.

He steps into your studio and stops dead.

The suitcase. The piles. The chaos. The fact you’re sat on the floor with your hair up and your eyes slightly puffy, trying to pack your life into a rectangle of fabric.

Taehyun’s brows lift slowly. “What, you get rejected and decide to flee the country?”

You grab the nearest object—book, hoodie, whatever—and throw it at his face.

He catches it without looking, smug bastard, and tosses it back onto your bed as if you’ve just thrown him a pillow. “That was rude,” he says.

“So was you coming in without knocking,” you snap.

He walks forward anyway and flops onto your bed like it’s his, legs stretched out, hands behind his head—completely unbothered by the fact there’s a suitcase on the floor and your sanity is hanging by a thread. “Are we doing drama,” he asks, eyes flicking over you. “Or are we doing logistics?”

“We’re doing neither,” you say, shoving a bundle of clothes into the suitcase with too much force. “We’re doing mind your fucking business.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “That means drama.”

You glare. “It means I’m packing.”

“And why are you packing?” he presses, since he loves being annoying.

You pause, hands still on the suitcase. Your throat tightens thinking of rooftops and sunrises and a hand on your cheek and then the immediate flinch. The rejection wasn’t even a rejection—which is somehow worse, since you can’t even be mad properly.

You force your voice flat. “Because my grandma’s birthday is next week.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “You’re going to the countryside?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

He sits up a bit, studying you now. “That’s not a normal reaction to a man almost kissing you and then immediately panicking.”

You pick up another book and throw it again.

Taehyun catches it again, still annoying. “Okay, alright. Violence. Noted.”

“You’re so fucking irritating,” you snap.

He shrugs, unapologetic. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“That’s love,” he says.

You shove a pair of trousers into the suitcase, then sit back on your heels and stare at the mess. Your suitcase looks like it’s losing. Your brain feels the same.

Taehyun’s voice softens slightly. “So. Rooftop.”

You don’t answer immediately.

He doesn’t push right away, which is how you know he’s being serious. When Taehyun is serious, he gets quieter—less jokes and more eyes.

You keep your gaze on the suitcase. “Getting rejected was something I expected,” you say. “I’m surprisingly good at handling it.”

Taehyun hums. “Are you?”

“Yes,” you lie.

He stares at you.

You glare back. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided I’m a liar,” you snap.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “I have already decided.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyways, me and Soobin don’t even make sense. It was stupid. It was just… vibes.” You say it like it’s nothing. You say it like you didn’t feel your whole body lean into him for that half second before he flinched away. “A few days and I’ll get over it.”

Taehyun’s expression stays flat.

You add, louder, defensive now. “I will.”

Taehyun nods slowly. “Sure.”

You hate him.

You look down and shove a toothbrush into the suitcase just to have something to do with your hands. You can’t sit still. Sitting still makes you think. Thinking makes you feel. Feeling is embarrassing.

Taehyun reaches out and kicks the suitcase gently with his foot. “You’re going for your grandma?” he says, changing topic in a way that still feels like he’s talking about you without saying it.

You nod. “I don’t want her spending it alone.”

Taehyun’s face softens. He looks less like a bartender and more like the boy you grew up with, the one who used to get fed at your grandma’s house and then pretend he didn’t love it. “Tell her I said happy birthday,” he says.

You snort. “She’ll ask why you’re not coming.”

Taehyun groans. “Don’t tell her that.”

“She’ll ask,” you insist. “She loves you.”

Taehyun rolls his eyes. “She loves everyone. She even loves Mangy and he’s a terrorist.”

Mangy flicks his tail at the mention of his name, then shifts his weight and sits directly on your folded clothes again, as if to prove the point.

Taehyun points at him. “See. Look at him. No remorse.”

You sigh. “She made tangerine jam last time. The good one.”

Taehyun’s eyes light up like you’ve offered him money. “Bring me tangerine jam.”

