why jihoon is the perfect lowkey hang guy (according to the voices in my head).
WARNINGS: fem!reader (emphasis in a feminine presence in his life), kind of friends to hook up, smut, body fluids (cum), masturbation (f. & m.), fingering, blowjob, penetration, creampie, semi-public sex, spanking, vibrators, will make you rethink your standards, will ruin casual relationships for you. 4.4k words.
A/N: his is a drabble, not a fic btw, it’s messy, rushed, and honestly kinda poorly written, so, please lower your expectations 😭 i’m trying to come back slowly after a long hiatus. i’ve been working a lot lately n got married (that’s the reason i disappeared for so long). sorry for going quiet with no updates, truly, and thank you for sticking around anyway!! i missed y’all so fucking much, i swear. hope you still enjoy this little thing 🖤 THE BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN
jihoon is literally the perfect person to sneak around with in a big friend group or even at work/college, and it’s actually insane how nobody talks about it properly. like when you’ve got a whole damn crowd around you 24/7; people loud as fuck, always touching your stuff, always opening doors without knocking, always asking “where you going?” like they’re the damn FBI.
if you ever wanted something secret, something private, something that feels more intimate, you’d pick jihoon every single time, trust me, because he’s not messy with it. he’s not loud. he’s not showy. he’s not that annoying type that needs everyone to know he’s getting some pussy. he’s quiet, discreet, and the scariest part is he’s so naturally like that, it doesn’t even feel like he’s hiding. it just feels like he’s existing in his own world.
and it’s not even giving “i’m a bad boy, i’ll ruin your life bc im cold” either. i know people love forcing that “cold” vibe onto him, but it’s so fucking fake. if you’re already part of the group, if you’re not some random outsider trying to insert yourself, he’s not gonna treat you like a disposable secret. he’d treat you like a choice, like it’s not just convenience.
you should tell when someone’s just bored versus when someone actually wants you. and jihoon it’s the type that can look bored at everything in the world and still make you feel picked out like you’re the only thing in the room that makes sense.
it starts small, it’s you two sharing the same couch after everyone’s done screaming and laughing, the air smelling like ramen cups and energy drinks and that weird body spray someone keeps overusing. you’re tired, you’re scrolling on your phone pretending you’re not watching him from the corner of your eye. he’s got that calm face on, like nothing reaches him, like everything slides off.
but then you notice how he does notice things. the tiniest shit. you shifting your leg. you huffing because somebody left the window open and now it’s freezing. you rubbing your temple like you’ve got a headache. he doesn’t ask “are you okay?” just makes it better in the quietest way possible, like he’s patching you up without letting anyone catch him doing it.
and you’re sitting there thinking, god, this is exactly why he’d be perfect for secret anything. because he doesn’t make it a production. you could literally disappear with him for ten minutes and no one would realize it was a thing. it would just look like life happening. “oh, jihoon went to grab something.” “oh, y/n went to the bathroom.” nobody would connect the dots because jihoon doesn’t leave crumbs. he’s not that guy getting cocky and walking back into the room with that smug look on his face like “yeah i just did that.” noooooo absolutely not. he walks back in like he never left, like nothing happened, like he’s always been sitting there like he’s the safest liar you’ve ever met, except it doesn’t even feel like lying because he’s not doing it to hurt anyone.
and honestly, if you ever got into that kind of situation with him, some little after-hours slip, some “we should go somewhere quieter” moment, you wouldn’t even feel scared. not in a bad way. you’d feel that buzzy, stupid adrenaline like you’re in on a secret joke with the universe. the kind that makes your skin feel too tight, like you’re wearing your own body wrong,, you’d be walking behind him down a hallway that’s too bright, past a bunch of doors that all look the same, thinking about how ridiculous this is because you’re literally just walking and yet it feels filthy. it feels like you’re doing something you’re not supposed to, just because he’s the one leading the way and he’s not saying shit about it.
and you know what would absolutely fuck you outt? it wouldn’t be some big dramatic move. it’d be the quiet stuff, like him stopping in front of a door, checking behind him out of habit, and you realizing he’s doing it for you. like he’s making sure you’re safe before anything else. and you’d hate that you love it, because it’s way too intimate for something you’re pretending is casual, it’s way too boyfriend-coded for a situation that’s supposed to be nothing.
and i truly don’t think he’d have the courage to look you dead in the face and go “this is just sex, don’t catch feelings.” like… be so serious. jihoon? saying that out loud? absolutely not. he’d rather chew glass. he’d rather stare at the wall and quietly suffer. because if it’s you, if you’re already part of his everyday, already someone he trusts enough to be around when he’s tired and unfiltered, he’s not going to want to reduce you to nothing, do you get me?
