Pairing: Idol Jihoon x Idol Reader
Genre: Fluff, Idol romance
Summary: Jihoon and Y/N are forced to sit together at an award show, causing endless cheers, teasing, and viral moments. From sneaky glances to Woozi protectively covering Y/N with his blazer, the night is full of heart-fluttering chaos. When Jihoon tears up during his speech and sees Y/N crying too, it becomes clear—no matter how much they pretend, everyone knows.
Feel free to make requests || M.list
Jihoon knew this would happen. He saw it coming from a mile away.
Yet, here he was, forced to sit beside you at an award show, and the crowd was absolutely losing it.
Seungcheol had nearly fallen over laughing when Jihoon realized where he had to sit. Jeonghan had patted his shoulder like a proud parent.
And now? Now, he was trapped.
The moment the camera panned over to your table, the cheers hit like a tidal wave. The entire venue shook with the sound of fans screaming their lungs out, and Jihoon could already see the headlines forming in real-time.
"Woozi and Y/N: Power Couple of the Century?"
"Woozi's Reaction to Sitting Next to Y/N is Priceless!"
"Destiny? Fate? Coincidence? We Think Not!"
He sighed, rubbing his temple as Seungcheol cackled beside him. "Hyung, it's like a concert in here," Dino whispered, wide-eyed.
Jihoon glanced at you, only to find you smirking. "Did you plan this?" he accused.
You feigned innocence, sipping your drink. "Me? I would never."
Liar.
The second the camera landed on your table, the screaming was deafening. The venue, which had been relatively calm just moments ago, erupted.
Jihoon fought every urge to groan as he kept his expression neutral, while you—completely unbothered—smiled and gave a polite wave. You were enjoying this way too much.
"Look at you," you teased, voice barely audible over the noise. "Are you blushing?"
Jihoon scoffed. "It's hot in here."
"Uh-huh, sure," you mused, nudging his knee under the table.
And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the host on stage decided to make things worse.
"So, I think we have to talk about one of the most beloved pairings in the industry right now," the MC said, grinning. "Our audience is going crazy for these two—Woozi and Y/N, everyone!"
The camera panned right back to you both, a split screen of your reactions broadcasting to millions.
Jihoon shut his eyes. "Kill me."
Meanwhile, you? You blew a kiss to the camera.
The screams reached another level.
The members of Seventeen lost it. Seungcheol clapped like a seal. DK was howling. Jeonghan actually got out of his seat to dramatically bow in your direction, like you had just won an Oscar.
"Oh, absolutely," you replied, resting your chin on your hand as if you lived for this moment.
His phone vibrated. Another message from Jeonghan.
[Jeonghan]: Just kiss on camera. I dare you.
Jihoon choked on air. You glanced at his phone and laughed. "What's he saying?"
"Nothing," he snapped, locking it immediately.
And then, it got even worse.
A special segment played—a montage of all the best collaborations of the year. And right there, in full HD, was a clip of you and Jihoon from a previous music show, standing way too close, exchanging small smiles.
It ended with a close-up of Jihoon watching you perform, eyes soft in a way that was damning.
The camera cut back to you both just in time to catch Jihoon covering his face with both hands.
Absolute pandemonium.
Even you were giggling now. "Wow, you really don’t help your case."
"I hate this," Jihoon grumbled into his hands.
You leaned in slightly. "Hate it enough to run away?"
Jihoon peeked at you through his fingers.
You smiled. The same smile that made his heart stutter every single time. The same smile that made him—despite all his complaining—stay exactly where he was.
Every time the camera even slightly panned in your direction, the audience roared in approval. At one point, the big screen accidentally caught Jihoon sneaking glances at you when you weren’t looking, and the fans lost it.
He knew the fancams would be everywhere by the time he got back to the dorms.
And then—disaster struck.
During a short intermission, you shifted slightly in your seat, adjusting your dress, when you realized—it was shorter than you thought.
The realization hit at the worst possible moment because, just as you moved, the camera cut back to your table.
You froze.
Jihoon noticed immediately. His sharp eyes flickered to you, then to the screen, and without thinking, he reached for something—his blazer.
With swift, natural movements, he leaned in and draped it over your lap, completely casual, like he had done it a million times before.
The camera caught everything.
A split screen showed Jihoon placing his blazer over you while you whispered a flustered, “Jihoon, what are you doing?”
"Just wear it," he muttered, pretending to focus on the stage.
Fans erupted.
Jeonghan burst into laughter, clapping his hands as if Woozi had just confessed on national television. Seungkwan gasped so dramatically that DK had to hold him back, and Mingyu was already on his phone, probably tweeting about it.
The big screen replayed the moment in slow motion, zooming in on Jihoon's effortlessly protective gesture.
Jihoon stiffened when he saw it. "You have got to be kidding me."
His phone blew up.
[Jeonghan]: ROMANTIC LEAD ENERGY!!!
[Mingyu]: Jihoon, OUR SWEETHEART???
[Hoshi]: THIS IS CRAZYYYYY
[Seungkwan]: GOODBYE, WORLD. THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN.
The captions wrote themselves.
"Lee Jihoon, the definition of boyfriend material."
"Woozi naturally protecting Y/N?? We are living in a fanfiction."
"When will my boyfriend be like this?"
Meanwhile, you were trying so hard to hold back your laughter. "Did you have to be so smooth about it?"
Jihoon cleared his throat. "It wasn’t smooth."
"You literally just gave me your blazer without blinking."
"Because you needed it," he huffed, crossing his arms.
You peeked up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. "…Thanks, Jihoon."
He looked away immediately, ears turning red. "Shut up."
Jihoon should have known the night wasn’t over yet.
After all the teasing, the chaotic fan reactions, and the never-ending camera zoom-ins, the moment had finally arrived—Seventeen’s category was being announced.
The entire group sat up straighter, hands clasped together, nervous energy crackling in the air. You could feel it from your seat beside Jihoon, his usually steady hands slightly curled into fists on his lap.
“And the winner is…”
The pause was agonizing.
"SEVENTEEN!"
The entire venue exploded.
Seventeen shot up from their seats, hugging each other tightly, overwhelmed with joy. Fans screamed, members cheered, and Jihoon—despite his usual composure—looked stunned.
You watched as Seungcheol pulled Jihoon into a tight hug, and that’s when you saw it—his eyes, glossy with tears.
The camera captured the moment perfectly. Jihoon, the man who poured his heart and soul into every note, every lyric, standing there, wiping at his eyes as the weight of everything hit him all at once.
And suddenly, your own eyes burned.
You covered your mouth with your hands, trying to hold back the emotions bubbling up inside you. You had seen Jihoon work himself to the bone, staying in the studio until dawn, striving for perfection in everything he did.
He deserved this. They all did.
Jihoon stood on stage, microphone in hand, staring out at the sea of fans and glowing lightsticks. The award sat heavy in his grasp, but not as heavy as the emotions swelling in his chest.
The cheers had barely died down when Seungcheol, ever the leader, began their speech—thanking the fans, the staff, the families, and everyone who had supported them.
But when the mic was passed to Jihoon, the crowd fell into an expectant hush.
Jihoon took a deep breath. “Um…” He let out a small chuckle, voice already wavering. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”
The audience cheered, as if encouraging him to let it out.
Jihoon swallowed hard, gripping the microphone tighter. “This… this award means a lot. More than I can put into words. We’ve worked so hard, and to be standing here, receiving this, it still feels unreal.” He exhaled shakily, blinking rapidly, but the tears still escaped, rolling down his cheeks.
Seventeen members immediately reached for him—Jeonghan placing a hand on his back, Seungkwan nodding at him reassuringly. The crowd cooed, some fans already tearing up themselves.
The camera panned across the group, capturing their emotions, before shifting—straight to you.
Sitting at your table, eyes glassy with unshed tears, you watched Jihoon with nothing but pure admiration and pride. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the camera lingered on you, your lips pressed together to keep from outright sobbing.
And just like that, the entire venue reacted.
Fans screamed.
The members on stage noticed, and before Jihoon could even process what was happening, Jeonghan grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face the screen.
There, clear as day, was you, wiping at your cheeks, eyes fixed on him like he was the most important person in the world.
Jihoon's face turned red instantly. He quickly turned back, covering his face with his sleeve, but it was too late.
Mingyu burst out laughing, Joshua clapped his hands like an excited kid, and even Seungcheol cracked up, patting Jihoon's back.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones crying,” Seungkwan teased into the mic, making the crowd go wild.
Jihoon groaned into his hands, but despite his embarrassment, he peeked up at the camera again—at you.
And in that moment, as he saw you smiling softly through your tears, he couldn’t even be mad.
Because no matter how much he pretended to ignore it, no matter how much he groaned when the cameras caught you both—deep down, he knew.
There was no one he’d rather share the spotlight with.
Ship: bf! seventeen x gn!reader
Genre: established relationship, fluff
w.c.: 0.6k
95z || 97z || doremiz
Jun
Most common: 宝宝 (bǎo bao) - baby
If you know Chinese, you will know that this name isn't unique per se, but for some reason, Jun always has his way of making it feel the most intimate, adoring name for you. Maybe it's the way he looks you straight in the eyes, gaze always soft, turning his entire focus on you, or maybe it's how he says it, with just the right amount of sweetness in his tone. Whatever it is, it's addicting, and you don't want him to stop.
When he's feeling playful: 바보 (pabo)
Jun loves to call you this whenever you make a silly mistake. Given how clumsy you are, he calls you this quite often. Perhaps it's you tripping over thin air in your rush to greet him when he comes home, or maybe it's when you accidentally knock over your drink while leaning over to get to him over the dinner table, Jun will always be by your side within moments, picking you up off the floor or cleaning the mess. "you pabo - don't get up! I got it. You eat your dinner."
Soonyoung
Most common: jagiya
Soonyoung's most commonly spoken word these days must be jagi. It doesn't matter if you're sitting right next to him, and he's tapping your shoulder to show you a funny reel, or if you're in the next room, his loud but ever-so-sweet voice calling out to you, the pet name slides right off his tongue like it was made just to call you this.
When he's tired: 내 사랑 (nae sarang) - my love
Soonyoung doesn't really speak or act with a filter on most of the time, but when he's tired? Every single thought that passes through his mind will be said. You find it amusing, at times - it's hard to tell whether he's drunk or just sleepy. But secretly, a part of you absolutely adores when Soonyoung gets like this, espeically when he calls you 내 사랑 - becuase you know it's what he actually thinks of you.
Wonwoo
Most common: 애인 (Aein) - sweetheart/lover
If there's anything you always look foward to coming home to after a long day facing the outside world, its being wrapped up in your boyfriend arms as he calls you Aein-ah. It never fails to you make you feel warm and loved inside, like you're home.
When he's distracted: sweets
If you interrupt him while he's gaming or otherwise distracted, this is probably what he'll call you. You have no idea why he has a separate nickname for times like these, but it always slips out, ever gentle and patient, even if he was just yelling at his game mere seconds before. Sometimes you would call him when he's on his computer just to hear him call you this, but he doesn't have to know that.
Jihoon
Most common: babe
We all know Jihoon isn't the best with words, and the same applies to pet names. When in the presence of other people, even close friends, he prefers to stick to just your name, usually accompanied by a light touch to grab your attention. But recently, he's been starting to let babe slip. You don't even think he notices. You're not going to tell him, though.
When you're alone: my love
He may not be comfortable with pet names in public, but in private? That's a whole different person. "My love, I wrote this song for you". "Love, did you see the new anime that came out?" "Oops, sorry love, didn't see you there". It's like he knows what it does to you. Maybe this is why you're okay whenever your friends tease him for his 'lack of affection', since you know he's anything but.
a/n: may be making a longer version of jihoon's... would you guys be interested? ><
If you liked this story, check out my masterlist here!
it's just you both tonight, but when he brings you some tea and presses his lips against your forehead, you don't want this feeling to go away. you've been sick for days, but it’s the little things—like jihoon’s soft kisses—that make you feel like you can survive this. even when you're gross and sniffling, he won't leave your side.
🍵 PAIRING/WC :: lee jihoon × fem!reader ⋅ 1,597 words
🍵 CONTENTS :: soft boy jihoon, forehead kisses, mutual pining, taking care of a sick partner, domestic moments, co-actors in a fake relationship for public image. jihoon actually opening up a little
⚠️ WARNINGS :: mentions of fever/sickness, light physical weakness, a lot of touches (forehead kisses, hand holding). no explicit content. no heavy angst. not beta-ed. tahts all i think! but still lmk.
🍵 A/N :: happiest, happiest birthday to our uji 🥹🤍 the tiniest, cutest, most hard-working genius ever. i hope today you actually let yourself rest for once and let people spoil you because you deserve it more than anyone. pls come back to me jihoon, i’m literally on my knees. you military ppl, im watching you. spoil him today. anyway, lol. i actually finished writing this on 7th february this year and kept it on hold thinking it wasn’t good enough, and honestly i just procrastinated asking for second opinions. so this is still a second draft as i went over it yesterday and did some slight tweakings. couldn’t do much because i was cringing but i hope you guys will still like it. compared to what i wrote back in feb, this is wayyy better. i waited almost a year to post this, so pls give this lots of love heheh ς(>‿<.) tagging: #1 jihoon enthusiast @shinysobi
It’s just you both tonight.
Your shared apartment is quieter today as you pull the blanket tighter around yourself. Your nose is stuffed, your throat sore, and your head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. You’ve been sick for days and barely able to get out of bed, but the worst part isn’t the congestion or the fever, it’s the loneliness that settled the moment Jihoon stepped out earlier to run errands. It surprised you how empty the place felt without him. It has only been a week since he started staying over regularly, and you already feel strange whenever he’s not around.
You don’t know when things changed. You both agreed to a fake relationship with nothing more than a convenient solution to help with the pressure from the public, the fans, and even your families. Everyone loved the idea. Everything about it should’ve been simple. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling simple.
“Here.” Jihoon’s voice cuts through your drifting thoughts. You look up and see him standing at your bedroom door with a steaming mug of tea in his hands. His eyes melt when he sees the state you are in, and you find your heart beating fast. He steps in and sets the mug on the nightstand before sitting down beside you. “You need to drink this. It’ll help with your throat.” He nudges the mug toward you for you to take it.
You don’t have the strength to argue, so you nod and take a sip. The warmth soothes your throat, and just for some time, you forget about the cameras, the questions about what you two really are, and the arrangement that started all of this. Being here with him in this small room feels like a break from everything outside.
Jihoon watches you closely as you drink. His attention doesn’t drift from you for even a second. He adjusts the pillow behind your back and tucks the blanket around your shoulders, and checks if you’re comfortable or not. He always does these little things. You try to tell yourself it’s just part of the act, part of the deal, but you know better. Jihoon doesn’t pretend with things like this. He’s naturally careful with the people he cares about.
“Thank you,” you whisper. Your chest feels tight and you don’t question it with your sickness, and you don’t know if it’s from the tea or from something more sitting behind your ribs.
He shrugs. “You’re sick. It’s the least I can do.” But the least he can do feels like much more.
The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. You’ve grown used to the gradual changes in his expression, his way of showing his worry without saying it. Little by little, he has let himself get close to you even if neither of you planned for that to happen.
You set the empty mug down just as Jihoon reaches out and brushes your forehead with the back of his hand. You don’t pull away. His touch feels so careful and a little shaky. You can’t remember the last time anyone touched you without wanting something in return. Jihoon stays for a moment, then leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. The gesture’s almost absentminded, yet it steals the breath from your lungs.
Your eyes flutter open slowly, and you find him watching you with an expression you can’t yet read. Before you can speak, he stands. “Get some rest. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”
You watch his back as he walks toward the door. You don’t want him to leave when his presence feels like the only thing holding everything in you together and making you feel better. “Stay,” you whisper.
Jihoon stops. For a second he doesn’t move and you worry he might pretend he didn’t hear you. But he turns, and his eyes soften with that low-key tiny smile on his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Instead of you staying all day in the bedroom, you end up in the living room together with the TV playing in the background. Neither of you is really watching it. Jihoon keeps glancing at you and checks if you’re cold, if you’re breathing fine, if your fever looks worse than before, if you need some more tissues.
When the night grows late, he gets up and stretches. “Need anything else?”
You shake your head but then your stomach growls loudly. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment. “Maybe something light. I don’t think I can eat anything heavy.”
Jihoon nods and heads to the kitchen without a single complaint. He moves quickly as if he already had something in mind. When he returns with a small bowl of warm soup, you can feel your throat tightening again, but this time it’s from your overwhelming feelings for this man. He sets it in front of you and sits beside you. “Eat.”
You take a spoonful. The heat spreads through your mouth and chest, and the comfort is immediate. Jihoon’s eyes never leave you as he watches to make sure you finish it, not in a controlling way but in a more concerned way. You want to ask him why he’s being like this. Why is he doing more than what the arrangement requires. Why is he choosing to stay here when he doesn’t have to. But you keep eating instead.
When you finish, he stands to take the bowl away. Before he leaves, he leans down and presses another kiss to your forehead. This time his lips stay connected to your forehead a little longer than the last time. His thumb brushes your temple, and when he pulls back, he looks at you, “you know,” he says, “even if this wasn’t fake, I wouldn’t mind.”
It feels like you might as well suffocate right now… but in a good way. For so long, you have been convincing yourself this is just for convenience, and a performance for everyone else. But hearing him say that makes everything inside you roam around and change painfully. You don’t want this to end, and you most definitely don’t want to go back to being strangers who only speak for the sake of appearances as co-actors. Jihoon clears his throat and looks away. He seems unsure, which is rare. He doesn’t usually stumble like this. He seems like he wants to say more, but you can tell he’s holding himself back.
“Jihoon…” Your voice is trailing. “Stay. Just for a little longer.”
He hesitates at first, probably thinking about the work he has tomorrow or the fact that he has already stayed too late. But then he lets out a sigh and nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
He starts toward the other couch, but something inside you pushes you to reach out. You pat the space beside you. “Here. It’s more comfortable.”
Jihoon pauses on his way to sit down on the other couch. He looks at you like he’s trying to decide if this is a mistake. He’s careful, never crosses a line unless he knows it won’t hurt either of you.
After a moment, he sits. It’s not too close, but also close enough that you can feel him around you. The TV keeps playing behind you, but neither of you really pay attention to it. Your eyelids grow heavy from the rest settling inside you, and you’re happy to tell yourself that it’s not from the fever. Jihoon must sense it because he finally speaks.
“You scared me.”
“What?”
“When you got sick,” he eyes lowering to his hands. “You weren’t answering your phone. And when I got here, you could barely stand.” He goes quiet for some time. “I knew you weren’t in danger, but… I didn’t like not being here.”
Your throat tightens again. He isn’t someone who throws words around. If he’s saying this, it’s because he means it. “Why?”
He huffs a laugh, but there’s nothing funny in it. He looks more frustrated with himself than anything else. “I don’t know. I just didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”
That hits something in you that you haven’t let yourself acknowledge. Your fingers brush his hand slowly, and you feel him tense around your hand, then relax and turn his palm up to hold yours. His thumb rubs lightly against your skin. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you admit to him. “I thought I’d be fine with all of this. I thought it wouldn’t change anything.”
“You were wrong,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He stares at your joined hands for a long time. “If we stopped pretending… would that be so bad?”
Your heart literally thunders in your chest now. The answer’s very obvious to you. It has always been obvious. “It was never fake for me.”
Jihoon exhales and pulls you in a little closer to him. His voice drops to a breathy whisper. “If we’re not faking it… does that mean I get to keep you?”
Your breath catches, and you feel everything inside you fall into place. You squeeze his hand. “Only if you want to.”
His expression changes to relief and what you can describe it as, realization. He cups your cheek and leans in to press another kiss to your forehead. This one didn’t feel like it was for comfort. “I do,” he confesses. “I always have.”
For the first time tonight, the weird tightness in your chest eases. It doesn’t feel like comfort but like a beginning. And you don’t want it to end.
genre: domestic fluff, suggestive, married!, Just jihoon looking too damn hot with glasses
It was a regular Sunday, with you and JIhoon curled up on the couch, his fingers playing with your hair lazily and a variety show playing quietly on the TV. One of the guests got teased for being “hopeless at picking up on flirting.” You laughed. Maybe a little too loudly.
Jihoon’s head turned immediately. “What’s so funny?”
You smirked. “Just… I could totally see you missing it if someone was trying to flirt with you.”
His expression shifted — not offended, but sharp. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Oh, really?”
He leaned back, smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, eyes narrowing like he was weighing a challenge. “If someone was trying to seduce me, I’d notice.”
You tilted your head. “And…?”
“Depends,” he said smoothly, voice dropping low enough to curl in your stomach, “...on how good they are.”
You said nothing. Just let the quiet stretch as you tucked the thought away. By the time you were brushing your teeth that night, you had already decided: tomorrow, you’d put him to the test.
It started at breakfast.
You came downstairs wearing one of his old button-ups — soft cotton, sleeves rolled to your elbows — and absolutely nothing else but panties hidden underneath. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen as you poured his usual cup and slid it across the counter with a bright, innocent smile.
“Morning,” you chirped, leaning just far enough over the counter that you knew exactly where his eyes would go.
Jihoon glanced up from his tablet, expression maddeningly neutral. “Thanks, love,” he said simply, taking the mug without so much as a flicker of reaction.
That was it. No smirk, no double-take.
You narrowed your eyes. Oh, so that’s how today was going to be.
At mid-morning, you tried again. he was holed up in his home studio, hair messy, glasses perched low on his nose, forearms flexing as he clicked through files.You strolled in with a flimsy excuse — “Thought you might want a snack.”
He didn’t look up when you set the plate down, just hummed a distracted “Thanks baby,”
So you dropped your pen. Slowly. Bent at the waist, giving him an absolutely perfect view. And then, just to push, you glanced over your shoulder, lips curved in the smallest smirk.
Jihoon’s gaze flickered up for half a second — and then, infuriatingly, right back down to the screen. “Careful,” he murmured, deadpan. “Wouldn’t want you to pull something.”
You bit back a laugh and left before he could see you flush. Fine. Two could play this game.
You decided to up the ante.
When he came into the kitchen for a break, you were standing on tiptoe at the counter, reaching for the top shelf. “Yeobo~,” you called lightly, “Can you get this for me?”
He grabbed it easily, set it on the counter and then kissed the top of your head like nothing was happening.
You took it with a sweet smile. “Thanks baby.”
And then, because you couldn’t resist, you let your fingers graze his arm as you stepped past. “Such strong arms,” you whispered just loud enough.
He froze — only for a second — before letting out a quiet laugh. “You’re being… affectionate today,” he commented, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“And you’re being smug,” you shot back, breezing past him.
He knows, you realized. And he’s loving this.
He struck first in the afternoon.
You were folding laundry on the bed when he wandered in, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips and hair still damp. He made no move to cover up, just sat on the edge of the bed beside you, scrolling casually through his phone.
“You’re dripping water everywhere,” you muttered, trying to keep your eyes on the shirt in your hands.
“Oh?” He reached over to pluck the shirt from your grip, his bare arm brushing your thigh in the process. “Guess I’ll need help drying off.”
Your head snapped up, but he was still scrolling like he hadn’t just said that. You wanted to throw the laundry at him — or maybe yourself into his lap — but instead, you smiled sweetly.
“Fine. Don’t catch a cold,” you said, standing. As you passed, you bent down just enough to whisper in his ear: “Shame you’re wasting that towel all alone.”
You didn’t need to look back to know he froze.
By dinner, the tension was a living thing between you.
He stood close while you cooked, far closer than necessary, his chest pressing against your back every time he reached for something. When you asked him to taste the sauce, he leaned in and licked the spoon — slowly — his gaze locked on yours as he hummed approval.
You nearly dropped the ladle.
“Good,” he said simply, turning away like nothing had happened.
After dinner, you walked over to sit down on his lap in the smallest shorts you own, hands clasped behind his neck. His hands naturally holding onto your waist and looking at you with a smug smile, like he knew exactly what you were doing but still pretended to be curious.
Finally, you leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You’ve been ignoring me all day.”
His laptop shut with a soft click.
"Ignoring you?" he said, voice low as his hands slid down to your hips, gently squeezing, "No, love… I’ve just been waiting to see how far you’d go.”
Your breath hitched, “And?”
His thumb brushed the edge of your shorts with a satisfied smirk, “I think you’ve finally run out of patience.”
In one fluid motion, he took off his glasses and pulled you closer, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and utterly consuming — the kind that made the entire day’s teasing feel like foreplay to this single, inevitable moment.
When you finally broke apart, breathless, you managed a shaky laugh. “Took you long enough.”
Jihoon’s lips curved against your jaw as he kissed it softly, murmuring, “Patience, love. I like making you work for it.”
—synopsis: she's been playing the game since she was four years old, which means she's been playing it for twenty-four years now. she's tired, but when chaos comes walking into her life, hand-in-hand with danger, it bears a name: lee jihoon. and for once in her wretched life, she feels a spark behind her ribcage.
—genres: strangers to lovers, woozi x reader
—warnings: minors do not interact, 18+, detailed descriptions of mental illness, violence, drinking/smoking, suicidal ideation, sexual themes and suggestive language. jihoon is a little shit so there's a bit of swearing or whatever.
—word count: 25k (haha) (part one)
—author's note: i texted alta about this fic one time and boom here it is after a month. is this my first fic after kinktober? maybe. probably. it was really fun writing this (if you count the hair i pulled out of despair) but this fic would not have been possible without the support and help of cel @mylovesstuffs, who has been invaluable to the writing process. big thank you to @haologram, who accidentally helped birth this story by entertaining my delusions. wrote this for u guys lol okay love u bye
tagging the peanut gallery: @jakedustry @nerdycheol @seungkw1
part of the 17 seconds 2 score collab!
In a game of Go, the white pieces are given an advantage.
She supposes it’s all because of the way the game is set up—to favour one over the other in the beginning. The white pieces are given an advantage momentarily, only to account for total neutrality of the board. The game doesn’t care about pieces and their stories. The game merely knows strategy.
She walks in the middle of the street, not really caring about the people she might run into. There are flashes of phone cameras all around her, but it doesn’t matter at all. Not to her. Not anymore.
I fucking hate this game.
“Miss, you’re going to hurt yourself,” a voice says, calm, almost soothing. Like through water. She looks at the source through her glasses, and it’s him. Lee Jihoon. As usual, he’s come to her rescue like she’s some sort of damsel in distress he needs to take care of and rescue before she’s struck down by lightning.
“You’re here,” she murmurs, looking faintly displeased, “I was planning to jump in front of a car.”
He sighs, heavy disappointment in his gaze. “Let’s not think about that right now, miss. You need to get back home.”
“Home?” she asks, even as he hauls her out of the streets and into a waiting car, his jacket wrapped around her shoulder. “Why would I go home?”
“You’re one of the most famous people in this country, miss,” Jihoon says, putting the car into gear. He doesn’t believe it, but he says it regardless, “You need to be more careful about how you present yourself in public.”
“Fuck that,” she groans, leaning back into the seat, “why the hell do I have to play this fucking game?”
He sighs, and the car swerves into a side street. “You have the Ing cup coming in a few months, miss, you need to concentrate on that one before you go around in the middle of the roads.”
“Go to hell,” she mutters, settling down into her seat, “you should quit being my manager if it bothers you so much.”
He rubs his temples, and even from behind, she can see the heavily put-upon expression he has right now, “miss, that’s not up to me. You need me by your side right now, if you want to be a part of that tournament.”
She sighs, looking out of the window. Jihoon is driving the car, looking straight ahead. He looks at nothing else other than the road, she realises, nothing else at all. She props herself up on her elbows, and stares. Long black hair, just like the polished slate stones of her favourite set. Smooth pale skin, like clamshell stones. Annoying. “What are you looking at?” He asks, self-conscious, “go to sleep, miss, we'll reach the house in about half an hour.”
