31/08
IVE's Wonyoung x M!Reader
Note: I'm not even joking, this is the hardest fic I have ever written. Half because of expectations, and half because how tf I continue this XD
Anyway, appreciate @wonyology and @autumnyacorn for the proofreads. Thanks @kwilquib for the starting quote just like for part 1. Thanks to @toshyun for the emotional support. And uhh a genuine thank you for everyone who have been so patient for part 2. Wanna end this year with a bang, so extra pressure indeed.
I hope this fic lives up to Part 1. And I hope this is the good ending this time. TT
Final fic of 2025! Thank you everyone!
(11k word. The longest ever.)
"Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately,…"
Fuck, another one.
That makes…seven this week. Or maybe eight. Or twenty. Who the fuck knows, you've stopped counting anyway. It’s been like a year or so since you graduated, and it's leading up to February.
You stare blankly at the email, the words blurring together after seeing that same phrase far too many times in the past month. The polite rejection, the generic HR signature, the sterile tone. All of it feels like salt rubbed into a wound that never quite heals. You drag the cursor to the trash icon and click without hesitation, your laptop screen reflecting the exhaustion etched on your face.
The money might have found you a more decent place to live, yet you know it will run out at any time soon. The fluorescent light above flickers, mocking your sorry ass. The calendar on the wall hasn't been flipped since November last year. The air smells faintly of instant noodles and stale coffee.
The laughter of your damn stuck up university peers echoes in your head — probably about their new jobs, no doubt. Everyone seems to have something lined up, no shit because of who they know or who their parents know. Top notch finance firms, consulting agencies, even a couple landing high paying roles overseas. Hell, they already started comparing salaries for fuck’s sake.
You? Just an endless loop of "Application Sent" and "Unfortunately".
That's the real world, isn't it? You followed the traditional route that every parent insists is "the right route". High grades, good presentations, exceptional capstone projects. But you didn't have a rich relative or a last name that shakes the world. Otherwise, you would’ve enjoyed life already.
Instead, you get to watch everyone flaunting their golden spoons. Like that rich kid who brags about taking girls to Japan every Valentine’s day just because. Or the guy who (maybe, definitely) has a thing for men, judging by the number of dates he flexed from Thailand on Insta. Or that obnoxious transfer guy in your Accounting class who kept bitching about his 150th run on some game (Silk? Silk something?) in a thick Aussie accent with a voice that absolutely did not match his baby face.
Whatever, dreaming is a luxury. And you have none of it, as usual.
Scrolling through job listings has become an act of masochism at this point. "mid-tier business analyst,", "junior consultant," "entry-level associate." You apply to all of them, tailoring each resume, writing each cover like it matters.
It doesn't. You're just another name in the Excel cell to them.
One evening, however, as the sun dips below the horizon and paints the walls of your room in that dull orange hue, a particular email caught your eyes.
Subject: You're invited for an interview. Jang Co., Ltd.
You freeze.
Jang. That name. That logo. Gold serif letters, the same one printed on the folders in her bag that she carried to lectures. The same one on the car that used to pick her up (and you at one time in her life) outside the gates.
You scrolled through the message.
“Dear Applicant,
We are pleased to invite you to an interview at Jang Co., Ltd. for the position of Junior Analyst under the Financial Planning Division…”
You just sat there for a while, staring. Rub your eyes and stare again. Your first thought is that it must be a mistake. Your second is that you should decline. But the third thought, the one that lingers, is simple.
A job is a fucking job.
So you click "Accept".
-
Monday arrives with the kind of stale morning chill only city offices have. Unlike the bustling Seoul street behind you, the marble lobby of the Jang Corporation main branch is far too clean, and too symmetrical. Everything smells like money — polished glass, imported coffee beans, leather seats, even the faint scent of lilies in the corner vase that you won't be able to repay even with your organs on the black market.
You adjusted your tie and approached the front desk. Properly ironed. Neatly knotted. A tad more on the expensive side. Guess money spent well. Hopefully.
"Hi, good morning," Your voice steady. "I'm here for the Junior Financial Analyst interview."
The receptionist, impeccably dressed, looked through the list before seeing your name. "Hello. I see your name. Please take the elevator to the 8th floor. Someone from HR will meet you."
You bowed to her and walked to the elevator. Although your heart beats just a bit faster when you see your reflection in the elevator doors. Fixing the stray hairs that refused to stay down. Focusing on the micro-crease on your white shirt. You look…ordinary. Suit's not tailored, shoes scuffed, and the resume neatly printed after fixing it multiple times.
Still, you breathe out. "It's just a fucking interview," you whisper. "Nothing more."
What you don't see, several floors higher, is an office with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. A woman is leaning back in her chair, a tablet propped in front of her. And on the screen: a live feed from the HR interview room.
You. Sitting awkwardly in front of three panellists, fiddling with a pen.
A soft laugh escapes her lips as she shakes her head. "Fucking hell, they would've fired you already, idiot." Clearly amused.
Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail. A crisp white blouse and beige blazer. No longer the stuck up college student who used to show up to lectures five minutes late, iced Americano in hand, Chanel bag in the other, claiming it was "networking".
She reaches for the canned coffee on her desk. The same dirt-cheap brand you drink. The one that now also hers. She still grimaces at the first sip…then takes another anyway.
Back in the interview room, you straighten yourself in your seat as the panel begins.
"Okay then," one of the older managers started, adjusting his glasses, with this smile of a thousand suns (or a thousand ‘sol’, funny you), "can you walk us through how you create a financial plan or long-term projection?"
You speak, voice clear. Maybe too clear. "In my capstone project, I built a three-year financial forecast for a retail chain expanding into cities like Daejeon, Busan, and Incheon.” The saliva wells up in your throat. “I modeled revenue growth using market penetration curves, forecasted operating expenses across new regions, and constructed a projected cash flow. I learned this through a short internship at a mid-tier consultancy, as you can see in my resume."
Mid-tier consultancy, your fucking ass. Totally not the “internship” you only got because of a damn dating contract.
Still, the panel scribbles notes. The HR rep watches you like a shark, testing your composure (you almost “qwivered” at the gaze). “How do you approach building an annual budget if historical spending is inconsistent?”
Remember. Take a moment. Swallow your saliva. Then reply.
"Well my approach is that." Breathe. "I’d clarify which costs are fixed and which are discretionary," Nice jargon you weave in there. “If historical data is inconsistent, I would normalize outliers, identify what’s structural versus what’s one-off, then rebuild the budget using driver-based forecasting.” Too long of a sentence. Almost out of breath. Fuck.
On the floor above, she watches attentively. Under her breath: “Ugh…it feels like he’s still teaching me.” but her smile says otherwise.
Another panel member leans forward (His head shaped suspiciously like an acorn, and you tried not to stare). "Suppose we’re entering a downturn. The board or CEO Jang orders all divisions to reduce next year’s projected spending by 8%, but essential projects must continue. How would you reallocate the budget?"
Ignoring the way you flinched at the name, you exhale slowly. The pen spinning between your fingers before you answer. “I’d start with scenario planning. That will be to build base, best, and worst-case models." You took another breath. "Then I’d evaluate the ROI of all ongoing projects, categorize them in ‘Must-Continue’, ‘Conditional’, and ‘Low-Priority’."