You stare. “That’s what you took from this conversation?”

“Tangerine jam is sacred,” he says, dead serious. “Tell her I need it. Tell her it’s medically necessary.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll bring it.”

“Good,” Taehyun says, satisfied, then he glances at the suitcase again. “So how long are you gone?

“A week,” you reply.

Taehyun nods. “Right.”

You hesitate, then glance at Mangy, who is now grooming himself with the arrogance of a cat who thinks he’s immortal. You swallow. This is the part you’ve been avoiding, since it makes everything real. “Can you take Mangy?” you ask, trying to sound casual and failing.

Taehyun stares. “Take him?”

“Just for the week,” you say quickly. “He’ll be fine. He knows you. He likes you.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “He doesn’t like me. He tolerates me the way you tolerate me.”

“That’s love,” you mutter, then you sigh. “Please.”

Taehyun looks at Mangy, then back at you, then back at Mangy. Mangy looks away, offended at being discussed without consent.

Taehyun exhales. “Fine. I’ll take your demon cat.”

You feel your shoulders drop slightly, relief slipping in before you can stop it.

Taehyun clocks it immediately. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t look relieved,” he says. “It makes me feel feelings.”

You snort. “You have feelings?”

“Barely,” he replies. “Mostly just hunger and judgement.”

You laugh once, small and tired.

Taehyun stands up and grabs your second suitcase—the one you haven’t even started filling—and kicks it gently toward you with his foot. “Pack properly,” he says. “Don’t forget chargers. Don’t forget meds. Don’t forget your ID.”

You glare. “You’re acting like my mum.”

Taehyun points at you. “You need mothering.”

“Fuck off.”

He smiles. “Gladly.”

He bends, scoops Mangy up before the cat can escape—Mangy immediately goes stiff in his arms, eyes wide, offended at being handled. Taehyun holds him tighter. “Stop acting like you’re being kidnapped. You live rent-free.”

Mangy makes a small, angry noise.

Taehyun looks at you. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” you reply.

Taehyun nods once, then pauses at the doorway. His voice goes quieter. “You’ll be okay?”

You roll your eyes fast, sharp. “Obviously.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t argue. He just shifts Mangy in his arms and leaves your studio.

The door clicks shut.

You sit on the floor surrounded by clothes and half-packed bags and the faint ache in your chest you’ve been trying not to name.

You tell yourself, again, that it’ll be fine—even though you don’t believe it.

Choi Soobin attends his lecture as normal.

He does the whole routine—ironed shirt, bag packed the night before, water bottle filled, laptop charged. The expected version of himself. The one people like. The one people praise. The one that functions even when his head is full of you.

He tells himself you didn’t happen.

He tells himself the rooftop didn’t happen. The sunrise didn’t happen. The almost-kiss didn’t happen. The way you said I understand—with a face that clearly didn’t understand—didn’t happen.

He sits through the lecture anyway, staring at slides and pretending he’s absorbing information when really his brain is doing a slow, miserable replay of your mouth saying fuck off and also your hand wiping tears you wouldn’t admit were tears.

When the lecture ends, he packs up with his usual careful movements, shoving pens into the right pocket, zipping things neatly—as if neatness can keep his life under control.

He walks out of the lecture hall and he sees them. Yeonjun and her.

Right there in the corridor, leaning into each other like they belong together, laughing at something on a phone screen, heads close, bodies angled. She’s smiling in the soft way Soobin used to fantasise about. Yeonjun looks smug without even trying.

Soobin stops walking.

His stomach should drop. His chest should ache. He should feel the usual jealousy, the usual sharp pang of that should have been me, the usual humiliation.

Instead—nothing.

It’s so strange that it startles him. It’s like reaching for a familiar wound and finding skin there instead. He stands there, watching, and the absence of pain feels louder than pain ever did.

Yeonjun spots him. He lifts his hand and waves, grinning as if they’re mates and not enemies. “Soobin!”