“Looking at you,” she replies simply, turning her face away from him, “you look upset that you have to be my manager.”
“Anyone would be upset if they have to take care of a woman who can barely take care of themselves,” Jihoon grumbles, looking steadily ahead, “you drink more than an alcoholic, you smoke a whole pack a day, and you never go out unless it’s to pull stunts like these. Anyone would hate being your manager.”
“You wound me,” she sighs, watching the houses and the trees zoom past their car, “I would like to think I am a very considerate woman.”
“You are tolerable,” Jihoon replies, “I tolerate you. Not many others would.”
“Fair enough,” she says, absent-mindedly, “is Jeonghan coming?”
“Jeonghan always comes running when you call for him,” Jihoon replies, “God knows why he does. All you two do is play Go until the wee hours of the morning.”
“You don't get it, Lee Jihoon,” she says, “still, it's good that he's coming. I needed to play.”
The car stops at a red light, and Jihoon takes the opportunity to turn around, fixing his dark eyes on her, like slate black Go pieces, “that's one more thing I don't understand. You hate the game, and you still play it every day. Every fucking day, you're sitting at that board. If you hated the game, you wouldn't play it so much. You keep saying that you hate the game, and yet you play it.”
She stares at him. “You don’t get it, Lee Jihoon, you don't get it at all. And I like that about you. It's why I keep you around.”
He scoffs, “so you keep me around because I don’t care about the game. That’s funny.”
“Yes, it’s funny.” She mutters, steadily looking away. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the road and keeps his eyes firmly on it until they arrive at her home. She doesn’t say a word, just focuses on the foggy atmosphere of the world around her. She doesn’t want to think.
You’ll always return to us, you know.
Her eyes snap open when Jihoon parks the car with a noisy screech in front of the traditional-style house, throwing the door open for her. She’s not sure she can prove it, but he does this just to spite her. Don’t act out all the fucking time, you know. She sighs, stepping into the cold and looking up at the large, imposing facade of her house. She’d been bequeathed the house in her teacher's final will, the house that she had grown up and learnt how to play the game in. She had felt grateful then, grateful that her teacher had thought of her in such a way. That he had loved her till the end, that he, of all people, had not forsaken her. Now, all it reminds her of is the way everyone had looked at her when the will had been announced. People at the association had glared at her when the lawyer had said I leave the house and all my assets to my sole student, in the hopes that she might learn to love someone other than me. They always looked at her the same way, like she was a freak of nature. Hundreds of years of Go legacy, shattered in the hands of a young maverick who barely knew her manners. And she lives in the house of her master now, too. imagine the insolence.
She killed her teacher, and now she lives in his house, wears his watch on her wrist. Is she trying to become him? How audacious.
“We’re here, ma’am,” Jihoon says, opening the gates for her, and she steps into the courtyard, trying not to think about the events of the morning and the afternoon. She was supposed to prepare for the Ing Cup right now. The first match was in less than two months.
“Mr. Yoon Jeonghan will take some time to get here,” Jihoon says, half-deferential, as he closes the door behind him, “should I make you a cup of tea?”
“No, I want a drink,” she waves her hand, “or a smoke. Either is preferable.”
“You should not be drinking right now, ma’am.” He says, wrestling her hip flask away from her, “and where did you find that? I thought I got rid of them all.”
“I have my ways,” she shrugs, “and don’t try to fool me into thinking you actually care, Lee Jihoon. It’s better you remain the way I want you to.”
He raises an eyebrow, “And ignore you while you actively try to kill yourself? What the hell would that do for me?”
She sighs, laughing, “yeah, of course. I’m better alive to you than dead, right?”
“Please refrain from saying unnecessary things, ma’am.”
He remains stubborn in the face of opposition, so she makes the decision for him, laughing and twirling a lighter in her hands, “and I’m supposed to ignore the way you look at my money? You really do take me for a fool, huh?”
He remains silent, so she takes it a step further, walking into the living room and dropping down on a low sofa, “answer me, Lee Jihoon. You really think I’m an idiot, right?”
He refuses to meet her gaze, and instead busies himself with setting the ornaments on the mantlepiece right. She sighs. This is getting irritating. “Answer me, Jihoon,” she says, rolling her eyes and bending over to pull off her socks, “you need to talk to me for me to understand you better.”
At last, after what seems like an excruciating, long, minute, he opens his mouth, “I’ve never once thought about you as an idiot, ma’am.”
She laughs, standing up to stalk out of the living room, shedding her coat and outer jacket as she walks. Jihoon, ever the dutiful manager, picks them all up one after the other, gathering them in his arms as he follows her to the Go room.
Before she slides open the door to the Go room, she turns on her heel, looking straight into his eyes. Slate-black, like Go pieces. She turns away, “don’t think I am not aware of the accounts, Manager Lee.” She ignores the way he flinches at her use of his position, “you allotted more than a million won for the gardener.” she gestures to the gardens, which are bare and barren this time of year, “you seriously thought I would not notice?”
He hangs his head in what looks like shame, and she shakes her head, “I hate it when people lie, Lee Jihoon. Next time, just come to me for the money. Or just steal it outright.”
He stares at her then, which makes her turn her head away from him for the second time in the past five minutes, “what are you talking about?”
“Give us a cup of tea when Jeonghan comes to visit,” she turns away from him, “and make dinner before you leave for the night. I’m not going to ask you why you took that money, because frankly, I don’t give a shit.”
With that, she opens the sliding door, and walks into the Go room. Jihoon stands guard outside, and doesn’t say anything.
—
The Go room is the most traditional space in the house, still done in the fashion of the old Joseon masters, with paper screens lining it on three sides and looking over the garden on the other side. She hasn’t changed this room one bit since the time she’s moved in, to the point where it probably feels strange and unsettling to anyone who enters this space. This is for the old masters, not the young ones.
“Ahh, this is so bloody fucked up,” she mutters softly to herself, walking to the board and squatting down in front of it. This is a hostile space. I hate this fucking game so much, and yet, it’s got its claws so far deep into me that I can’t even shake it off and move on.
“Oi, what’d you call me here?” the doors open to reveal Yoon Jeonghan, 9-dan, clad in his usual half-open shirt and a jacket slung over his shoulders, “you want to play Go right now when you’ve been running around the city?”
She rolls her eyes, ignoring his words, “do you really want to talk to me like that when you’re half-dressed? It’s getting cold nowadays, make sure you don’t freeze to death.”
Jeonghan laughs, "still as icy as ever, huh? God knows how you managed to make a friend out of me with that icy demeanour of yours, yn.”
“I don’t remember asking you to be my friend ever, Jeonghan,” she grumbles, observing him with narrowed eyes as he takes the seat, folding his long legs into a cross-legged position and hunching over the board, “you’ve already begun?”
“Mmh. White gets four and a half points as komi. You can play now.” She mutters, “do you want byoyomi?”
“Nah, I’m fine. I can play like this anytime,” he laughs, long and low, and she pulls a face at the obvious flirtation, “even though the only person who asks me to play like this is you.”
“I’m the only one you play practice games with?” she narrows her eyes, “I find that very hard to believe. You’re 9-dan Yoon Jeonghan, I doubt you’re in dire need of partners to play a match with you. The people at the association must be tripping over their feet to get a chance to sit across the board from you.”
Jeonghan shrugs, “you’re 9-dan too, you know. And you don’t even show your face at the association.”
“I doubt the association would like me around.”
“One of the only female 9-dans in the country, and you still think the association hates you?” Jeonghan laughs, “they don’t hate you, you know. They’re mostly just scared of you.”
“Hah,” she huffs out a laugh, “that’s not what they say behind my back, you know. I know what they say behind my back.”
“Never took you for someone who would give such undue importance to the people of the association, yn,” Jeonghan laughs, adjusting his collar so she can see the sharp jut of his collarbone, all arranged in a blatant attempt to catch her attention that has her rolling her eyes, “but you should go to the association once in a while. Make your presence known. At least then they’re going to stop spreading rumors about you.”
“They spread rumors about me?” she arches an eyebrow, placing a stone to cancel out a point, “that’s very brave of them, I must say.”
“Well, when the master is out, the dogs will play,” Jeonghan shrugs, placing his stone, “which is why you should assert your presence. Help get the rumors under control.”
“And what do they say about me? Apart from the things they already do.”
“The most obvious one is about how you defeated your teacher, making him retire from the Go scene, and ultimately dying earlier than expected,’ Jeonghan stares at the board, “damn, you’re still as sharp as ever. How do you get so fast when I’m the only other player you play games with? Is there someone else I’m not aware of?”
She rolls her eyes at that. “Sometimes, when I’m bored, I go play at the local seniors’ association. The old men and women there are pretty sharp for septuagenarians.”
“That’s the secret, huh,” he laughs, “and here I was thinking you had got a student or something. Perhaps another fellow 9-dan I’m not aware of.”
“I’m not stupid enough to bring a student under my care when I can barely take care of myself,” she shrugs, “most days I can’t even get out of bed. There’s no reason for me to burden myself with another person to take care of when simple tasks are difficult for me.”
“Speaking of taking care,” Jeonghan opens his mouth to say something, most likely something outrageously flirtatious, when Jihoon slides open the door, holding a tray of tea in his hands. He says nothing, keeps his gaze focused firmly on the tray and on the floor, and places it in front of the two of them.
“I see you are still here, Lee Jihoon,” Jeonghan says smoothly, “is she giving you a lot of grief?”
She narrows her eyes, scowling, “don’t say such shit about me to my manager, for fuck’s sake, Jeonghan. You can grill him about me later.”
This is such an obvious bait. Jeonghan doesn’t like Jihoon at all, a fact that he’s made perfectly clear over the past few months he’s been in her employ. He’s been the same, throwing these snide remarks to him whenever he sees him. Whether in private or in public. And it’s the same from the other side. Jihoon doesn’t rise to the bait. He never does, as usual. Only keeps his head down, as he’s doing right now, and says the most generic sentence to avoid being discourteous. Even now, with Jeonghan’s disdain so blatant, he merely sighs, nodding his head. “There is no problem with taking care of ma’am. It is, after all, my duty.”
Jeonghan seems like he wants to say something more, but decides against it, and Jihoon walks out of the room, clutching the tray close to his chest and shutting the door behind him.
As soon as his footsteps are out of earshot, Jeonghan turns round on her, “why the hell is he still there?”
She doesn't take the bait. “And why would he not be? He is part of my household, after all.”
“Don’t say household like you’re in a fucking historical drama, yn, you know why I’m asking you this. Why the hell is he still there?”
She takes a sip of the tea. Fragrant, with a splash of milk, just how she likes it. Jihoon knows her preferences well, even if he makes it seem like he hates this job, “he takes good care of me, as you know. I don’t have to worry about anything else other than playing Go when he’s here.”
“And he’s also stealing your money, yn. You told me he stole a million won from you last month.”
She shrugs, “and? He’s not making any efforts to hide his embezzlement. Anyone else in his position would take multiple steps to hide the account, but he just took it under the pretext of paying it to the gardener. Laughable, really. It’s as if he had no desire to hide it at all. It’s refreshing.”
Jeonghan shakes his head, rubbing his forehead, “you confound me. The manager before last was fired because you refused to forgive his theft of ten million won, and yet, Lee Jihoon has stolen more than thirty million from you in the past three months. Why are you still keeping him around? I don’t like him.”
“You’re losing ground here, Jeonghan,” she deflects, hunching over the board instead, “you know, you just gave me an advantage here.”
“What?” He looks at the board, “ah fuck, you’re right. I’ve just managed to hand you this match. You’re just as cold-blooded as ever, huh? Taking a match from under my nose when I was busy berating the manager who’s stealing from you.”
“I do not remember asking you to stand up for my honor, Yoon Jeonghan,” she smiles, sipping her tea, “and you’re forgetting that I was the one who brought him in, which means I have final jurisdiction over his fate in my house. He takes care of me, I look the other way when he steals money. At least he’s being honest about his intentions.”
“You knew?”
She doesn’t say anything, but it’s an admission anyway.
—
“She’s insane!”
Jihoon walks into his apartment, only to find Joshua lounging on the sofa. He’s got a cigarette hanging between his lips, looking like he’s trying to decide between playing a vinyl record of Bach or Vivaldi. He’s got the two records in his hands, and inspecting them with the bored eye of a connoisseur, “are you even listening to me right now?”
“Not really, no, I’m trying to decide which Baroque composer to listen to tonight,” Joshua replies, unbothered by Jihoon’s crisis, “do you think it should be Bach’s Toccata and Fugue, or Vivaldi’s Winter?”
Jihoon groans, “either, I don’t particularly care. Anything is fine with me.”
“This is the problem with you, you see,” Joshua shakes the two records, as if making a point, “you don't give a shit about the finer points of life. You need to be able to make a distinction between which is the better composer for a night like this one. Is it Bach, with his melancholy, or Vivaldi, with his yearning for spring? Make a decision, Jihoon.”
He rolls his eyes, “you won’t shut up until I’ve made a decision, huh?”
“No, of course not,” Joshua grins. “You need to make a decision for me now.”
“The Vivaldi,” Jihoon points to the brightly-colored record in Joshua’s right hand, “he feels like the right choice.”
“I’m going to go with Bach, then,” Joshua shrugs, standing up to place the record in the player, “you look like you’re in dire need of melancholy.”
“I don’t need melancholy, Hong. I just need to have a normal boss for once in my life, someone who gives a shit about the working conditions they’re putting me in; I mean, if she knows I’m stealing money from her, then why keep me around? I’ve already taken thirty million from her, I can always take more.”
Joshua stares at him for a second, “careful, Jihoon. You told me you took this job because you wanted her money. It seems to me as though you somehow care about her financial well-being.”
“I don’t care, that’s the thing. I don’t care about her financial well-being, it’s that she keeps behaving in ways that don’t make any sense to me.”
“Isn’t that the best course of action? To have a boss who doesn’t give a shit about their money? You can steal from them, and even if they know, they’re not going to care?”
He sighs. Joshua makes a point, the sneaky bastard. He should not be caring about her money, nor should he care about how she lives. He’s just confused. He wants her money right now. He’s already got thirty million, the rest of the money should be just as easy to get.
“I’m going to go wash up,” he announces to Joshua, who gives him a little wave, busying himself with the sombre tones of Bach’s Toccata. His room is smaller than the bathroom in her house, and on the days he has to sleep here, it all feels slightly unfamiliar to him. His room feels unfamiliar, but so does her house. Jihoon feels like an astronaut on the Space Station, stuck in limbo, watching the Earth and its people go about their lives without his presence. He feels unsettled, unmoored. In limbo. And it is all because of her.
His phone rings, and he takes a second to check the caller ID before pressing to his ear, “yes, mom.”
His mother’s voice is soothing. Jihoon misses it, misses how she used to sing all through the house while doing her chores, misses how she used to sing for him every time he made a new song. He misses all of it, and he hates how he’s been reduced to being her gofer in order to pay his debt. Well, their debt. It’s a family thing.
“Jihoon,” his mom sounds tired over the phone, like she’s been working sixteen-hour days at the diner down the road, “how are you doing, baby?”
He sighs. His father works full-time in a construction zone, and his mother works at a diner, doing errands for people who don’t even give a shit about her plight. They’re working for their meagre wages, and he’s out here in Seoul, trying to get enough money to pay up for the principal.
“I’m fine, mom,” he lies, hoping it isn’t too blatant for her to catch on, “I’m doing fine, the work pays great, you know. I can give back the principal within the end of this year, trust me.”
“Jihoon,” his mother whispers, as though talking is difficult for her, “you don’t need to worry about the principal, son. It’s our debt, not yours. You should not be paying for it.”
“You are my family, mom. It’s my debt too,” he’s been repeating this one statement for the past three years, “you don’t need to worry about me working to pay off the debt. It’s my debt as well. And I told you, I’ve already paid off part of the principal. We only need a little bit more, and the principal will be done. Then all that’s left is the interest.”
He doesn’t say that the interest is the worst part.
After ten more minutes, his mother finally hangs up, satisfied that her son is living a life mostly unburdened by his financial woes. Jihoon falls back onto his bed, thinking over the figures in his mind. Two hundred million won in debt, but the quantity of debt is different. He had once explained this to Joshua, and it had taken over an hour for the whole lecture. Jihoon’s pretty much not worried about the majority of the money, given that it’s with the bank, and they have already lost all their assets when his father’s company was declared bankrupt. It’s the final fifty million won he’s worried about. He had not known about it, otherwise he would have stopped his father from going to the loan sharks for the money. The fifty million won did nothing for their company, and all it did was add to their growing pile of debt along with a fearsome rate of interest that he doesn’t think they can continue paying.
How much money do I have to pay? He makes a mental note of the little money in his bank account, and the amount of money their family owes to the Busan gangs, and sighs. It’s going to take me at least a decade to repay that much money. He’s been told that he should get angry with his parents, angry about the fact that he’s stuck paying back so much money when it was not his debt in the first place, but Jihoon is not bothered by all of that. He’s a grown adult now, it’s fine. It’s his duty to take care of his family, in every way possible.
Which is why she makes him angry.
She has all the money she needs, perhaps more. She’s a homebody but she earns more money than he ever does in a year from appearance fees alone. There are books, lectures. Even though she goes through the motions, there is so much for her. And yet, she does all of this with a look on her face that tells him it doesn’t matter to her whether she has money or doesn’t.
Even the way he got the job was insane.
Three months ago, Jihoon had an acquaintance of his come into the bar where he worked, and offer two hundred thousand for a day’s work. He wasn’t sure why no one else had raised their hands, but it became clear to him soon—she was insane. The first three days of work had Jihoon bring in tea at specific intervals to the Go room, and she would leave the room after every six hours to take a piss. Hell, he didn’t even see her face properly until the day she offered him a proper contract. It seemed too good to be true, but he had taken it.
And now he’s stuck here.
—
The Ing Cup is in three months.
She wakes up at six in the morning. Oftentimes she falls asleep in the Go room, having gone over the manoeuvres of games all through the previous night. Jihoon doesn’t even wake her up first when he comes in to work, simply makes her breakfast and then proceeds to slide open the door to the Go room, planting the tray on the floor beside her. She wakes up to the smell of freshly-brewed tea and breakfast rolls wafting into her from half a foot away, and thinks she wants to die a little.
Jeonghan is part of the Ing Cup too, which means he has his own preparations to take care of, and he doesn't come by as much as he used to. His absence is fine. She doesn’t care about it that much. As long as she can play Go, there’s precious little in the world that bothers her very much.
“How long have I been playing today?” she asks one afternoon as Jihoon serves her her lunch, “I don’t think I left the Go room in the past—”
“You’ve been playing for the past five hours, ma’am,” he replies, smooth and deferential, “and you’ve not stepped out of the house in the past two weeks. You only go out of the Go room in order to relieve yourself and attend to your hygiene.”
“Call it what it is; I go out of the room to take a piss and to take a shower, sometimes at the same time, just one after the other,” she snorts, taking a sip of the soup he’s set out in front of her, “you’ve been cooking very light food nowadays, Lee Jihoon. Trying to make me lose more weight? All my hair is going to fall out at this rate.”
He raises an eyebrow, and she just sighs, “yes, I get it, I need to get out more. At least I’m not spending whole days stuck in that room.”
He looks mildly concerned, “did you do that?”
She shrugs, “when I was young, my teacher used to go over my games, and sometimes, we would be stuck in that room for twelve hours at a time. No piss breaks either.”
“And that was fine?”
“Well, both of us developed bladder problems later on.” She claps her hands, “thank you for the food, what else is on my schedule for today?”
“You have a meeting at the association and a lecture on Go game theories at Seoul National University, after which,” he replies with practised ease, “the rest of your day is free for you to do whatever you please.”
“Whatever I please?” she thinks over this statement for a while, “how long is the lecture supposed to run for?”
“An hour. You were invited by the game studies professor, and they’re marketing it as a special lecture by one of the biggest players in the country right now.”
She shakes her head, sighs, and walks off to change into proper clothes to go out. The association was one thing, but she couldn’t get out of the obligation with Seoul National University. She wants to get some time to herself, but she has her obligations to take care of.
“The association is important, right?” she asks, staring at her wardrobe full of clothes either half-crumpled or folded into neat stacks, “I haven’t been there for a long time, so I think it would be important to show my face there at least once.”
“Yes, you should, miss,” Jihoon replies, voice even, “Yoon Jeonghan called ahead and left a message for you. He says to come to the association without fail this afternoon, otherwise he’s going to be very angry with you.”
She snorts. Jeonghan will not be angry. He’s the last person who would be angry with her for playing hooky to get away from an association meeting, given the many instances of him sneaking out of meetings are still fresh in peoples’ minds. He’s not going to be angry with her, but his words from a few days ago give her pause. They rise almost unbidden to the forefront of her mind, when the master is out, the dogs will play. Which is why you should go back there, assert your control. You have earned your place in the association, don’t let your current state get in the way of you holding on to all that prestige and power for yourself.
In the end, she shakes her head, “do you think you can pick out some clothes for me?”
She’s wearing her sensible suit when they walk into the Go association, paired with her dress shoes that have been shined to an inch of its life, courtesy of Lee Jihoon. Outside, the sky is dark and unforgiving, and just as they step into the stone facade, it begins to rain. Early winter rain means the temperature drops instantly, and she can feel herself shivering even inside the considerably warmer lobby. Jihoon is at her side within a moment, pressing a thick woollen scarf into her hands. She refuses it, and walks off towards the direction of one of the many meeting rooms.
On a normal day, the association is filled with random people, mostly administrators, but it seems that someone (probably Jeonghan) has leaked the news of her arriving. And judging from the wide-eyed stares she had received from the guards at the gate, Jeonghan did not have to work very hard to get that information out to the public.
Hence, when she walks into the meeting room, she’s met with the stares of about twenty high-ranking players, all looking at her with a mix of fear, anxiety, and in the cases of some people, annoyance. She spots a few arrogant stares too, from people who have never played her at all. Mostly from them. There are only about three other female players, but none of them are in the room. Strange. Before she stopped coming to the association entirely, the few people who genuinely seemed to get excited to see her were the other female players, most of whom were simply amazed to be in the presence of a 9-dan player.
“Kim Myung-hee isn’t here?” She asks one of the assistants, who looks terrified to have her stare at him, “I thought she would be here.”
“Why would you be asking about Myung-hee?” Park Inho, one of the 9-dans, barks at her, “you show your face around here after so long, and you ask about Kim Myung-hee before even greeting all of us? Where the hell are your manners?”
She rolls her eyes, “I did wonder where the grating noise was coming from. Turns out it was you, sunbae. How have you been?”
Park Inho turns an impressive shade of purple, and she’s an asshole for this, but she takes no small degree of pleasure from it. He sputters, and after glaring at her for thirty seconds, gives up to stalk away from the room. As he leaves, she claps her hand at the people gathered, “yes? Is Kim Myung-hee 9-dan here or not?”
The door bangs open behind her, and Jeonghan rushes in, enveloping her in a hug, “Darling!” he croons in her ear, wearing a flimsy shirt that is open to his chest, “it’s such a pleasure to see you here, my love.”
“Don’t say that like you did not orchestrate this whole meeting,” she whispers back in his ear, trying not to scowl, “were you the one who told the entire association that I was coming to visit?”
He raises his hands, “despite what you think of me, princess, I did not tell anyone. Today is a meeting day, which means there’s going to be a lot of people hanging out here.”
She rolls her eyes, unentangling herself from the embrace, “a meeting day? Really? This is what they’re spending their free time on? Should they not be playing matches or something?”
At the sentence, there’s a slight disturbance amongst the players, who all look at each other and start whispering amongst themselves. She frowns, but Jeonghan seems unfazed by the whole thing. She wants to ask, but his expression makes her stop. He isn’t even looking at the people gathered in the room, he’s looking somewhere else.
“What the hell are you looking at?”
Jeonghan laughs, pointing at the people all around her, who look almost too excited to see her in action, “your manager is still here, I see. He looks almost concerned for you, which is a strange look on him, but I suppose he’s got to earn his keep somehow.”
When she follows Jeonghan’s line of sight, she can see Jihoon staring at the crowd of people, standing to the side and unconsciously backing himself into a corner. She thinks it’s bizarre for a moment before realising that this was the first time he’s accompanying her to the Association for anything at all, and he might be feeling just as much as a fish out of water as she is.
But before she can tell him to go and get a drink or to just sit in the car instead of the stuffy, humid air of the association, Cho Kyung-ho, 7-dan, walks up to her, shaking her hand, “we’d be honored to have you play with us, ma’am.”
She almost wrenches her hand away from his grip with pure instinct, but he’s staring at her with so much stupid hope in his eyes it’s almost pathetic, and instead of telling him a firm no, she shakes her head, attempting a gentle smile and says, “who here wants to play with me?”
“There were fifty people who wanted to play with me,” she groans an hour later, massaging her neck. Across from her at the cafeteria table sits Jihoon, holding two cups of tea in his hand, “how am I supposed to play them all? And they all looked at me like I was being a disrespectful ass when I kept telling them that I would play only against the highest-ranked players.”
Jihoon doesn’t say anything, as per usual. He just stares at her, unnerving, with those same dark eyes that she thinks runs almost black. Black, just like the stones in Go, and she hates how she can recognise everything about those eyes. There’s something very awful about being able to recognise eyes like that, she decides, to be able to look at someone and immediately be reminded of the game.
There has only ever been one game.
“Still, you played against them all,” he says after a minute of careful observation, probably choosing his words with great care in order to not trip her into a rage, “and you won against them all too. That was impressive.”
“I did not win against them all, I had to draw against Kim Myung-hee, 9-dan.” She grumbles, but secretly she’s very pleased with the outcome of the day, “do we have to make a run for the university after this?”
Jihoon checks his watch, “after we get the game record sheets, we can go to the university. We’ll be cutting it close, but we can get there within the set time.”
She narrows her eyes, “is it bad if I say that I don’t want to go?”
Jihoon sighs, “ma’am, you hated the idea of coming here to the association so much, I had to coerce you out of the house. And now you want to skip the lecture and stay on?”
She has no answer to that. She hates the association, hates the stuffy old people who haunt its corridors, making sure the young people toe the line that has been drawn in the sand over a hundred years ago, but she cannot deny the rush of playing Go.
“Fine, whatever,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m going to go to the university as soon as I get my game record sheets.”
“That would be prudent.”
After the coffee cups have been cleared away, she waits around for a few minutes, watching the people walk past the two of them in the lobby. It would have been nice if she could talk to Kim Myung-hee, but the woman seemed to have a lot on her plate. Everyone did, given that the Ing Cup was scheduled to begin in a couple months. Most of the people who showed up at the association today were probably just here because they had heard of her showing up unannounced, because no way in hell would these monsters be willing to sacrifice even a moment of their time not playing Go. Everyone except Jeonghan, of course. That man seemed like he had no concerns at all, spending hours of his time either at her house, or at the association. She’s heard of him frequenting the clubs at Itaewon too, which makes him even more annoying, if that could be a thing.
“Here you go, princess, here are the game records,” Jeonghan appears like the proverbial devil, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands, “you really gave the record-keepers a hard time today. They almost lost their minds trying to transcribe all the moves. What kind of player plays against ten ranked players at the same time?”
“A Go monster, that is who,” she grimaces, but takes the papers from him. Jihoon steps away from the two of them, ostensibly to give them some privacy, and Jeonghan’s fingers brush her hand. She scowls at the contact, “I don’t want to pretend to be ignorant of all the rumors about me.”
“Which is why you played ten people at the same time and won against nine, drawing against one,” Jeonghan drawls, “Kim Myung-hee looked very surprised to find out that she had been able to force a draw against you, and the rest of the people in the room wanted to either bludgeon you to death or examine your brain under a microscope.”
“They called me a monster of Go,” she shakes her head, trying not to smile at the memory of watching Park In-ho, 9-dan, hold his head in his hands at his defeat, “they’re going to get a monster if they want to call me one. Not very fun when the monster is fighting back, huh?”