he might try to act like it’s simple at first, like it’s contained, like it’s just a fun little secret you both keep tucked away. but he’s a romantic man, i’m sorry, i KNOW it in my bones. he’s the type that gets attached in the most inconvenient way possible, like a song getting stuck in your head. he won’t admit it until it’s already too late, until he’s already thinking about you when you’re not there, already noticing your absence like it’s a missing piece of his routine.
because you’re different in his life. you’re not one of the boys, and that matters, not in a weird gender-war way, but in a real, human way. there’s something about the way you exist that changes the air around him. you bring this female caring energy (without momming ofc), this vividness that doesn’t feel loud but feels warm, like a lamp turned on in a dark room. you notice when he’s quiet for too long. you offer him the last bite of something without making it a big deal. you ask him if he ate. you tease him in a way that doesn’t embarrass him. you look at him like he’s not just “jihoon from the group” but like he’s a whole person. and that kind of attention, that kind of softness, sticks to him, it worms its way into his life and makes a little nest there.
so yeah, if you start sneaking around with him, it wouldn’t be this explosive, messy, public thing. it’d be small, it’d look like nothing from the outside, but it would feel like everything when you’re inside it.
it’d be late, everyone half-asleep or distracted, some dumb movie playing in the background that nobody’s actually watching. and you’d catch him watching you instead, just for a second, just that quick flick of his eyes, and it would hit you like a punch; oh, maybe he wants me?? not like a random urge. like a choice he’s making over and over. and you’d feel your stomach drop because you’d realize you want him too, in that stupid, greedy way that isn’t just about seeex.
and the secret would become this thing you carry around all day like a little spark in your pocket. you’d be standing in the kitchen with the others, nodding along to some conversation you don’t care about, and you’d feel jihoon behind you, close enough that you can sense him without turning around. he wouldn’t touch you, obviously, he’s not reckless. but the suspense would be there anyway, humming under your skin, and it would be so fucking hot, honestly, because nothing’s happening and yet everything is happening. your brain would be screaming, your face would be neutral, and he’d be acting normal like he’s not the reason your thoughts are filthy as hell.
and then when you finally get a moment alone again ,just a sliver of privacy, it would feel like exhaling after holding your breath all day. like you can finally be real for five seconds. and he’d still be quiet and calm. but the second you’re close enough, it would be obvious; he’s been thinking about it too, he’s been holding it in too, he just does it better than anyone else!!
and that’s why he’s perfect for it. because he can keep a secret without making you feel like one.
he’d let you invade his routine in the softest ways, he’d make room for you like it’s accidental, like it’s nothing, but suddenly you’re always there, your charger plugged into his outlet, your hair tie on his wrist, your hoodie on his chair. and he wouldn’t say “stay.” he wouldn’t even ask tbh, he’d just keep leaving the door open for you, again and again, until you realize you’re not sneaking around anymore.
and since you know i'm not the best with fluffs, here's the SEX part you've been waiting for;
jihoon would never rush it, that’s the first thing you gotta understand. he’d take his sweet fucking time even when the clock’s ticking and the rest of the dorm could BARGE in any second. he’d have you backed up against the wall in some random empty bathroom while everyone enjoyed the airbnb your group of friend rented for the weekend, your back pressed to the cool tiles, legs already shaking before he even touches you properly.
he’d start slow, always. hand sliding up your thigh under your skirt, the tip of his fingers dragging lazy circles on the inside until you’re squirming. “stay still,” he’d mutter quietly, not even looking at your face yet, just watching his own hand disappear under the fabric. he’d hook your panties to the side, not bothering to take them off, because why waste time when he already knows exactly how wet you are for him.
and you would be dreeenched. he’d feel it the second his fingertips brush your folds, slick, hot, coating him immediately. he wouldn’t say anything about it at first, just let out this quiet, almost annoyed little breath like he can’t believe how easy you get for him. then he’d drag those two fingers up, collecting all that wetness, spreading it over your clit in the slowest, softest circles. not pressing hard, just gliding, teasing the hood, letting your own slick make everything slippery and obscene.
jihoon would watch your face the whole time, eyes half-lidded, lips parted just enough that you can see the tip of his tongue when he swallows. he’d notice every twitch, how your hips jerk when he circles just right, how your breath hitches when he drags the pad of his middle finger flat over the swollen little bud. and when your clit’s already hard, puffy, standing out like it’s begging, he would get mean in the gentlessst way possible.
he’d focus right on the tip. that tiny, hypersensitive peak. using just the lightest pressure, barely there, feather-soft, rubbing tiny, tight circles with the very tip of his finger, using your own wetness to make it glide smooth. no rough friction, no pinching.