Soobin’s first instinct is to pretend he didn’t hear. That’s what he’s done for weeks. That’s what his pride likes—but his pride feels tired lately. His pride feels pointless.

So he walks over. He doesn’t even think about it. He just moves.

Yeonjun’s smile widens as Soobin approaches. “Hey, man!” he says, clapping Soobin’s shoulder with the confidence of a man who thinks he’s charming. “How are you?”

Soobin hears himself answer with the expected response. “Fine.”

Yeonjun nods like he believes him, which is annoying. “Good, good.”

Her eyes flick to Soobin. She smiles politely. She says his name gently, like he’s an old acquaintance and not a boy she once left mid-date. “Hi, Soobin.”

Soobin nods back, voice steady. “Hey.”

She’s pretty. She’s always been pretty. That used to be the whole point. That used to be the reason he clung to her like she was destiny.

Now he looks at her and the first thought that comes to him is not awe.

It’s comparison.

She doesn’t have your eyes when you’re about to cry and trying to hide it. She doesn’t have your mouth when you’re about to swear and hold it back for half a second, then decide fuck it. She doesn’t have your nose when you huff angrily as if you’re personally offended by the existence of men.

Soobin almost flinches at his own thoughts. He’s never thought about anyone’s nose like that in his life.

Yeonjun’s voice cuts through it, casual as anything. “By the way,” he says, grinning, “how’s your girlfriend?”

Soobin’s brain stutters. Girlfriend. The word lands like a brick.

He blinks once, then forces his face to stay neutral.

Yeonjun continues, still smiling. “Tell her thanks again for that free session, man. My shoulders have been feeling so much lighter since.”

Soobin’s body goes cold. He feels a stab under the ribs. The first real ache all day.

Not jealousy or heartbreak—just you. Your studio. Your rice bowl. Your bullshit voice. Your hands throwing salt at Yeonjun’s chest. The way you shut the door on him. The way you looked tired and mean and alive.

The way you’re not here.

Yeonjun nudges his girlfriend with his elbow. “Babe, you should totally go see her too.”

Soobin’s stomach turns.

Her brows lift. “Seriously?”

Yeonjun nods, still grinning. “Yeah. She’s scary but she’s legit. I swear I’ve been sleeping better.”

Soobin hears you in his head, deadpan—Men will do anything except therapy.

He clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache. He looks at her again—at his “dream girl”—and realises, with frightening clarity, that she isn’t his dream anymore.

Maybe she never was. Maybe she was just the safe ending he could rehearse for years without risking anything. The neat story. The predictable choice. The girl everyone would clap him for getting.

And maybe she left him that night because she was sick of safe too.

The thought is so sharp it makes him dizzy.

He watches her lean slightly closer to Yeonjun and laugh again, and he feels… nothing—no possessive ache, no fury, no panic.

Just understanding—a quiet, humiliating understanding.

Soobin lifts his hand and smacks his own forehead, hard enough to wake himself up. “Ah,” he says out loud. “I’m such an idiot.”

Yeonjun’s grin falters. “What?”

His girlfriend blinks. “Soobin?”

Soobin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t even do his normal polite smile. He turns around and walks away. For the first time in his life, he skips a lecture. He doesn’t even look back.

He just goes.

His legs move faster. His breath comes quicker. His heart pounds for a reason that isn’t heartbreak. It’s urgency. It’s the sick realisation that he’s been chasing the wrong person because it was easier than admitting the truth.

He runs straight out of campus. He runs straight through the cold air. He runs straight to your studio.

The only thing he can think is, Fuck. I have to tell her.

Choi Soobin runs to your studio the way he has never run to anything.

He doesn’t run to lectures. He doesn’t run to trains. He doesn’t run to catch up with people. He plans. He arrives early. He waits. He is polite about time. He is polite about everything.

Right now, he’s not polite. Right now, he’s just desperate.