“Don’t call yourself a monster, yn, you know you aren’t one,” Jeonghan seems like he wants to say something more, but stops just short, “Jihoon told me you have a lecture at Seoul National University, so I’m going to escort you back to the car.”
“Just that?” She raises an eyebrow, “and since when do you talk to Jihoon?”
“Since you hired the man as your manager,” Jeonghan rolls his eyes, “I swear to god, you’re very annoying sometimes.”
The rain has stopped, but the chill in the air remains, which is perhaps why she shivers when stepping out of the gates of the association, fully aware of the stares that follow the three of them as they walk to her car. Jeonghan opens the back door of the car for her, grinning, “you took my advice to heart, you know. I am very happy about that.”
“Your advice?” She narrows her eyes, “you mean that weird line you kept saying about asserting my dominance? And why the fuck would I even have to ‘assert my dominance’?”
“It is as I told you, when the master is out, the dogs will play,” he smiles, “today, the master came back, and they’re on edge now. Perhaps even more so than before.”
“You mean to say they were not on edge about me before?” She closes the door behind her, but he catches a hold of the door, which leaves her leaning out of the open window, “what did you do, Jeonghan?”
“Nothing, just lit a fire under their asses for the Ing Cup, using you,” he continues to smile as he closes the door firmly behind her, “they’re all going to go back to their homes and pore over the mistakes they made in the games today. They’re going to think about your playing style for the next twenty-four hours, at least. You’ve managed to destroy their well-crafted pretenses in a single afternoon, darling.”
“You play with me all the time,” she points an accusing finger at him, and it is all very ridiculous, having a conversation with her half-hanging out of the car window and Jeonghan standing on the sidewalk, “why are you not upset?”
“If I am upset, I just play with you, princess,” he gestures towards Jihoon to drive, “and there is little more that I can do apart from playing with you.”
She wants to talk to him some more, to try and understand what exactly he means by that last sentence, but Jihoon has already got his foot on the accelerator, and they’re driving off towards the general direction of Seoul National University. She sighs, slumping down against the backseat, and stares at the back of Jihoon’s neck. He’s got a haircut, she realises, looking at the neat line of hair and the starched white collar, “when did you get your hair cut?”
Jihoon pauses, looking at her through the rearview mirror for a split second, “my roommate did it for me last night, but how did you know about it?”
“I observe,” she says, non-committal, “it’s my job, after all.”
The lecture at Seoul National is what she had been expecting—a group of excited young adults all waiting to find out about the world of game mechanics through Go, and she’s there to answer all their questions, inane though they might be. She spends about an hour discussing Go game strategies with a group of statistics students, feeling mighty happy about herself, when Jihoon leans in to whisper in her ear, “if we stay here for any longer, we’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” She asks, “we don’t even have an appointment after this.”
“Well, you have to go over all your game records from this afternoon, so I figured you might need some time to do that,” he shrugs, “you need at least five hours to review every game record sheet and then you need five more hours to perfect your strategies against them in a regular match.”
She can’t even argue with his logic, it’s that flawless. Frustrated, she stands up, making her goodbyes to the organisers, and follows him into the car, trailed by a gaggle of excited students. She signs a few papers, and says the necessary goodbyes, before stumbling into the backseat, “that was exhausting.”
“You seemed pretty comfortable back there,” he offers, putting the car into drive, “do you want to start reviewing the game sheets now, or do you want to do it back at home?”
“Right now,” she holds out her hand, and he stuffs the sheaf of papers in it, “I would rather start doing it now."
“Suit yourself, miss,” he says, non-committal, and turns his eyes back to the road ahead. She doesn’t want to think about it, but the simple act of him looking away gives her a lot of relief. His gaze is unnerving, and she hates how often he seems to train those flint-black eyes on her. As if he’s looking into her soul, and does not like what he’s found there.
“Don’t look at me,” she mutters as they pull into the driveway of the house, “I’d like to be alone for the evening.”
Jihoon complies, of course, and she’s alone in the Go room, as always, poring over her game record sheets.
Lee Jihoon had a happy childhood.
Contrary to what people might think of him now, he grew up as a happy boy in the middle of Busan, where his father ran a mid-level logistics business and his mother took care of the house. Jihoon grew up in a house where there was always enough sunshine, enough money, enough happiness. He had enough food in his stomach, and in school, everyone knew that Lee Jihoon was going to study music production at one of the largest universities in Seoul, probably Hankuk or Korea. They all knew he was on the path for greatness, just a matter of time.
And then, it all went to shit.
His father’s business suddenly went tits-up, owing to trade contracts being given to a multinational company, and Jihoon suddenly realised that his father had taken out loans in his name over the past months, just to give his business a last-minute push. Their household lost all their money, and even before he could wrap his head around the fact that they had about a hundred and fifty million won in loans from the bank, the creditors showed up at their house.
He had taken it all for granted like the fool that he was.
It turned out that his father had taken out a final fifty million won in a high-interest loan, from shady people who now came to collect. His mother blamed his father for the decision at first, but as time went on, she came around to it. Jihoon, still in high school, never really managed to do it. Even as he was giving up the admission to Korea University, he could not shake off the idea that he was suffering from a fate that he did not deserve at all.
It did not help that his father had done this all for him. Jihoon could not even get angry with him for this, he knew his father was only holding on to the business for so long because he wanted the best for him. His only son. His father took out the loans because he did not want his only son to suffer on his account. An admirable sentiment, but Jihoon was the one who was suffering now.
In a matter of days, the life that he had known for so long was effectively over, and Jihoon was now left with a burden of about two hundred million won that he had no idea how to pay back. He moved to Seoul, but not for university. His move to Seoul was not to chase his dream, nor was it to chase something else. It was to pay off his father’s debts. His parents did not want him to pay their debts, but he had to. It was his duty, after all.
“Don’t spend your entire life trying to pay for our mistakes, Jihoon,” his parents would insist, and he would wave them off. After all, he had always known he would have to take care of his parents, just had not known how he would have to do it. In a way, this was easier. He had a set goal instead of a vague dream that would have eventually led him back to the same place anyway. He just had to pay off the debt, and everything would be fine. And most of the debt was with the bank, which meant that they had enough time to pay up. After declaring bankruptcy, most of their assets were seized by the court in order to discharge their debts, which meant Jihoon and his family would only have to worry about the last fifty million won.
If he could go back in time, he would have implored his father to not get into debt with loan sharks, but it was too late now, apparently.
So much money, and I have no way to pay for it. He spent so much time working in shady bars, trying to find a way out of this mess. Bartending, working as a guard for the numerous clubs in Itaewon and Gangnam. He did not want to do it in the first place, but when he turned twenty-five, he found himself working as a porter, going back to the same industry that had ruined his father. He worked in logistics during the day, and at multiple bars at night. Over and over, the same routine. Even Joshua, who had found him after a particularly gruelling shift as a delivery boy, had commented on it once.
“You look like shit, Jihoon,” he had said, “don’t work too hard, it’s going to ruin your body.”
Jihoon had scoffed, but after so many years of working to the bone in order to send his measly earnings back to his parents who gave it back to the loan sharks, he was exhausted. He needed a way to make quick money, easy and fast. The only way he could do that was by getting involved in shady businesses.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried. Jihoon had tried everything, just to pay off a sum of money that only seemed to grow larger and larger by the day. He was just about to start working as a courier for the drug traffickers in Seoul when it was Joshua who had stopped him. Joshua. With all his easy swagger and strange grace that made him look terribly out of place in Jihoon’s apartment, he had held on to Jihoon’s shoulder and shook his head no.
“You’re going to go down a very slippery slope if you take a step out of this apartment tonight, Jihoon,” he had warned, casually lighting a scented candle, “who asked you to deliver that?”
Jihoon had stood his ground, glaring at him, “none of your business, Hong. I'm trying to earn money, not be anointed as a saint.”
“Jihoonie,” Joshua had smiled, although it was unlike anything Jihoon had ever seen, “I like you, you know.”
Jihoon raised his eyebrows, “what does that have to do with anything?”
“Because I don’t want you to end up in prison, that’s why,” Joshua smiled, “I’m going to do this one thing for you right now, Jihoonie. Who asked you to make this delivery?”
Jihoon had thought for a moment. He was not really keen on making the delivery that night, but they had promised him far more money than what he would get after a whole night of working. His conflict must have shown on his face, because Joshua had sighed, “who was it, Jihoon? Who asked you to make the delivery tonight?”
Ah fuck, it’s not like he was going to be able to do anything, Jihoon had thought then, “well, it was Jinyoung. He offered me twice my daily wage to make this delivery.”
“Twice the rate?” Joshua’s eyebrows had risen, “and it was Jinyoung, huh.”
“Wait, what do you mean? You don’t know him, do you?” Jihoon had asked, even though he knew. Joshua was not the type of guy to give him any answers.
“It’s nothing,” Joshua had said instead, “I think I’ll need to have a conversation with Jinyoung soon, huh. Don’t go out tonight. They're going to throw you in jail if you do.”
And with that, he was gone.
Jihoon did not understand why Joshua, who never managed to rouse himself from the couch unless it was for a singing gig, left their apartment that night, neither did he know why Jinyoung apologised profusely to him the following week. All he knew was that he was about to get caught up into something dangerous, and Joshua was there to save him from it.
He’d stopped questioning the other man soon after that.
Joshua was a part of his life, annoying and eccentric, and Jihoon had learnt to live with him as much as he had learnt to live with his debt. Although sometimes he got the sneaking suspicion that Joshua was the reason why he was not beaten bloody in the back of an alleyway by Jinyoung after that night, but, Jihoon was wise enough to not say anything that would have him end up in worse trouble.
About three months ago, Jun, another one of the many bouncers that hung around Itaewon, walked into the bar, his friend Mingyu trailing behind him. Mingyu looked exhausted, and Jihoon could sympathise. There was word on the street that Mingyu was now working for a boss that made even the black corporations sound like heaven. Every time he walked into their bar, Mingyu looked like he had lost about ten pounds and five years off his life.
“There’s no way she won’t give you a day off, Mingyu, it’s your sister’s wedding,” Jun had said, “wait, there’s really no way she’s going to reconsider?”
“No, she said she needs me to be by her side,” Mingyu had groaned, “what is the point of all that money when I can’t even attend the wedding of my sister? What’s the fucking point, then?”
“You should ask someone to do a part-time job, since you want to quit anyway,” Jun had pressed on, “how much money does she pay?”
“She pays me five million a month, which comes out to sixty-seven thousand per day,” Mingyu had groaned, draining his whiskey in one go, “but it doesn’t matter. She’s insane. She’s a fucking insane woman, and I cannot believe I have to wait on her hand and foot.”
Jihoon had merely raised his eyebrows, because Mingyu always complained about his boss (with good reason), but just then, the other man stood up, brandishing his empty whiskey glass, “who wants to take on a part-time job next week? I’ll pay you two hundred thousand!”
The others, who were no strangers to Mingyu’s complaining, all remained quiet. Even the temptation of two hundred thousand is not too much, huh, Jihoon had thought, looking at Mingyu and Jun, desperately trying their best to recruit someone to take over Mingyu’s job for one day.
“I’ll do it,” he had said before he could stop himself, “the part-time job. I'll do it, so you can pay me.”
—
Jihoon remembers the feelings he had when looking at her house for the first time. He was in an upscale neighbourhood of Seoul, staring up at the traditional-style house where his employer was living. Mingyu had served her his two-weeks notice the previous day, and had told her that his replacement was going to come instead of him. Jihoon was not very happy with that, but he also did not have any other recourse. Which had brought him here, in one of the upscale neighbourhoods in Seoul with traditional houses, the kinds that got featured in magazines. The kind of houses that people like Jihoon could never even dream of entering, let alone owning.
He pushed open the gate, which was wide open at six in the morning. Wide open, like the owner of the house was waiting for him to appear, and had thrown the gates open in anticipation, like a red carpet to welcome him.
That should have been the first red flag.
“Anyone home?” he had called out, still hesitant, as he stepped inside the compound, staring at the overgrowth that was supposedly the garden, “I’m here for the part-time job.”
He had walked around the garden, chucking off his shoes at the veranda, but before he could open the first door available, one had opened for him.
What a strange woman.
The first thing he had registered was the strong smell of tobacco and alcohol wafting from her body, so strong it would have triggered a gag reflex in most other people. He powered through it, staring at the woman he’s supposed to take care of for the day. Mingyu had told him next to nothing about the gig, just that he was going to wait on this woman hand and foot for the day.
But—what the fuck was wrong with her?
She was wearing a jacket that looked like it had seen better days, with hair that resembled a rat's nest, a sickly pallor over her skin that made Jihoon think she was some sort of invalid, or at the very least a very sick woman. She leaned half out of the door, lying on the wooden floor, and stared straight at him, gaze muddy and disoriented. Jihoon wanted to throw up. This is the woman I have to take care of?
“Who the fuck are you? You’re not Mingyu.”
She had asked him in a voice that seemed rough with disuse, and Jihoon had stared even more. Was she not aware of my coming?
“I’m Lee Jihoon, your substitute—caretaker for the day. Kim Mingyu was unavailable for the day, so he sent me in his stead.”
“Mingyu sent you?” she had asked, eyebrows raised, “and why the fuck would he send someone like you?”
Jihoon could feel himself getting more irritated by the moment. Sure, he was not Mingyu, but there was a better way to say that, not barking orders at him. “I am aware that I am not Mingyu,” he had replied, trying his best to remain even-tempered, “my name is Lee Jihoon.”
“I don’t really care,” she replied, sitting up. She was hidden from his view, and Jihoon had taken a step forward, trying to take another look at her. Maybe if I see her properly, I would be less inclined to throw away this job and go back to the bar. She was sitting with her legs tucked in seiza on a hard straw floor, and in front of her was a board with white and black circular stones, scattered all over it. Baduk? Jihoon was familiar with the game, but that was the first time he had seen someone actually play it.
“Don’t stare, it’s rude,” she said after a moment, placing a black stone on the board, “I suppose Mingyu giving me his notice was in regard to this.”
“Probably,” Jihoon shrugs, “he’s at his sister's wedding.”
“Good for him, I suppose,” she had replied, not really sounding like she cared, “do you know what you have to do?”
“He’s given me some instructions, but not more than that,” Jihoon said, feeling very inadequate, “I don’t really know what to do.”
“Fine, whatever,” she sighed, standing up and groaning lightly, long-suffering, “remind me to buy some cushions for the Go room.”
The Go room? Jihoon wanted to ask her about it, but kept his mouth shut. He was just here for the day. No need for him to get so involved in her affairs. After he left, she could sort her business out on her own. There was no need for him to get so involved. No need at all.
“What skills do you have?” she asked, opening the main door for him, “I need someone to cook me my meals, and clean the house while they’re at it. I don’t have the time to do anything on my own.”
He narrowed his eyes, “and Mingyu was doing all this for you?”
“He was, not anymore,” she had said, with unnecessary venom, “why the fuck would he leave me, I don’t know.”
Jihoon rolls his eyes, stepping into the house behind her, and is temporarily struck dumb. Who the fuck was Mingyu working for? A chaebol? Everywhere he could see, the spaces were occupied by something expensive, more often on the ridiculous side; a scroll painting from the mid-Joseon era, Ming Dynasty pottery, everywhere he could see, Jihoon only saw more money than he could ever wish to earn in a lifetime. One of them would be enough to wipe out his entire debt in a moment.
So much money, and nothing for him.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
Jihoon whips his head so fast it gives him an ache in the neck. “What?”
“I’m asking you what the fuck you were looking at,” she growls, “do you want to stay here or not?”
He trips over his words, “you have a lot of expensive things in here.”
She stares at him for a second. Jihoon stares back. Her eyes are surprisingly clear now, staring at him like she’s trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with him. She’s not wearing glasses, but she’s squinting faintly, which means she’s used to wearing glasses. She stares at him for a good minute, which makes him uncomfortable. Her gaze gets underneath his skin with an efficiency that scares him.
And then she laughs.
Unlike her voice, which is rough and scratchy and sounds like she’s been smoking cigarettes until recently, her laughter is silent, but she doubles up over a nearby table and laughs until she’s out of breath. Jihoon stands still for the entire time she laughs, and with every passing moment, he feels as though he should run out and go back to the bar. What would Joshua say about this? He’d probably laugh at me and make a big deal out of it.
“I like you, Lee Jihoon,” she says once she’s caught her breath, panting faintly, “you’re hired.”
He blinks. “Hired?”
“You’re my new manager,” she says, pointing at him, “I like you. The starting salary is five million won monthly. Report here tomorrow morning at nine a.m.”
—
That was three months ago, and since then, he has stolen thirty million won from her.
It began with small amounts, spare change that he skimmed off the top of accounts. Money that was supposed to be used for groceries, money that was supposed to be used for small repairs around the house. Whatever he asked for, she gave, usually not caring about how much money that was being spent. While it made things exponentially easier for him, it also made things difficult. Jihoon felt shitty taking her money, but he also had nothing else he could do. He needed money, and he needed it fast. Taking it from her was the only plausible course of action. Still, it did not stop him from feeling terrible about it.
That all goes away the moment she starts demanding things from him.
His duties are never-ending, from the moment he enters the house, he’s expected to take care of her every need. And there are so many. Jihoon has to cook for her, something he should not be doing as her manager, but he does it anyway. After all, the first time he had entered her house, he had found only alcohol in the fridge, along with bottles of expensive-looking water, but nothing else. No groceries, no cooked food. Not even banchan, something even a poor bastard like him had more than enough of. All she seemed to have were expensive things, clothes and artworks on the walls, but expensive artworks don’t fill your stomach. Jihoon cooks for her, washes her clothes, even takes her out for drives when she wants to have a change of air. Most of the time these trips are to the senior centre to play hours of Go, but he doesn’t mind all that.
What he does mind is her lack of self-preservation. And of course, there is the presence of Yoon Jeonghan.
Jeonghan is her colleague, and he does not like him. Jihoon is aware of this fact. Jeonghan had made it clear from the first moment he laid eyes on Jihoon, and he’s fine with it, truly. He’s slightly irritated by the negative emotions, but he can learn to live with it. Jihoon’s life is far worse.
But when he sees her walking out of the house barefoot, no care for the biting cold, or of people’s judgemental gazes accosting her, he finds it difficult to hold on to his emotions. Her biggest purchases are cigarettes and alcohol. Her blood is probably seventy percent alcohol by now, Jihoon thinks, and she’s about half a year from contracting lung cancer. At least she doesn’t smoke in front of him.
“She’s going to kill herself, you know,” he says to Joshua one evening, sitting at their shared kitchen table, watching the other man get ready for his performance, “she smokes like a chimney, drinks at all times of the day, refuses to eat real food, and doesn’t even go out of the house unless it’s to gallivant across the town barefoot with season-inappropriate clothing. She weighs less than a model with an eating disorder, and is paler than a homebody. Who the fuck does that?”
Joshua laughs, staring at his reflection in the mirror, “sounds like you’re worrying a bit too much about her. Aren’t you supposed to take her money and serve her your two-week notice? What happened to that resolve?”
“I know, but it would be inconvenient for me, if she popped her clogs on my watch,” he groans, “I don’t understand how she has so much money. She plays Go, for fuck’s sake. Playing that game is not a very lucrative profession.”
Joshua turns around, staring at him, “what’s her name?”
Jihoon raises an eyebrow, but says it, “and why is her name that important?”
Joshua laughs, “You realise, you’ve been working under one of the greatest Go players this country has ever seen?”
“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Jihoon replies, turning away from Joshua. He really does not. She can go drink herself into a stupor and smoke her lungs into charred shreds for all he cares.
—
Ing Cup, day one.
The first round of the Ing Cup was held online, but they’re here in Shanghai, China, waiting for the second round to be held. She was a finalist the last time, which means she automatically advanced to the round of sixteen. All that is left is to win, which means she’s going to get a prize money of about four hundred thousand dollars.
Jihoon had been spooked massively the day they had arrived, with five cameras shoved into his face. She feels a slight twinge of putty for the guy, who’s probably being accosted by cameras for the first time in his life. It could not be helped, of course, the Ing Cup was a massive event in China, and they were all here to boost the national image of Korea. Mishaps like these were part of the game. Collateral, in a way.
“I still don’t know why you had to come here days before you were actually supposed to play,” Jihoon complains, sitting on the ridiculously soft hotel bed, “are we going to sightsee today?”
“That’s strange,” she stares at him from where she’s sitting, perched on a chair with a board in front of her, “you are not this sensitive, at least not normally.”
“It’s been a week of being in Shanghai, and all we have seen is the inside of the hotel rooms.” Jihoon replies, feeling very petty all of a sudden, “all you do here is look at the performance records of the other players, and play them against yourself. Have you even eaten street food once?”
“I can’t eat street food, it gives me indigestion,” she replies, turning back to her board, “you can go out and explore if you want, I’m staying inside. I need to figure out how Ryoki managed to defeat Guangli in the round of eight. He was in a very tight spot. No one below eight-dan would have gotten out of that situation that fast, and he’s only seven-dan.”
Jihoon sighs. He can’t leave her here, but he wants to go out and explore Shanghai on his own, without the looming threats of unpaid bills and loans waiting for him. When he’d told Joshua about the trip, Joshua had laughed and told him to have fun for a few days. Even Mingyu had told him to ‘lighten the fuck up and get some’ in Shanghai. Jihoon figures that Mingyu must have been thinking about something else, but he’s not interested in that.
He just needs to let loose one time. Just this once.
It’s the finals.
It’s the finals, and this is the first time that Jihoon has had such a long vacation. He’s spent the last week and a half running around Shanghai, eating street food and drinking cheap Chinese alcohol, only returning to his hotel room in the dead of the night. Sometimes he sees the light in her room still on, sometimes it’s turned off. Jihoon doesn’t really care. Why spend so much time poring over a board game?
On the morning of the finals, he wakes up at six in the morning, his alarm blaring loud enough to wake up the entire floor. Jihoon turns over in his bed to turn the alarm off, but sleep seems to be hard to come by. He sits up, washes his face and cleans his teeth, and ambles out of the room to go out in search of the free hotel breakfast. It’s cold, very cold, so he dresses himself in a warm coat and trousers, picking them up from the chair and slipping them on.
Just outside of his room, he finds one of the organisers pacing the floor, knocking loudly on her door. He frowns, then raises his hand in greeting, “morning, Mr Cheon.”
Mr Cheon looks gratified to see him, “Mr Lee, nice to see you here. Could you wake up Athlete y/n for her final match? There are people waiting for her outside the hotel.”
“People waiting?” Jihoon raises his eyebrows, “I did not realise that. I shall wake her up immediately.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr Cheon’s smile turns oily and unpleasant, “having her stay at this hotel has been a great boon for business. There are many people who are waiting for her presence.”
“I suppose,” Jihoon replies, not sure of what to tell him, so he settles for a smile instead. It’s hopefully noncommittal enough that Mr Cheon does not understand that he’s entirely unaware of his ignorance in this matter.
Just at this moment, the door to her room opens, and she steps out. “Oh, you’re here already, Mr Cheon. Shall we?”
Jihoon stares. He’s been out of the hotel for every match she’s played so far, so he’s been utterly unaware of all the mechanics of a ranked Go game, but she looks—different. She’s wearing proper clothes, for once; sleek black ceremonial suit over a plain white shirt that would not have looked out of place at a funeral, her trademark large glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. He doesn’t understand the intricacies of haute couture, but even an idiot like him could realise that the clothes she’s wearing are both designer and ludicrously expensive. She slips on a black overcoat that looks like a cross between a dopo and a regular coat, and hands off a leather bag to Mr Cheon, who stares at her. It’s only then that she notices him, standing off in a corner.
“Oh, you’re here, Jihoon,” she says, half a dismissal, which irritates him even further. I’m supposed to be your manager, he thinks, even if he has been running all over town the past few days. She keeps calling him as her manager, but makes no effort to actually hold on to him. It’s all very fucking annoying.
“I’ll take that, ma’am,” he says, slightly offended, and takes the bag from Mr Cheon, who looks slightly surprised at this action, but keeps his mouth shut. She says nothing, just shakes her head. Jihoon finds himself staring at her. She looks very different, he thinks again, looking at her surprisingly clear gaze on this cold morning, she looks very different.
“Shall we go?” Mr Cheon says, breaking his reverie, “we’re getting late.”
Jihoon walks behind the two of them, staring at her back as she moves through the corridors with her shoulders straight, and the back of her neck stiff. Before coming to Shanghai, he’d taken her to a salon for a haircut, sitting on a sofa for over an hour waiting for the hairdresser to be done with her haircut. He hadn’t really liked the haircut on her, but now he thinks it suits her face, a short pixie cut that disarms people into thinking she’s far younger than she actually is. The back of her head has been combed smoothly, with no flyaways. Suddenly, he feels wholly inadequate to be standing beside her, or even behind her. It’s not important. She’s probably not even thinking about me right now.
“My manager is entirely unprepared for the chaos,” she says, loud enough for Mr Cheon to hear, “I hope there is an alternative entrance we could use?”
The man shakes his head no, “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he replies, although his tone doesn’t convey his contrition at all, “the Korean Go Association wanted the final match to be heavily publicised. Hence the public entrance and exit.”
“Fucking hell,” she swears under her breath, but Jihoon catches it, “do you want to kill him or something?”
How bad is a single Go game?
The moment they walk out of the large double doors, it is chaos.
There are reporters everywhere, shoving cameras into her face, and even Jihoon bears the brunt of their interest, having to push some cameras out of his space, but the people are relentless, shoving and pushing. She raises her hand, and the sleeve slips down to reveal an old watch face. This gets the reporters more excited, somehow, and the flashes get more intense. She shields her eye, and Jihoon thinks he might be blinded.
“Miss y/n, what do you think about your opponents comments about your playing style?”
“Miss y/n, do you really think Korean Go is about to make a comeback?”
“Miss y/n, are you confident that you can win?”
Jihoon wants to look away, but he can’t. She has cameras flashing all around her, like she’s a celebrity or an idol or an actress. She’s never faced cameras like this in Seoul, not even when she went out barefoot on the streets or went without a coat in the cold. She’s being accosted by cameras at this point. He reaches out to pull her away from their ring, and Mr Cheon stops him, hand on his shoulder.
“She’s the sole representative of Korea left in this tournament,” he says, stopping Jihoon in his tracks, “Yoon Jeonghan resigned from his match two days ago. She’s the last one left.”
She’s the last one left. Jihoon doesn’t like the way he says it, but he stares at her, face blank and expressionless even in the face of blinding lights. She doesn’t answer any question, just nods her head and walks straight into the awaiting car. Jihoon follows, sliding the car door close with a thump. Even as the doors close, he can feel the eyes of multiple people on him, on her, on their car.
As soon as the car starts, he turns to look at her, but she’s leaning her head back onto the seat, with her eyes closed. What the hell?
“She’s in good form right now,” Mr Cheon explains, the car speeding across the roads, “the final is no doubt nerve-wracking, but she looks like she’s in high spirits.”
Jihoon just stares. What the fuck is going on?
Fortunately, at the venue, there is a separate entrance for the players, and their car gets there with minimal camera flashes. Mr Cheon ushers them both right ahead, saying things like “we’re already late”, but Jihoon maintains an iron grip on her bag, focused on following her as closely as he can.
“The members from the Go Association are here,” she mutters, the distaste clear enough for Jihoon to notice, “they’re going to have me in their grip for the next twelve hours. Get something to eat and sit in the observation room.”
“The observation room?” Jihoon asks, but Mr Cheon has his grip on him, “come, sir. We’re going to go to the observation room.”