“Interes—”
“And then from there, I’d protect high-ROI projects, cut discretionary spending, renegotiate vendor contracts, and create contingency buffers depending on the downturn severity.”
Oh. You accidentally cut him off mid-sentence.
Shit.
The panel exchanges looks. Even the shark-lookalike HR rep looks…mildly impressed? Eh? What?
…Well then. With nothing else to say and unable to clear the awkwardness, you could only fold your hands. The silence stretches. Then the older manager clears his throat. “Thank you. That will be all."
You could only nod, stand, shake hands, and walk out.
Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been better. But you definitely fucked up the ending.
What you’ll never see, on the upper floor, the same woman watching your interview lets the feed fade to black. She lets the tablet down, with a small, involuntary smile pulling at her lips. Soft. Touched with nostalgia she doesn’t acknowledge.
Too many red flags, honestly, for her standard. You stuttered. Blunt as hell. Spun your pen more than hell. But then her eyes drift to the empty coffee can on her desk, and her fingers trace the cold ring it left.
She turns to her desktop. Types a message. And hits send.
"Nice to see you again, my shitty boyfriend." She added, under her breath.
-
Would you look at that? You are back here again at Jang Corp, two weeks later.
The place still gleams as the first time you step in. The air smells faintly of lilies and money, a scent you still not quite get used to. Conversations in the hallways are hushed, like everyone's afraid of making the wrong kind of noise. Hell, even the printers hum politely.
Except this time, there's one difference. An ID tag hangs over your shirt.
Confetti. Congrats. You're officially not-unemployed.
Somehow.
Some-fucking-how.
Anyway, you have been assigned to the Financial Planning Division. 31st floor, as their newest hire. Your tasks are simple enough: updating quarterly budget trackers, reconciling expense reports from different departments, preparing variance summaries for senior team members' presentations. Just usual lackey tasks.
Conversations in the elevator are also its own ritual. Polite and rehearsed. "Good morning," "How was the weekend," "Busy day ahead, I assume?" — all said with the same monotonous rhythm, yet your brain kept on screaming to be out of these small talks..
You are aware they tried to welcome you. There is this guy named Tosh (you didn’t even ask for his name) who kept inviting you to grab some grub together. Another guy who might have overshared about his wife who studies child psychology. And then this guy who keeps talking about different boxes. Interesting people, sure, but you stopped them just before the "friend" stage.
"Too suffocating, those golden spoon fuckers,” she once said. "I prefer your boring ass instead."
You bite back a smile before it can form.
Still, you get used to it quickly throughout the first two months. You know how to blend in, when to keep your head down, when to stay silent. Well, except for that one time a conglomerate's daughter decided you’d make a good “boyfriend.” But let’s not open that wound again.
Regardless, you didn't complain. Business as usual.
But at days, while staring down to the busy Seoul street below, your brain subconsciously rewinded back to when she used to complain about these things that made her say "you fucking serious?". The same impromptu tutoring nights you’d drilled into her back then, when she sat beside you, half-listening, half-pouting, asking if “fixed costs” were something you could fix with money. Other times, flashbacks of how her notes became more tidied up and structured exactly like yours popped up in your mind.
Now here you are, doing the same thing in her family’s empire, this time for a pay check. Fat one, too.
The only difference is, she's not here.
Yeah…still no sight of her yet.
Which is good.
…Hopefully.
-
It’s a random mid-morning during your second month.
You're seated near the end of a long workstation, shoulders a bit tense, eyes glued to the monitor. The blue glow of the screen reflects off your face as you scroll through another spreadsheet. As you think, your pen absentmindedly between your fingers (three twirls, catch, three twirls, catch).
Just like her.
Anyway, you should’ve paid your surroundings better. Because someone noticed you. Someone is watching you.
The executive elevator opens quietly, and the atmosphere shifts as usual when someone with high caliber steps out. Backs straighten, conversations taper into silence, and the air thickens with that strange mixture of formality and fear.
She steps out.
Her pace is steady, presence a quiet command, heading to a briefing with the directors and general manager about timeline issues with their partners. Her expression is composed. Not in the cliché way of a girl walking in with confidence, but in the literal sense that everyone working there seemed to straighten the second she stepped in.
And then she…stops.
You don’t notice the way her hell freezes mid-step. You don’t notice her gaze locking onto you through the sea of coworkers and associates. You’re way too focused on fixing whatever mess is in front of you.
Her lips part, an instinctive breath caught in her chest. The old version of her would’ve yelled out your name already. Anything to get your attention like an owner calling for her pet. But for a fleeting moment, the boardroom, the directors, the company — all of it fades.
All she sees is you.
Then her mind drifts.
Those nights in your apartment, with you hunched over your laptop at your tiny dining table looking at spreadsheets, and her sitting beside you while chewing the Haribo she bought for herself loudly (and for you too, but she didn't want to admit it). You complained about cash flow models while she whispered gossip about her world — the kind that made you roll your eyes but laugh anyway. She can still hear that laugh, low and unwilling, the kind you’d hide behind a sigh.
That faint warmth hits her dead centre. And it burns.
By the time the partners arrived, her assistant politely nudged her. "Miss Jang, we are ready."
“Right,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Straightening her blazer, she forces her mask of composure back on and walks away without a glance more.
-
The first time you two see each other again, face to face, is in your third month.
By then, the pristine halls and greetings had blended into white noise, and you’ve grown used to it (or tried to). Work was repetitive, sure, but you still put your 100% in. You showed up, gave it all, and went home when no more work had been assigned. Icing on the cake, even before the skyline turned the gradient of sunset.
You are good. Maybe too good. And what people say is true. Don't be too good at work, or you suffer.
Why? Because your manager (yes, the acorn-looking guy) stopped you one day as you walked to your spot and: "Tag with me for today. Conference Room 4A. For strategy briefing with directors. No stress, you will be there for observation…since you have good potential."
Right. Sure. Experiences.
You straighten your tie, take your seat next to your manager near the back of the sleek glass-walled room. The air-conditioning is too cold, the silence is too sharp. You glance down through the empty notepad, half calming yourself down at the thought of sharing the same space with the other senior associates, half praying that 'she' won't be here.
The door opens.
Right. Things never go your way, as usual.
She walks in late, of course she does.
Tailored pastel blue suit. White blouse. Minimal makeup. Hair tied in a sleek ponytail that sways like it knows its own authority. Her heels click across the marble floor like a metronome of control.
CEO Jang's daughter.
Your employer.
Jang Wonyoung.
…and nothing more.
You rise instinctively along with the other senior associates. She doesn't even look at you, but you know she’s aware. "Sit." She announced, flipping through the files her secretary handed her. Her tone is clipped and professional. But that tiny pause before she said it was enough to sting.
You sit. The meeting begins.
And of course, she’s everything the press ever romanticized: sharp, articulate, competent. She doesn’t hesitate to speak over directors twice her age — why would she? She’s the CEO’s daughter. Every word lands cleanly. Every counterpoint is calculated. She throws around numbers, projections, and timelines like she owns the building (well, she does).