His bag thumps against his side. His breath comes too loud in his ears. His shirt clings to his back. His hair keeps falling into his eyes and he keeps pushing it away with the same irritated swipe, as if he can physically shove his own panic out of his face.

He can’t. His brain won’t stop replaying the corridor outside the lecture hall.

Because the second Yeonjun talked about you, something inside Soobin finally clicked into place. The girl he built into a dream stops feeling like a dream. She turns into a person he can’t reach anymore. And you—somehow—you become the only person he can picture clearly.

He hates it. He hates that it took him this long. He hates that he’s only brave when it’s already too late.

So he runs.

He takes your building stairs two at a time, because his legs are long and he’s angry at them for always being late to the point. He rings your doorbell.

Once. Twice.

Then switches to knocking, because the silence feels unbearable. He knocks six times before he realises he’s doing it.

There’s still nothing. No footsteps. No muffled fuck off. No sound of your curtain brushing against the washing machine. No Mangy meowing like he’s calling the police.

Just a locked door and Soobin’s own breathing, too loud in the corridor. He stands there, chest heaving, staring at the peephole as if you’re watching him through it and choosing not to open out of spite.

His throat goes tight. He pulls his phone out and calls you. It rings. It keeps ringing. No answer.

He texts.

soobin: are you home soobin: please answer soobin: it’s important

He stares at the screen until his eyes sting. He refreshes, even though refresh won’t make a person appear.

Nothing. He calls again. Nothing.

His stomach twists, and panic starts crawling up his throat in an ugly, physical way. He can feel it in his hands—his fingers won’t stay still, tapping the phone case, gripping it, loosening, gripping again. He can feel it in his chest, tight and hot.

A swear slips out of him before he can stop it. “Fuck.” He freezes immediately.

He looks down the corridor as if someone’s mum might appear and scold him for it. Nobody does. He hates that he swore. He hates that he needed to. He hates that his body is acting like this is life or death.

It shouldn’t be life or death. It feels like it anyway.

He slides down the wall and sits on the floor outside your studio, legs stretched out awkwardly, phone in his hand, bag on his lap. He tells himself he’ll wait five minutes.

Five minutes becomes twenty.

Twenty becomes an hour.

People walk past him. A girl with headphones glances at him and speeds up, as if he’s a hazard. A guy steps around him without acknowledging him. Someone opens their door, looks at him, then closes it again, deciding he’s not their business.

Soobin stays put.

He checks your door again, like it might soften out of pity. It doesn’t.

By midday, his back aches from the wall. His stomach growls. He ignores it. By afternoon, his phone battery is low and he turns the brightness down like that’s the solution to everything.

By evening, he feels stupid.

Stupid in a quiet way. Stupid in the way that makes him want to laugh, except laughing would make it real and he doesn’t want real.

He finally stands up on legs that feel numb and useless. He brushes dust off his trousers, adjusts his bag strap, and looks at your door one last time.

Still nothing. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows one person who will know where you are.

He walks to Taehyun’s bar.

It’s busy and loud. It smells of beer, citrus cleaner and bodies—the kind of place where people come to forget their problems. Soobin walks in carrying his problem on his chest like a weight.

Taehyun’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, wiping glasses with the usual bored, efficient rhythm he does when he’s pretending he’s not listening to everyone’s private disasters.

Soobin doesn’t sit.

He goes straight to the bar and stands there until Taehyun looks up.

Taehyun’s eyes flick over him—his creased shirt, his damp hair, the fact he looks… unpolished. Taehyun’s brows lift a fraction. “Mate,” he says.

Soobin doesn’t bother with hello. “Where is she?”

Taehyun blinks once. “What?”

Soobin leans forward, voice tight. “I went to her studio and camped outside, called her a bunch of times and nothing. Where can I find her? I—I need to talk to her.”