He’s never really thought of Go as a popular game. Sure, old people played it, and some people made their living from it, but it never really registered in his mind as a popular game, not at the level of basketball or baseball. Still, looking at the number of people crammed into the large hall they were using as an observation room, he thinks that he needs to reconsider his notion about the game. There were people dressed in obscene luxury; reporters and people from Go associations all over East Asia, along with famous players that he has never even heard the names of, who all shake his hand and smile at him warmly and thank him for taking such good care of her.
Her. everything is about her.
She sits at a table, facing a man who looks slightly nervous to be opposite her. Who would not be, being faced with that expressionless mask? In between the two of them, there’s a Go board, stones scattered all over them, white and black. While there are no cameras that get right up in her face, Jihoon thinks it must be uncomfortable to have your every move tracked by a camera five feet from you. She’s placing a stone with the confidence of someone who has studied their opponent for months beforehand, he responds with a move that speaks more of his experience than his confidence.
“Incredible,” someone whispers, “she’s taken control of the game from the very beginning. Ryoki stands no chance against her.”
“Even with the komi, the difference in their skillsets is huge,” another says, voice low, but loud enough for Jihoon to hear, “how is Ryoki failing? Everyone and their mothers have studied her playing style by now.”
“The thing about her is that you cannot tie her down with her playing style,” the voice of Yoon Jeonghan interrupts them, loud and clear. He’s wearing proper clothes today, Jihoon notices, with no little distaste, “she’s probably thought about how he’s read her style, too.”
“Yeah,” someone agrees, “y/n has always been pretty strategic in her playing, but today she seems especially ruthless.”
Jihoon doesn’t understand what the fuck they’re talking about. She looks lonely, sitting in front of a man who, despite his nervousness, looks like he’s much more comfortable in his situation than she is. She looks ill at ease, her back stiff and unyielding, and her left hand is balled up into a fist beside her. Jihoon doesn’t know anything about the game, but he knows her, and she’s stressed out.
After what seems like an eternity, the man raises his hands, a white stone in between his fingers, and places it on the corner of the board. She reaches out for a handshake, nodding solemnly. The room breaks out in applause, and Jihoon turns around to seek out Mr Cheon, who is clapping enthusiastically, his face red with happiness.
“She won!” Mr Cheon grasps Jihoon’s hand, shaking it emphatically, “Miss y/n won! Such a masterful play, you must be so proud.”
He doesn't know what to say.
“It doesn’t matter how I play, the game is the thing in itself.”
They had been received at the Gimpo airport with more camera flashes, and she had stood in front of reporters and said a single sentence, which was quoted and written over and over by hundreds of publications before they even made the trip back home. Jihoon carries her bags to her bedroom, carefully depositing them at the foot of her giant bed, and she follows him inside, looking haggard and spent.
“I’ll cook some lunch for you.”
“No need, I’ll order something,” she waves a hand, “go back home, Lee Jihoon. You have had an equally tiring trip as me.”
Easily dismissed, Jihoon walks out of the house, which has been fortunately spared from the onslaught of journalists, walking to the taxi stand to hail a cab. The past week has been something of a dream, a vacation that he had neither thought he could get, nor did he think he deserved it, a time spent entirely on roaming around the streets of Shanghai and eating spicy street food. Is this how young people live? He has spent most of his youth trying to earn money, while people like her flew first class to China just to play a few games and earn a frankly ridiculous amount of money.
It all was terribly unfair.
His phone chimes, your bank account XXXX-XXXX has been credited with ₩5,000,000.
And underneath that, a text; show me the pictures you took of Shanghai.
He tries not to think about the five million won sitting in his bank account at that moment, and chooses to reply to her message, I’m sure you’ve seen better sights in Shanghai, ma’am.
The reply comes almost instantly. I don’t know. I’ve never really seen Shanghai.
It’s been two weeks since the Ing Cup. In that time, all that she has managed to do is drag herself out of the house on a single day, and smoke ten packs of cigarettes. Jihoon stares at her with distaste every time he looks at her, like he’s been faced with a particularly tough mathematics problem, one that he has no hope of solving. Jeonghan’s been staying away for a while too, perhaps busy with his newest fling or whatever catches his fancy.
Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the board. That one damn board, with black and white forming a pattern. Graceful, yet suffocating. She understands this pattern, she’s seen it enough times for her to remember it by heart now. This is the same pattern that Ryoki Miyajima employed in the semifinal match of the Ing Cup, the pattern that forced Yoon Jeonghan to retire. She knew this pattern, because this is Ryoki Miyajima’s signature move. To use his formation, he would have had to take control of the board from the first move itself. Jeonghan had not expected this, and he’d lost as a result. It was humiliating, the way Jeonghan had lost.
“Never let him take control of the game, even once.” Jeonghan had whispered into her ear when she had encountered him in the hallways after the game. He’d looked haggard, his shoulders slumped in defeat. It’s the first and only time she’s seen him so—broken down.
“What do you mean?”
“The moment you give him an inch, he’ll take a mile,” Jeonghan had said, shaking his head, “he plays ruthless, so I had prepared for it, but this was beyond what I had prepared for. Make sure you never give him a single stone or a single point.”
With that he’d handed her his game record sheet, and walked off into his room. Ryoki Miyajima was a ruthless player, and everyone expected her to employ her usual style and tactic; waiting until the opponent slipped up, and then moving in with precise stones that called for an elegant game. But Miyajima was a ruthless player, and had always been one, and it was plain to her from the game records, that he planned to be even more ruthless in the finals.
She’d spent the two nights before the game poring over his past matches and playing styles, looking up past game records. They had opposing styles, which would make for an interesting match if she decided to go that way. Miyajima must also be preparing, poring over her records in the same manner as her. Smooth as water, the Asahi Shimbun had reported during her first Japan-Korea Tengen, y/n, 8-dan, with her playing style that resembles the flowing of silk over water, defeated her opponent 4-1 in a tournament that seemed to be on her side from the beginning. She had not made particular changes to her playing style, but for this one, she might just have to go all out from the beginning. Ryoki Miyajima had not expected her to fight aggressively from the start, and she took no small pleasure in seeing his face go from confused to surprised to anger, and finally, acceptance, as he resigned. She bowed to him, turned on her heel, and returned to the hotel room. Fighting hard from the beginning.
How does it feel, to live life like that?
She turns to lie on her side, staring at the photos Jihoon had sent of Shanghai. He had no talent in photography, but his pictures still managed to be honest and captivating. The sights of Shanghai were blurring in front of her face, which probably meant that she had been rotting in there for far too long.
She had expected Jihoon to be bored and sensitive in Shanghai, much like everyone else. His job as her manager was to wait in the hotel room along with her. No one would like to sit in silence with a woman who just had eyes for the board in front of her. Anyone else would have been angry with him for leaving his position and going sightseeing, but she found herself not really caring. At least one of us has to enjoy this trip.
“You have been lying in bed for the past week straight, ma’am,” the man in question walks into the room, nose wrinkled at the look of her in bed, hair tangled, eyes bloodshot, “you’re not even getting any sleep. What are you doing?”
“None of your business, Jihoon,” she mutters, looking away from him, “go away.”
“I wish I could, but I still have to get my salary for this month,” he replies, throwing open the drapes, “it’s almost afternoon. At least try to wash up today.”
She regards him with one eye open. He has an apron tied around his waist, looking supremely annoyed with her, “and what if I don’t want to?”
He raises his eyebrows, “do you want me to give you a bath? I can arrange that for you, ma’am.”
“Never mind.”
Jeonghan appears as she’s getting dressed for the day, and she finds him lounging on a sofa, staring at his painted nails, “thought you would still be in bed.”
“Then why are you here right now?” she asks, walking towards the Go room, “did it take you this long to lick your wounds?”
“Lick my wounds?” he laughs, “I was pursuing—something with someone. That’s why it took me so long.”
“Maybe don’t talk about fucking when I’m opening the Go room for you,” she wrinkles her nose in anger and distaste, “don’t disrespect the fucking Go Room, you ass.”
“And if I say I have had people in the Go room who were definitely not supposed to be there?” he smirks, waiting for her reaction, “what then, y/n?”
She sighs, walking into the dusty room, opening the door to the garden, “Libertine.”
“You like it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she rolls her eyes, producing the game record of Ryoki Miyajima and her final match from her pockets, “we need to play this match.”
Jeonghan looks at the piece of paper, surprised, “why do you still have that?”
“He beat you,” she replies, “it was quite humiliating, and I hated it. He should not have been able to beat you. But he did. So I need you to know how to beat him later on.”
“But you beat him in the final,” Jeonghan laughs, “although I am very touched by this display of solidarity, you don’t need to do all that for me. You already took revenge for me by beating his ass in the finals.”
“Just that isn’t enough,” she shakes her head, “you need to be able to beat him by yourself later on. Relying on me is not the way to go.”
“They called your win the ‘Restoration of National Pride’,” he says, settling across from her on the floor anyway, “what do you have to say about that?”
“I think it’s stupid that they’re coined that term, and it’s stupider that you’re using that term,” she counters, “I’ll play black. No byoyomi, eight komi.”
“Oof, you wounded me,” Jeonghan grins, hand on his chest, “well, shall we begin?”
Six hours later, Jihoon walks into the Go room, carrying a tray of evening tea and light refreshments. He’s had to deep-clean her bedroom while she played Go, but he’s not too annoyed by it. Rolex watch, lying unattended in a far corner of the dresser, clearly never worn. Sure, it’s second-hand, but it’s an Oyster Perpetual, which means it’s going to fetch him a cool 15 million on the market.
He whistles to himself while he prepares their tea and snacks, and hopes that he gets more opportunities to enter her bedroom in the future.
Yoon Jeonghan has been here for the past five—no, six hours, and they’ve been holed up in the Go room for almost all of that time. Jihoon’s passed by the room at least ten times, and he’s not seen either of them emerging from the space. He does not trust Jeonghan at all, but he knows her. She treats the Go room as a sacred space, and she would not do anything to jeopardise the sanctity of said space. Jihoon might not like the idea of leaving Jeonghan alone with her, but he knows her.
When he slides open the door with the tray in his hand, he’s not prepared at all for the sight that greets him.
She sits across from the Go board with a lit cigarette in her hand, looking at the board like it’s done her a personal affront. Across the board, Yoon Jeonghan is lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the secret to the mysteries of his life.
“Tea for the two of you, ma’am,” he says, setting the tray down. “Should I take my leave now?”
She waves her hand, “yes, of course. Come again tomorrow.”
He’s about to stand up and leave the room, when Jeonghan sits up, saying, “why the hell are you telling me this right now, y/n? It would be better if you kept the knowledge about his playing to yourself. You have the Challenger Cup coming up next, you need to prepare for it. You’re so close to a Grand Slam year, y/n, why the hell are you wasting your time doing all this for me?”
She takes a deep breath, taking a drag and letting out a puff of smoke. Jihoon stares at her.
When he was young, he had accompanied his parents to an art museum once. He was too young to understand what the paintings meant, so he had busied himself with looking at the ceilings, the way the sunlight filtered through the windows, and his mother’s light conversation as she talked to her friends. It was an idyllic moment, a rare weekend when his mother was free and could take him out for a moment. Young Jihoon had spent much of his time lazing about, but there was one print that had caught his eye. It was of a skeleton, with a burning cigarette held between its jawbones. He had not understood the meaning of the picture, but now, looking at her, smoking a cigarette and staring at the Go board, he thinks he might have an idea.
“It doesn’t matter if you win or if I win,” she replies, not even looking up from the board, “I cannot bear to see a puzzle being left unsolved, no matter who’s on the opposite side of the board. It’s not about the match, never has been. It’s about the game, and if you leave beating Ryoki up to chance or up to other people, then you’re letting the game down.”
“You and your game,” Jeonghan scoffs, “why play the game if you hate it so much?”
“None of your business, Jeonghan,” she picks up a cup of tea from the tray, drinking it in one go, “now get going. I need to have some time to myself.”
“Don’t bother with showing me out, I know the way,” Jeonghan shrugs, standing up, “but what are you going to think about?”
She stares at him, eyes cloudy again. “Things.”
Jeonghan leaves, and Jihoon turns to get back to his work as well, but she stops him just as he is about to step out of the doors, “wait, Lee Jihoon.”
He turns, frowning, “what’s wrong?”
Her eyes are cloudy again. She stares at him, but he doesn’t know if she’s staring at him or if she’s staring beyond him, just somewhere else, “do you know how to play Go?”
Three months to the LG Cup.
The chill in the air is getting worse. She spends most of her free time under the covers, staring up at the walls for hours at a time. She’s not doing anything, just breathing.
Everything is so difficult. Every time she opens her eyes, there is a damn board in front of her, taunting, mocking. It stares at her, mocking, even as she tries to turn away from it, closing her eyes to it. Nothing works, the board still stares at her. All she can do is think about the damn game. Over and over again, the same game. Go.
On the seventh day of her self-imposed exile, Jihoon returns to her house.
“It’s been a week since you showered,” Jihoon says, walking into her bedroom, “why the hell are you still in the same clothes after a week?”
“Didn’t feel like changing,” she mutters, “you would have to wash them all anyway.”
“While I am touched by your concern for the laundry, I don’t particularly care,” Jihoon replies, “but you’re still in those filthy clothes. Good fucking god.”
“Shut up, Lee Jihoon,” she says, half-heartedly, “it’s none of your business.”
“I keep the house in order here, so it kind of is my business,” he says, “and you need to take a shower.”
“I said it’s none of your business!” she snaps at him, still lying down, and when their eyes meet, her gaze clears a bit. Jihoon doesn’t understand Go, and he’s probably the only one in her periphery who does not. It’s just that his eyes are still the same, slate-black, like Go pieces.
The board hovers in front of her, airborne, and slowly everything else fades to black. The board remains, still and unyielding.
“Miss!” Jihoon’s voice, loud, defiant, snaps her out of her trance, “you need to take a shower, Miss. or a bath. You need a full-body bath, actually.”
“Don’t feel like it,” she mutters, looking away and closing her eyes. Who cares? I can play Go. That's all they want. He wants the same, and I’m here, like an idiot, giving him what he wants.
He’s the one who had taken the old rolex from her cabinet, she’s pretty sure. She doesn’t hold any affection for the old watch, but still, it would have been better if he had told her that he was taking it. She would not have spared it another thought.
Really? He basically made it clear he did not have any other desire to work here than the money.
“Still, you need to take a shower, you know,” Jihoon says, stripping the covers off of her, ignoring her look of betrayal, “I’ve run you a bath. Do you want to take it, or should I carry you to the bathroom myself?”
“Shut the fuck up, Jihoon,” she groans, standing up from her bed, “I just don’t want to take a shower or a bath right now.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and it’s not important, really—she can think whatever the fuck she wants, and he’s welcome to do whatever he wants, but this—this is proving to be difficult.
“It’s too cold, I don’t really want to take a bath. I can just wash myself quickly under a shower. Or a half-body bath. I can do one of those.”
Jihoon stares at her for a second, and takes a step forward, his palms outstretched. Instead of being rooted in the spot where she had been standing, she takes a step back, her instincts screaming at her, “what the hell are you trying to do?”
“Making you take a bath,” he says simply, depositing a change of clothes on the bed and turning around, “you need to wash your hair. It stinks."
“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, but grabs the change of clothes anyway, making her way to the bathroom, where as promised, a tub of warm bathwater awaited her, a bottle of shampoo and liquid soap next to it. She wasn’t even sure she owned them anymore. Where did he even get those?
“I went out and bought them yesterday,” he offers as an explanation, as though already understanding what she wanted to ask, “do you even know what groceries and household items you need?”
“You’ve been here long enough to understand that I just do not care,” she replies, taking off her shirt and pajamas, before stepping into the water half naked. Jihoon averts his eyes, but bends down to pick up the clothes, arranging them in a neat pile. She wants to roll her eyes, but looks away instead. Let him do whatever he wants, she thinks, it’s not bothering me.
After about three minutes of soaking in the bath, she hears him walking up to her. Jihoon takes a seat on a plastic stool, squirts out a few dollops of shampoo on his hands, and begins working it into her hair. It’s all so shocking she doesn’t know how to respond to it, genuinely confused.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Washing your hair,” he replies, “you smell atrocious. Gotta get some of that cleaned up.”
He hands her the body wash, and while she lathers it all over herself, Jihoon slowly works the shampoo into her scalp, scrubbing it into her skin with a single-minded concentration that seems funny to her, at least now.
It’s been a long time since someone has done that for me.
“Are you feeling guilty about it?” she asks, while he’s rubbing the ends of her hair, “don’t be sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
So he’s going to be weird about it.
“Never mind,” she replies, busying herself with the water, staring at the surface until it makes her go slightly sleepy. She’s not trying to sleep, not with Jihoon sitting right behind her, but she’s feeling like it. If she closes her eyes, she’s going to fall asleep right in the middle of this tub.
“You can sleep, you know,” he says, voice lower than necessary. It makes her even more confused, “you’ve been staying awake for the past week and a half.”
“Not that you noticed,” she grouses, closing her eyes, “why the hell are you washing my hair anyway? I can do it by myself.”
“I don’t know, either.”
He’s been feeling guilty ever since that day. He’d sent the money to his parents, keeping some for himself and later loan repayments, but he keeps thinking back to that hiding spot, tucked safely behind all her clothes. He could have sold her clothes, but the watch seemed like a better bet.
Was it given to her by someone important? A family member? Her parents? A lover?
While she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would hold on to the keepsakes of a former lover, Jihoon doesn’t really know her at all. He knows she’s rich, he knows she has far too much money from playing a game he doesn’t care about. Other than that, he doesn’t know anything. The watch looked like it had been given to her by someone important. No one gives someone a Rolex watch just like that. It’s not the most usual of gifts.
He thinks of a scenario, of her being given the watch by someone she had loved, a nameless, faceless, shadow of a person, their hand slipping into hers with the comfort and familiarity that is borne only out of a romantic relationship. It makes him slightly confused. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would entertain a romantic relationship, much less actively seeks someone out. If that had been the case, she would have been entangled with Yoon Jeonghan by now. He surely came around the house to play with her more often than necessary.
Was it him? Yoon Jeonghan?
Jihoon shakes his head, trying to rid himself of his thoughts, dreaming of a scenario in which Jeonghan beats him bloody for daring to sell his keepsake, and pulls on his trousers. He’s not visited her for almost a week now.
What he sees is a mess. He’d last visited her a week ago, and it seemed to him that she had not even bothered to clean her house during that time. Had she even taken a shower? Was she just looking vacantly at the ceiling all hours of the day? What the hell? Did she just—exist and play Go?
Before he had walked into her bedroom to inspect the extent of the damage, he’d taken a look at the refrigerator. Nothing. Even the side dishes that he had left for her were untouched. Did she go without food all this while?
In the trash he finds candy wrappers, bottles of water, all in various stages of decay, coupled with an empty container of kimchi that makes him wrinkle his nose in distaste. Cleaning can wait until later. I need to see how she’s been doing all this while.
In her bedroom, it’s an even bigger mess. She’s dressed in the same clothes he’d last seen her in, unwashed, hair unkempt. A foul smell emerges from the bedsheets, sweat and saliva and the sweet scent of chocolate all mixed into one, and in the middle of it all, she lies, eyes trained onto the ceiling, mumbling faintly, eyes unmoving. Her chest rises and falls, which means she is not dead yet, but she might as well be, given how much she behaves like one.
He doesn’t know why he had the desire to wash her hair. He has other things to do, more important things, better things, really. But he sits on a cheap plastic stool, lathers the soap and shampoo in his hands, and massages it into her hair.
“I don’t know either.” He’s being honest—he does not know why he’s here. He should be cleaning the house, he should be doing anything else, but he’s in here, washing her hair like her mother did for her, no doubt.
“The Rolex was not a gift,” she says, after a beat. He pauses, staring at the back of her head. How the hell did she know?
“The Rolex was more like a bribe,” she repeats, sinking further into the warm water. Jihoon takes the handheld shower, starts washing her hair gently. “I don’t wear it anymore. Never did. I hated what it stood for, so I never did.”
He doesn’t say anything. Her eyes droop close, almost in deep sleep, and she opens her mouth again, “you should have taken it. I don’t wear it. I don’t want to even have the possibility of wearing it.”
Jihoon says nothing, washing her hair. Why is she saying all this? Anyone else in her position would have had him thrown out of their employ in the first month itself, but he’s already figured out that she’s perhaps a bit more eccentric than most, but this seems new, even for her behaviour.
“Was it a pretty watch?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even and hide the surprise in it, “the Rolex, I mean.”
“You would know.” She tries to laugh, but fails, “you took it, didn’t you?”
“I did not.” The lie is unconvincing to him, but he swallows it down, tries not to look at the back of her neck, and opens his mouth again, “I don’t understand what you want to talk to me about.”
“I don’t even use that watch,” she shrugs, “you know the watch on my bedside table? I use that instead of the Rolex.”
“That one?” he’s seen it, it’s an old watch model, the strap’s leather disintegrating, “you wear that?”
“I do,” she replies, closing her eyes, “go away, Lee Jihoon.”
There’s a man at the gates. Jihoon has been staring at him for the past fifteen minutes. He is wearing a coat in the same style that she had worn during the Ing cup final, a mix of hanbok and modern haute couture tailoring, something that looks far better on him than it had on her. Is this the man who makes her clothing?
“Are you the manager?” the man asks, clearly surprised to see him there, “I mean, I had heard from the association that she had a new manager now, but that’s you?”
Jihoon doesn’t answer, merely nods. He’s been asked this question enough times for him to be used to it. He doesn’t look the part, far too thug-like to be considered for the ‘manager of a Go player’ image. The people at the bar are wearing off on me.
“This is my card,” the man holds out a card towards him, “I’m the one of the principal designers at XMH.”
Principal designer at XMH? Jihoon inspects the card to discover if it’s a forgery, his eyes catch nothing, if it is a forgery, it is a very clever one. He takes a sneaky look at the man’s car, which seems to hold a large suitcase, suspiciously full. But what is one of the principal designers of one of East Asia’s biggest fashion houses doing here? At her house?
“Do you want me to ask if she can receive visitors?” he asks, taking note of the way his face lights up, “you should wait here.”
“I’m going to wait, so go and ask her, please.”
He walks back into the house, finding her seated seiza-style in the Go room. Even before Jihoon can open his mouth, she raises a hand, shutting him up, “get him to leave.”
“Get him to leave?” Jihoon raises his eyebrows, “he’s one of the principal designers of XMH.”
“I don’t care if he’s the reanimated corpse of Yves Saint Laurent himself, I don’t want to see him here.”
Jihoon shakes his head. There’s no arguing with her when she gets obstinate like this. She’s never going to listen to him, so why bother? Still, he presses on, “the man has been standing here for a long time. He seems like he has some things to give to you.”
She sighs, holding her head in her hands. “You can do whatever the fuck you want with his gifts. I don’t care. Sell them for a high profit on the thrift scene.”
Jihoon raises his eyebrows, but walks out of the room either way, going back to the front gate. The man is still standing there, with a pathetic hopeful look in his eyes that makes him think twice about turning him away. Should I just say fuck it and let him in? She’s not going to remain angry for very long, is she?
But then he remembers the haunted, caged look in her eyes, and steels himself. Never mind. “Sorry,” he says, loud enough for his voice to be carried to the interior of the house, “she’s not taking any visitors.”
“No visitors, or just me?”
Jihoon shrugs, and the man’s eyes start to water. What the hell? Is this man really that interested in meeting her? He briefly entertains the idea that he might be a stalker, but dismisses that outright. If there had been news of a stalker, she would have told him. Or at the very least, there would have been more cases like these in the past months than just this one. Still he can’t disregard the possibility that she’s got a high-class admirer, and so, narrows his eyes even further, standing at the gate with his arms crossed, “no, sir. No entry.”
“Fine, then.” the man sighs, looking like he’s lost a war with himself, “at least give these to her. I know she’s probably going to throw them away, but you have to—well, just take it.”
In his hands, is the suitcase that Jihoon had seen earlier, and he offered it to him, looking expectantly. Jihoon should decline politely, but when he looks at the suitcase, it seems like it is bursting to the seams with clothes. And if it’s clothes from one of the principal designers of XMH, he could get at least two million won from those clothes alone.
“You can leave that here,” he says, trying his best to look nonchalant, “I can give them to her later on. When she’s not as angry as she is right now.”
“Yeah, right.” the man shakes his head, and then starts walking towards his car. Jihoon had not noticed it before, but the man drove a model that looked far more expensive than the car he drove her around in, which was one of those expensive foreign models that cost more than a hundred thousand dollars a pop. What kind of money does she have?
“If I may ask,” he says, and the man stops, “why do you even want to talk to her this badly? She’s not really the best conversationalist, you know.”
“She’s unbearably rude,” the man says, smiling, and Jihoon thinks he might have unwittingly accepted gifts from a stalker. “She’s rude, but she has a right to be that way.”
“A right to be that way?” Jihoon scoffs, “what, now you’re going to tell me her life has been ruined?”
To his surprise, the man nods, sadness marring his every feature, and in the golden, late afternoon sunlight, Jihoon realises he’s the spitting image of the woman sitting inside the house. Wait, they’re related? The logical solution would be that they were brother and sister, but what kind of sister would turn her brother away at the gates? It made no sense to him.
“Her life was ruined, you know,” the man says, smiling sadly, “and I ruined it for her. Nothing I will ever do will make up for that fact.”
And with that final line, he’s gone, driving off into the sunset. Jihoon stands outside the house with the fucking suitcase full of clothes for a long time, thinking that he’s made a terrible fucking mistake.
The LG Cup.
They hold the LG Cup in an auditorium sponsored by the LG Group, which usually hosts the Seoul Philharmonic Orchestra once every year. Jihoon stares at it while he drives the car to the auditorium, sneaking surreptitious looks at the woman sitting in the backseat. Behind her glasses, her eyes are closed, which usually means that she’s thinking of a hundred different match outcomes in her mind, but what interests her is not that. It’s the clothes that she’s wearing.
It’s one of the suits that her brother had dropped off the previous day, black hanbok-inspired suit with flowing pants and an embroidered dragon on the back in black thread that seemed to glitter in the light. He knows why she’s dressed to the nines for today. It’s the finals.
The final match, against Yoon Jeonghan of all people.
They had been semi-finalists the previous year, but he had been knocked out of the running by a Chinese player. She had won in the finals against the Chinese player that had defeated Jeonghan, which meant that the tabloids had run amok with the story of ‘Go Lovers’ that seemingly played to defend the other’s honour. Jihoon had read some of the articles of the previous years while he waited around this past week, and he had come to the express conclusion that it was all bullshit. Jeonghan, even though I hate him, has never once made an advance towards her, despite flirting outrageously. In fact, he thinks she accepts that Jeonghan is a big flirt; he says things without meaning any of them, does things without attaching any meaning to them, and disarms people quickly while keeping his own guard up.
She shifts, eyes still closed, and the black dragon shimmers in the reflected morning light. Jihoon turns his gaze back to the road. Let's not stare at her. There's no reason for me to do that.
When he parks the car in front of the gates, there are about fifty photographers, all waiting to see a glimpse of the famed Go player, Yoon Jeonghan’s best friend, also his enemy for today. Jihoon’s not surprised to see them anymore, having gotten his fill over the past six months, and merely opens the door for her, muscling a photographer—his tag says Chosun Ilbo—out of the way. She steps out, glasses fixed on her nose, eyes focused and clear, and the reporter from Chosun Ilbo decided to loudly shout his questions.
“What do you think of the controversy regarding your match with Yoon Jeonghan? Do you think you can win?”
Jihoon opens his mouth to say “no comments” but another reporter, this time from Joongang Ilbo, who yells, right into her face, “this is the first time a man and a woman have competed against each other in the finals of the LG Cup, do you consider this a battle of the sexes?”
She stops. Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, and Jihoon braces himself. If she starts cursing, I need to pick her up and just make a run for it. But he knows it’s futile. The question is so stupid and so loaded, no matter what she says, they're going to construe it as something inflammatory and controversial. And it had to be one of the reporters from Chojoongdong, too. God knows how they’re going to spin this one.