You almost forgot that this was the same spoiled girl who once called you at 2am while you were sleeping to explain what a 'cost breakdown' was. The same girl who, back then, always rolled her eyes and mumbled random curses while you taught her in the VIP lounge of a Gangnam club because she wouldn’t stop spamming your phone. And the same girl who once preferred your apartment rather than at a high end estate because “…you actually listen.”
You immediately shut the memory down before it can sting any deeper.
When the meeting ends, you're so ready to bolt and get back to your humble corner, before her voice cuts through the shuffle of chairs.
"New hire, I need a word."
The directors and your manager glance between the two of you. Some curious, some cautious, before filing out of the room.
The door shuts.
And only you two were left.
You couldn't dare to look back at her. From the seniority, and from the memories that might surge back up.
And her opening line wasn’t a greeting.
"Before you ask," she says, sliding her blazer sleeve up slightly, "yes, I'm the one who arranged your hiring."
Your pulse skips. Then you remember the interview. Yes, all the stammering, the pen flipping, the smile of the panel members who looked oddly amused. It all makes sense now. There was no fucking chance you would’ve made it.
(Nepotism at its finest.)
There’s that familiar tilt of her chin once again, the faint smugness that used to drive you insane, and the snarky tone that used to be yours alone. “A thank you is not needed, but you’re fucking welcome.”
You inhale sharply, clearly distasted at her antics. "Didn't ask for your charity…Director Jang."
Her eyes twitched at the formality. Her lips a ghost of a smile. "Great. I need someone competent." Her eyes flickered briefly. Maybe too fast, too brief, before she adds. "And I know you like being hired, not owned. Right?"
Hired, not owned.
It's meant to sting, to be playful. But her voice is anything but. She's trying to sound smug, but somehow you hear the tiny crack just like she had that day, right before she laid down her bare feelings in front of you.
Still, you clench your jaw. You aren’t falling for that again. Not anymore. "You really haven't changed."
"Well." Her lips part slightly, then close. "Neither have you."
For a brief second, the silence between you two feels heavier than any words could be. The last moment still runs in the back of your mind. Her voice breaking, the tears she tried to hide, the words you threw like knives to protect yourself.
Then you notice it.
A small, silver pen clipped neatly against her breast pocket. Unbranded. Familiar. Like the one you left for her.
It was the same one you left next to her. The gift you left in a small box beside her untouched latte and half-crushed can of coffee. The metal catches the light just enough for you to recognise every dent, every scratch near the clip.
Your throat tightens. "You're still…using the pen."
Wonyoung glances down briefly, almost like she forgot it was even there. Then, she shrugs, “Well, it still fucking works.”
It’s nothing. It’s just an answer. Blunt, practical, maybe a little too arrogant. But the way her thumb lingers on the clip for half a second too long, the way she doesn’t tuck it away, and how she doesn’t even look at you when she says it.
It says more than she does.
But you don’t say anything. You just nod once, politely bow, and leave. You don’t look back, and you don’t trust yourself to.
-
The weeks blur. The fourth month smudges.
Not in a soul-crushing way, surprisingly. More so of how everything folds into the same shade of grey until you can't tell Tuesday from Thursday anymore.
Wake up. Shower. Put on the same tailored office clothes placed neatly in your closet (probably from one of her family’s preferred tailors). Then commute. Sit. Work. Work. Work. Work. Pretend not to hear coworkers trying to make conversations or overshare. Leave. Rinse and repeat.
The routine itself is so rigid that even your footsteps feel rehearsed. Desk. Quarterly forecasts. Still fixing out other's spreadsheets. Numbers. More spreadsheets. Emails. Like a well-oiled cog in a gigantic well-polished machine.
People learn quickly that you're polite enough to approach but difficult to pry open. Of course, you warm up (slightly) and still respond to small talk with gentle nods and short answers, maybe a small smile here and there. But again, neutral is the key. You give nothing beyond what is needed away and keep every boundary clean.
You knew the consequences, after all. And yet, avoiding her feels impossible.
(Well… it is her family's empire. Thinking otherwise would be naïve.)
Sometimes you catch Wonyoung’s reflection among the glasses. Her silhouette passing behind you, tall and composed. Other times you hear her voice drifting across the floor — calm but cold, slicing through like a diamond blade. On rare occasions you catch her walking outside with partners and senior associates, presumedly for a work lunch at a high-end restaurant down the street.
You never speak to Wonyoung outside the necessities. Not a greeting. Not a nod.
Nothing.
But she's everywhere.
And every time you go to the convenience store nearby on your break, you hesitate over that same canned coffee. Bitter, cheap, unnecessary. Starbucks is literally next door. You earn enough now. You can buy something smoother, lighter, warmer. But your hand still closes around the aluminium can.
You questioned if it was out of habit. Or the memories you kept on clinging to. Either way, you force the rest down.
But…somewhere behind these pristine walls, she watches. Wonyoung watches you.
More than she should.
She knows she shouldn’t. She knows she’s supposed to keep focus where it belongs. On the associates. The partnerships. On quarterly projections. On the empire she's meant to inherit. But her composure always falters, by a bit, when it comes to you.
You've changed. And she sees it more clearly than anyone.
The messy-hair student who she hired as her fake boyfriend is gone. Now? You speak calmer. You dress cleaner. Your tone in meetings is polite, measured, lacking the bluntness you always shout at her.
"Sir, if I may clarify, the financial figures in the third quarter projection contradict the earlier data by approximately 4%. I've highlighted the inconsistencies on these pages here."
Never rude. Never insolent. Just straight to the point.
She catches herself watching you too long, longer than she should. Then she walked away, ignoring the blushes on her cheeks.
Days later, while in a lobby, when she strides her way towards the VIP elevator, she catches you on the phone in the lobby. Maybe on break, judging how you were holding a half-eaten sandwich.
“Yes, sir, I understand,” you say, gentle but firm. “The market analysis still supports this projection. I’ll include external verification if you’d like to double-check it.”
She stood there a bit too long, eyes gravitated towards you. You sound confident. Grounded. Just like the way you taught her with the content, but without the tone she became accustomed to. A tone she realizes, with a quiet sting, that she longs for.
Her fingers curl lightly around the strap of her bag, and then her heels continue forward, clicking briskly as she disappears into the executive elevator.
-
They don’t even give you time to breathe these next few weeks. Or she. It’s probably Wonyoung.
Seriously, every morning starts with invitations (verbal or email) that you have to accept. Messages that are as dry as the crumpled leaves on the ground from your manager. Something along the line of “Meeting at 10:00 AM.”
And every time, without fail, you walk in and Wonyoung is already there.
Leg-crossed, back perfectly straight, pen tucked neatly into the breast pocket of her blazer (your pen). At this point, it is always there to crack your walls.
As soon as you settle into the seat between her and your manager (of course, what a privilege), she slides you a sideways glance. Not even a greeting, just a smug tilt of her lips, as if she likes how she can toy with you once more. Maybe. Who the hell knows what she can do?
The meeting starts, and it’s just the usual marketing projections, more potentially partnership concerns, those things that should’ve got you bored out of your mind this early into your new career.