Taehyun’s rag pauses mid-wipe. His mouth twitches like he wants to make a joke and decides not to. He sets the glass down slowly. “She’s gone,” he says.

Soobin’s chest drops. “Gone?”

Taehyun nods. “Gone.”

Soobin’s voice shakes slightly despite his effort. “Where?”

Taehyun holds his gaze for a long beat, too long. Then he says, calm, “Her hometown.”

Soobin swallows hard. “For how long?”

Taehyun’s answer is immediate. “Forever.”

The word hits Soobin straight in the ribs.

Forever?

His ears ring. His vision blurs for half a second. He blinks hard and forces it back into focus. He cannot cry here. Not in a bar. Not in front of Taehyun. Not with people laughing behind him like they aren’t all one bad day away from sitting where he’s sitting.

“She’s not coming back?” Soobin says, voice thin.

Taehyun doesn’t flinch. He nods once.

Soobin’s throat tightens so hard he feels sick. His shoulders slump. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

He missed his chance again. He said the wrong thing again. He did the Soobin thing—overthought, hesitated, tried to be good and correct and safe—until the moment passed.

Now you’re gone.

“So—” His voice cracks. He swallows and tries again. “Is it because of me?”

Taehyun nods.

Soobin feels heat behind his eyes immediately. He looks down fast, jaw clenched, blinking too hard. A horrible thought punches through him—She left because you couldn’t even kiss her when you wanted to.

He hates himself.

Then something else rises under the shame—stubbornness. The same stubbornness that made him crawl under tables for grapes, the same stubbornness that made him keep believing when he should’ve stopped. He lifts his head, voice rough. “Where?

Taehyun’s brows lift. “Mate.”

“Where?” Soobin repeats, sharper now. “Tell me where she is.”

Taehyun watches him. Something in Taehyun’s face shifts—annoyance, maybe, or reluctant respect. Then he sighs, reaches under the bar, and pulls out a scrap of paper and a pen.

Soobin blinks. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing you a map,” Taehyun says, deadpan. “Since you look like the type to trust GPS and end up crying in a hedge.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Soobin mutters automatically.

Taehyun doesn’t even look up. “Sure.”

He scribbles quick. Roads. Arrows. Notes. A petrol station. A roundabout. A warning about hills and bad signal. It’s annoyingly detailed.

Taehyun slides the paper over the bar. “Don’t take the shorter road,” he adds. “It’s a lie. You’ll end up on a farm.”

Soobin grabs the map like it’s a lifeline. His hands shake slightly. He hates that too. “Thanks,” he says, quieter.

Taehyun shrugs. “Whatever.”

Soobin turns to leave.

Then Taehyun calls after him, casual. “Oi. One more thing.”

Soobin turns back.

Taehyun is smiling—it looks like a wicked kind of smile. The kind Soobin has seen once before—when he first told Soobin about a shaman and slid a business card across the bar like he was handing over fate.

Taehyun’s eyes gleam with it now. “Good luck,” he says.

Soobin’s stomach twists. He doesn’t wait to ask why. He walks out with the map in his hand, panic in his chest, and one clear thought pounding through him louder than everything else—he’s not letting you disappear.

The countryside is irritatingly good for you.

You hate admitting it, because you didn’t drag yourself to the city for fun. You dragged yourself there for uni, for freedom, for the feeling that your life wasn’t going to be confined to hills and gossip and neighbours who know your business before you do.

And yet.

Up here, the air feels cleaner. Your head feels quieter. Your chest feels less tight. Your grandma keeps feeding you like she’s trying to fix every bad thing that ever happened to you with food and love and an aggressive amount of tea. Your jeans are already fitting a bit tighter and you’re pretending you’re annoyed when you’re secretly grateful, because being taken care of is a drug you don’t know how to quit.

Tonight, your grandma’s asleep early, blanket tucked up under her chin. You should be asleep too.