you’d feel that hot agony that’s almost too much, the kind that makes your thighs clamp around his wrist even though you’re dying for him to keep going. he’d feel you clench around nothing, see your back arch off the wall, and he’d still keep that exact same rhythm, eventhough you are moving a lot. “breathe,” he’d whisper, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw like he’s soothing you through the torture. but he doesn’t stop, actualyl he NEVER stops when you’re like this.
jihoon would lean in then, lips brushing your ear. “you’re dripping down my wrist, feel that?” he’d let his fingers slide inside, just enough to push it all back inside you, slow and a bit shallow, barely two knuckles deep, while his thumb stays glued to your clit, still working that tiny point in the same feather-light circles. the contrast would fit perfectly; the stretch of his fingers filling you up, the maddening tease on your clit.
your knees would buckle. you’d grab his shoulders, nails digging in, trying to push him away and pull him closer at the same time. that great, curling agony would hit, making your vision blur and your breath come in pathetic little gasps. he’d feel you start to flutter around his fingers, walls pulsing, and that’s when he’d finally press just a fraction harder on your clit, still light, but enough to tip you over.
“let it happen, hm?” he’d murmur, voice so fucking calm while you’re falling apart. “i’ve got you.” and he would. he’d keep rubbing through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking, whimpering into his neck, thighs trembling so bad he has to pin you against the wall with his body so you don’t slide down.
also,, jihoon would be the absolute fucking menace when you're stuck in those tight spots, like crammed in a van on a road trip with the whole crew, or holed up in some shitty hotel room where the walls are paper-thin and your friends are giggling in the next room over. he thrives on that shit, the risk of getting caught without actually blowing the cover. he'd wait until everyone's dozing off or distracted, maybe during a late-night drive when the music's low and the highway hums under the tires, or after lights out when the only sounds are snores and muffled whispers.
he'd start subtle, always. sliding his hand over your thigh under the blanket in the back seat, fingers inching higher while he stares out the window like he's lost in thought while he is feeling you tense up because you know exactly where this is going. “relax,” he'd whisper, lips brushing your ear as he leans in like he's just adjusting his seat. his fingers would dip under your shorts or skirt or pants or idk, no rush, just tracing the seam of your panties until you're shifting, trying not to make a sound.
and here's where he gets nasty as hell, he'd never hush those wet sounds. fuck no. he'd tease you on purpose, dragging his fingers through your folds, collecting that slick that's already building because let's be real, being this close to him in secret always gets you going. he'd circle your clit lightly at first, then dip inside, curling just enough to make you clench, and that's when it starts; that obscene, creamy schlk schlk schlk every time he pumps in and out. loud enough in the quiet space that your face burns, but he fucking loves it. his eyes would flick to yours.
if you try to clamp your thighs shut to muffle it, he'd pry them back open with his free hand, shaking his head slightly. “don't,” he'd mutter, holding your gaze so you can't look away. he'd keep that rhythm going, fingers fucking into you deeper, wetter, making sure every thrust pulls out that filthy, squelching noise, like your pussy's betraying you right there in front of everybody.
and if you're traveling solo with him, he'd amp it up. pull you into his lap in the hotel bed, sheets tangled, and fuck you slow and deep, no condom because why bother. he'd grind in balls-deep, stirring his cum inside you from the last round, turning it all creamy and messy, that schlk turning into a full-on sloppy symphony.
he'd hold his moans back, biting his lip until it's white, jaw clenched tight so only these quiet, guttural grunts slip out. but if you get too loud, gasping or whimpering, his hand would clamp over your mouth firm but gentle, fingers pressing just enough to remind you. “shh, y/n,” he'd breathe, eyes locked on where he's disappearing inside you, mesmerized by the way your wetness coats him, strings of it pulling every time he draws back. the wet smacks, the creamy churn, he'd never try to drown them out. he'd slow down on purpose sometimes, pulling almost all the way out just to slam back in and make it echo louder, like he's moaning through the noise itself, each one pulling a stifled groan from his throat.
if u get ashamed, he'd eat that up. he'd see it on your face, cheeks flushed, eyes squeezing shut like you can't handle how embarrassing it is, how your body's so loud and needy, and it'd turn him on more. “look at you,” he'd whisper, free hand tilting your chin so you have to watch too, “so fucking wet for me, can't even hide it.” he'd tease you mercilessly, thumb rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts to make you gush even more, if it's a creampie situation, he'd pull out halfway through your orgasm just to watch his cum mix with yours, then push back in slow, savoring the extra gush that comes with it, like he's painting you from the inside.
jihoon would never fake like he hates it.
another thing is that i think jihoon would lose his entire fucking mind the second you drop to your knees in his studio. door locked, purple light on, beats paused mid-loop because he can’t focus anymore with you looking up at him like that. he’d be slouched in his chair, legs spread just enough, sweatpants pushed down to mid-thigh, cock already hard and leaking because you’d been teasing him for the last hour with little touches and glances while he tried to work.
your hand wrapped around him, stroking lazy and firm, thumb swiping over the tip to spread the precum. but the real shit starts when you dip lower. when you cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling how heavy and tight they are. jihoon would suck in a sharp breath through his teeth, head tipping back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut for a second like he’s trying not to come right then.