But your mind is hyper-vigilant next to Wonyoung. She is still like what you remembered when she was next to you. Tall, warm, composed. She takes notes in short, neat strokes (oh, kind of looking like your notes), and you hate how you keep noticing the way the pen shifts against the fabric of her pocket as she moves.
“Stop staring, idiot.” She murmurs under her breath, her hand still busy jotting down.
“Hm? Sorry?” You zone back in, clearly trying to get your composure back.
“You’re so obvious.”
You force your eyes to stay glued to the presentation, ignoring the way she let out a quiet snicker that makes your spine shiver.
Later, in another meeting (apparently, you love being in meetings too much), she does it again. Still beside you. Still taking notes. Still pretending she isn’t fully aware that her antics are too effective in deteriorating your composure.
You’re trying to focus on the comparison between the two projections from a senior associate when you feel it. Her heel taps lightly on your shoe under the table. Not a press nor a light tap. Enough to know that her presence is on your feet. On you.
A warning? A tease? A power play?
Who the fuck knows.
At one point, when a director asks for your opinion on a logistic issue (Why the hell did he ask you? Isn’t this supposed to be just you sitting in for experience?), you tried to open your mouth but then you caught Wonyoung’s mouth at the corner of your vision.
“Say the wrong shit and see what happens, dummy.”
You swallow. Damn it, you thought it stopped back then. “I think the schedule can be streamlined if we—”
“I agree,” Wonyoung voices out, interrupting you as if she suggested the idea. And of course these higher ups only pay attention to her.
You know it. You know she knows it. And you hate that she enjoys this way too fucking much.
(It is strangely comforting, but you don’t dare to give eight cents more about it.)
-
Late nights still creep into your routine before you even notice.
You tell yourself it’s just part of adjusting, especially after those long ass meetings one after another. Longer projects, heavier workloads, another stack of balance sheets that somehow contradict themselves no matter how many times you redo the calculations. They pay you well, so might as well do the work well.
Except it spirals. Work piling up, deadlines bundled together, and staying late becomes the norm. Night after night, your head down, sleeves rolled up, pen spinning between your fingers out of old habit.
"How the fuck are these numbers right…" you mutter at some point. "Wonder if Wonyoung still hates calculating this shit…"
The moment her name leaves your lips, you freeze. It’s been a month or so since that confrontation. Yet, years since you last called her name out loud.
Wonyoung.
…damn it.
Your eyes wince. Your jaw tightens. You hate how natural it comes out. How easily her name rolls off your tongue as if she's still abiding by the contract. With you. Next to you.
But she's not. And she will never be. You can't afford to let her be anywhere near your mind. Especially during quiet nights, or any nights.
So you check your phone.
A quick break, you tell yourself, because your eyes are burning from all the numbers. Just a scroll through notifications, maybe a bit on Insta, anything that isn’t just pure decimal point or variance percentage. But muscle memory betrays you. You’re already in your chat list. And of course, her name is still pinned at the top.
Jang Wonyoung. Crown emoji next to her name.
Those messages that should’ve been gone years ago. Right after she abandoned you. Right after the contract ends. Right after you walked out of the cafe. But deleting them feels like erasing a part of yourself. Anyway, you sigh, more irritated than usual, and tap the screen with the intention of finally deleting it for good.
But the moment the window opens, your pulse spikes.
At the bottom of the chat, right above the keyboard, there is a grey bubble loading into existence. Typing…
Your breath stutters. You sit up straighter than before. Your fingers curl against your palm. The office feels far too small and too quiet than before.
She’s typing. Actually typing.
…What the fuck are you supposed to do? You can only stare at the stupid bubble as if it didn’t just crack your composure. Like one message can literally break every single wall you have been painstakingly rebuilt these last few years.
(Also, she should know that you are online right? Right?)
The bubble continues. She might be writing a long one. This girl always types in full sentences back then. Then the bubble vanishes. Nothing sent.
You blink. Wait. Maybe she meant to text someone else. Or she finally notices that you are online.
Three seconds later, the bubble returns.
Typing.
Typing.
Typing.
Then gone again.
You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling faintly as your brain conjures any possible reasons she might text you this late. And the next logical thought is that you have no fucking clue if you want or terrified to see a message right now.
The bubble flickers a third time. Stays a little longer, too. Then it disappears yet again.
And this time, it doesn’t come back.
Leaving you with a chat history last texted a few years ago, and the faint reflection of your own tired face on the screen. Leaving you with the distasteful squeeze in your chest. Leaving you with the hesitation to delete her chat once again. Even more so.
Because this time, you might see that damn grey bubble reappear. And she might say something.
(Wonyoung: "You're still working? Don't overdo it."
She deletes it. And types again:
Wonyoung: "Is the work too tough? You want me to less-"
Delete. She tries a third time.
Wonyoung: "Have you eaten?"
Delete. Delete. Delete.)
-
You have always known rumors move faster in a money-driven world than money itself.
It spreads first in the elevator. Two other people. Presumedly from another department. Something about a potential long-term partnership. Something about Kang Corporation. Something about their representative visiting more frequently. And then one adds, speculatively: "I heard he's particularly fond of Director Jang."
You ignore it. Or pretend to. But your reflection in the steel elevator door doesn't look that convinced.
By the next day, the rumor turns into confirmation. Upper management announces a collaborative project with another big conglomerate in Korea. It would've been nothing to you if only your acorn-lookalike manager didn't tap you on the shoulder with a rare grin.
“You’re coming with us to the joint meetings,” he says. “Higher-ups want sharp, young talent in the room.”
You only have yourself to blame.
Five months in, and somehow you’ve built a reputation. The young talent who picks up complex tasks quickly. The young talent who catches inconsistencies even senior associates miss. The young talent with a “lucky” opportunity to be in meetings with big shots. The young talent everyone quietly agrees has potential. You should be proud, being a young talent. Head high, even.
Instead, that title feels more like another leash around your neck. Begrudgingly, you force out a polite answer. "Of course, sir. I'll prepare the files."
It isn't until later, while waiting for another round of spreadsheets to do its thing, that curiosity gets the best out of you. Quickly, you search up the name that has been floating around all morning.
Kang Corporation.
Kang Jihoo.
Yep. Of course.
He looks exactly how a man born into golden spoons is expected to be. Immaculate suit. Clean, defined features. The type of smile that comes from knowing the world bends lightly in your direction. If you had to guess, he’s the kind of person who’s been called a prodigy since childhood, the kind who went to the “right” schools, who never had to worry about paying the rent due in 3 days while the bank account screams $31.08 to your face every night.
You immediately close the tab. You have to, before self-deprecation eats you away.
Work awaits you. Very important work.
Such as in another meeting with her once more. At this point, your blood cells scream to get out at the silhouette of her alone. Sure, the room was full (and suffocating, to add), but everyone else dissolved into static. Your eyes are only looking at Wonyoung, who sits across from Kang Jihoo. Posture perfect, expression calm and professional. She tilts her head slightly as he speaks to her, listening with that poised attentiveness. Sharp, focused, and elegant without effort.
You take your seat on the back end next to your manager this time (of course, after bowing to all the senior associates), folder in hand, and your thumping pulse irritates you with how loud it was. Remembering her, she would probably eating herself alive inside just by interacting motherfucking rich assholes just like hi-
No. No, actually.