Instead you’re outside in the garden with a torch in one hand and garden shears in the other, crouched by the lettuce patch. Grandma asked for lettuce. You don’t ask questions. When an old woman wants lettuce, you get her lettuce. That’s the hierarchy.

The grass is damp. The air is sharp. Somewhere in the dark, water is running. You shine the torch over the rows and snip a head of lettuce, muttering to yourself, “If I die for lettuce, I’m haunting everyone. Including the lettuce.”

Something rustles to your left.

You pause.

The shears hover mid-air. The torch beam shakes slightly, landing on soil and leaves and nothing else. Your brain immediately supplies fox, because that’s what everyone blames in the countryside. Fox. Ghost. Wind.

Another sound. Footsteps—not the light scuttle of an animal. Real footsteps. Uneven. Coming closer.

Your stomach drops.

You straighten slowly, torch lifting, heart thudding in your throat. You scan the darkness, trying to make shapes out of it. A shadow moves. A figure shifts near the hedge line.

A man. Tall. In a coat. In your grandma’s garden. At night. Your brain doesn’t even finish the thought. Your body reacts first.

You grab the shovel propped up by the shed and hold it with both hands, knuckles white, because you are not about to get murdered. You have student debt. You don’t get to die until you’ve at least bullied the government into forgiving it.

“WHO’S THERE?” you scream, voice cracking. “GET THE FUCK OUT.”

The figure freezes.

You don’t. You march forward, shovel raised, torch beam swinging wildly as you close the distance, adrenaline making your whole body hot.

“SHOW YOURSELF,” you shout again. “I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL—”

“It’s me!” the man blurts, panicked. “It’s me!”

You don’t stop. “I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE—”

“It’s Soobin!” he yells, louder now, like he’s trying to stop a car. “CHOI SOOBIN!”

You stop so abruptly your boots slip in the damp dirt. The shovel stops mid-air. Your chest heaves. Your brain stalls. “… Soobin?” you say, breathless.

You point the torch straight at his face.

And there he is.

Hair a mess. Leaves stuck in it. Coat dusty. Jeans smeared with mud. Cheeks flushed from cold and panic, eyes wide like he genuinely thought you were about to crack his skull open. He looks nothing like the clean, pressed, controlled boy from campus.

He looks like he got dragged here by the universe and regret.

You blink once, slow. Then again. “Choi Soobin?” you repeat, louder this time, still not believing it.

He swallows. “Yes.”

You tighten your grip on the shovel, offended on principle. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He opens his mouth.

You don’t let him speak yet. You tilt the torch up and down him, as if you’re scanning for proof he’s real. “Why do you look like you fought a bush?”

His ears go pink even in the torchlight. “I—”

“You’re in my grandma’s garden,” you cut in, voice sharp. “At night. You nearly got concussed for lettuce.”

Soobin stares at the shovel. Then at you. Then at the lettuce in your other hand. His face does something that might be disbelief. “… Lettuce,” he repeats, weak.

You glare. “Don’t judge me. Old people want salad at stupid hours.”

His mouth twitches, then flattens again, like he’s trying not to laugh and doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

You stare at him for a beat longer, shovel still raised, torch still blinding him, your pulse still raging. “Say something,” you demand. “Before I decide this is a hallucination and hit you anyway.”

Soobin inhales, chest rising.

Choi Soobin has never been chased with a shovel before.

He thinks that’s a reasonable sentence to be able to say at twenty-one, yet here he is in your grandma’s garden—cheeks burning, lungs aching, leaves stuck in his hair—staring down the metal edge of a shovel while you point a torch at his face and ask what the fuck he’s doing here.

He tries to swallow and his throat feels glued shut.

You’re still holding the lettuce in your other hand, which makes the whole thing even more ridiculous. He doesn’t know whether to be terrified or offended or impressed. Probably all three.

He lifts his hands slowly, palms out, the way you do when a dog looks ready to bite. “Okay,” he says, voice strained. “Can you—can you put that down?”