“fuck… yeah, right there,” he’d mutter, one hand sliding into your hair, fingers flexing like he needs something to ground himself. you’d lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, then take him in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, but you’d keep playing with his balls the whole time, squeezing lightly, tugging just enough to make his hips twitch, massaging them in slow circles while you bob your head.
that gets him… inspired? not just the wet heat of your mouth, though that’s already killing him. it’s the attention to his balls, the way you cradle them like they’re just as important, the soft hum you make when you feel them draw up tighter. he’d start breathing harder, little choked-off sounds slipping out despite how hard he tries to stay quiet.
sometimes he wouldn’t even let you finish him with your mouth. he’d pull you off gently, hand replacing yours on his cock, jerking himself fast and sloppy while you keep fondling his balls, pressing your lips to the sensitive skin right above them, kissing and licking while he watches you with dark, blown-out eyes. the sight of you down there, devoted, shameless, worshipping that part of him, he’d come hard, spilling over his fist and your fingers, thighs shaking, a quiet, broken “fuck” punched out of him.
after, he’d just sit there panting, staring at you like you rewired his brain. he’d pull you up into his lap, kiss you messy and grateful, muttering against your mouth, “you have no idea what you just did to my next track.” because hes somehow already hearing it in his head, som slow, filthy bassline, heavy and pulsing, inspired by the way you made him feel completely fucking owned in the best way.
also, i think jihoon isn’t the type to walk around with a mile-long list of kinks and fetishes tattooed on his brain. he doesn’t need a whole playbook of crazy shit to get off. most days, just the sight of you with hair messy, lips swollen from kissing, thighs trembling because you’re already soaked just from grinding on his lap, is more than enough to make him hard and horny!!
but the second you whisper something you’re curious about, something that makes your cheeks burn when you say it out loud, he doesn’t even blink. no judgment, no “really? that’s your thing?” he just nods once, and goes, “okay. show me what you want.”
vibrators? he’d pull one out of the drawer like he’s had it waiting, lube already on the nightstand because he’s always prepared. he’d hold it against your clit while he fucks you slow and deep, watching your face the whole time, adjusting the speed until you’re arching and whining his name. spanking? he’d flip you over his knee without a word, palm warm and heavy, starting light and building until your ass is pink and stinging and you’re dripping down your thighs. he’d rub soothing circles after every few smacks, kissing the back of your neck.
he’d try anything once if it’s something you’re into; bondage, edging, roleplay, even the weirder stuff you’re too shy to google. he’d ask questions quietly beforehand: “how hard? how long? tell me if it’s too much.” and he’d stop the second you tap out, no questions, no guilt-tripping, just pull you into his chest and holding you until your breathing evens out.
and i just know his after care is the best of the best. he’s not performative about it, he doesn’t make a whole production. he’d reach for the wet wipes he keeps right there on the nightstand, warm ones because he thought ahead and popped them in the microwave for ten seconds. he’d clean you up so gently, wiping between your thighs, your stomach, anywhere that’s sticky, while you’re still boneless and floating. if you slump right after, too fucked out to move, he’d just tuck the blanket around you, kiss your forehead, and grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge. “drink a little, baby,” he’d say, voice soft, holding it to your lips until you take a few sips.
sometimes he’d even give up his own shit just to make sure you’re happy. like that one time you mentioned offhand that you hate sleeping in complete darkness because it makes you anxious; he started leaving the little desk lamp on low, even though he usually needs pitch black to crash after late nights. or when you said you get cold easy after sex, he’d pull out an extra hoodie, his favorite black one, and drape it over you before you even ask. he’d let you steal his pillow because you like the way it smells like him, even if it means he’s contorting himself around you all night.
he’d skip his usual post-sex shower if you’re clingy and just want to be held, staying sticky and sweaty with you curled against his chest. he’d even pause his music production for the night if you’re in the mood to talk or cuddle instead of him disappearing into the studio. “i can finish the track tomorrow,” he’d mumble into your hair, arms tight around you like letting go isn’t an option.
if things go riiight, jihoon would be so fucking exclusive the second he realizes he actually likes you, not just the surface-level, you’re hot and fun shit.
it wouldn’t be dramatic, no big declarations, no posting cryptic lyrics on his insta story. but hed realize with the way he stops replying to flirty dms overnight. the way his phone stays face-down when you’re around because he doesn’t want you thinking there’s anyone else pulling his attention. he’d delete dating apps without a word, not because he’s trying to prove something, but because the thought of even scrolling through them feels pointless when you’re right there.