“When I play baduk, each day is like a year, who could know that winning and losing are such fun?” she says instead, smiling calmly, “no matter who wins, I aim to have a challenging and wonderful game with one of my closest compatriots in the Go scene.”
Before she sweeps away, Jihoon in tow, he overhears one of the journalists talking to his friends, “Yoon Jeonghan said the same thing. Guess they really seem to be good friends, huh. Not a peep out of either of them, and he’s usually a bit more forthcoming with the dramatic media interviews.”
When they enter her waiting room, she turns to him, “call one of the organisers.”
“The organisers?” Jihoon doesn’t want to do her stupid tasks, he wants to ask her important questions like how did she manage to keep her cool? And why the fuck was she quoting Yi Saek?
“Someone from the association.”
“The organisers cannot come right now,” Jihoon reasons, “they’re busy. They told me to keep you here for the time being.”
“I’m not a caged wild animal, for fuck’s sake,” she groans, “and the next time anyone from the fucking Chojoongdong comes to ask me bizarre questions that they use against me to paint me as a rabid man-hater, I will punch them in the face.”
“You hate most men, though.”
“I don’t want to be doxxed and trolled by randoms on the internet,” she sighs, sitting down in a chair. "Haven't they asked for a post-match interview?”
“They have. In fact, all three of them have, ma’am.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well,” Jihoon checks his phone, “Hankuk Ilbo and Hankyoreh have both asked for an interview.”
“The usual fare would be to have a press conference with multiple newspapers and online outlets,” she muses, “but you know what, we gotta lean into the man-hater thing. If they think I am a rabid, feral, man-hating feminist, they’re gonna get one.”
“What?” Jihoon asks, “I’m getting a bit scared, now.”
“No press conference, even if I win,” she shakes her head, “only one interview at Hankyoreh.”
“You’re making an enemy out of the Chojoongdong.”
“Like I care.”
By this point, Jihoon is used to the whole song and dance. He’s led away from the main playing room by one of the organisers, and all that is left to do is wait for the match to be over, while the two of them are observed by match referees and at least five cameras, tracking their every move. He counted at least three in the observation room itself.
“What do you think about the odds of her winning tonight?” someone asks loudly, their eyes trained on the screen, “she won the LG Cup last year, but Yoon Jeonghan seems determined to rectify his own mistakes from his matches in the previous year's tournament.”
“What is the record of them playing together?” another man asks, perhaps a journalist, and Jihoon cranes his neck to see the name Hankyoreh on their press badge. “Yoon Jeonghan has played many tournament matches with her, has he not?”
“Their match records are pretty much equal,” one of the people he recognises as the female 9-dan that she requested to have a match with, Kim Myung-hee, points out, “but she’s got a higher match win record in tournament matches, while he plays better in exhibition matches. If you remove those metrics, their records are pretty similar overall, I think.”
“This is a tournament,” another person points out, helpfully, gesticulating excitedly at the board, “wait, did Jeonghan get a head start?”
The others peer at the screen, and Jihoon leans in too, interested, “who would have thought, huh. He’s playing with white, and she’s playing black. And he just got a point lead.”
“No hold on, she’s making a comeback," Myung-hee shakes her head, “it’s too early in the match to say anything."
While the two of them play on, Jihoon continues to stare at her, captivated. In the last match, she had looked uncomfortable, even as she was winning. But in this one, she doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. Even as she loses ground rapidly to Jeonghan, she sits up properly, relaxed and a faint smile on the corner of her mouth. She stares at Jeonghan as the man purses his lips in order to think about his next move, and Jihoon can see the smile now, wide enough that even he can’t ignore it and say it’s something else. She’s smiling, looking at him. Yoon Jeonghan.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile like that. It’s not awkward, she’s not diffusing a situation or running away. She’s smiling. And it’s at fucking Yoon Jeonghan.
The flash of jealousy passes by as quickly as it comes, but Jihoon is reeling, crumbling under the weight of this realisation. Why do I care, anyway? She’s just my boss.
She’s just his boss, and he’s just her manager. Hell, she doesn’t even need a fucking manager, does she? She just keeps him around as a housekeeper. He’s there to cook and clean for her, and steal her money every month. Last month, he stole a Rolex watch and she had said nothing. Even treated it like it was a mere infraction, not like Jihoon had stolen a watch worth five thousand dollars and immediately sold it off to fencers the following day. She just said, I wear a different watch.
He had not paid attention to the watch before, but now he sees it, peeking from under her cuff, the weathered, old leather band, the silver of the watch face catching the light when she turns her wrists. Jihoon leans, and whispers into the ear of a random organiser, “what’s the watch she’s wearing?”
“The watch?” The man, perplexed, stares at him for about a second, and it’s then that Jihoon realises that their conversation is a bit too loud for the room, it’s caught the attention of several other people, including some journalists from conservative outlets, who all look eagerly at the accessory. Their gazes are all the same, resembling that of a predator, and suddenly, Jihoon feels very anxious for her. What the fuck is she wearing on her wrists?
“She’s still wearing that, huh,” one person comments, loud enough for him to turn and recognise the man as the one who was there at the association that day. What was his name? Park? Park Inho, that’s right. “She couldn’t be satisfied with killing her teacher, now she has to go wear his watch on her hand?”
This earns a few shocking gasps, whispers running throughout the room, and another person replies, “to add insult to injury, she even stays at his house. Talk about paying respect to one’s teacher, huh?”
“The Chinese had the right thought when they called her eni,” Park Inho muses (shouts into the ears of some random journalist) “but I do think they should have used the Japanese word instead.”
“Japanese word?”
“Oni.”
Jihoon rolls his eyes, even if he can’t understand what the fuck is going on, because he realises that at the end of the day, they’re all jealous and acting out towards her. They never seem to have any words of reproach towards Yoon Jeonghan, he’s seen.
Yoon Jeonghan, at whom she’s smiling right now, even though she’s down by three points. The game is about to end and she’s smiling at Jeonghan, the man who has just dealt her a defeat by three points, and she’s bloody smiling at him. She’s never smiled at him like that, like she’s finally discovered upon a great finding, like she’s finally having fun. He’s the one who’s had to take care of her dirty laundry and he’s the one who’s had to wash and bathe her so that she would behave and look like a functional human being. And she’s never even looked at him that way.
She tolerates the stealing.
She tolerates the stealing, so I should not care, Jihoon repeats to himself as he sees her lay down two stones on the edge of the board, grinning wildly, like some sort of a crazed animal, grinning and shaking Jeonghan’s hand and clapping his back and fucking smiling for the camera. She’s doing all of that, and he feels like shit, but he should not think anything of it because she turns the other way. He can steal all her money and she would probably shrug and go about her day like nothing mattered at all.
Still, Jihoon cannot make any sense of his feelings.
“I would like to congratulate my dear friend Yoon Jeonghan on his win at the LG Cup,” she grins maniacally to the gathered reporters, “no more comments, please.”
When he drives her back to the house, Jihoon can see the glint of the watch on her left wrist, glittering in the faint afternoon light.
“Play another round with me.”
She demands, hands rolled into fists, staring at the man sitting next to her. Jeonghan looks perplexed, “you want me to play against you?”
“I need to figure out how you managed to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Use my tactics against me. That’s the first time it’s happened, you know.”
“You’re being a child, y/n,” Jeonghan shakes his head, “you know I just won on a fluke.”
“And it should not have happened!” she clenches her fists, “you knew all my openings, and you prepared accordingly. That has never happened before.”
“You do realise, I’ve played against you for years now?” Jeonghan smiles, but clears the board anyway, “it was bound to happen sooner or later. Someone would have figured out how you play. Might as well be me.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” she mutters, eyes trained on the board, laying out the opening positions, the one where he got the initial advantage, “still no idea how you managed to slip past my opening positions.”
“The bigger question is, how did you manage to reinvent your tactic over these past years?” Jeonghan leans back, thinking, “you’ve been playing since you were four, which means you’ve been playing for at least twenty-five years. With only a handful of defeats.”
“Still, it’s sort of poetic that my first defeat in the finals of a major competition is at your hands.” she smiles, “let’s go.”
Five minutes into playing, she realises that Jeonghan had merely mapped out all her possible openings, and planned accordingly. I should not have leaned into my usual joseki. Half an hour into playing, Jeonghan leans back and grins, “you were flustered, for the first time in a while, huh?”
“Flustered?” she thinks back to the game, “you did force me into a korigatachi, you asshole. Halfway through, when I started playing defensive, you forced me into an unwitting korigatachi. Imagine my surprise when I looked down and realised I’d lost half the match already.”
“It was funny, you know,” Jeonghan looks at her, “not the korigatachi. I’m talking about your manager.”
“Jihoon? What the hell are you talking about?”
Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, “you mean to tell me you’ve not seen the daggers he was glaring at me? I think he took your defeat to heart.”
“He’s probably just annoyed that I lost,” she shrugs, “I doubt he cares too deeply about my games, or wins and losses. He’s probably just upset. He had to chauffeur me around for weeks and I lost at the end.”
“Suit yourself, girl,” Jeonghan grins, easy and flirtatious, “he’s just a man. I know how men look when they’re jealous.”
Jihoon stares at the massive pile of laundry that is left for him to do, and at the woman who has curled up under the covers with no intention of getting out. At least this time she’s taken a shower.
More like I had to give her a bath. Jihoon had never realised that his job, while cushy for a high school graduate, would involve him bathing a woman of his age, someone who pays his salary. He’s been giving her baths every two days, and when Joshua found out, he had looked at him strangely, and asked, “do you get hard when you do that?”
“Hard?”
“I mean, you’re bathing a woman. She’s fine, attractive, even, and you’re seeing her naked every other day. Do you get an erection when you give her a bath?”
“Sorry, I usually spend my time tacking her dandruff rather than caressing her breasts, you ass,’ Jihoon had thrown a dishcloth at him, and that was that.
But the thought had been planted in his mind. Am I even attracted to her? His reaction during the LG Cup had probably meant that he had some sort of feelings towards her, but Jihoon was not sure what the hell it was that he was feeling. He doesn’t even get aroused when he bathes her, just mildly concerned about the amount of neglect done to her body. There’s nothing even remotely sexual about his actions, nothing at all.
“You need to take a bath, for heaven’s sake," he announces, only to be greeted with a disgruntled raise of an eyebrow, “don’t look at me like that. It’s been two days since you’ve been holed up in your bed, and I doubt you have been taking regular baths in that time.”
“Are you my mother?” She grumbles, but gets out of the bed anyway, walking out to the bathroom and undressing, “you’ve already drawn a bath? Who asked you to do that?”
“No one, but since I take enough money from you, I figured I might start pulling my weight around here,” he replies, averting his eyes as she steps into the tub.
He has a routine. A fixed routine, one that involves him bathing her and washing her hair and nothing more. He needs to be in control of his actions.
Yoon Jeonghan had stared at him for a minute after the LG Cup final, when he was staring daggers at the man. Jihoon had not liked the look in his eyes, as though he knew too much about him and his knowledge could bring Jihoon to heel. He should not have stared, but Jeonghan’s presence was grating. He had no reason to hug her in front of the cameras like that, but he did anyway, knowing that Jihoon was there, and that Jihoon, despite his apparent closeness to her, could never do that.
But why is that bothering me?
He’s fine with it, fine with standing far away from her on podiums, far away from the lights and the attention and the adoration. She’s never going to hold his hand or hug him in public or smile at him like she did at Jeonghan, and Jihoon is fine with it. He is fine.
Jihoon takes a seat on the plastic stool and lathers up the shampoo, focusing, as usual, on her dandruff and on her hair. It’s brittle, even after so many washes. She’s never really taken care of it, and the state of her hair makes him wonder what exactly Mingyu did when she was in a state like this one. She’s clearly in need of help, but Mingyu probably had no idea what to do. Well, neither does Jihoon, apparently.
Her neck is visible. He averts his eyes.
But averting eyes while bathing someone is impossible, and he turns to look at her again, trying not to listen to the sounds of her moaning in happiness as the warm water laps at her skin. She’s attractive, even in this state, she’s attractive. Maybe it is just a bodily reaction, but Jihoon starts imagining how her skin would look, if she allowed him to stare. Her skin is flushed pink from the heat of the bath, smooth; he imagines how he would take hours to map it and make it his own. He’s not a pervert, but Jihoon wants to hear her make those pretty sounds even more, just for him.
If he slipped his hands just a little, he could feel her—
That’s sexual harassment, dude.
Jihoon sits up, all of his previous arousal gone entirely. He feels like a creep, thinking all these thoughts when she’s clearly in distress and in need of professional and proper help, and instead of giving it to her, he’s out here ogling her like a pervert.
For the rest of the bath, he refuses to even look at her skin.
For the rest of the week and the next, he avoids her. It’s easier, now that she’s started to take baths on her own, but Jihoon doesn’t want anyone to know what exactly he had been thinking when giving her a bath. He’s going to keep those thoughts to himself and take them to the grave with himself.
Which is why, when a week later, he chances upon Joshua, chewing on dry muesli in their shared living room, cup of coffee on the table in front of him, Jihoon doesn’t look him in the eye when responding to the question, “why aren’t you at work right now?”
“Took a day off,” he mumbles, staring at the clock instead. That’s a lie. He had left her a message in the morning, too sick. Might have to take a day off. He’s not particularly willing to look at her face while all he can think about is how uncomfortably tight his pants felt after he gave her that bath, and how he had to shamefully remind himself of his duties as her manager in order to calm himself down.
Jihoon rolls his eyes. He’s not going to give any more ammunition to Joshua Hong, not right now. “Nothing.”
“Still hung up over her?” Joshua shrugs, “you know, you need to get laid. If you want to get over her, that is. If you don’t, be my guest.”
“Why do I have to get over her?” Jihoon scowls, “it’s not like I was under her any time before.”
Joshua laughs, “you’re really fucking funny, you know, Jihoonie. That’s why I like you.”
“Shut up, man,” Jihoon takes a seat on the sofa, “why do you want to ask about her? You don’t know her that well, do you?”
Joshua shrugs again, “I know some things about her, you know. She’s very famous.”
“Like Won Bin?”
“Like the President asks her to come play Go with him on official occasions,” Joshua searches on his phone, and brings up an old photo of her playing Go with the previous President of the country, blank and expressionless as usual. They’re at an official luncheon, and she’s dressed in one of her ceremonial suits, staring intently at the board while the President laughs sheepishly.
“So, she’s famous,” he hands the phone back, “that explains nothing.”
Joshua sighs, “you have no idea about the Go scene in Korea, do you?”
Jihoon stares at him, “and you mean to tell me you do?”
Joshua smiles, picking up his cup of coffee, “you never know. I could.”
“The only game I have seen you play is Kingdom Hearts on your old Playstation,” Jihoon replies.
“Fair enough,” Joshua concedes, “my father is a fan. Has been following her career since before she went pro, which means I know her life story better than most people.”
Jihoon raises his eyebrows, “you knew her career trajectory? And you never mentioned it to me?”
“You never asked,” Joshua busies himself with the muesli and coffee, “do you really want to know?”
Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He didn’t want to, but she intrigues him. She’s like one of those riddles in the Sunday newspaper, the ones that he pored over for hours as a child, and it’s stupid, but just like his young self, Jihoon wants to figure her out. He wants to know. But the moment he asks anything about her, Joshua will know. And he will never be able to live it down.
Instead, he settles for asking, “Is she a chaebol?”
Joshua laughs, falling over himself for a whole minute, before gathering his wits, “no, she isn’t in fact, her parents are pretty middle class, you know. Both government workers, stable jobs, guaranteed pensions, pretty much solid middle-class shit. They had two children, just before the IMF Crisis.”
“So she had a pretty normal childhood,” Jihoon interrupts, “what do you mean to say?”
“I mean to say,” Joshua replies, smiling like he has a secret, “aren’t you curious? Why is she like this, even though she’s had a pretty normal childhood.”
“Maybe.”
“Her brother wanted to learn how to play Go, not her,” he says, leaning back into the sofa, “she just tagged along for the first few lessons, and learnt how to play with him. He was the one who was supposed to be the star.”
“And let me guess, she started beating him out in competitions?”
“Well, as they say, you can hide a flame all you want, but it’ll make itself known, even within the ashes. She won a competition in her elementary school, and everyone started talking about how good of a go player she was.”
“I assume her brother did not like this.”
“He hated it, actually. No one likes it when your sibling beats you out in something you were doing before them, huh?”
Jihoon nods. He does not understand, not at all, but he keeps quiet.
“Anyway, her parents found out, and boom—they had a genius on their hands. The allure of being a stage parent is not easy to turn away from, you know.”
Joshua sighs, “anyway, she’s been playing the game since she turned four years old, which means that she has been playing for the past twenty-four years. Imagine all that time, alone, away from your family, with only the Go board for company. You’re bound to go insane. Anyone else would.”
“Alone?”
“Her brother hated the sight of her and her trophies while growing up. He hated that their parents gave her more attention, took her to her competitions, even though no one had asked her if this was something she wanted to do. And why would a child give up on something that allowed them a fun day out with their parents?”
Jihoon nods his head. He can understand why she turned her brother away at the gates, and why he said that he had ruined her life. In another time, they could have probably had a better relationship, without the constant reminder of her career and his failures hanging over them.
“Why do you know so much?”
Joshua ignores his question, “well, they could have repaired it, really, but she took the pro exam at fifteen and qualified it, which made her the second youngest person to achieve that honour. Her brother lost it entirely, from what I’ve heard. He made a scene and told her he never wanted to see her face in their house ever again. That kind of fucked her up, if you know.”
Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have siblings, he doesn’t understand the amount of built-up pain and resentment it would have taken for a brother to say that to his sister, and the hurt it would cause to the girl who heard it. How old was she then? Fifteen? At fifteen, Jihoon still harbored delusions of becoming a music producer in Seoul, living a blissful existence with his family, who doted on him. He cannot fathom parents who would use their daughter’s talent and genius to earn money.
Then he has a thought. “Did they take money from her? Her parents?”
Joshua stares at him. “How did you know? They took all her earnings until she turned eighteen, and asked her for more money even after that, just because they had ‘raised her’ or some bullshit. She gave the money to them too, millions and millions of won until she put her foot down one day and refused. They stopped contacting her after that.”
“Her brother?”
“He came to his senses in college, realised that he had been a massive dick to his sister for no fault of their own, and that their parents were the ones at fault, but by then, too much water had flown under the bridge. He works for XMH now.”
“He tries to make amends, you know,” Jihoon says, thinking back to the sad man at the gates, lugging a suitcase full of clothes and looking at the house his sister had cloistered herself in with eyes that seemed full of heartbreak, “he brings clothes from time to time.”
“I know, he tries doing that once in a while,” Joshua grins, “he’s not a bad guy, just fucked up.”
“She turned him away at the gates.”
“And she’s allowed to do that, too.”
Jihoon shakes his head, “but you know, she always wears the clothes he makes to her matches. All her ceremonial suits are made by him.”
“That’s her way of making amends,” Joshua reasons, “they might not be able to tolerate seeing each other’s faces, but they make space for the other in their lives, in their own way. Her clothes are made by XMH, and he gets to see his little sister wearing his clothes on the world stage.”
Jihoon sits with this information for a while. He still doesn’t understand how the other man got this much information, nor does he really want to know. He keeps thinking about the woman in the house, locking herself in just to play a game that had caused her so much pain, still going back to it every morning. So much time and effort, devoted to something that never truly understood her.
“None of that explains why the people at LG Cup were calling her eni,” Jihoon says after a while, “I did not understand, but it did not seem like something nice. They kept pointing at her watch and calling her that name.”
Joshua sighs, “Jihoon, you really should do some background reading on her.”
“I don’t need to.”
“She’s one of the undisputed greats of the Korean Go scene, and you—never mind,” Joshua huffs, “her teacher was Lee Hyun-dok, one of the great old masters. He took her in when she was nine and started teaching her how to play Go.”
“And why is that important?”
Joshua rolls his eyes, “Go players don’t go to high school like normies, you idiot. They don’t have a normal life. When they’re training, they spend their waking hours playing the game, analysing their faults and mistakes, and training again when they wake up. Sometimes they see the board in their dreams. The only people they interact with on a daily basis are their teacher. And the teacher’s family, if they have one.”
“Sounds like a boring life.”
“Sounds like solitary confinement is what it does,” Joshua groans, “I remember Lee Hyun-dok. He kept telling all the newspapers about her being a genius, and by all means, he was a great teacher. She was the only student he’s ever taken on, you know.”
“So, what happened?”
“She beat him in the finals of the MLily Cup,” Joshua sighs, “he was happy because his pupil surpassed him, but he died of old age soon after that.”
“And people blamed her?” Jihoon makes a face. He doesn’t know Lee Hyun-dok, but the man seemed like he had been one of the few people to genuinely take care of her, “they blamed her for her teacher’s death?”
“They had a good relationship until he died,” Joshua sighs, “she would at least look somewhat animated when he was alive.”
Jihoon doesn’t believe it. The only time he’s seen her with any emotion that’s not annoyance or anger or sadness, in the past months, is when she was playing Jeonghan in the finals. And that was another matter entirely. Still, he looks up Lee Hyun-dok on the internet, and one of the first results is that of the cursed MLily Cup final in China. The old man sits across from a much younger her in the photo, both of them hunched over a board. The man wears a hanbok, she wears a plain suit. Nothing ceremonial, nothing fashionable. The man looked confused, his white hair disheveled like he had been running his hands through it.
She looks—radiant.
There’s no other word for it. She looks radiant, a bright smile even as she stares at the board, and he knows it’s for her teacher. He’s never seen her smile like that, not even for Jeonghan, bright and peaceful and happy all at once. He thinks of the woman in the house, sad and angry and emaciated, and looks at this woman, youthful and vibrant. Jihoon cannot take his eyes off of her face.
“She looks gorgeous here, huh?” Joshua peeks over his shoulder, “anyway, they started calling her eni after that.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Joshua stares at him, “did you fail your ethics classes in high school? It’s one of the ten cardinal sins of the Ming Code; eni signifies the killing of your teacher, and is punishable by death.”
“I see.” Jihoon stares at the photo, the young woman smiling, captured forever in celluloid, and then at the man sitting opposite her. Her teacher. How sad would he have been, to find out they all blamed the girl he raised and taught lovingly all those years? How hurt would he have been?
He stares at the corner of the photo, looking at the watch the man is wearing, “wait, the watch they all got angry about, that she was wearing. That was his?”
Joshua nods. “I think something withered and died inside of her when he passed away. She was bequeathed the house in his will, and I don’t think she changed anything. Everything, from the paintings on the walls to the relics on the mantlepieces, everything belonged to her teacher at some point. That house is a mausoleum.”
Jihoon doesn’t say anything. And I almost stole and sold off a scroll painting last month. The painting had belonged to one of the old Joseon masters, and it would have been enough to clear his debt and the interest, but he didn’t, too afraid of the increased police scrutiny on the underground resale market. Instead, he had taken the fucking Rolex.
Would she have thrown him out, if he had taken the painting?
The thought is sobering, and somehow, it makes him sad. He doesn’t want to be thrown out of the house, the stupid cold house with its drafty doors and papered walls that need reinforcement every other month. Why did she not change anything? Even the bedroom is old-fashioned. Everything in there belongs to someone else, most of all the Go room.
The Go room is the mausoleum. She lives, eats, and sleeps inside of a tomb.
Jihoon had not realised that he had been spacing out for a minute, until Joshua pokes him, “thinking about her?”
“Yeah,” he admits, honesty coming easily after this revelation, “I don’t know how I feel about her.”
Joshua laughs, “you were staring daggers at Yoon Jeonghan in every photo they took after the LG Cup final. I think your feelings about her are perfectly clear by now.”
Jihoon groans, head in hands, “whatever. It’s just a passing attraction. I’m not going to do anything about it, not really.”
“Besides, you have your debt to worry about,” Joshua points out.
“Yeah, the debt.” Jihoon shuts up. He wants to think about a time without the debt, a time where he could have approached her with no ulterior motives. Would I have had these feelings towards her? Would she have reciprocated? Even more pressing: would she reciprocate now?
He wants to say something, but then he’s reminded of the red in his chequebook, the debt he has to clear, and the loan sharks who keep showing up at his parents’ house every other week. It doesn’t matter. He’ll get over this silly little attraction, he has to.
When there is no certainty of life, there is no space for indulgence. He cannot afford to lose sight of his goal. It doesn’t matter if he has to steal a painting of fucking Hwajae and sell it on the black market. What matters the most to him right now, is money. The rest is immaterial.
Still, he can’t help but be curious about one little thing. He had tried his best to shut it down, but it had to come out eventually, “wait, how do you know so much about her?”
Joshua stares at him for a second, “didn’t I tell you? I know her brother.”
“How?”
The man shrugs, “we dated in college for a while.”
Jihoon gasps, “what?”
“Well, it was before I started dating my fiancee, but not that long ago either,” Joshua says casually, as if he was not just confessing his bisexuality to Jihoon on a random Monday morning while drinking coffee, “He could have been a good boyfriend, if he was not so hung up on his past mistakes.”
He stands up, “okay, see you, Jihoon. I have a date with my fiancee in an hour.” and disappears into his bedroom. Jihoon sits there, reeling under the mountain of revelations he’s just stumbled into, all on a random weekday morning. Underneath all this, there remains a small question, what do I do about this attraction?
He doesn’t want to imagine her being hurt once again.
—
a/n pt 2: comments and reblogs are wholly appreciated, thank you very much!!
Pairing: Woozi (Lee Jihoon) x Reader (Single Mom!Staff)
Warnings:
Mentions of exhaustion| past heartbreak {not with woozi} | workplace struggles | protective Woozi | fluff overload | slow burn | single parent struggle | petnames {zi, zizi, munchkin, sweetheart, baby} | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.
Trope:
Secret Single Mom | Found Family | Slow Burn to Love
Word Count: 6268 words ; Reading Time: 23 mins-ish
Synopsis:
You’ve spent years keeping your biggest secret—your daughter—hidden from your work life. As a dedicated staff member for SEVENTEEN, exhaustion is second nature, but Woozi starts noticing. When he stumbles upon a picture of your daughter, everything clicks. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t pry—he just starts showing up. In quiet moments, in unspoken gestures, in the way your little girl calls him "Zizi" before you can even admit what’s happening.
Author’s Note:
This is a soft, slow-burn story about love that sneaks up on you, about finding a home in unexpected places, and about a tiny human who unknowingly sets everything into motion. Expect protective Woozi, adorable child moments, and fluff that will melt your heart.
Requests are open!!
The studio, usually a vibrant hub of creative energy, was shrouded in a hushed, almost reverent stillness. The digital displays on the mixing consoles cast faint, flickering lights, painting the room in a spectrum of soft blues and greens. The air, thick with the lingering scent of electronic equipment and late-night coffee, seemed to vibrate with a quiet intensity. You, however, were oblivious to the subtle symphony of the space, lost in the depths of a weariness that permeated your very bones.
The day had been a relentless marathon, a blur of back-to-back meetings, urgent phone calls, and the constant, gnawing pressure to maintain a semblance of order amidst the chaos of the entertainment industry. Each task, each demand, had chipped away at your reserves, leaving you feeling stretched thin and utterly drained. Yet, the thought of your daughter, her bright, innocent eyes and infectious laughter, had provided a fragile anchor, a reminder of the purpose that fueled your every move.
Your fingers, calloused and weary from hours of typing and scribbling, lay still on the scattered papers before you. The tour schedules, the promotional plans, the endless stream of logistical details blurred into an indistinguishable mass, reflecting the fog that had settled over your mind. Your eyelids, heavy as lead, fluttered closed, and your head, aching with a dull, throbbing rhythm, finally succumbed to the irresistible pull of exhaustion. The cool, smooth surface of the desk offered a momentary respite, a fleeting sanctuary from the relentless demands of your life.