“Give me a reason,” you snap.

His eyes flick from the shovel to your face. Your hair’s messy. Your hoodie is oversized. Your cheeks are flushed from cold and adrenaline. You look fierce and feral and alive in a way he can’t stop noticing. “I have something to say,” he blurts. “And I need to say it now.”

You blink. “Can’t you come inside and say it there?”

Soobin shakes his head. He’s still breathing too hard. His legs feel untrustworthy. His stomach feels hollow. “If I go inside I might pass out.”

Your face stalls. Then, annoyingly, a laugh threatens at the corner of your mouth. “You might pass out?”

“I’m serious,” he insists.

“I’m not,” you reply. “You’re stood in my grandma’s garden looking like you fought a hedge, and you’re telling me you’re about to faint.”

Soobin’s ears go warm. “I didn’t fight a hedge.”

“You absolutely did.”

He exhales, then tries to push through it, since you will derail this conversation into insults if he gives you an inch. “I don’t want you gone,” he says.

Your brows lift. “Gone?”

“Forever,” he says, voice tight.

You stare at him for a beat. Then your expression changes into something sharp and incredulous. “What?”

Soobin nods once, miserable. “Taehyun told me.”

Your face does something violent. You smack your own forehead with your free hand, torch wobbling. “That liar.”

Soobin blinks. “So you’re—”

“I’m here for my grandma’s birthday,” you cut in, still pissed. “There’s no signal up here. My phone’s been dead. I’m not gone forever.”

Soobin’s whole body loosens so hard it’s almost painful. Relief hits him like a wave, then instantly turns into rage at the next thought—Taehyun drew him a map. A literal map. In pen. With roundabouts. He brought him into the hills for a prank. Soobin exhales through his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”

You nod, satisfied. “Good.”

Then your eyes flick back to the shovel. “So. Why are you here?”

Soobin’s chest tightens again. Right. The point. The reason he ran. The reason he sat outside your studio for hours. The reason he skipped a lecture for the first time in his life and didn’t even care.

His mouth opens. Closes. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

You stare. “Is that… a script?”

Soobin’s ears burn. “Yes.”

You lift a brow. “You wrote a script.”

“I thought it would help,” he says, defensive.

“You’re a freak,” you mutter, but your voice isn’t as sharp as it could be.

Soobin unfolds it with shaking fingers and clears his throat, trying to read. He gets through two lines before he realises he can’t do it. The words look wrong. Too tidy. Too rehearsed. Too polite. He’s sick of polite.

He stops mid-sentence, jaw clenched, then just tears the paper in half. Then tears it again. Then again, because he’s committed now and if he’s going to be dramatic, he’s going to do it properly. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “That sounded stupid.”

You stare at the shredded paper in his hands. “You came here, in the dark, into my grandma’s garden, to rip up a script?”

Soobin exhales. “Yes.”

You shake your head slowly. “You’re actually insane.”

Soobin nods once. “Probably.”

The torch beam wobbles as your hand shakes slightly. You steady it. Your face is still hard, still defensive, but your eyes are listening now.

Soobin takes a breath. He forces himself to meet your eyes, properly. “You’re annoying,” he says.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse you?”

“You’re loud,” he continues, and he can hear the tremor in his voice now, the honesty fighting through. “You swear at everything.”

“That’s a skill,” you snap.

“And you cry at everything,” he adds, and he regrets the wording immediately when your expression sharpens—then softens into confusion, because you know it’s true.

“I don’t cry,” you say.

“You do,” Soobin says, firm. “You just pretend it’s anger.”

Your throat tightens. You look away for half a second and he hates himself for hitting something real.

He pushes on anyway, since he didn’t come all this way to shut up now. “You’re the biggest liar I’ve ever met,” he says, and your mouth opens to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “And you’re also the most earnest person I’ve ever met.”

You go still.