sex with him would hit different because of that exclusivity. every time he touches you, it’s like he’s saying “this is only for you.” he’d look at you like you’re the only person in the world who’s ever made him feel this way, eyes soft but burning, hands mapping your body like he’s memorizing it for keeps. he’d whisper your name against your skin like it’s sacred, like saying it out loud is a privilege he doesn’t give anyone else. and when he’s inside you, slow and deep, holding eye contact, it’s sooo “i chose you and i’m not choosing anyone else” way.
you’d feel exclusive down to your bones. the way he remembers exactly how you like to be touched, the little spots that make you gasp, the rhythm that makes your toes curl. he’d never rush, never half-ass it, because to him, time with you is rare and precious! even if it’s quick and sneaky in the studio or the back of a car, he makes sure you come first, always, like it’s his personal mission.
and here’s the mature part that i absolutely LOVE about him; he wouldn’t pressure you for more. if you’re not ready to date date, if you just want this secret, steady thing that’s yours and his, he’d hold it for years without complaint. no guilt trips, no “what are we?” ultimatums. hed just keep showing up the same way he was from the very beginning, reliable, attentive, exclusive. texting you goodnight even if he’s halfway across the world on tour. sending you random voice notes of beats he made that remind him of you. slipping into your bed at 3am after a long day, wrapping around you without needing to talk about it. it’d be this unspoken agreement that you’re each other’s safe place, no labels required.
but if one day you decide you do want more? if you look at him across the room and think “fuck, i want this for real”? he’d try. god, he’d try so hard. he’d sit you down, quiet and serious, and say “i’ve been waiting for you to be ready. if you want this, i’m all in.” and it would be awesome. he’d be the boyfriend who plans lowkey dates that feel like home; late-night drives, studio sessions where you fall asleep on his couch, cooking together at 2am because neither of you can sleep. he’d hold your hand in public without hesitation, introduce you to his family like you’ve always been there, make space in his life like you were always meant to fit.
either way…whether it stays this beautiful, mature, exclusive secret for years, or turns into something official, he\d make you feel chosen. every. single. day.
at work and trying to not work myself up about svt hearing their best friend making sweet (nasty) noises when she sleeps. but fuck shes so cute, they cant help themselves bc theyre kinda pervy and her tits are falling out of her shirt and they can see the outline of her kitty🫠🫠🫠
A/N: Bestie, I tried to make each one unique, so I hope you enjoy! You kept me fed with this one, hahaha 🤤🥹💖
Warnings: mdni, 18+, non/con, perv!svt, depraved! Svt, best friend! Svt, unknown feelings, touching the reader w/o her knowledge, descriptions of oral (f rec.) briefly, photos taken of reader w/o her knowledge, somno., dry humping, cumming in pants, cumming on reader w/o her knowledge, lots of cum, masturbation (m.), riding a thigh asleep?, being stared at like a creep, dark! Love, possessive! Svt, mentally unwell! Svt, delulu! Svt, sugar daddy! Jihoon, childhood bff! Dino, coworker! Joshua, best friend’s dad! Jun, coworker! Mingyu, penpal! DK, college bff! Jeonghan, harbored feelings, toxic! Love
wc in total: 6.7k+
[BE VERY AWARE, SMUT BELOW THE 'KEEP READING' TAG]
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Seungcheol - Cheol is drunk when he decides to go over to your place. He knows you might be asleep when he gets there, it is four am after all, but he just needs to see you.
You, his best friend, the love of his life, the one person who has his heart, and you didn’t even know it.
Cheol leans heavily on your front door, fumbling his keys, trying to not see three of everything as he looks for the spare key you gave him a year ago. When he finds it, he smiles triumphantly and now tackles the task of actually unlocking the door.
He’s not sure if he’s loud when he stumbles in five minutes later. Sweat layers his body as he comes home from a night out at the clubs. He won’t admit it, but it was a bad day today. His heart could only take so much before he tried to wash all his emotions away with tequila and a stranger who, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine was you.
But tonight, no one is good enough. He wants you, he wants his best friend, and you didn’t even know!
He drops his keys on the kitchen counter, forcing himself to drink a whole water bottle and take medication for the headache he’ll have later. His shoes were already left at your front door, and his thoughts swirl as he tugs his shirt off, throwing it somewhere before he unbuckles his belt.
He could find your bedroom with his eyes closed, and he can find it drunk. He can find you anywhere. And the truth reveals it when he sees you through the open doorway. His inhibitions are the lowest they’ve been in a while as you sleep soundly on your bed. And his heart skips a beat, sobering him just a little when he sees you. He stumbles, coming closer as you sleep on your side, your leg hooked up and making your ass poke outwards.