She looks at him. Not at you. Not a glance. Not even in the glass reflection.
She only looks at him. That gaze. You definitely know that one.
The one like those days in your apartment.
…what?
Tsk. It's stupid to feel anything about that, you tell yourself. Jealousy? No, that’s so ridiculous. That would imply you still care, and you have been insisting that you don’t. It’s fine. Completely fine. You’re totally fine.
Annoyance? …some…what. Or maybe it's just the way she used to fall on you so easily that makes her absence feel so heavy now. You tell yourself it’s not a big deal. Not bothered. Totally. You’re not sitting here just wondering why her laughs are softer around him, or why she leans in just so slightly when he speaks. Hell no, you aren’t paying attention to how comfortable he is around her already. Of course not.
Whatever it is, it sits under your multitudes of thoughts that you refuse to dig up. Acknowledging it means you haven’t moved on. You have. Yes. Maybe.
Anyway, you do what you always do — stay in your lane. Perfectly. People murmur praise from the opposite side of the table, your manager gives an approving nod, but every compliment seems to roll off you and land somewhere near them instead. The spotlight stays firmly on Wonyoung and Kang Jihoo, conversations orbiting around the two of them like they're the sun and moon, everyone else the star, and you the rock that got thrown off to Pluto.
Still, you bow, smile politely, and swallow it all down. The sooner this is done, the sooner you can get out.
But then things get…unprecedented. Yeah, that word sounds about right. Unprecedented.
Whenever your work is mentioned — project figures, the detailed financial report, the cross check between different company values — you start to notice how Wonyoung keeps on pointing at you.
“Those quarterly projections were completed by him, actually.”
“He refined the data models on the last update. Please check his revisions, manager.”
“He’s the one who caught the inconsistencies.”
Along those lines.
Huh.
You thought she was just being thorough. But then it happens again. And again. And again. Unlike those previous meetings where she messes with you. You should be happy that your work and effort is in the spotlight, but all you feel is pity thrown into your face. Anger clouds your train of thought, but you…you couldn't give a shit.
You're not some helpless college kid that needs to be fed with fake compliments or pity money. Surely not. You're not a prop that she can use for her act and to toy around. You persevere. You work hard.
So why.
Why?
Just the actual fuck why? Is she still talking like the leash around your neck still on her hand?
You don't know if it was you sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. Or just had something wrong the day before. But when she was negotiating about the capital ratio (or trying to show off her oh-so-intelligence again, you presumed), something inside you snapped.
You lift your head and go off rails before you can hit the brake.
“Director Jang,” you say, voice level enough to sound emotionless, “may I clarify something?”
She pauses mid-sentence. Her gaze flicks toward you. “Yes?”
You swallow. You hate that your chest tightens just because she’s looking at you. But you force the professionalism back into your spine.
“With all due respect, the capital ratio you’re proposing doesn’t align with the updated volatility model,” you say. “If we maintain a 60–40 structure, the long-term liquidity risk shifts disproportionately to both companies after the fourth fiscal year.”
Kang Jihoo leans forward, brows raised with curiosity. “Interesting…in what way?”
You nod toward the packet.
“Page seventeen, sir. The recalculated ROI projections indicate that a 55–45 split offers a more stable yield curve. It minimizes potential drawdown on both sides, especially if market conditions tighten.”
It can happen anyway. Her analysis isn’t wrong. Just incomplete. You tried to rationalise yourself.
But the undertone of anger comes out stronger than you wanted, and that makes the room still.
Wonyoung picks up the report. "Those numbers weren't in the last draft."
"They were submitted this morning. There were some discrepancies between the numbers." You reply, maintaining that polite, infuriatingly respectful tone you've mastered these last few months, but your lungs were suffocating. "My apologies…for the late update."
Her jaw tenses. "And you're telling me we revise the capital split this late in the negotiation?"
"I'm suggesting," you correct, pinching yourself on the thigh under the table, "that the long-term risk exposure is worth addressing while both parties are still open to adjustments. Just a precaution."
She counters. “With a 55–45 structure, our partner here assumes increased administrative responsibility. That may not align with the operational framework they outlined. The proposal needs to reflect their preferred structure as much as ours.”
You counter again. “Yes, but the projected gain offsets the operational load. Both companies benefit from the risk symmetry in the revised model.”
“And what about the leverage thresholds? The internal caps won’t—”
“They will,” you say, angrily, matter-of-factly, “If we redistribute the amortization schedule across the secondary phase, both caps stay intact. I included the recalibrated curves in the appendix. Please check.”
The room goes dead silent.
And Kang Jihoo, oblivious or maybe amused by the tension, leans back and chuckles.
“Please excuse my humour, but you two argue like an old married couple.”
Wonyoung freezes. Your head drops immediately, eyes on the table, mortifying heat crawling up your neck.
The meeting moves on eventually, though your brain barely registers the rest. Your pulse is still hammering from the way she looked at you. Was it an annoyance? Was it a genuine hurt? You don't know. And you don't want to know.
When the conference room empties, you try to slip out unnoticed like before. And just like last time, she stops you the moment your foot steps onto the hallway.
"Follow me."
“Bu–”
‘Right now.”
Her tone leaves no room for argument — not here, not with your manager watching nervously from behind. You trail her to a quiet corner near the side corridor, far from the elevators and far from Kang Jihoo’s amused stare.
The door closes behind the two of you with a soft but accusing click.
"For fucks sake," she hisses, voice low, "don't do that shit in front of others again. We're not back in college anymore. What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Your brain should tell you to breathe, to stay composed, to be the professional you've been for years, especially when with her. But all logic evaporates (as always) the moment her pearly eyes lock onto yours.
"Well…,” you grip your knuckle, “don't fucking treat me like I'm some dumbass who needs your praises every time you mention my work."
Her brows lift, shocked and annoyed. "Wh–What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I was giving you credit.”
“Oh yeah? Credit point or credit card?” you mutter, allowing your usual snark to slip back into your tone now that the two of you are alone. “Because I feel just like your used objects again. All to make you feel mighty and proud.”
"Are you seriously being a petty little bitch right now?"
"Of course you see me that way." You scoff. "Blaming on me while totally acting like a fucking saint."
"Oh my fucking god." She breathes out, clearly frustrated. "You act like a fucking child right now, you know that?"
"Says you, you fucking spoiled brat." Your voice raised. "You don't get to pull me back into your life, acting like nothing ever happened, and correct me just because you can for all these years."
What are you saying?
"Well,” She trembles. “You work for me right now. So just don’t be so…fucking hostile."
"Oh wow, are you offended, Your Highness?" Stop. "If you are not satisfied with my attitude, then fucking kick me then." Your mouth kept on firing back, the logic waving from afar. But your brain keeps telling you to stop. Just stop, for fucks sake. "I would love to be fired right now than knowing that I get hired because we used to be a FUCKING thing!"
The words come out colder and harsher than you intended. You know it was true. She knew it was too. You both know. But you didn't want to bring it out.
But it did.
The result? A silence that cuts deeper than her words. It lasted too long. When she finally speaks, her voice is thin. Soft. Tired. Defeated.