“And I don’t—I don’t understand how that works,” Soobin admits, voice cracking slightly. “But it does.”

You stare at him, torchlight catching the wet shine in your eyes. He knows that shine now. It terrifies him. He keeps going anyway.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he says. “I thought it was just desperation. I thought it was just me being pathetic again. I thought I was clinging to anything that made me feel like I had control.”

He swallows hard. The words feel too big in the cold night air.

“But somewhere between you scamming me,” he continues, “and me blackmailing you—” He winces at himself. “—I fell for you.”

Your breath catches.

Soobin’s chest tightens. He forces himself to say it clean. “I like you. A lot.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Soobin’s stomach flips in panic. He’s said it now. He can’t unsay it. He can’t dress it up. He can’t hide behind politeness. He’s just stood here in mud with leaves in his hair confessing feelings to a girl holding lettuce and a shovel.

He tries to keep his voice steady. “I’m an idiot,” he says. “I don’t know how to be honest about my feelings. I only know how to be—good. Get good grades. Be the kid everyone expects. Say the right thing. Do the right thing.” He looks at you, eyes burning. “But with you, I don’t have to do that.”

Your grip on the shovel loosens slightly, the metal dipping a fraction.

Soobin steps closer without thinking, careful and slow—as if you might bolt. “I don’t have to perform politeness,” he says, quieter now. “Or goodness. I can just be.”

Your throat works. Your lips part.

Soobin’s heart slams. “You make me feel… free,” he says, and the word comes out like a confession and a plea. “You liberate me in ways no one has, and I hate that I didn’t realise it sooner, and I hate that I almost kissed you and then flinched away because I thought I was using you, and I—”

He stops himself, breathing hard.

He’s said too much. He’s said the wrong things and the right things. He’s changed the trajectory of his life. He’s done the thing he’s been terrified of doing since he was thirteen and feelings first started ruining his sleep.

He tries to finish anyway, because he came here to say it. He came here to finally stop being a coward. “What I’m trying to say,” he murmurs, voice shaking, “is that I—”

You drop the shovel.

It lands in the grass with a dull thud. The torch slips from your hand and swings down, light bouncing off the ground and his shoes and the lettuce abandoned by your feet.

You step forward, grab his collar with both hands, rise up on your toes, and crash your mouth against his.

Soobin freezes for half a heartbeat. Shock flashes through him so hard it feels like electricity.

Then instinct takes over. His hands lift, find your waist, pull you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. He kisses you back—hard, urgent, real. No script. No manners. No pretending.

Your mouth fits against his in a way that makes his whole body stop fighting itself.

When you finally pull back for air, you’re still gripping his collar, eyes bright and breathing hard.

Soobin stares at you, dazed, then lets out a shaky laugh that sounds like a sob he swallowed. His thumbs brush your sides, grounding himself. “Right,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Okay.”

You blink, lips swollen. “Okay?”

He nods once, still holding you, still stunned. “Yeah,” he says.

His brain shuts up, even his guilt shuts up. It’s just you and the taste of you. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like he has to be good to be chosen.

(the end)

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a/n: hi my loves! a/n from past imzy (the one still editing the last chapter and having so many emotions lmao, the one posting is usually too lazy to do an in depth a/n). i’m literally tearing up while editing. i can’t believe the vpb and misguided journey have come to an end. i cannot thank you guys for all the love shown to both me and my characters. i hope there is a lesson we all learnt while reading (and writing for me haha). DO NOT LIE!! or crawl under tables with grapes lmao. i hope you all also enjoyed. please let me know your thoughts in the comments, reblogs and asks. what part was your favourite? what made you laugh the most? what made you cry (if you cried because i did a little lol)? who will you miss the most?

although the vpb and misguided journey ends here, mine does not!! so i hope to see you all at my next fic, the art of defeat!! pls show it as much love as you have shown misguided and vpb. much much love and see you all again soon <3

review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here

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