You’re gorgeous, and he barely gets his watch off before he slips into your bed behind you. He’s slept over plenty of times, but not like this. His arms wrap around you, his chest gluing to your back as he sighs in relief. His cock is hard and nestled between your ass; his jeans and your little panties are the only things stopping him from feeling how you’d actually feel.
And fuck, the thought of feeling you makes his drunk thoughts believe that’s a brilliant idea.
He just wanted to feel your warmth.
His hands are sloppy, alcohol still running through his system as he tries to listen to your breath, see if you’ll wake up as he lowers his boxers and jeans just enough.
When his cock springs free, he groans, his forehead resting on your shoulder as you huff in your sleep. “So pretty, my pretty girl,” he slurs, and his fingers easily slide your panties to the side. “Just for a little bit.”
He says it and guides his cock between your thighs. His cock fits against your puffy folds perfectly, and his fingers pull your panties to make the fabric tighten around both of you.
He’s drunk and careless as he ruts against you. He doesn’t think about your friendship, your trust, your opinion as he slides his cock along your folds, feeling you get wetter as his tip bumps your pretty clit with each thrust. He just focuses on your pretty noises, his cock swelling after a few more thrusts before he shudders.
He slips out from your panties a little too late, a lot of his cum hits your bedsheets, but some of it stains your panties, gluing the material to your pretty pussy and making his eyes roll back into his head in ecstasy.
He has just the sense to tuck himself back in his pants, deciding he’ll deal with the consequences later, pulling you flush against him with a drunk smile.
Jeonghan - Jeonghan has been friends with you since the freshman year of college. Sitting next to each other during orientation left you fast friends and attached at the hip. If someone found you on campus, they’d see Jeonghan only two steps behind. You two were basically a packaged deal. From an all-nighter study session in the campus library, to your legs on his lap while you two ate in the main hall. You even slept over at each other’s dorms.
And that’s how Jeonghan found himself at yours tonight. He’s lying next to you, wrapped in your favorite blanket, on his side as he watches you roll onto your back.
You had asked him if you could take a quick nap. You were beyond exhausted after staying up all night finishing a model for your architecture class, when Jeonghan arrived at your door after his shift in the student store. And Jeonghan could never deny you anything, nodding his head as you led him to your bed. You were innocent in your actions, using him to cuddle and get yourself fast asleep within minutes.
You had turned away from him at some point as he tried to behave, scrolling on his phone to distract from the way your soft body pressed against him, the way it made his cock swell in his pants. But when you started to make little noises in your sleep, he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. You rolled, lying on your back, your eyes closed, and your mouth parted as you groaned. And Jeonghan’s heart picked up speed.
It was depraved how the little noises on top of the way your baggy shirt rode up, left him salivating at the mouth. His fingers twitched, and his eyes drifted slowly down your body, the exposed skin searing in his head for him to fuck his fist later with. Your breasts were threatening to be exposed by the way your shirt twisted up, and the blanket moved, giving Jeonghan the perfect view of your panties.
And when you moan again, his friendly mask drops, his thoughts spiraling as he reaches for you.
His eyes stay on your face, taking in every little shift as his fingers ghost over your lower stomach. He was your friend, he knew he shouldn’t do this, but he could only survive on the few stolen panties he’d gotten away with before he’d finally snap.
When his fingers slip under your panties, your thighs fall farther apart in response. It makes him grin, delusional to think that it’s because your body knows it’s him touching you and not someone else.
You’re so warm, the heat between your thighs hot and burning in need. I mean, why else would you be wet? His fingers drag over your puffy folds, taking in the way your eyebrows furrow, but you stay sound asleep.
Jeonghan’s smile curves up into something lovesick and dangerous. “Just relax for me, I got you.” He hums, and his thumb finds your cute little clit, his movements becoming more confident as his thoughts become more depraved by the second.
Joshua - As Joshua’s desk mate, his coworker, the person he saw five days a week, and sometimes on holidays when your work made you both stay in the office, it was inevitable to become friends.
Every morning, like clockwork, Joshua would come in five minutes after you, two coffee cups in hand. He had your breakfast order on lock, an extra pen in his pocket for when yours somehow disappeared, and he had the perfect excuse to your boss when you were running late.
His friends teased him that you were essentially his “work wife” and the fact that he didn’t just ask you out since you both were single was mind-blowing to everyone with two eyes who could see.
But Joshua never crossed that line.
You valued his friendship, evolving into hanging out outside of work. It became a thing that you two would go for drinks every Friday after work to celebrate the weekend being here. And it wasn’t out of the ordinary that you two would wind up at his place.