"You know I can't…"
You think it's just more of her usual entitlement that you got used to. The spoiled brat stubbornness. The persistence to have things her way.
It shouldn't hurt you. Not at all. But when you see the way she stares at you — wounded, glassy, raw.
Your heart wrenches more than it should.
You don't respond. Just walk away, back straight, expression neutral. You did that before. It should work. But your hands won't stop shaking until you are several floors down.
The rest of the day is a blur of unfocused spreadsheets and half-read emails. Your mind keeps replaying her expression. Maybe she was affected by this too, or maybe she was not. Because you aren’t being invited (‘forced’ sounds more appropriate) into meetings afterwards. And because she looks quite fine next to Kang Jihoo as they walk through the hallway a few days later. Maybe. Fine. She looks normal, even. Yeah.
But that one argument turns into one bad day. Then a bad week. Then a month where neither of you can look at the other without remembering the hallway, the sting of your words, and the way hers sounded almost like a plea.
You both say nothing. You don't dare to, and neither will she. Probably.
-
A particular day in August.
You thought it’s another day at work. Another day of you ignoring the whole argument in that closed room. And another day of gaslighting yourself that you shouldn’t feel anything when seeing the two of them together. Just simply burying those thoughts under the lobby full of co-workers and higher ups as usual. Suffering through a chronic case of socialising. Finally get into your desk and—
Oh look. You have urgent mail.
Hm?
You clicked on it. Formal header. Company stamp. And far too many capital letters.
“You are cordially invited to the Annual Jang Corp. Gala, hosted by Director Jang Wonyoung.”
…are you serious right now?
You stare at it long enough before the screen goes to sleep. Of fucking course. An event for the successful partnership that plastered everywhere in the digital world. Another event of corporate patting each other's back. Another night of people bootlicking again. You almost spat out when your cursor hovered the brief paragraph about "celebrating a successful partnership with Kang Corporation."
You were this close (this damn close) to deleting it before your eyes caught on the date of the event.
August 31. Her birthday. Wonyoung’s.
Your mind instantly flashes back to that scene at the café vividly, still. The final meet up. The pen you gave her. It was around this day that you ended the charade and walked away from her. The sound of the door bell chimed as you walked out, dragging your feet unconsciously — just like her. And the muffled sobs from her that dissipate as you get away.
Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe out of guilt.
Or maybe it's that stupid, stubborn part of you that still believes she still looks at you the way she used to. When you two are away from the world. Alone. Shoulder to shoulder.
"Fine…" you mutter. "Just this night."
You don't know why you said that, but you almost didn’t go. Saying it was easier than actually going. The idea of stepping into a ballroom filled with people who wear watches worth more than your monthly paycheck makes you want to hurl. But on the day, you spend twenty minutes staring into your closet until you pull out one particular suit. The one Wonyoung meticulously prepared for you back at the first meeting with her parents. A shirt that had seen too many washes, a blazer with one loose thread, and shoes that squeaked if you pressed too hard on the heel.
You put it on, and it is tighter than you remembered. Broad shoulders that didn't exist back then. A chest that strains the button a little more than you'd like. But you tug the collar anyway and head out. Whatever. Good enough.
By the time you reach the hotel lobby, you're regretting everything. Once again. You thought you got used to it, but yet still scrunched your eyes at the polished marble, huge floral arrangements, chandeliers so bright they could burn your retina.
Still, you blend in. Or tried to.
But everything here reeks of her.
Wasn't this the same as the first time you and Wonyoung officially met each other? Still marble floors, still the chandeliers dripping crystals, still a string quartet in the corner— the kind of environment where even the air was and still is expensive. Just like now, those fuckfaces back then dressed like they’re auditioning for the young billionaire heir role, and you remembered praying your ass off that no one notices that your shirt has a frayed cuff.
But again, that was back then, you tell yourself. When you are a broke student try not to sweat through your shirt while biting through the humiliation of being their laughing stock. Now, you're a corporate employee trying not to sweat through your shirt. Alone.
Some fucking growth you got there.
The massive banner overhead reads: Annual Jang Corp. Gala. And under it, in smaller gold script: Celebrating Director Jang’s Birthday.
You stare at it with a blank face. “…How extravagant.”
And then it happens. The same way it did years ago. The room reacts instantly at the clacking of her heels just like a replay. Heads turn. Voices lower.
She’s still radiant in a way that makes the room tilt. Every step, every glance, it’s like she was choreographed for perfection. Diamond earrings brush her jawline, her sleek black dress flows like liquid, and the casual flick of her hair that still has more grace than your entire existence. Heads turn. Conversations falter. She’s still Jang Wonyoung. Still the girl you remembered. Still the girl who doesn’t have to try.
And beside her walks Kang Jihoo. His suit matches hers. Black. Sharp. Red tie. Exactly the sort of pairing tabloids would foam at their mouths over.
Your jaw locks before you could realise.
She descends the stairs gracefully with Kang Jihoo, chin lifted, smile poised. The usual you, the snarky and hateful you from back then, would've rambled about how it didn't matter. She wasn't your type. Too polished, too unreachable, too unbothered.
But you do know. Very well. Like how her left hand twitched barely as the hungry hungry hippos of executives engulf the couple.
“Director Jang, congratulations!”
“Miss Jang, stunning dress tonight!”
“May I say, your team was phenomenal.”
She smiles, charming, polite, and perfect. But you see it in her expression: the strain behind her perfect smile, the boredom hiding in her eyes. She might've masked it far better than that day, yet you can still notice it. Subtly.
As she glances across a room, her eyes land on you. Fleetingly. Quietly. Almost accidentally. At you. It only lingers for a second. Or half a second. Before she hides it behind a sip of champagne, her mask slips right back in.
You tried to not give a shit. She didn't give a care, you assume. But deep down, you wish you were wrong.
-
Eventually, the host steps up the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our young Director and the main organiser of today's event, Miss Jang Wonyoung."
Applause spreads like a wave as she walks to the podium. Chin lifted, back straight, a portrait of composure painted in black silk and shimmering gold light. Unfortunately, you catch the tiny tells. How she grips a bit too tight on the podium. How she holds just a fraction too long. How her first breath has a bit of that tremor.
(Again, if you weren't watching her closely, you would've missed it too. But you didn't.)
The string quartet quiets down. Conversations taper off into a hush. And every eye in the ballroom turns toward her. She smiles, of course, just like every time you see her on digital media. But her voice when it comes out is nothing curated nor prepared. It was genuine.
"Good evening everyone."
The crowd around you murmurs back a polite greeting.
"Before anything, I would like to thank you all for attending tonight's gala." She begins, tone steady but gentler than usual. "This past year has been a challenging one, for sure. Full of changes, risks, and unexpected opportunities."
Her haze travels across the room. Slowly, carefully. Making sure that every table feels like she's talking to them personally. She learned that from her father, of course you know. But the sincerity tonight?
All hers.
“And thanks to the hard work of our teams, and the dedication of our partners…” She inclines her head toward Kang Jihoo, who smiles confidently back at her. “…we are again able to accomplish something far greater than just a business collaboration. We built something that will last.”