The silence of the studio was broken only by the low hum of the ventilation system and the distant, muffled sounds of the city, a symphony of urban life that usually went unnoticed. Tonight, however, the quiet hum became a soothing drone, a lullaby that gently coaxed you into a state of semi-consciousness.
Woozi, drawn back to the studio by the nagging feeling of an unfinished task, entered the room with his usual quiet precision. He expected to find you immersed in your work, a whirlwind of focused energy, your brow furrowed in concentration as you navigated the complexities of the group’s schedule. He had a half-formed, wry comment ready, a playful jab about your legendary work ethic.
But the scene that unfolded before him was a stark contrast to his expectations. He found you motionless, your head resting on the desk, your breath soft and steady. A flicker of concern, a rare and unfamiliar sensation, stirred within him. He approached with cautious steps, his movements as silent as the shadows that danced across the room.
He paused, his gaze lingering on your peaceful expression. There was a vulnerability in your stillness, a quiet fragility that he had never witnessed before. It was a stark reminder of the human beneath the ever-efficient professional. Then, the soft glow of your phone illuminated the darkness, pulling his attention to the image displayed on the lock screen.
The face of a young girl, her eyes wide with a curious innocence, stared back at him. The resemblance was undeniable, a striking echo of your own features. The same delicate curve of the cheek, the same determined set of the jaw, the same spark of intelligence in the eyes. A realization, sharp and sudden, pierced through his thoughts, illuminating a hidden dimension of your life.
He sank into the chair opposite you, his gaze fixed on the glowing screen, his mind reeling with the implications of this unexpected discovery. The pieces of the puzzle, the hurried exits, the late-night phone calls, the subtle weariness that clung to you like a shadow, finally fell into place. He remembered the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in your voice when you spoke of deadlines and responsibilities, the way your eyes held a depth of unspoken emotion.
He thought about the tiny jackets he had seen you quickly hide into a bag, and the small snacks that you had hidden in your desk drawer. He thought about the small drawings that sometimes were left on your desk, that he had thought were just random sketches.
His fingers hovered over your phone, a silent temptation to delve deeper into this hidden world. But a sense of respect, a quiet understanding of the boundaries you had erected, held him back. This was your story, your secret, a part of your life that you had chosen to keep private.
He sat there, in the quiet solitude of the studio, his gaze tracing the delicate features of your daughter’s face. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest, a sense of protectiveness that he couldn’t quite comprehend. He felt a newfound respect for your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that enabled you to navigate the demanding world of the entertainment industry while raising a child.
The silence of the room was heavy with unspoken emotions, with the weight of a secret revealed. Woozi, the master of carefully crafted words and calculated expressions, found himself speechless, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and unfamiliar feelings. He was a composer of emotions, a weaver of melodies, but in this moment, he was lost in a symphony of his own making, a composition of newfound understanding and quiet admiration.
The studio, once a place solely defined by the rhythm of music and the demands of production, began to transform into a space imbued with a quiet, almost palpable sense of understanding. The day after Woozi's discovery was a delicate dance of unspoken acknowledgment, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that permeated every corner of the room. You were acutely aware of his presence, a gentle undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface of his usual focused demeanor. His gaze, usually sharp and analytical, now held a softer, more contemplative quality, lingering on you for fleeting moments before he'd quickly divert his attention back to his work.
You found yourself constantly questioning his newfound attentiveness, your mind swirling with a mix of gratitude and anxiety. Had he seen the lock screen? Did he judge your situation? Was this a temporary phase, a fleeting expression of sympathy that would eventually fade? The thought of your private life being exposed, the vulnerability it implied, sent a shiver down your spine. Yet, he remained silent, offering no explicit confirmation, no intrusive questions.
Instead, his actions spoke volumes. Small, almost imperceptible gestures began to accumulate, a quiet symphony of unspoken understanding. A bottle of chilled water, precisely the temperature you preferred, would appear beside your workspace, as if conjured by an unseen hand. A neatly packed lunchbox, filled with healthy and balanced ingredients, materialized during the lunch break, a subtle nudge towards self-care amidst the chaos of the day. And when the pressure from management threatened to overwhelm you, when their demands became unreasonable, Woozi would step in, his voice a calm, firm barrier between you and their frustration.
He did not raise his voice, nor did he offer platitudes. He simply presented logical counterarguments, calmly dismantling their unreasonable demands with his sharp intellect and unwavering composure. It was a subtle act of protection, a silent acknowledgment of the burdens you carried.
The unspoken communication between you became a delicate dance, a series of subtle cues and unspoken acknowledgments. You’d catch his eye across the room, a fleeting glance that held a depth of understanding, a silent reassurance that you weren’t alone. He’d leave small notes on your desk, scribbled on scrap paper, containing encouraging words or a simple drawing, a small token of support amidst the whirlwind of your day.
His presence, once a source of professional respect, now became a source of quiet comfort. He was still Woozi, the meticulous producer, the genius songwriter, but there was a newfound gentleness in his demeanor, a quiet understanding that made you feel seen, truly seen, beyond the roles you played within the studio.
One evening, as the recording session stretched into the late hours, your phone rang, its insistent chime cutting through the quiet hum of the studio equipment. The caller ID displayed the familiar number of your daughter’s daycare, and a wave of anxiety washed over you.
“I have to go,” you said, your voice tight with urgency. “There’s an emergency.”
Woozi’s gaze met yours, his expression calm and reassuring. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand explanations. He simply reached into his pocket and slid his car keys across the desk.
“Go,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll cover for you.”
The gesture, so simple yet so profound, took your breath away. It was a silent acknowledgment of your responsibilities, a quiet reassurance that he understood the delicate balance you maintained. You stared at the keys, your throat tightening with emotion, unable to articulate the gratitude that swelled within you.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
He nodded, a silent acknowledgment, and turned back to the mixing console, his focus unwavering. You grabbed the keys and rushed out, your mind a whirlwind of anxiety and gratitude.
The drive to the daycare was a blur, your hands gripping the steering wheel, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. When you arrived, you found your daughter safe and sound, her feverish brow cooled by a damp cloth. The daycare staff explained that it was a brief spike in temperature, a common occurrence in young children.
Relief washed over you, a wave so intense that it left you weak. You held your daughter close, her small body warm against yours, and whispered reassurances into her hair, a silent promise to protect her from all harm.
As you drove home, your thoughts turned to Woozi. He had covered for you, without hesitation, without question. He had given you the time and space you needed, without expecting anything in return. It was a selfless act, a quiet demonstration of his understanding and support.
When you returned to the studio the next day, he was working as if nothing had happened. He didn’t mention the previous night, didn’t ask about your daughter. He simply continued with his work, his focus unwavering.
But you knew, deep down, that something had irrevocably changed. He had seen you, truly seen you, not just as a colleague, but as a person, a mother, a woman with a life beyond the studio walls. And in that quiet understanding, a connection began to form, a bond that was both fragile and profound.
The studio, once a place of work, began to feel like a sanctuary, a place where you were seen, understood, and supported. The unspoken communication between you and Woozi became a silent language, a symphony of understanding that resonated deeper than any words could convey. You began to look forward to seeing him, to hearing his voice, to feeling the quiet reassurance of his presence. And even though the fear of eventual change lingered, you allowed yourself to savor the peace, the quiet comfort, that he offered. You began to feel a warmth grow in your heart, a feeling you had long suppressed, a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, you weren’t alone after all.
The decision to invite Woozi into your home, into the sanctuary you’d built for yourself and your daughter, was a tightrope walk between hope and fear. It was a leap of faith, a fragile attempt to open a door that had been slammed shut years ago. The echoes of your past, the sharp sting of broken promises and abandoned dreams, still lingered, casting long shadows over your present.
You remembered the way he had looked at you when you told him about the ex-boyfriend, the man who had promised forever and then vanished like smoke in the wind. The way he’d gripped your hand, his own knuckles white, as you described the lonely nights, the silent tears that soaked your pillow, the crushing weight of single parenthood. He had listened without judgment, without pity, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding that resonated deep within you.
The wounds from that old betrayal had never fully healed. They were scars, invisible to the world, but deeply etched into your soul. You had built walls around your heart, brick by careful brick, protecting yourself and your daughter from further pain. The thought of trusting someone again, of letting them into your carefully constructed world, was both terrifying and exhilarating.
Yet, Woozi had chipped away at those walls, piece by piece, with his quiet kindness and unwavering support. He had seen your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that enabled you to navigate the chaos of your life. He had offered a safe harbor, a quiet understanding that made you feel seen, truly seen, beyond the roles you played in the studio.
And so, you had invited him into your home, a tentative step towards allowing yourself to hope again. But the fear remained, a persistent whisper in the back of your mind, reminding you of the fragility of trust, the potential for heartbreak.
There he stood, in your doorway, a hesitant smile on his face. The scent of rain clung to his clothes, a reminder of the storm that had mirrored your emotional turmoil the night before. You ushered him inside, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a mixture of anticipation and dread.
Your daughter, ever curious and fearless, peeked out from behind your legs, her big, expressive eyes fixed on the unfamiliar figure. She was your masterpiece, your reason for everything, a tiny echo of your own strength and determination. The thought of introducing her to someone new, of allowing another person to become a part of her world, filled you with a protective instinct so fierce it almost choked you.
Woozi, usually so composed and self-assured, seemed awkward, unsure of how to navigate this unexpected encounter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clasped behind his back, a silent testament to his own vulnerability.
He knelt down, his gaze meeting your daughter’s, and held out a small plushie – a fluffy, pastel-colored sheep he’d impulsively grabbed from a nearby store. It was a gesture of peace, a silent offering to this tiny, unknown entity.
She frowned, her brow furrowed in suspicion, mirroring your own cautious approach to new relationships. “Mommy said don’t take things from strangers.” Her voice was small but firm, a testament to your consistent teachings, a reflection of the lessons you’d learned the hard way.
A laugh bubbled in your throat, a mixture of amusement and relief. You had raised a cautious and intelligent child. Before you could intervene, Woozi’s voice, usually so measured, softened, taking on a gentle, almost hesitant tone.
“I’m your mom’s friend,” he said, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, reassuring moment, a silent plea for your trust.
Your daughter’s gaze flickered between you and Woozi, seeking confirmation. You nodded, a small, encouraging smile on your face, a silent acknowledgment of the leap of faith you were taking.
Only then did she cautiously reach out and take the plushie, her small fingers gently brushing against his. “Thank you, Zizi,” she mumbled, her eyes still fixed on him, assessing him with the same careful scrutiny you had employed for years.
The nickname, so innocent and unexpected, broke the tension in the room, a gentle reminder of the simple, unadulterated trust of a child. A genuine smile spread across Woozi’s face, a warmth that reached his eyes, a silent promise to be worthy of that trust. In that moment, he was no longer Woozi, the renowned producer, the stoic songwriter. He was Zizi, a friend, a potential figure in this little girl’s world, a chance for you to rewrite the narrative of your past.
The studio, once a realm of pure musical creation, transformed into a covert operation, a fortress of affection guarded by the silent, watchful eyes of Lee Jihoon. He moved with a newfound purpose, a quiet determination that radiated from him like a subtle hum. He became a protector, a silent guardian, his actions driven by a fierce, almost primal instinct to shield you and your daughter from any harm.
He guarded your secret with a fervor that bordered on obsessive, his actions a testament to his growing affection. He didn’t just keep it; he fortified it, erecting an invisible barrier around your privacy. He deflected prying questions with a sharp wit, his eyes flashing a silent warning to anyone who dared to delve too deep. He became a master of misdirection, weaving elaborate tales of late-night studio sessions and urgent deadlines to explain his increasingly frequent absences.
He became a connoisseur of children’s snacks, a silent provider of tiny treasures. He’d surreptitiously slip fruit pouches and organic crackers into his bag, his expression a picture of studied nonchalance. He’d scour toy stores for the perfect plushie, the ideal coloring book, his usually focused gaze softening as he imagined your daughter’s delighted squeals.
But the members, ever perceptive, began to notice the subtle shifts in his behavior. Seungcheol, the leader, the ever-watchful patriarch of their chaotic family, observed Woozi’s increasingly erratic schedule with a furrowed brow. “Jihoon, you’re acting… strangely. You’re always disappearing, you’re hoarding children’s snacks, and you’re radiating an aura of… secretiveness,” he said, his voice laced with concern.
Mingyu, the group’s resident gossip and fashion enthusiast, held up a tiny, sequined jacket, his eyes wide with disbelief. “And this? This is clearly for a miniature diva. Who are you dressing, Jihoon? A tiny influencer?”
Jeonghan, the master of playful manipulation, the orchestrator of subtle chaos, raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Lee Jihoon. Confess. Who is this tiny human who has captured your heart? And why are you so… protective?”
Cornered, Woozi sighed, a mixture of exasperation and affection in his eyes. He knew he couldn’t keep the secret forever, not from the men who knew him better than he knew himself. He gathered them in the studio’s lounge, the air thick with anticipation, and told them everything. He explained your situation, your struggles, the quiet strength that had captivated him, and the unexpected joy that had blossomed in your daughter’s presence.
Instead of the teasing and playful jabs he had braced himself for, he was met with a chorus of genuine support, a wave of warmth that surprised even him. Joshua, the romantic, the sentimental soul of the group, clutched his chest dramatically, his eyes wide with emotion. “This is… a masterpiece of human connection! You’re like a secret superhero dad!”
Mingyu, his usual boisterous energy amplified, was practically vibrating with excitement. “This is amazing! We need to throw a welcome party! We can get her tiny designer outfits! I know a guy who makes custom mini jackets!”
Seungcheol, his expression softening, placed a hand on Woozi’s shoulder, his voice filled with genuine affection. “Jihoon, this is your happiness. You’ve found something precious, and we’re all here for you, always. We will protect her, and you, with everything we have.”
The members’ reactions were a testament to their deep bond, their unwavering support for one another. They showered Woozi with questions, eager to learn every detail about your daughter, her personality, her favorite toys. They offered to help in any way they could, from babysitting to building elaborate play forts in the studio.
Woozi, usually so guarded, found himself opening up, sharing anecdotes and stories about your daughter’s infectious laughter, her boundless curiosity, and the way she had transformed his perception of the world. He spoke of your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that had captivated him, and the way you had built a safe haven for your small family.
But beneath the surface of his newfound openness, a quiet conflict raged within him. He was still grappling with the unfamiliar emotions that had stirred within him, the sense of responsibility and protectiveness that had taken root in his heart. He was a composer of emotions, a weaver of melodies, but he was still learning to navigate the complexities of his own heart.
He was hopelessly, utterly, and completely whipped for you. He’d been harboring a crush for years, admiring your quiet strength and unwavering dedication. Now, seeing you as a mother, as a woman who had faced adversity and emerged stronger, had amplified his feelings tenfold. He found himself wanting to protect you, to cherish you, to erase the shadows of your past.
He loved your daughter, her innocent joy and unwavering trust. And he loved you, your quiet strength, the way you had built a world for yourself and your daughter. But the fear remained, a persistent whisper in the back of his mind, reminding him of the fragility of trust, the potential for heartbreak. He was still haunted by the idea of repeating the mistakes of the past, of causing you and your daughter pain.
He didn’t answer Seungcheol’s question, the question that hung in the air like a silent challenge. He simply smiled, a small, hesitant smile that held a mixture of hope and uncertainty. He knew that he cared deeply, but the idea of defining it, of labeling it, felt daunting.
The members’ support was a comfort, a reassurance that he wasn’t alone. But the final decision, the leap of faith, was his to take. He was standing on the precipice of a new chapter, a chapter filled with the potential for love and happiness, but also the potential for pain. He was a composer of emotions, but this was a symphony that he was still learning to orchestrate. He needed to find the courage to conduct his own heart, to embrace the love that was blossoming within him, and to trust that he could create a future filled with harmony and happiness.
The quiet rhythm of your evenings had shifted, infused with a new warmth and a sense of gentle companionship. Woozi, or "Zizi," as your daughter affectionately called him, had become a regular fixture in your little home, a comforting presence that filled the space with laughter and quiet understanding. He’d arrive after studio sessions, his eyes tired but his smile bright, ready to engage in elaborate tea parties, build towering block castles, or simply sit quietly, listening to your daughter’s endless stories.
One evening, as you were on a phone call, pacing the kitchen, trying to resolve a last-minute schedule change, Woozi sat on the couch, your daughter nestled beside him, her small fingers tracing the lines on his hand. She was fascinated by his large, capable hands, the hands that created beautiful music, the hands that also built the most impressive block towers.
Then, her small voice, clear and unwavering, broke the comfortable silence. “Zizi, why do you look at my mommy like that?”
Woozi froze, his gaze snapping to her, a blush creeping up his neck. He hadn’t realized his admiration was so transparent. “Like what?” he asked, his voice a little too high-pitched.
She tilted her head, her eyes wide and innocent, yet piercingly observant. “Like she’s your favorite person. Like she’s a star, and you’re watching her shine.”
His ears burned, a wave of heat washing over him. He was a master of words, a composer of emotions, but he was utterly unprepared for the unfiltered honesty of a five-year-old. “You ask too many questions,” he mumbled, trying to deflect her inquiry with a playful scowl.
But your daughter was undeterred. “Don’t hurt her,” she said, her voice suddenly serious, her small hand gripping his.
Woozi’s heart clenched. “Hurt her? What makes you say that?”
“She cries behind closed doors,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes filled with a wisdom beyond her years. “She thinks I don’t know. But I do.”
A wave of guilt washed over him, a sharp, painful pang. He had witnessed your strength, your resilience, but he hadn’t fully grasped the depth of your pain, the silent battles you fought behind closed doors. He had been so focused on his own feelings, his own fears, that he had overlooked the silent suffering that lingered beneath your brave facade.
He looked at your daughter, her small face etched with concern, and he felt a surge of protectiveness, a fierce determination to shield you both from any further harm. “I would never hurt her,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering.
“Then why do you look at her like that?” she repeated, her eyes searching his.
He sighed, a mixture of exasperation and tenderness in his eyes.
“It’s… complicated,” he began, trying to find words a child could understand.
“Is it like how you look at your guitar?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
“No, not exactly,” he chuckled. “It’s… more special than that. It’s like… she’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.”
“Does that mean you want to sing with her?”
“In a way, yes. I want to be a part of her song. I want to make her happy.”
“Does she make you happy?”
“She does. She makes me happier than anyone I know.”
“Then you should tell her that.”
He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. “I will. I promise.”
Your daughter nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Okay,” she said, her voice serious. “But if you make her sad, I’ll tell you off. And I’ll tell everyone.”
Woozi smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. “Deal,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity.
He looked at your daughter, her small face filled with a quiet determination, and he felt a surge of affection, a deep appreciation for her unwavering loyalty. He knew that he had gained not just your trust, but also the trust of your fierce little protector. And he vowed, silently, to be worthy of that trust, to cherish and protect you both with all his heart.
Two years had woven a tapestry of shared moments, the quiet understanding between you and Woozi blossoming into a deep affection. However, the outside world wasn't always kind. The growing closeness between you, a single mother, and Woozi, a respected producer, drew unwanted attention.
Coworkers, fueled by envy and a lack of understanding, whispered behind your back, their words laced with venom. "She's just using him," one would sneer, their voice dripping with malice. "Single moms always have an agenda."
"It's disgusting," another would chime in, their tone laced with disgust. "She's practically throwing herself at him. And he's so blind."
"I heard she leaves her kid with anyone, just to be with him," a third would add, embellishing the lies with a cruel twist. "No wonder she gets so much time off, she's got him wrapped around her finger."
"She's probably just a gold digger," someone would say. "Trying to get a rich man to pay for everything."
"It's so unprofessional. And in the company, too! What a mess."
Woozi overheard these conversations, his usually calm demeanor shattering into icy rage. He heard the cruel remarks, the snide insinuations, and the blatant attempts to undermine your reputation. His eyes, usually warm and gentle, turned cold and hard, his jaw clenched. His voice, usually soft and melodic, became a low, dangerous growl, barely audible. He wanted to confront them, to unleash his fury, but he knew it would only escalate the situation and draw more unwanted attention to you, and fuel the fire they were trying to start. Instead, he acted in the shadows, his methods subtle but effective.
Late one night, an anonymous account on a popular social media platform posted a detailed account of workplace bullying at HYBE. The post described a dedicated employee, a single mother, being subjected to cruel gossip and unfair treatment. It didn’t name names, but the details were specific enough to raise alarm, without being easily traced back. "This employee is constantly being verbally attacked by other employees, who spread lies about her personal life, and her work ethics. They call her names, and make her feel like she is less than human. The company is doing nothing about it. This needs to stop."
The post went viral, sparking outrage and a wave of public support for the unnamed employee. HYBE, facing a potential PR disaster, launched an internal investigation. Within days, several employees were quietly dismissed, their actions deemed unacceptable.
The whispers and rumors ceased. The atmosphere in the studio shifted, replaced by a wary respect. You noticed the change, the sudden shift in the way your coworkers treated you, but you remained unaware of Woozi’s involvement.
One evening, as you and Woozi relaxed on your couch, you scrolled through the social media feed, your eyes wide with disbelief. “Can you believe this?” you exclaimed, showing him the viral post. “Someone actually stood up for this person. It’s amazing!”
Woozi smiled, a quiet, knowing smile that warmed his eyes. “It is,” he agreed, his voice soft.
“I’m so glad someone did this,” you continued, your voice filled with gratitude. “It gives me hope that people still care. And that companies will do something about it.”
Woozi’s smile widened, a flicker of pride in his eyes. He watched you, your face glowing with relief and appreciation, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. He had protected you, silenced your tormentors, and given you a sense of hope, all without you knowing his involvement. The secret made him happy, because he knew he was the reason for your peace, and he was the one that made your life better.
Two years. Two years of stolen glances, of soft touches, of lingering stares that held unspoken promises. Two years of Woozi’s unwavering support, his quiet strength a constant anchor in your life. Two years of him seamlessly weaving himself into your world, into the intricate tapestry of your family, his presence as natural and essential as the air you breathed.
On your birthday, he arrived, not with the usual studio-related gift, but with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, their delicate petals mirroring the fragile hope that bloomed in your heart. Your daughter, ever his tiny accomplice, clung to his leg, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He pulled you aside, his expression serious, his eyes holding a depth of emotion that made your breath catch in your throat.
“I have something to say,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, the words hanging in the air like a whispered secret.
You raised an eyebrow, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. “What, you secretly hate me?” you teased, trying to deflect the intensity of the moment with a touch of humor.
He scoffed, a soft smile playing on his lips. “No, idiot,” he retorted, his voice laced with affection.
Then, in one breath, he laid his heart bare, his words raw and sincere. “I love you.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the sounds around you fading into a distant hum. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. “Woozi…” you began, your voice barely a whisper, your mind reeling with the weight of his confession.
“I love your daughter too,” he added, his voice filled with a quiet certainty. “I think she loves me more than you do,” he teased, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, but his eyes held a sincerity that made your heart ache.
Before you could process the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you, a little voice, clear and unwavering, cut through the tension. “KISS MAMA, ZI!” your daughter yelled, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. You wanted the earth to swallow you whole, to erase the awkwardness of the moment. But then, warm fingers gently tilted your chin up, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.
Woozi’s eyes, usually sharp and focused, softened, their depths filled with a tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat. “I love you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze unwavering. “And I want you. Both of you. I want to be a part of your lives, to build a future with you, to cherish and protect you both.”
The vulnerability in his voice, the raw sincerity in his eyes, shattered the walls you had built around your heart. He wasn’t offering a fleeting romance, a casual fling. He was offering a forever, a commitment to you and your daughter, a promise to be a constant in your lives.
Then, finally, he closed the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken feelings, of shared moments, of a love that had blossomed amidst the chaos of your lives.
Your daughter squealed, a mixture of delight and playful disgust. “EWWW.”
Woozi chuckled against your lips, his laughter warm and comforting. He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, his expression filled with a quiet joy.
And in that moment, amidst the chaos of your daughter’s playful protests and the lingering scent of your birthday flowers, you felt a sense of peace, a sense of belonging that you hadn’t felt in a long, long time. You felt home. You felt loved. And you knew, with a certainty that warmed you from the inside out, that this was the beginning of something beautiful, a love story written in the quiet moments of shared laughter and unwavering support.
A year later, the quiet rhythm of your little home was a symphony of love and laughter. The once empty spaces were now filled with the warmth of shared meals, the gentle hum of bedtime stories, and the soft glow of family movie nights. Woozi, no longer just "Zizi," but a cherished member of your little family, tucked Munchkin into bed, his large hands gently smoothing the soft blanket around her small frame.
She sleepily grabbed his hand, her eyelids fluttering closed, her voice a soft whisper. “Love you, Zizi.”
His heart melted, a warmth spreading through his chest like a gentle sunrise. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his voice thick with affection. “Love you too, Munchkin.”
He lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on her peaceful face, a silent promise to protect her dreams, to chase away the shadows that lingered in the corners of her young mind. He adjusted the nightlight, ensuring its soft glow illuminated the room, a beacon of comfort in the darkness.
You leaned against the doorframe, a soft smile gracing your lips, your heart overflowing with a love so profound it made your eyes sting with unshed tears. The scene before you, the gentle tenderness between Woozi and your daughter, was a testament to the love you had built together, a love that had blossomed amidst the chaos of your lives.
When Woozi turned, his eyes met yours, a silent conversation passing between you. He walked towards you, his footsteps soft on the carpet, his gaze unwavering. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering for a moment, a silent expression of your gratitude, your affection, your unwavering love.
“Love you too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words a gentle caress against his skin.
He pulled you both close, his arms wrapping around you in a warm embrace, his body a comforting presence against yours. The three of you stood there, a small, perfect circle of love, bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight.
In the quiet of your little home, the silence was filled with unspoken words, with the gentle rhythm of shared breaths, with the comforting weight of love. Woozi finally felt at peace, his heart overflowing with a contentment he had never known before. He had found his place, his family, his home.
He thought of the past, the lonely nights spent in the studio, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart. He thought of you, your strength, your resilience, the way you had built a world for yourself and your daughter, a world filled with love and laughter.
And he realized, with a certainty that warmed him from the inside out, that he had found more than just a love story. He had found a family, a haven, a place where he belonged. He had found a symphony of love, a melody that resonated deep within his soul, a song that he would cherish for the rest of his life. And as he held you both close, he knew that he was finally home.
Summary: after a fight, Jihoon didn't expect to receive notifications for a revenge. However, he's not complaining.
Note: having so much fun writing this with @hoshifighting please check lyla's blog here!
Welcome to the densworld woozi🧚♀️
Jihoon is a chill man. Very chill. He values his peace of mind so much that no one dares disturb him when he’s in the zone, writing music. His studio is his sanctuary, a place where time stops and the world outside becomes irrelevant. No one crosses that boundary. No one—until you came into his life.
A little bundle of surprise, Jihoon would say with a soft smile. You changed everything.
You love surprises. It’s something Jihoon figured out pretty early on, back when you were just dating. And now, after years together and tying the knot, he knows it’s not just something you like—it’s a part of you. You’re the kind of person who thrives on spontaneity. The joy in your eyes when you do something unexpected, whether it’s a small gift or a sudden change of plans, has become a familiar sight. Surprises are so integral to your personality that impulsivity became second nature to you, a habit you didn’t even realize you had.
And Jihoon? Well, he’s had to become well-trained in handling it.
It wasn’t always easy, especially in the beginning. Six months into dating, Jihoon was already struggling to keep his composure around you. You were a whirlwind of energy and unpredictability, and Jihoon was the type who liked things calm and structured—especially when it came to his work. But then you would send him something, like that photo on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, just as he was about to attend a critical production meeting. A suggestive caption accompanying a picture of you that left him flushed and flustered.
He spent the rest of that day with his head spinning, barely able to focus on anything other than you.