You always claimed it was closer, Joshua likes to think you just like to steal his clothes if given the chance. You’d shower while he grabbed a shirt for you to wear and some clean boxers. He would take your old clothes to the laundry, discreetly pocketing your panties while you showered in his bathroom.
You never seemed aware of his feelings for you, calling him your best friend with a happy smile and innocent touch. You didn’t know he kept some of your panties to use later, you didn’t know he would stroke his cock to the thought of you, your panties wrapped tight around his shaft as he pumped his fist, imagining it was you.
And maybe it’s why two hours later, when he can’t sleep, he walks into his room to take a shower. He thinks maybe it’ll help him clear his head of you. And no, it wasn’t an excuse to see you in his clothes, in his bed, fast asleep.
But when he doesn’t turn left to head into his bathroom and instead stands by his bed to watch you, he can’t find any excuses other than the sinful thoughts he had been thinking all night. You were his friend, you were his coworker, you trusted him.
His heart skips a beat as he watches you lying there, your hair splayed out on his pillow, the sheets twisted around your knees. His boxer briefs hug your hips, and he can see the way they outline your pretty pussy, your hand resting just under your belly button. Your other hand is extending out to the empty right side of his bed, and he wishes he could be lying next to you.
When you turn onto your side, you moan as your shirt twists up. Your breasts get exposed, the shirt moving even higher and leaving him weak in the knees.
He barely makes it to his bathroom, turning the shower on and grabbing his cock with you fresh on his mind. His body full on shudders as he squeezes just under his tip, his precum spilling out in gooey wads as he curses under his breath.
He ends up cumming twice, rope after rope of his hot seed splashing on his shower wall as he strokes his cock to the thought of you. He can’t seem to stop. Your moan, your breasts, and the outline of your cute cunt seared into his mind as he works himself up to cumming again, your name falling from his lips with a strained groan.
Jun - You were his daughter’s best friend. And he knew it was wrong.
It didn’t matter that you were a grown adult, two years out of college, and working a “big girl” job as you liked to joke. There was still a prominent age gap, and he didn’t believe you when you told him he was your friend too after four years of knowing each other.
You had met his daughter halfway through college and were as thick as thieves. And much to his dismay, you were gorgeous, smart, and funny, making it so much more difficult for him to dislike you.
It was wrong to think of you as anything but his daughter’s friend.
But he was only just a man.
Too many lonely nights alone left him missing somebody in his bed. A body underneath him, a warmth that let him release the tension he quietly stored in his body. He’d never admit that a few times alone at night, he had stroked his cock to the thought of you. Imagining you’d be the one warming his bed and keeping him company.
But it was wrong.
It was wrong.
And yet he still got out of his bed.
You had arrived today at his house, a surprise that left his mind reeling. You were visiting for the holidays, wanting to spend it with him and his daughter, and arrived earlier than planned. His daughter would be coming a week later due to work and requested time off. And that meant a week with just you and him in his house.
His feet quietly led him down the hall, the house quiet, and his heart racing with each step, he got closer to the guest room.
You had left the door cracked like you knew he was a weak man. And he could just see you lying in the bed. You were lying on your stomach, leg hooked up, the sheets kicked down to your feet. You were barely clothed, in an oversized shirt and panties that outlined your pretty pussy, just visible to him.
Fuck.
Jun stared, longing and hungry. You were only ten feet away. It would be so easy to climb into bed with you, show you what it’s like to be with someone more experienced. His thoughts were getting more depraved the longer he stared.
Jun was not your friend.
He was your best friend’s father, and he wanted you more than you would ever know.
Soonyoung - When Soonyoung gets off work, he can’t wait to get home.
He knew you’d be home already, your schedule on the fridge calendar said so, but still, he always looked forward to seeing you, his best friend and roommate.
You two would always greet each other at home, and quickly gather in the kitchen to debrief about how your days went.
Sometimes, one of you would rant over something stupid that another coworker or customer said. Other times, Hoshi would lean against the counter while you cooked, making plans for the weekend or talking about what you were looking forward to at work the following week.
And this is exactly what Soonyoung expects when he steps through the front door, his keys swinging from his pointer finger as he takes his shoes off one by one. He didn’t expect you to be sound asleep on the couch, your leg hooked over the back of the couch, exposing Soonyoung to the fact that you were just in your panties and a small top.
Your hair is splayed over the couch cushion, your mouth dropped open, and your hand resting on your stomach when Hoshi comes closer. He drops his bag on the love seat next to the couch, his eyes staying glued between your thighs, your pretty pussy barely covered by your panties.
The sight makes his breath hitch, his tongue wetting his lips as his cock stirred to life. Fuck. He was just a man, and he had to be blind not to think you were attractive. It didn’t matter that you two were friends; if he was given the chance, he’d fuck you in every room in this apartment you two shared. Happily, eagerly, might I add.