Polite applause echoes. And she waits for it to fade. You noticed her fingers curl once against the podium. Again. Steadying herself, maybe, before continuing.
“I also want to thank my father,” she says, “for entrusting me with the opportunity to grow, learn, and… occasionally fail.”
A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. Her lips twitch with a tiny and honest smile.
“Mr. Kang,” she continues, “again, thank you for your partnership and your patience. You made this entire process much smoother than it could’ve been.”
He nods, flashing that effortless, golden boy grin.
Then her shoulders lower just a bit. Enough that you can see the girl behind the mask. The one who sat next to you on the table telling gossip about her world. The one who leaned onto your shoulder and affected you in so many ways you didn't know how.
And her next words almost got you wavering.
“I’ve…probably spent years surrounded by people who helped me become who I am,” she says. “People who taught me things no textbook ever could. Who challenged me, pushed me, supported me… and who didn’t let me give up when I wanted to.”
Your throat tightens without warning.
Her eyes sweep the room again. You keep your gaze on your glass, but you feel it, the moment she finds you.
A pause. A very long pause.
“Some of them are here tonight,” she says, voice dipping into something almost nostalgic. “And some of them… probably wish they weren’t.”
The crowd laughs. She only smiles. Her gaze lingers toward your direction. One heartbeat too long. As if she wanted to say "I mean that." Don't react, you tell yourself. Don't fucking react. Don't let her see the way your chest twists.
“But regardless,” she exhales slowly before going for the finish, “all of them shaped me into the person standing here today. So… truly. Thank you.”
Her voice softens at the end. Her words sound so fragile and raw that it hits you harder than any elegance she displayed tonight. The ballroom erupts in applause. People cheer. Kang Jihoo claps with a confident smile. Her eyes lower a moment as she steps back from the podium with an exhale. It feels far too subtle. Too cathartic.
Yet you still stand there, gripping the hem of your suit tightly, and can't help but wonder what was that breath really about.
Or who that 'thank you' was meant to reach.
-
The venue melts into a hum of voices once her speech ends. Laughter, clinking glasses, more networking sharks circling in groups of three or four.
And you? Ready to vanish into the crowd the way you’ve perfected since joining the company. Head low. Steps quiet. No trace left behind.
You almost make it to the exit. Almost. For the third time, you got stopped once more before you could sneak out. (Let’s just give up at this point. Fucking hell.)
The head of HR stands in front of you. "Hey, Director Jang would like to see you."
Your stomach drops. "Did I…Did I do something?"
"She said that you'd know."
You freeze. You absolutely have no fucking clue. But you nod anyway, because what else can you do? Run? Again?
Your steps feel heavier as you climb the staircase, the hum of the party fading behind you until only the faint jazz reaches the upper hall. The balcony suite door is slightly opened, a sliver of warm light spilling into the dark corridor.
You push it open. And the world seems to quiet instantly. As if this moment is off the record.
The upper balcony stretches out in gold and black, city lights painting faint reflections across the glass railing. She stands there alone, framed by the skyline, hair lifted slightly by the night breeze, dress swaying softly. She doesn't turn when she hears your footsteps, but you can see the way her shoulders stiffen. Just barely.
"…You're late, jackass." Wonyoung murmurs.
"Didn't know I was invited." you reply, forcing levity you don't quite feel.
A soft scoff. "You always are, idiot."
You step beside her, leaning on the same railing, careful to keep a respectful distance… even though the faint perfume clinging to her dress pulls at every old memory. The skyline stretches out before you both, glittering like a thousand unspoken things.
"Good fucking job on taking on such a big role, by the way." You say quietly.
"Mhm." Her grip tightens slightly on the railing. "Still feels weird as hell."
“I can tell.” You reach inside your suit and pull out a small canned coffee. A symbol of you two. What once was there.
"Happy birthday…Wonyoung. Sorry I didn't….prepare anything proper."
Her eyes widened. For the first time that night, her composure cracks with each breath. "You still remember."
"You made it very damn hard to forget."
A soft, breathy laugh escapes her. The kind you didn’t think existed anymore. She takes the can, her fingers brushing yours — warm, hesitant, familiar. The contact lasts a second too long. She sets it down on the railing, then inhales sharply as if preparing for something.
“Jihoo and I aren’t a thing,” she says suddenly. "...Just to let you know. I suppose"
You blink. “…o…kay? That is quite an info.”
“Mhm. He’s into this daughter of the owner of a Japanese corp instead.” Wonyoung let out a quiet laugh. “Asa, or something? I don’t fucking know.”
“Oh. Uh—fucking hell, what a piece of info, huh. Good for him…?”
She huffs, amused but tense, eyes flicking sideways. You’re too slow to realize she’s watching your reaction.
“Why… telling me that?” you ask quietly.
She sidesteps gracefully, ignoring your question. “Do you…hate me?”
The words float out of her like something she dwelled on for years.
You had to think for a solid minute. "Hate is…a strong word."
“But accurate?”
“I-uh…” You chose your word carefully. The night air is cold in your lungs as you slowly inhale. “I…hate your world. The money. The image. How everyone looks at me like I don’t belong here. How it ruined…” You stop. You can’t finish it. You can’t say—
But her voice drops to the softest whisper.
“It’s still here. We’re still here. Us.”
The word punches something deep inside your chest.
You turn away slightly, jaw tightened. "You could be with anyone, Wonyoung. Anyone in there." You look to the door that leads down to the venue. "Someone polished. Someone with a title. Someone who knows which fork to use at dinner. Someone that is…worthy to be next to you."
"I don't want them. Any of them."
"Then who the fuck you want then?!"
You didn’t mean to snap. You didn’t mean to spit out the bitterness. But it sounds more like excuses at this point. "You want the guy who almost ruined the partnership just because he couldn't fucking stand how you and Kang Jihoo look at each other? Or the guy who had to rely on purely nepotism just to get this job? Or the guy who had to fucking…"
Your throat closes. Your fist curls.
"…suck it up and be a contractual boyfriend? I'm not part of the one percent, Jang Wonyoung. Never was! And I never will!"
Her breath stutters. "I…I just want you."
You could only give a quiet scoff.
"Why?” Your voice cracks, exhausted. “The FUCK why?" Unsure from arguing, or from all the self deprecation, or the guilt of leaving her alone throughout these years. "I burned the fucking bridge already. I can't give you what you deserve. Just…let us go. Let us die."
She slowly lifts the can. Her thumb tracing the rim as if grounding herself on the only real thing she has left of her own world. The world with you.
"I can't. I missed you." Her voice. So small. It nearly disappears into the night.
And you feel like your lungs caved in. "...Don't do this to me. Don't give me any fucking hope, Wonyoung. Please."
“I really do miss you,” she says, harsher this time — as if forcing the words through every wall you built since the day she abandoned you. “I miss us. What we could’ve been if I wasn’t stupid. If I wasn’t scared. If I didn’t just fucking run away. If—”
"Jang Wonyoung—"
“And if I have to say it a thousand fucking times, I fucking will,” she pushes, her voice growing more frantic, the cracks more obvious. “Hell, if I have to get on my knees and beg—”
You flinch. “What are you doing? Stop.”