His team noticed, of course. They always noticed when Jihoon was distracted—because it was rare. They’d been with him for over ten years, watching him pour his soul into his music, dedicated and unwavering. But you? It took you mere months to have Jihoon wrapped around your finger. And the best part? Jihoon willingly let it happen. He wanted to be wrapped around your finger.
And as much as his members teased him, he didn’t mind. Jihoon had always been the calm one, the focused one, the one who could drown out the world when he needed to. But with you, he didn’t want to drown out anything. He wanted to hear your laughter in the background while he worked. He wanted to receive those random photos in the middle of his meetings, even if they made him blush.
Now, Jihoon finds himself in his studio. Not the one at home, but the company studio. It was unusual—his fellow producers were surprised to see him there at this hour. 10 a.m.? That’s too early for Jihoon to be at work, they thought, especially since he rarely left the home studio after getting married.
“Did you two fight?” Soonyoung asked, making a quick stop before his schedule.
Jihoon didn’t answer. He simply turned the volume up, drowning out Soonyoung’s voice. Soonyoung scoffed but left, convinced that the only reason Jihoon would be at the company so early was if you two had fought. He knew Jihoon too well.
"Stop working for a while, man. Give your wife a rest," Soonyoung muttered as he left the studio. Jihoon cursed internally. How could Soonyoung read him so easily?
The truth was, last night didn’t go well. It was one of those nights Jihoon wished he could rewind—just take it all back. He came home late again, far too late. The kind of late where the house was eerily quiet, and the only light on was the one in the living room. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been working until he saw the notifications on his phone—your texts, your missed calls.
His heart sank. The guilt hit him immediately, but exhaustion numbed him from fully acknowledging it. He braced himself as he turned the knob, pushing the door open, hoping maybe you had gone to bed. But there you were, sitting on the couch, arms crossed, your phone lying idle beside you. You weren’t saying a word, but your silence screamed disappointment. And Jihoon knew—he’d screwed up again.
He paused at the doorway, waiting for you to say something, anything, but you didn’t. The air between you was suffocating, thick with unspoken words. He could feel your eyes on him, and it made his stomach twist. He hated it when you looked at him like that, like you were waiting for him to care enough to explain himself.
But instead of apologizing, instead of doing what he knew he should have done, Jihoon snapped.
"I work for you! I work hard to afford the life you want! Why don’t you understand?!" His voice rose, frustration dripping from every word. He didn’t mean it to come out that way. He didn’t mean to make it sound like you were the problem, like you were the one pushing him to the edge. But in that moment, he was too overwhelmed to control it.
The silence that followed was deafening. He saw the way your face fell, the way your shoulders slumped as if his words had physically weighed you down. You didn’t even argue back. You just stood there, absorbing the blow, your eyes wide and hurt, like you couldn’t believe the person you loved could say something so cruel. Jihoon could see it—the disappointment, the pain, the betrayal in your eyes.
He knew you weren’t with him for his money. He knew that from the start. You never cared about his fame, his success. You never asked for lavish gifts or expensive things. What you wanted—what you always asked for—was him. His time. His presence. But Jihoon, in his frantic rush to meet deadlines and exceed expectations, had forgotten.
He was so tired. The stress had piled up to the point that it felt like he was suffocating under the weight of everyone’s demands. His work was relentless, the pressure from his team to deliver perfection was unending, and somewhere along the way, he started feeling less like a person and more like a machine. And in all of that, he had forgotten you were the one person who treated him like a human being. The only person who reminded him to eat, to sleep, to rest.
But last night, Jihoon saw something in your eyes he never wanted to see again—pain. He had hurt you, and the worst part was, you didn’t deserve it.
You didn’t even say a word as you left the room, walking away with that shattered expression on your face. He stood there, frozen, wanting to chase after you, to take back everything he’d said, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think straight. The weight of everything felt too much.
Jihoon ended up sleeping in his home studio that night, staring blankly at his laptop screen, his mind racing with regret. He didn’t get any work done. How could he? All he could think about was the way you looked at him, the way your lips trembled like you were fighting back tears, the way you didn’t even argue because you were too hurt to speak. He hated himself for it.
The guilt gnawed at him all night, so by the time morning came, he couldn’t bear to be in the same house. He thought if he went to the company studio, if he just got out, maybe it would clear his head. Maybe he could focus on work and forget how badly he had messed up.
But he couldn’t. You were all he could think about. Even surrounded by equipment and projects, even as he tried to drown himself in work, his thoughts kept drifting back to you. The regret kept replaying in his mind like a broken record, and the truth settled in his chest like a lead weight—he could never stop thinking about you. He never could.
And now, sitting alone in the company studio, he could still see your face in his mind, the hurt he had caused, and it tore him apart.
"Jihoon…" His manager knocked on the door, pulling Jihoon from his deep focus. He turned his head toward the reflection in the glass and saw someone entering. Quickly, he put down his headphones.
"The bank called me," his manager said, concern lacing his voice. "Someone's been making a lot of purchases with your account, and they couldn’t reach you. So, I got worried."
Jihoon blinked, realization dawning as he remembered he had turned off his phone earlier to avoid distractions. He hurriedly switched it back on, and as expected, notifications flooded his screen. Among them were a surprising number of texts from you.
Curious, Jihoon opened your messages, and his eyes widened. You had sent him a series of photos—shopping bags piled high, receipts for luxury items, and then… a car. You bought a car?
Jihoon sighed, rubbing his temples as he scrolled through the notifications of credit charges—clothes, electronics, and more. Why did you decide to buy all of this in one day?
"Everything’s fine. It’s just… my wife," Jihoon said, a little embarrassed as he reassured his manager. "No one’s using my card without permission."
His manager chuckled, seeming relieved, before leaving Jihoon alone with his thoughts.
Just as Jihoon exhaled, another text popped up. A photo of you in a jacuzzi, clearly in some luxurious hotel, wearing a brand new red bikini. The caption that followed made Jihoon’s breath hitch.
You: Want to give me the life I want? Come here. Turns out, spending your money doesn’t satisfy me enough.
Jihoon sighed deeply, his face growing warm as he hurriedly turned off everything in his studio. It was no use—he’d have to go get his black card back from you. Or maybe get something else.
*
You feel the dash of cold air hit your skin as you lay back against the heated tiles of the jacuzzi, legs lazily draped over the edge. You can’t help the little smirk pulling at your lips as you scroll through Jihoon’s texts. He’s gonna kill you. Well, maybe not kill, but he’ll definitely be pissed off. The shopping spree, the car, the photos—God, you knew exactly what you were doing. Pressing his buttons like that, getting him riled up on purpose, all because he had the audacity to shout at you last night.
But, you’re done with his bullshit excuses. He can whine about deadlines and stress all he wants, but you’re not here for that. You’re here for him, and clearly, he needs a little reminder.
The door to the hotel room opens, and even with the sound of the jacuzzi jets bubbling, you hear it. He’s here. Your heart skips a beat as the familiar, steady thud of Jihoon’s shoes echo in the space. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel the burden of his stare on you, heavy and unrelenting. His presence is like a storm, silent but brewing.
You stretch your arms above your head, not even looking up, knowing full well he’s staring.
“Took you long enough,” You hum, voice saturated by fake innocence, like you hadn’t been the one who set the whole thing in motion. “figured you’d be quicker if i spent a little more of your money.”
Silence.
Then, the sound of him setting something down—his keys? maybe his bag? You don’t care. You hear the shuffle of his shoes being kicked off, and that’s when you finally open your eyes.
Jihoon stands at the edge of the jacuzzi, arms crossed, jaw tight, his eyes dreary and locked onto you.
“You’ve got some nerve,” he finally speaks, voice low, a growl almost. “what do you think you’re doing?”
You shrug, acting like you don’t feel the tension. “Just giving myself a little treat. After all, i am your wife. Don’t i deserve the best?”
Jihoon doesn’t say anything, just stares at you for a moment longer before his hands move to his belt. Your eyes widen, mouth parting slightly. “Oh, you think this is funny? You think you can just spend my money, send me those pictures, and i’ll come running?”
“Well, you did come running…” You mumble as if you were talking to yourself.
Jihoon moves, and before you know it, he’s crouched beside the jacuzzi, fingers hooking into the strap of your bikini top, pulling you closer to him with little resistance. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice rough, “this is the last thing you’ll be wearing tonight.”
Before you can even form a reply, he tugs at the fabric, and the red bikini snaps, tearing with a sharp rip.
Jihoon stands back up, the smirk on his face teasing you in a way that gets under your skin. His hand casually tosses the torn bikini top aside like it’s nothing, he looks at you, riling you up on purpose. He doesn’t rush; he takes his time pulling off his shirt, his pants.
You narrow your eyes, trying to keep the annoyance in check, but he’s pushing your buttons. “Really?” you ask. “You had to rip it off just to mess with me? You’re such an asshole”
“Yeah?” he murmurs, taking a step closer until he's right in front of you again. He leans down, pushing you back into the jacuzzi, the water sloshing as your back hits the edge. “You look mad, but I bet you’re dripping right now.”
You can even think of a response, his hand slips into your bikini bottoms just as he sits down. His fingers brush lightly over your clit, not applying pressure, just teasing, circling it slow just to watch you squirm. You twitch under his touch, your legs parting on instinct, hips bucking just slightly. He’s not giving you enough, and he knows it.
“You like to play these games, baby?” he murmurs. “Teasing me, spending all my money. What’s the real reason, huh? Just wanted my attention this bad?”
You bite back a moan, refusing to let him win so easily. “Shut up,” you manage to grit out, but the breathlessness in your voice betrays you. His thumb starts rubbing a little harder, making the bud throb on his thumb. You feel your body arching toward him, a needy moan escaping despite yourself.
“No...” he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “I wanna hear you say it. You knew I’d come running, right?”
His fingers press harder now, slipping lower, teasing your entrance without pushing in. Your hands grip the edge of the tub, eyes rolling back slightly as he continues torturing you.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hiss, your words catching in your throat as his fingers pick up the tempo. He’s still circling, still rubbing, but it’s not nearly enough. You need more, and he knows it.
“Oh, I’m annoying?” he growls softly, leaning his weight into you, fingers pressing harder, deeper, but still not giving you what you need. “What’s annoying is you buying cars and booking hotels like you don’t already have everything you want right here.”
Your legs spread wider, hips instinctively grinding down against Jihoon’s fingers as they tease your entrance. Your hand shoots up to grip his wrist, trying to gude his fingers in, but he stills the arm, cupping you. His other hand trails up your chest, stopping to toy with your nipples, flicking and squeezing them just enough to make you gasp. Then, wetting the valley of your breasts, his hand moves to your throat, wrapping around it in a firm grip, pushing your head back until it rests on the cold border of the jacuzzi.
“You’re so needy,” Jihoon mutters, watching as your mouth falls open, eyes half-lidded, breath coming out in shallow pants. You feel his thumb graze over your bottom lip, smirking as if he’s amused by just how desperate you’ve become. He hasn’t even given you what you want yet, but you’re already a mess for him.
Finally, his fingers push inside, just one at first, but the way your body responds—instantly clenching, your pussy practically swallowing his finger whole—makes him groan low in his throat. The water ripples around the two of you, splashing lightly against your skin as his movements grow rougher.
“God, you’re soaked,” he chuckles, voice almost mocking as his finger curls inside you, hitting that sweet spot making your hips jerk by their own. Even with the water swirling around, Jihoon can feel the heat between your thighs, the sticky slickness of your folds clinging to his fingers as he slides in another.
Your grip tightens on his wrist, trying to pull him closer, but he doesn't let up. Instead, his fingers work you harder, pumping in and out of you making the water splash with every push. The sound is obscene, the wet slaps of his fingers echoing in the room, blending with your suffered moans, and Jihoon's grunts.
You lift your gaze to him, lips parted, eyes pleading, practically begging for more. You look up at Jihoon with a needy expression that you know drives him crazy. But he just grins, slowing his movements slightly, his hand tightening around your throat.
“Aww, look at you,” he coos, voice soft despite the way his fingers are fucking into you hard, relentless. “Such a pretty little mess. You like this, don’t you? Me ruining you with just my fingers?”
You can’t form words, your head tilting back more as his pace quickens again, fingers curling deep, hitting the spongy spot that makes your vision blur. The water splashes harder now, droplets spilling over the edge of the tub as your hips buck in time with his thrusts. Your legs tremble, thighs shaking, and all you can manage is a soft whimper, your entire body arching toward him.
Jihoon chuckles again, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, fingers pumping in and out faster, thumb rubbing over your clit in quick circles. “You’re so fucking tight… taking it so well. What do you want, huh? You want more?”
Your breath catches in your throat, his words making your body ache. You nod frantically, too overwhelmed to say anything. The hand around your throat loosens slightly, giving you a moment to breathe, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers continue their brutal pace, fucking you deep, and you know he’s not stopping until you cum around his long fingers.
You feel your stomach flip when Jihoon curls his fingers and stills them, making your body arch off the jacuzzi edge as you instinctively reach for him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him down to kiss you.
The kiss is brutish, dirty—his lips smashing into yours, teeth clashing as his tongue slips into your mouth. He sucks your tongue hard, biting down on your bottom lip in that way that always makes your legs tremble. You can’t focus, the pleasure building too fast, making it impossible to keep up with the kiss. But you try, you desperately try, your hands clutching tighter in his hair.
It’s only a matter of seconds before your body betrays you. You moan into his mouth, the sound low and drawn out, muffled by the kiss. You pull him closer, your grip tightening painfully in his hair as the pleasure crests, your body trembling as your back arches impossibly high.
Your nipples graze his chest, the sensation of your sensitive skin brushing against his, makes him shiver, his breath hitching as your slick cunt clenches hard around his fingers.
Your moans become more frantic, desperate, and you can’t keep kissing him anymore. Your mouth falls open, head tilting back as you gasp for air, your body seizing up with the strength of your orgasm.
Your pussy tightens around his fingers, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you cum, the water splashing violently around you from the press of your movements. Jihoon smirks down at you, clearly proud of himself, fingers still thrusting into you even as you come down from your high. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice soft but teasing. “Cum all over my fingers.”
Your mind is still swimming in the hangovers of your orgasm when Jihoon suddenly pulls his hand away. You’re left panting, trying to catch your breath, but he’s already manhandling you, turning you around and pressing you into the edge of the tub.
“Get on all fours,” he orders. You don’t hesitate, your body moving on autopilot as you shift into position, knees pressing into jacuzzi, hands bracing yourself against the edge.
Jihoon’s grip is firm as he presses you down, making sure you don’t slip on the slick surface. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady while he strokes himself behind you. You glance back, seeing him gripping his cock, pumping himself slowly, the tip flushed red and dripping with pre-cum, some veins popping up when he cuts the blood circulation. The sight makes your mouth water.
He lines himself up with you, the head of his cock teasing your wet pussy, but he doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he grabs your bikini bottom—what’s left of it anyway—and yanks it harshly to the side, exposing your swollen, sensitive folds. You feel the fabric digging into your skin, tight and uncomfortable.
Jihoon watches, mesmerized, as your pussy clenches around nothing, your body still sensitive from your previous orgasm. Slowly Jihoon pushes inside. He takes his time, savoring the way your walls squeeze around him, they way you slick starts to coat him too, your body struggling to accommodate his size. You whimper, fingers clawing at the edge of the tub, trying to keep yourself stable as he fills you inch by inch.
He moans deep in his throat, the sound oscillating through his chest as he bottoms out, his cock buried fully inside you.
You bite your lip, arching your back even more, desperate to take him deeper. “Jihoon… please…”
But he just chuckles darkly, pulling out slowly, only to slam back in, making the water splash around you both again. “Oh, you’ll get what you want,” he promises. “Just keep taking it like that.”
His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp. The sharp pull has you arching back, your spine curving as he yanks you up against his chest, your back pressing flush against his front. The new angle makes his cock hit even deeper, your breath hitching as the tip grazes that swollen spot inside you.
Jihoon glances at the nearby mirror, his eyes glued to the reflection of your bodies. Your tits bounce with every thrust, soft and flushed, his eyes darken, watching the way your skin sticks to his, the way your body—though trembling—melts against him, sacrificing to the pleasure despite every nerve in your body wanting to tense up.
He moans suffered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, feeling the warmness radiating off your skin. You’re burning up, both of you are, your bodies slick with sweat despite being submerged in water seconds after. Jihoon can’t help but bury his face against your neck, breathing you in, skin to skin, letting the sensation take over him.
“Fuck,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin, almost as if he's talking to himself. “I missed this. Missed you.”
His hips don’t stop, driving into you harder, your thighs shaking as you try to keep up, but your body is already on the edge. You’re clinging to him for dear life, your head falling back against his shoulder, mouth falling open as breathless moans slip out with every thrust.
“I’m sorry,” Jihoon suddenly murmurs, his voice softer now, tender. He keeps thrusting into you, but there’s an apology laced in every word, every snap of his hips. “I’m so fucking sorry… for everything.”
You don’t answer, can’t even if you wanted to. Your breath is caught in your throat, the only response you give is the way your body clings to his, melting further into his hold as his hands roam down your body.
He doesn’t expect you to answer. Maybe he doesn’t even need you to. He just keeps going, fucking into you like he’s trying to apologize through the way his body moves against yours. His grip loosens in your hair, his hand sliding down the curve of your waist, lower, until his fingers find the puffy bundle of nerves between your legs.
The second his fingers brush over your clit, your whole body tenses again, only to relax almost instantly as he starts rubbing teasing circles. You whimper, legs trembling, hardly competent to hold yourself up, and Jihoon groans into your skin, feeling the way you melt even more against him.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, his voice raspy in your ear. “Always take me so well… fuck… so tight, baby… you feel that? You’re clenching around me.”
You don’t say anything, just a soft gasp escapes your lips, your head falling back further onto his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat to him. His fingers quicken their pace, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, every brush of his thumb over your swollen clit making you cry out.
“I know I fucked up,” Jihoon whispers, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. "But I can’t stop… I can’t stop thinking about you. About this. About how good you feel around me.”
Your chest heaves with each breath, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as his hand continues working you, his other arm wrapping around your waist to hold you tighter, anchoring you to him. His fingers press harder against your clit, drawing tight circles that make your whole body twitch, every nerve ending alive and buzzing.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, his voice dipping into that familiar, filthy tone, the one that drives you insane. “Cum for me… I know you’re close. I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”
You’re so close, your vision blurring as the heat in your core builds higher. Your body’s completely given in to him, to the way he’s fucking you deep and hard while his fingers expertly play with your clit, not giving you a single moment of respite.
And then it hits, hard and fast. Your back arches, body tensing as the orgasm rips through you, ripple after ripple of pleasure crashing over you as your pussy clenches tight around him. Your hands reach back, desperately grabbing at anything—his hair, his arms—trying to ground yourself as you moan out his name, breathless and trembling.
Jihoon groans at the feeling, his cock throbbing inside you as your walls pulse around him. “Fuck… that’s it,” he rasps, his hand slowing its movements on your clit, letting you ride out your high. He’s still buried deep inside you, his cock twitching, and he watches in the mirror as your body shudders against his.
He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he shifts you forward, placing you on all fours again, his hands steadying you as he lines himself up once more. His hand slides down to your ass, pushing your bikini bottom further to the side so he can watch as your tight puffy walls flutter around him.
Without delay, he starts thrusting again, his pace slow but deep, watching as your body tenses, clenching around him every time he sinks in.
Jihoon lets out a series of the neediest, whiniest moans you've ever heard from him, and it hits you differently—vulnerable, like you’ve broken through every layer he keeps guarded.
Then he sinks in fully and stops.
You slouch forward, your whole body going limp as you brace yourself on your forearms. You feel him pressed against your back, the warmth of his skin sticking to yours as his breath hitches in your ear.
And then it fills you—heat as his cum spurts deep inside you. Hot, thick, and it has you crying out, your voice breaking as your body quakes beneath him. You can feel every pulse of his cock as he fills you up, making your insides feel impossibly full.
Your back trembles under his weight, every muscle in your body quivering as his release continues to flood you. Your pussy clenches around him involuntarily, trying to milk every last drop from him, and it only makes him groan louder.
“Shit,” Jihoon breathes, his voice a wrecked, breathy mess as he leans forward, his forehead pressing into the back of your neck. His hands grip your hips tightly, like he’s using you to anchor himself through the intensity of his orgasm. “Fuck… you feel s'good.”
Your head drops onto your forearm, unable to do anything but take it all in. You can feel his cum dripping out of you, a warm, slick sensation as it mixes with the water around your thighs. Your legs are shaking, your core aching, but you don’t want him to pull out, you want to stay like this, to feel him deep inside you just a little longer.
Jihoon’s breathing finally starts to slow, his body still pressed flush against yours as his arms snake around your waist, holding you tight. You hum softly in response, his cum continues to spill out, and you can feel every slow drip as your pussy flutters, trying to recover from the relentless pounding he just gave you.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to glance down at the sight of your trembling back. A soft smirk tugs at his lips as he watches how your body reacts to him, still sensitive, still on edge. “Look at you,” he whispers, his tone soft but teasing. “You’re still shaking. Did I fuck you that good?”
You don’t answer him; just let out a shaky breath. Your body is completely spent, and you can narrowly keep yourself upright. Jihoon chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your damp skin before pulling out slowly, the loss of him leaving you feeling empty and aching. The last bit of his cum leaks out of you as he does, and he watches, fascinated, as it mixes with the water beneath you.
He moves to your side, pulling you into his chest, his hands rubbing gentle circles on your back as you both come down from the high.
Jihoon gently lifted you from the jacuzzi, his hands steady as he wrapped a robe around your body, drying you with care. His touch was soft, and the tension between you started to ease with each moment. He laid you down on the bed with tenderness, his eyes flickering with a mix of concern and regret.
As he stepped away to quickly clean himself up, you could feel the weight of his emotions lingering in the air. When he returned, Jihoon slid into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his warmth pressing against your skin. His embrace was tight but comforting, as though he was trying to hold on to more than just the moment.
"I'm sorry..." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the sincerity in it was undeniable. He rested his forehead gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. "Please forgive me."
You could feel the vulnerability in his words, a side of Jihoon that he rarely showed.
You lay there in his arms, feeling the tension in his body slowly release as he held you close. His apology lingered in the air, filled with emotion you hadn’t heard from him before. For a moment, everything was quiet—the warmth of his skin, the sound of your breathing, and the beating of his heart against yours.
Jihoon pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness. His brows furrowed, and he seemed almost afraid of what you might say. You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, the familiar sensation calming you both.
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” you whispered, the weight of the past argument starting to lift. “But it’s hard sometimes, Jihoon. You get so lost in your work…”
He nodded, the regret still heavy in his gaze. "I know. I promise I'll do better. I can't stand the thought of losing you, or pushing you away."
His words tugged at your heart, and you could see how much he meant it. There had always been that side of him—driven, focused, and dedicated—but sometimes it made him forget everything else. Still, here he was, trying, apologizing, and making the effort to put you first.
Without saying anything, you leaned in, closing the distance between you, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss. Jihoon sighed against your mouth, relief and gratitude flooding through him as he deepened the kiss, his arms tightening around you as though he couldn’t bear to let go.
When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched again, both of you breathing a little more steadily now.
“I forgive you,” you said softly. His eyes brightened at your words, and you felt the tension finally melt away completely. Jihoon smiled, a rare, gentle one that you didn’t see often enough, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling you closer again, as though he couldn’t get enough of having you in his arms.
*
Jihoon sighed deeply as he glanced around your living room, cluttered with bags and boxes of things you'd bought earlier that day. His eyes scanned the array of items before he asked, half-jokingly, “Is it even possible to empty my bank account in a single day?”
You smiled, shaking your head as you tried to ease his worry. “Don’t stress. I can sell them all on the marketplace. They’ll be gone in two days, tops. I promise.”
Jihoon raised an eyebrow and picked up one item that particularly caught his attention—a pair of leopard-printed underwear for men. He held it up with a bemused expression, “Leopard print... for me?”
You grinned mischievously, “Yup! Oh, and I got you the hot pink one, too. Thought you’d look great in it.”
Jihoon groaned, his face a mix of amusement and disbelief. “You know it was a joke when everyone said i wear these kind of panties, right? There’s no way I’d ever wear these.”
You crossed your arms, stepping closer with a playful smirk on your face. “Oh, I can make you wear them,” you teased, your tone light but daring.
Jihoon chuckled, shaking his head at your persistence. “Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe,” you replied, your grin widening. “I have my ways. Just wait until you see how good you look in them.”
He rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “You’re impossible.”
You stepped even closer, standing on your toes to whisper in his ear, “You’ll thank me later.”
Jihoon’s laughter filled the room as he pulled you into a hug, shaking his head. “You never give up, do you?”
“Never,” you said, wrapping your arms around him. "And trust me, you’ll look amazing in leopard print."
With a defeated sigh, Jihoon gave you one more playful glare, “Fine. But don’t think this means I’m wearing the hot pink ones too.”
“We’ll see about that,” you replied, your voice full of challenge and laughter as you leaned into his embrace.
summary: after a series of dates gone bad, your best friend soonyoung decides to set you up on a blind date with one of his closest friends - jihoon, a very reserved (and hot) producer.
words: around 7k
warnings: none really
a/n: this took me so long to write like i’m genuinely surprised i managed to finish it :oo anyways hope u guys enjoy!!
bad decisions always start with kwon soonyoung.
you were laying down on his couch, taking up half of the space, a pillow covering your face as you whined, an annoyed huff leaving your lips seconds later.
‘it’s like i can’t find one normal person to date. seriously, if i lower my standards any more they might hit the basement.’
your friend’s laugh echoed through the room as he sat down, kicking your legs off of the couch for some more space.
‘the problem, my dear, is that you have terrible taste.’ he stated, taking a sip of his beer. you immediately shot up, ready to defend yourself, but soonyoung stopped you before you even let a word out. ‘i don’t wanna hear any excuses - you literally dated a guy who made out with his mother on his birthday. freud is probably doing backflips in his grave.’
‘he was a family man!’ you protested. ‘a bit too much of a family man, but how was i supposed to know?’
soonyoung sighed.
you knew he was right - every other date you went out on ended up a mess. whether it was a guy who refused to wash his hand because his favorite idol touched it once (and you’ve found out that he actually hasn’t washed it for more than a couple of months at that point), a flat earther or a guy who insisted on a threesome with his girl best friend, none of them were normal in any way. and somehow you ended up back at the same place after ending things with each and every one of them: at soonyoung’s apartment, curled up on the couch wondering how did you let that happen again. soonyoung comforted you each time, as a good friend should, but to see you make one bad decision after another really irked him up.
‘let me set you up on a date.’
‘huh?’
the man put down the beer bottle and his phone on the couch, turning to face you.
‘if you can’t find someone normal yourself then let me help. i’ll set you up on a blind date and you won’t have to be so miserable anymore.’
‘absolutely not.’ you immediately shook your head. ‘this would never work out.’
‘you never know unless you try.’ he mumbled, back leaning against the couch. ‘besides, maybe you’d actually see what a normal date looks like, for once.’
you thought about it for a few seconds. much to your annoyance, soonyoung was right in that, too, and the idea of going on one more date wasn’t exactly the worst. whether it was going to end up being a disaster or not, you’ve been on enough dates to be prepared for almost every possible scenario. you’ve seen it all at this point - what’s one more bad date to talk about over a glass of wine once you’re older?