She steps closer. Too close. “I’ll take care of everything, ok?” she pleads. “You don’t have to struggle. I’ll get you a good position here. I’ll pay off your debts. Everything. I’ll—”
"Stop, Wonyoung." You bite the word out, harsher than you wanted.
But she keeps going. "I'll buy you a good place. A car. Whatever the fuck you want. Hell, better if you move in with me, right? No need to worry about rent, bills, or—”
"Wonyoung-ah."
Your voice cuts through the air like a blade. And she freezes.
"Stop trying to buy me. Please. I'm sick of it."
Her lip trembles. “I’m not— I just— I don’t fucking know what else to do to make you stay.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” you say, voice breaking. “You should be with someone who already fits in your life. Someone your father would be actually proud of you to be with. Someone with a title that actually matches yours. Someone who doesn’t show up at a gala wearing a suit that his partner's family has to pay for...”
Your throat closes.
“...and someone that you don't have to lie to the world.”
She steps even closer to you, blocking your escape. Her eyes shimmering too brightly under the balcony lights.
"Please, I just want you."
"Don’t–just—don’t do this, please." You shake your head, refusing her entirely. "You ran away once. How can I just….suppose to trust you again? That you won't just— won’t just run away once more?"
It hurts her more than if you actually had slapped her. Her hands tremble as it reaches for yours.
"Please," she pleaded. "Just fucking trust me, I'm begging you. Ple—"
"I can't," you swat her hand away, even as something inside you cracks wide open. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I just can’t. Not again."
"Please."
“I can’t— Not anoth—”
“please…”
Her voice shatters.
And when you finally look up, her lower lip trembles. Her breathing stutters. And the shine in her eyes swells until it spills over, one tear slipping down the edge of her cheek like it had been waiting months for permission to fall.
“I don’t even fucking know what else—“
Then another. She covers her mouth.
Then she crumbles.
Her shoulders collapse inward, as if the weight of everything she's carried — the company, the expectations, the façade, the guilt that fucked both of you, the loneliness afterward— suddenly drops all at one.
And the wall of resolve you have been building for far too long collapses.
Because you remember. Vividly.
Of how she strangled her sobs, too frightened to let you see her fall apart. How she bellowed her true and sincere feelings to you in the cafe that etched into your mind (I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried!). How you just walked out, leaving a girl absolutely shattered because of you.
Watching her crumble the same way, watching her try to keep breathing through the panic, the guilt, and the grief, you realise you can’t do it again.
Not from this. Not from her. Anymore.
So you just…move. Move, for fucks sake.
Your hands reach for her waist, steadying her as she loses her balance, and she folds into you with a sharp, broken inhale. The kind people make when they are bottled up far too long. Her entire body shakes as she collapses against your chest. Not a gentle tremble. But a full body, uncontrollable shudder, with her breath jerking in uneven, painful little gasps that hit your collarbone one after another.
Her fingers clutch your suit, gripping hard enough that the fabric bunches under her hands. She's not hugging you. She's clinging to you. Desperately. As if she's terrified it will happen again. Afraid that you'll disappear like before if she loosen. Even for just a second.
You wrap your arms around her, tightening instinctively. Her hair brushes your chin, soft and cold from the night air. Your palm glides up and down her back, slow and steady, trying to calm the way she trembles.
"Wonyoung-ah…" Your voice cracks as you whisper her name.
She tries to answer. Really tries. But the way you call her name so softly. Warm. Endearing. Dreamlike. Her words dissolve into a choking sob. Her shoulders convulse under your hands. Every breath she takes stumbles, breaking apart halfway like her lungs forget how to hold air.
And then, your own tears come.
You don't even realise at first. It's just the burn behind your eyes, the tightness in your throat, and the way your jaw clenches to keep yourself sane. But when one tear slips down and lands on her hair, you feel it. All of it.
“I'm sorry *hic* I'm sorry, I can’t—” she gasps, voice shaking violently. “I can’t fucking lose you again. I'm sorr—”
"I'm sorry too. Fuck, I'm so sorry, Wonyoung-ah." you breathe, even though you’re wiping your face against her shoulder because you’re crying too hard to lift your head.
She leans into you harder, pushing her forehead into the crook of your neck like she's trying to hide from the entire world. Her whole frame trembles even more. Every sob wracking through her as if her ribs can't hold it in.
And the more she breaks, the more you do too. Her fingers slide further up your back, gripping your suit in desperate, uneven fists. Your breath hitches against her hair. And the world below fades into blur.
…It was after 10 minutes that she ran out of tears. Her body finally stills.
"It's….it’s officially September." She looked up at you, voice hoarse and raw, as if the words scraped out of her chest.
You let out a wet laugh. The kind that's half-sob, half-sigh, as you brush her tears away from her cheeks.
"Your birthday's over," You murmur. "You cried through the whole fucking end of it."
“S-shut it…” She tries to laugh, but it comes out broken. Soft. Shaking. But still beautiful. Still very much her. And still very much… only for you.
"Guess I got my wish anyway," she whispers.
"And what was that…birthday girl?"
Her eyes glisten, swollen and red from crying. But her tiny, trembling smile...
"To see you again."
The words hit too close. Too fucking close. Her hand comes up to your cheek, her fingers trembling wildly. Almost hesitant, afraid that you will swat her away once more. Will run away once more.
But you don't.
The two of you lean in without really thinking, the distance shrinking slowly, painfully, beautifully, and then panic hits you in one sharp burst. Your breath stutters. Your lips freeze halfway. Your brain goes blank the second your noses almost touch. And your hands become awkward around her.
Shit. You have no fucking clue how to kiss.
"Wonyoung-ah, I…uh…I never…done this. We never did this back then. I don’t— I don’t know how—”
She lets out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. Half frustrated. Half fond.
Then she groans. Groans. "For— For fucks sake, you seriously ruining our moment by saying that?!"
"Hey, you can't blame me!" You yelp. "I'm just being very honest right no—”
“Damn it,” she mutters, grabbing a fistful of your collar. “S-shut up and kiss me already, my shitty boyfriend.”
Before you can react, her hand moves down to your collar and tugs you down into her. The breath gets punched out of your lungs.
Your lips crash against hers. Clumsy, unpractised, absolutely unprepared. But she doesn’t seem to give a fuck. She cups the back of your neck, guiding you, deepening the kiss with the kind of fierce certainty you could never fake. Her other hand flattens over your chest, feeling the wild rhythm of your heartbeat.
You kiss her back. Hesitant at first, then with growing urgency as the world around you blurs into nothing but her warmth and your shaking breaths.
The kiss deepens and becomes slower, heavier, heartbreakingly tender. Her tears mix with yours between kisses, salty and warm.
When she breaks away, her forehead rests against yours, both of you still shaking from the aftermath.
“Stay,” she whispers. Her breathing is warm and uneven. “Please.”
“…Here?” you murmur, though you already know what she means.
“With me.” Her voice cracks again. “No contracts. No conditions. Just…no more fucking nonsense. I just want you. Please.”
You swallow, the last of your resistance dissolving under the weight of her trembling hands. Her glassy tears. Her honest pleas. And only the debris of your walls remained.
“…Okay.”
This time, you stay.