‘he better be normal, or i’m confiscating your tiger plushie collection.’
the only thing soonyoung told you was the name - lee jihoon. you recognized almost instantly: one of soonyoung’s long time friends, one of his closest friends as well. and yet somehow you’ve never met him before. hell, you didn’t even know what he looked like.
you arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early; soonyoung made a reservation for your date at a hotpot place near his apartment, a new spot that just opened a few months ago that you haven’t yet tried out. it wasn’t packed - there were a lot of people, but not enough for it to be crowded and uncomfortable.
nerves hit you as soon as you sat down at the table.
this wasn’t unusual either - you’d arrive early, stress out for the remaining few minutes, overthink what could possibly happen all until the date actually shows up. you looked around anxiously, eyes coming back to the entrance to the restaurant every now and then, scanning every face that passed through the door as you fiddled with your fingers under the table.
you looked down at your phone to kill some time (and hopefully ease your nerves at least a bit). the exact moment the clock hit 5pm you heard someone come in, quick footsteps getting louder as they approached your direction.
the man stopped in front of your table, eyes locking with yours for a few seconds without a word.
‘are you, uh- my date? soonyoung’s friend?’ you mumbled awkwardly, breaking the silence between the two of you. the man nodded, pulling back the chair to sit down. he extended a hand in your direction.
‘i’m jihoon, but i assume soonyoung told you as much.’ he said as he shook your hand. ‘sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘oh, you don’t have to apologize.’ you smiled politely, trying your best to appear chill. ‘i’m the one who came in early after all. anyways, um- have you ever been to this place?’
jihoon shook his head.
‘don’t really have the time to eat out to be honest. i usually just order takeout.’
‘busy with work?’
‘mhm.’
‘and what is it that you do?’
jihoon’s voice was calm and precise and so was his manner of speaking - short, factual sentences, no unnecessary words or oversharing details. one could say he was a complete opposite of your friend. but that wasn’t what surprised you about him the most.
what came as a surprise was his answer.
‘i’m a music producer.’ you made a little ‘wow’ sound, seemingly impressed with his answer. ‘it’s nothing special.’
‘i didn’t take you as the type.’ you said and jihoon raised an eyebrow. ‘i mean that you look so… serious. it’s surprising that someone as stoic as you is friends with soonyoung of all people.’
‘i’ve learned to tolerate him.’ he mumbled, eyes darting away from you and towards the waiter, gesturing for him to come to your table so that the two of you can order. ‘enough about me, though. shall we order something?’
you smiled, nodding politely.
the rest of the date went surprisingly pleasant - you had a nice conversation (or rather you talked non stop and he just listened, nodding or saying ‘mhm’ every once in a while), the food was good and jihoon, in true gentleman fashion, insisted on paying for the food and your cab home. but there was one thing that wouldn’t stop bothering you.
‘it was a disaster. can you believe he didn’t smile even once? and he spoke for like, maybe three minutes total.’
‘maybe it’s because you blabber too much.’ you heard jun say from the other side of the kitchen counter, the man not even sparing a second to look up at you from his phone. you rolled your eyes at his remark, trying to focus back on the cooking. ‘you should just ask soonyoung about it. i’m sure he told him something.’
‘yeah, mr. ‘i’m so mysterious i barely talk’ definitely told the biggest yapper on this planet about how his date went.’ you sighed, hand reaching towards the spices cabinet. ‘i think i would know by now. i’m surprised he even gave me his number.’
‘did you text him after?’ your friend asked, now standing up to head over to the fridge and get something to drink.
‘of course i did! i texted him when i arrived home to thank him for the good time spent and you know what he did? he sent me a thumbs up emoji. a thumbs up emoji, for christ sake!’
jun couldn’t help but chuckle at your dramatic reaction, sitting down once more as he opened the can of soda.
‘maybe he’s just a dry texter.‘
you sighed.
‘i don’t know. nonetheless, i don’t really expect to hear from him.’ you mumbled.
‘another bad date to cross off your list?’ jun asked, eyes already glued to the food you prepared for the two of you.
‘probably, yeah. it’s a shame, though. he’s cute. and a gentleman, too. he’s probably the first guy who didn’t even think of splitting the bill on the first date and paid before i had any say in the matter. i’m also almost a hundred percent sure he had a black card, but he put it back into his wallet before i could take a good look.’
your friend looked invested all of a sudden, even straightening his posture as a sign that he’s listening.
‘you said he works as a producer, right? and his name is-‘
‘lee jihoon.’
jun put down his utensils before he even managed to dig into the food, his eyes widening all of a sudden as if he’s just connected the dots.
‘girl, you literally went on a date with the legendary producer WOOZI. that is an honor in itself.’
your brain seemed to short circuit for a quick second after hearing your friend’s words.
everyone around you always obsessed over WOOZI - the legendary producer who built his own legacy from scratch, his determination and work ethic admired by many around the world. his work has been praised and recognised globally and he’s worked with some of the biggest stars in the world, producing number one hits that would top the charts for weeks on end. despite all that, the man wasn’t known as a public persona - his social media displayed only the songs he’s worked on and his private life was exactly that: private. no one really knew what WOOZI was like outside of his music. people who weren’t from his hometown wouldn’t be able to recognise him on the street or in a restaurant. but jun did. because he grew up in that very same town.
it was his favorite anecdote during a late night conversation or while randomly spitting facts about himself, only that now it held a lot more meaning. now you could put a face behind that nickname. a very handsome face, too.
‘wait, you’re telling me that dude is WOOZI?’
jun nodded quietly, a satisfied smile on his face.
‘i literally lived next door to him when i was younger. we weren’t exactly friends, though. i think he was a bit too shy to go and play outside most of the time.’
‘i think you were just too weird for him.’ you laughed, earning a smack on the head from your friend.
‘anyways, my point is,’ jun continued, seemingly ignoring your comment. ‘he’s obviously a busy guy. maybe wait a little to see what happens instead of immediately crossing him off of your list and denouncing him just another bad date.’
a week and a half has passed and you were laying comfortably on your couch, the sounds of some new reality show you’ve been watching filling up the room.
you took jun’s words to heart, still holding some hope that jihoon would text or call you, chalking up every day of it not happening to him being busy. but after so many days it was pretty difficult to hold onto that hope.
your phone started buzzing all of a sudden, the sudden sound making you jump. you looked over to the phone screen, immediately sighing as you saw the contact name.
kwon soonyoung.
if there’s one thing you’ve learned about him throughout the years of your friendship, it was that whenever soonyoung called you at a late hour like this it was one of two things:
1. he was drunk out of his mind and his friends called you from his phone to ask if you’d pick him up.
2. he wasn’t drunk out of his mind yet so he’d invite you to come and drink with him and his friends only to declare that he’s done for the day right as you arrive, leaving you in an awkward position as he did countless times before (his alcohol tolerance is so weak it should be studied).
you picked up the call and didn’t hear any coherent words on the other side of the phone, but you did hear soonyoung crying and wailing about something you couldn’t quite understand. that was until someone else took the phone.
‘i’m sorry for him, he’s drunk beyond comprehension.’ you recognized the voice instantly, even though you only heard it once before. ‘could i trouble you with picking him up from here?’
so it was option number one.
‘can’t you do it yourself since you’re already with him?’ you furrowed your brows, surprised at the question. ‘you don’t sound drunk to me.’
‘i’m working.’ jihoon’s voice was stern on the other side of the phone and you could still hear the faint sounds of soonyoung in the background.
‘then what is soonyoung doing there?’
‘he likes to terrorize me.’
you looked at the clock on the wall and then sighed, loud enough for the man to hear it.
‘drop me the address and i’ll pick him up.’
the drive was fairly quick - surprisingly enough, jihoon’s studio wasn’t that far from your apartment and, conveniently, even closer to soonyoung’s. that information did brighten up your mood a little; it meant that you won’t have to waste too much of your time on your drunk friend and that you’d be able to swiftly come back to watching the new episode of your show.
you looked at the message jihoon sent containing the instructions of how to get to his studio, the thumbs up he sent more than a week ago sitting right above it. once you finally found the door (with the slight help of hoshi’s extremely loud voice) you knocked on it lightly, being met with jihoon’s figure right in front of you barely seconds after.
he looked… tired.
‘hi.’
‘hi.’ jihoon mumbled, hand running through his short hair. ‘i’m sorry you had to drive here at this hour.’
‘it’s no problem.’ you said, a small smile making its way onto your lips. ‘why are you here so late anyways? it’s way past working hours.’
‘i have deadlines to meet.’ he explained shortly, opening the door wider to let you in. ‘i’m used to it by now.’
you nodded, eyes roaming around the room - the equipment, a large couch in the corner (currently occupied by hoshi), a bunch of figurines from different animes. it was all kept pretty minimalistic, exactly what you expected of jihoon.
you didn’t have much time to contemplate the interior, though, as you were soon met with the weight of drunk soonyoung’s body on yours, the man almost making you stumble.
‘yah, my favorite friend!’ he cried out, capturing you in a tight hug. ‘jihoon won’t let me record a song about tigers here. he’s a bad guy!’
you looked over to jihoon. he just shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips.
‘yeah, he’s such a bad guy.’ you said. ‘but the bad guy has work to do and you need to go home before you fall asleep, because i won’t be carrying you to your apartment.’
‘but i wanna record my song!’ soonyoung said, voice sulky. for a second you almost felt bad for him.
‘i’ll let you do it once i’m done with this project, alright?’ jihoon asked, a last effort for his friend to agree to leave him alone for now. soonyoung’s face lit up immediately, nodding excitedly as you dragged him out of the studio, shooting the man a quick goodbye before he closed the door.
on your way back, after you’ve already managed to get soonyoung tucked away in his bed and were ready to get inside your car your phone buzzed again. yet this time it was jihoon who the notification was from.
‘thank you for helping today. i’ll owe you.’
you smiled unconsciously, typing back an answer.
‘invite me out somewhere after your done with your project and we’ll be even.’
you weren’t even mad when he sent you another thumbs up emoji as a response.
soonyoung rolled his eyes as he heard you sigh for the fifth time in the span of the last few minutes, another outfit discarded and thrown onto the bed as you stood in front of your closet.
‘remind me, what was wrong with that first dress again?’ he mumbled as you rummaged through the hangers full of clothes.
‘the neck line. too slutty.’
‘wear something red. it’s jihoon’s favorite color.’ he mumbled quietly, going on his phone. you stopped in your movements, head almost cartoonishly turning towards your friend. next thing he knew, you threw a shoe at him. he let out a little ‘ow’, laughing right after.
‘and you decide to tell me that after i’ve tried on twelve different outfits and almost had a mental breakdown?’
‘it was funny seeing you so frustrated.’
another shoe flew in soonyoung’s direction, this time missing the boy and landing behind the bed.
you decided to abstain from any verbal comments towards your friend and his visible lack of help, turning your focus towards the closet yet again.
you had too many clothes for your own good - not so many that you would call yourself a hoarder, but your collection was definitely quite impressive, with garments for almost every occasion and event. still, it seemed to not be enough as you were tasked with picking an outfit for a dinner with jihoon.
he texted you back two weeks after you helped him with getting hoshi out of his studio - even apologised for just how long it took. the invitation wasn’t anything overtly special. no mention of it being a date: just a ‘thank you’ dinner at a ramen place he really likes, with a note to wear something pretty and elegant but still casual.
what the hell does that even mean?
after some time had passed you managed to decide on an off-shoulder dark red long sleeve paired with a flowy, black maxi skirt you bought at a 50% off sale once last year and wore two times since. you sighed, looking at yourself in the mirror one last time, soonyoung giving you a thumbs up in the background.
you arrived at the restaurant five minutes early and, to your surprise, jihoon was already there, standing in front of the entrance with headphones on, eyes looking down at his phone. you smiled unconsciously at the view. he seemed to notice your presence quite quickly - gaze locking with yours, hand already reaching to hide the phone in his pocket.
you greeted him. jihoon stayed silent for a solid ten seconds.
‘hello, earth to jihoon!’ you said, brows furrowed in confusion.
‘ah, sorry.’ he mumbled, seemingly zoning back in, ears a little red. ‘hi. you look… pretty.’
you could see a small smile on his face and that, along with the comment, almost caught you off-guard. you prayed that the dim lights inside the restaurant wouldn’t let him see the faint crimson color creeping up your cheeks.
you managed to mumble a quiet ‘thank you’ before the two of you sat down at your table, silence taking over for a good few minutes.
‘so, how did your project go?’ you asked to get a conversation going, jihoon looking up from the menu and at you.
‘good.’ he said shortly, with no further explanations. ‘tiring.’ he added after a few beats of silence.
‘you should rest for a bit.’ you stated and as jihoon focused on your face, he couldn’t help but notice the slight worry that appeared at his second comment. ‘even a legendary producer such as WOOZI deserves some time off.’
jihoon blinked once. twice.
that’s when you realised.
‘you know i’m-‘
‘ah, it came out the wrong way, it’s not like i’m stalking you or anything i promise!’ you said, words almost blurring into one another due to the speed with which they came out of your mouth. ‘i have this friend, jun, and i obviously told him about our date because that man is as nosy as they get, and then he started a story about how he used to live next door to you when you were children or something. sorry.’
jihoon laughed.
it wasn’t a loud laugh, one that would make your stomach hurt, no. it was more of a small giggle, quiet and sudden, as if he found this situation utmost amusing.
‘don’t be.’ he said, still smiling gently. ‘you would’ve probably found out anyways. if not from jun, then from soonyoung.’
‘i shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he knows.’ you mumbled, still slightly embarrassed.
‘he’s my closest friend. he’s known about it for years.’ jihoon stated shortly as the food arrived. ‘and i don’t mind you knowing about it either.’
jihoon’s smile faded quickly as he heard his phone buzzing, the contact name on his phone making him frown. he excused himself for a second, that second turning into five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. when he came back to the table your plate was already almost empty, while his food was way past being warm - as of someone put his bowl inside the freezer for the entirety of the time he was talking on his phone.
he sat down, running a hand through his hair as he sighed quietly.
‘did something happen?’ your voice was filled with concern as you looked at him.
‘they still want some changes on the project i just finished. i should probably go back to the studio today.’
‘oh.’
jihoon was visibly annoyed with the information he received on the phone as he looked around, unsure of what to do next.
‘we can reschedule this.’ your voice got him out of his thoughts, eyes looking up at you. ‘we’ll meet for this date- dinner another day and you’ll be done with this work thing faster.’
‘i don’t want to make you wait.’ he mumbled.
‘i don’t mind.’
the truth was different - you did mind, you mumbled as you cursed yourself out in your head on your way home. truth be told, you wanted him to stay there, to finish the food and chat, maybe even invite him over for a movie (normally that offer would also include a drink or two, but you’ve learned that jihoon didn’t drink often). the other side of you, the one who spoke that day, knew that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the evening with the thoughts of another deadline clouding his head. guess you’ll just have to be patient.
you did notice a slight shift in his behavior, though. he reached out from time to time via messages (you still celebrate that as a small win - going from a thumbs up to normal texts with jihoon is a huge achievement), asking about your day or trying to reschedule your meeting, with little success. he even sent you a snippet of a song he’s been working on once, much to your surprise, asking for your input on it and claiming he has no one to ask about it and he needs someone else’s opinion. the texts weren’t by all means an everyday thing - more so like a ‘let me pop up out of the blue at the most random hour of the day with a wyd text’ type of thing, but they still brought a dumb smile to your face whenever you saw a notification from him pop up on your phone.
that being said, there was one issue.
the rescheduling of the dinner which has been cut short by his work has turned into a hellish experience. you could count the amount of times you were set on a particular date only to hear a day before that he won’t be able to get there and that you’ll need to reschedule again (with tons of apologies, of course) on the fingers of both your hands.
it started to be frustrating after a while - you knew he didn’t mean for it to seem like he didn’t want to meet up with you, but with each rescheduling you felt more and more as if that was the case, and not his work getting in the way. the most you got when it came to meeting him in real life was bumping into him at the grocery store in the middle of the night, both of you surprised as you searched through the snack aisle to find something to ease that random need for food at 2am. but that was it.
until you got a message from soonyoung about his birthday party.
soonyoung was always big on spending that day with all of the people he cherished the most - he loved having them around for his special day. there were always some no-shows, much to his dismay, but he’s gotten used to it considering how busy adult life can get sometimes.
when the notification first popped up you could only see the beginning of the text and you started to wonder whether jihoon would be there or not. definitely not, you thought, considering his lifestyle. but then you opened the chat as you arrived home and saw the rest of the messages soonyoung had sent - an overly excited explanation on how jihoon will actually show up this time, filled with too many exclamation marks and capital letters.
you didn’t admit it to yourself, but this year you were counting down the days to your best friend’s birthday for a different reason.
your mind kept running around the thought of ‘when is jihoon going to arrive’ from the moment you stepped foot in soonyoung’s apartment, immediately met with your already tipsy best friend and a few other familiar faces.
two months have passed, and you’ve actually managed to meet up with jihoon in that period of time, this time without his job interrupting him. soonyoung was surprised upon hearing that you’ve managed to drag the man to watch a rom com with you at the cinema, claiming that if it’s not anime, jihoon never agrees to watch anything with him, a sulky face following right after as he accused you of getting special treatment.
the other time it was per his request, a dinner in a quiet restaurant out of town that he heard about from one of his work friends, vernon, who claimed it was a ‘hidden gem’. you had to give it to the guy, he was right - the food was delicious and the cozy atmosphere made it easier for a conversation to flow naturally, allowing both you and jihoon to ease up a bit.
jihoon was still pretty reserved, but you caught the small differences in behavior, the slight changes in how he acted around you: how he would talk more comfortably and smile more, how the tips of his ears turned red whenever you complimented his music, how his hand grazed yours ever so slightly a couple of times as you two walked back to the car, how you could feel his gaze on you when you were looking in the other direction. you didn’t mention it to soonyoung - knowing him he would never let jihoon live it down - and instead kept those observations to yourself.
you were chatting with wonwoo, one of soonyoungs friends who you’ve played mariokart with (and promised yourself to never do it again because he won every single goddamn time), when you heard soongyoung's unmistakable voice over the music playing from the speakers as he squealed with excitement. your eyes moved towards the door and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight in front of you.
jihoon stood awkwardly, one leg inside the apartment while the other was still out in the hallway, trapped by soonyoung’s arms in a hug that looked a little too tight for his liking. he caught your gaze and smiled weakly, shaking his head with disappointment as he saw you laughing at the state he was in.
after finally being freed from soonyoung’s embrace, jihoon went on to greet the other people he knew, eventually landing on you and wonwoo. the taller man furrowed a brow as he watched jihoon give you a quick hug, hands loosely around your waist.
when the man left, dragged away by soonyoung, you gave wonwoo a look, as if asking him to elaborate on why he looked at the two of you that way.
‘jihoon isn’t the type for physical contact.’ he said, taking a sip of his beer. ‘i’ve only seen him hug soonyoung and mind you, he wasn't the one initiating it.’
you nodded, silently taking in wonwoo’s words as your eyes traveled through the room and landed on jihoon once again, now standing by the kitchen counter as soonyoung searched through the fridge to find the coke zero he always kept for his best friend. now that you thought about it, what wonwoo said made perfect sense - jihoon wasn’t one to initiate any form of physical contact, but it didn’t bother you much. even a short hug like the one he gave you today seemed out of the blue for him.
you decided to cast these thoughts aside for now, focusing rather on the party itself and not so much on the man whose eyes you’ve caught staring at you too many times to count that evening.
you’ve enjoyed the party a lot - it was entertaining to see soonyoung starting to cry at the mere sight of his birthday cake being tiger shaped, shedding another few tears as he noticed most of the gifts had a tiger theme going for them as well. the food was good, the atmosphere was nice, the people made for nice company for the evening, filling the room with constant laughter. safe to say the evening was a success, although it ended a bit earlier than some might’ve expected, with soonyoung falling dead asleep soon after he opened and thanked everyone for the gifts. you were one of the last people to leave: seeing the mess in your best friend’s apartment, you couldn’t help but clean it up at least a little bit before eventually leaving to go back to your place.
jihoon caught up to you on your way to the elevator, offering you a small smile as he walked next to you in silence.
‘i’m glad soonyoung’s party was a success.’ you spoke up first as the two of you stood in the elevator, waiting for it to get down. ‘you know he’d be sulking about it for the next month if it wasn’t to his liking.’
jihoon chuckled at your remark, nodding.
‘yeah. we wouldn’t hear the end of it.’ he mumbled, stepping out of the elevator. ‘want me to, uh, walk you home?’
you stood quietly for a second, a small smile on your face.
‘yeah. i’d like that.’
the walk was quiet for the most part - only the sounds of occasional cars driving by breaking the perfect silence as you and jihoon walked side by side, hands dangerously close to each other in a way that you felt the heat radiating off of his skin.
there was a fleeting thought in your mind telling you to grab his hand, wondering what it would feel like against your own, whether his skin was soft or not, whether his palm was bigger than yours. it took everything in your power to keep yourself from taking your hand in his as you walked next to him.
little did you know, jihoon’s mind was hung on the exact same thought.
he kept brushing his hand against yours almost on purpose - to see if you’d shy away or take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers together. much to his dismay, you did neither; which meant that if he wanted it to happen, he’d have to initiate it.
he cursed himself out in his head for being so anxious over something as simple as hand holding. sure he’s done that before - he wasn’t exactly unpopular amongst his friends in high school - but adult life hasn’t gave him much time for going on dates or anything of this sort. for jihoon, this felt like experiencing these feelings for the first time all over again.
his fingers lightly grazed yours once more and this time jihoon’s hand moved to hold yours with a light grip, eyes falling to your face for just a second to spot any reaction. he smiled just for a split second when he saw the rosy shade on your cheeks.
you kept your composure outside but there was no denying that the moment jihoon’s hand met yours you could feel that funny, tingly feeling inside you, one which seemed to be missing from all the other dates you’ve been on before.
it was a bummer that your apartment wasn’t that far from soonyoung’s, you thought. you would’ve killed for the walk to be a little bit longer, just so you could hold jihoon’s hand for a few more seconds, maybe minutes.
‘guess i’ll go now’ jihoon’s voice brought you out of your thoughts as the two of you stood in front of the building, the man’s hand still holding yours. ‘have a good night’s sleep.’
he offered you a small smile as you felt his hand loosen its grip on yours. you held it tighter in response, jihoon blinking in confusion.
‘wait.’
you tugged at the front of jihoon’s shirt with your free hand pulling him closer to you and next thing he knew your lips were on his, captured in a sweet but delicate kiss.
his body tensed up almost immediately, surprised by the sudden action. you seemed to feel it too, as you pulled away from the boy, an unsure look on your face.
‘uh, sorry for that, i didn’t mean to make you uncomforta-‘
‘it’s okay.’ was all jihoon managed to mumble, senses still overwhelmed from the kiss you just gave him, the touch still lingering on his lips. ‘goodnight, y/n.’
jihoon turned around and walked away as quickly as he could, afraid that if he turned around again you might’ve seen just how red his face was, how flustered the kiss made him. he knew it wasn't the best thing to do - he knew he’d regret it the moment he took the first step - but he kept walking.
you stood there confused, mind replaying the scene and trying to catch onto whether you did something wrong, whether jihoon just needed the time to process his feelings or whether you made too bold of a step. eventually you just sighed, eyes still watching jihoon as he disappeared around the corner, and went inside the building.
it took you a long time filled with tossing, turning and overthinking to finally fall asleep that night.
maybe it was embarrassment, maybe it was how he left you hanging that night, but you haven’t reached out to jihoon for a few days and you’ve soon realised that he wasn’t going to reach out either - or at least that was the conclusion you came to after day three of no messages.
you came back to the mundane routine - work, coming back home, falling asleep on the couch while watching some reality show that sounds and looks exactly like the one you’ve just finished. you tried to occupy your thoughts with everything but jihoon and yet your finger lingered over your phone screen every time you saw his name in your contacts, almost tempting you to message him.
the tv screen lit up the room as you looked through the pictures you took on your digital camera during soonyoung’s birthday, edited and ready to be sent to the birthday boy. your laptop laid on the coffee table in front of you as you opened the mail app, ready to drop the pictures and sent them to your friend, but a certain notification caught your attention.
your brows furrowed with confusion as you noticed one unread message from jihoon.
dear y/n,
i am too much of a coward to express this in real life, or at least do that in a proper manner without my words melting together into one incoherent mess, hence here i am. i hope this message doesn’t seem too out of the blue for you, but it has been incredibly hard for me to keep these thoughts and feelings to myself - and what better person to share them with than the one who these feelings concern?
my lifestyle, the job that i have, it does not exactly allow me to indulge in romance too much - i simply have no time for it. soonyoung always said that i should open up more but it was easier said than done. and yet, somehow, with you it was easy. almost too easy, i thought - so easy it scared me to think of it. i did my best to keep you at a distance all this time, to shield myself from accidentally growing to like you, putting boundaries when it was already all too late. i’d only be hurting myself and you if i were to try and keep denying what has been flourishing in my heart.
i’m sorry i walked away without almost any words that night - i was surprised, but that does not justify me leaving you without an answer. truth is, my mind hasn’t stopped thinking about you ever since we first met and even more so ever since you first kissed me - i’m afraid i will only spiral in those thoughts until they make me a madman. only the image of you could calm me enough to have a good night’s sleep while also being the sole reason i couldn’t possibly focus on my work no matter how much i tried to after i woke up. you haunt my every thought no matter day or night and you have been for days, weeks now. i feel like a fool in love writing this - something i never expected to happen to me. and yet here i am. i know i haven’t shown it much - lord knows i’m the last person to be good with my actions - but let this letter be an evidence of my love if i’ve yet to learn how to properly showcase it to you.
if you’re willing to have me despite all this: my demeanour, my busy nights, all my flaws then you’re more than welcome to visit me at my studio. you know i’m always there anyways.
love,
lee jihoon.
you never expected jihoon to be so vulnerable in front of you. and yet here it was - a confession you never expected to hear, words you never thought you’d read coming from the man who occupied all your thoughts for the past months.
and that’s when you noticed.
that message has been sitting in your inbox for a week now. seven whole days.
he wrote that message after soonyoung’s birthday - twenty four hours later, to be exact.
you don’t remember ever running as fast towards your car as you did that day.
your body moved before your mind could even comprehend what was happening - you weren’t even sure if you closed the door to your apartment, if you turned the tv off. you were too focused on getting to jihoon’s studio as fast as you possibly could.
jihoon was startled as he heard the sharp banging on the door to his studio, the sound clearly heard even with headphones on. upon opening the door, he didn’t even have time to say anyth8g, let alone open his mouth to speak, before you interrupted him.
‘i got your message.’ your words almost melted together with how fast you were speaking and if it wasn’t for jihoon’s great hearing he wouldn’t have understood it. ‘i’m sorry i read it so late, i’m sorry it took me so long to find but- scratch that, who writes a love confession and sends it on damn mail? i would’ve read it sooner if i had gotten it through a fucking pigeon or something. but we can talk bout your flirting techniques later - it’s not the important thing right now.’
‘and what is that?’ jihoon took a small step back, allowing you inside. ‘the important thing.’
‘i love you.’ your words echoed through the room. jihoon blinked once, like he wasn't expecting you to actually say it out loud. ‘i don’t care how much of your time this job takes up, i really don’t care if you think this won’t work out. i’m willing to try.’
you swore you’ve never seen jihoon smile this hard.
‘if i kiss you now, will you kiss me back this time?’ you said, taking a small, unsure step towards the man.
jihoon didn’t answer with words. instead he closed the door behind you, the closing the gap between the two of you in one, swift motion. his lips clashed with yours and this time it was him initiating the kiss, hands finding their way to your waist while yours laid comfortably against his chest.
‘this feels nice.’ he mumbled, breaking the kiss. you rested your forehead against his, smiling at the man.
‘well, you would’ve had that earlier if you sent that through messages like a normal person.’ your remark made jihoon chuckle, his usually pale cheeks a light shade of pink. ‘how did you even get my mail?’
‘you gave it to me so that i can send you the folder i use to blackmail soonyoung.’
‘ah, right.’
both of you laughed in unison as you leaned in to kiss jihoon again.
‘does that mean we’re dating now?’ you asked, faces milimeters from each other.
one of jihoon’s hands let go of your waist to gently cup your cheek.
‘i don’t know. you might have to kiss me once more to find out.’