And the thought alone has his brain melting, his eyes trail up your body, taking in the way your nipples are barely covered by your top, your breasts almost spilling out. And when you move, he’s right, one of your breasts spills from over your top as you moan sweetly in your sleep. You’re facing him more now, and he can’t help himself.
His eyes glaze over as he stands over your sleeping form, his jeans pushed down just enough to free his aching cock. He strokes his cock languidly, taking his time, watching the way your nipples grow taut from the exposed air and your panties stick to your cute cunt.
It’s depraved to be doing this while you sleep, while you’re unaware, but it only turns him on more. Wet shlick! noises resonating in the living room as he strokes his cock right over you, thinking about all the ways he wishes he could take you.
It doesn’t take long for him to cum, and he does try to stop from cumming on you. Truly. Hot, white, creamy seed spills from his aching cock in splurts. Most of his cum covers his hand while his fist milks his cock into sensitivity, but some wads of sperm splash onto your stomach, staining your skin with his gooey cum and making him shudder in pleasure.
He ends up choosing not to clean it off you, his cock twitching at the thought of you waking up to it already dried onto your skin, not knowing it was him.
Wonwoo - It’s slow at first. A subtle squirming that makes Wonwoo slowly wake up, his arm tightening around something soft before everything rushes back to him.
You. His best friend, the love of his life, didn’t even know how down bad he was for you.
You two had been doing your monthly tradition of binge-watching as many movies as possible. As adults, your friendship was still strong, but life made it difficult to see each other with his work and yours. And it came down to having to schedule a day, once a month, to spend time together and catch up on everything that happened since the last time you both saw each other.
It was an event he always looked forward to. His calendar circling it and underlining it, he practically counted down the days till he saw your pretty face again.
And you never failed to take his breath away every time you opened the door to your apartment. You would give him that dazzling smile in greeting when the day was finally here, and it twisted his heart to see you dressed in tiny sleep shorts and one of his old shirts from four years ago.
And it was torture of his own making as you dragged him inside your home, cuddling him close as you started the first movie twenty minutes later.
He didn’t mean to fall asleep. He vaguely remembers the middle of one movie, but as he notices the TV is still on, something completely different is playing now.
And it’s then that you move again, catching Wonwoo’s attention once more.
You’re fast asleep with your back to his chest, your hips shifting as a soft huff slips past your lips, and your ass drags along Wonwoo’s cock. He had woken up hard, and it’s all because of you. You, his best friend. You, who didn’t know just how crazy you made him.
His fingers flex on your hip, his cock slotted between your ass cheeks, only separated by a few layers of clothes, and he groans. Your shirt is pulled up, your breasts barely peeking out, and his heart squeezes, twisting in his chest as you roll your hips back again.
He doesn’t know what you’re dreaming about that makes you grind back against him, but he hopes it’s about him.
And when you murmur his name softly in your sleep a few moments later, he lets his restraint wane.
Every thought leaves his brain as he hears you call out his name. His hand spreads over your stomach, rolling you onto your front with his body half over you. His face burns with a mixture of shame and yearning, his hips grinding into your ass, wanting to hear you say his name again.
If you wake up, maybe he can finally tell you how he’s longed for you, and maybe you’ll let him do everything he fantasized about.
The mere thought of it makes his cock throb as you moan, still sound asleep and unaware of his pervy actions as he rutted against you like a dog.
Jihoon - Jihoon was one of your better “friends.” All he asked for was company while he worked. He liked to look at something pretty in between him tapping on his laptop and adjusting files with his headphones over his head.
He didn’t know when it had started. This lonely feeling. The need for someone, anyone, to be there if he wanted it. And he didn’t want the complications of emotions, of a relationship, he just- well, he had money.
Money could buy anything if you asked the right person.
And Jihoon likes to think it’s normal. He doesn’t want conversations or meaningless hookups. He pays you a good sum just to sit pretty in the background. Sometimes, he’ll show you his latest project he’s working on, sometimes you wind up just sleeping on the couch behind him, a presence in the room that brings him some comfort.
But that doesn’t mean he isn’t attracted to you. He knows that for a certain price, he could be really friendly with you, to get all your clothes off and not just the tease of you lounging around in your cute panties and his t-shirt.
And usually he’s better behaved, always keeping his hands to himself, just enjoying the view of you. He knew he was your favorite customer, never forcing himself on you. But what he’d give to see you underneath him.
An easy number, a bank transfer, and you wouldn’t just be an accessory but something soft he could sink into. And it’s days like this, when the music isn’t sounding right, and his emails are overfilling his inbox, that his frustration turns his thoughts into more corrupt ideas.
It doesn’t help that when he turns in his chair, you’re sound asleep. He’s paid for you to spend the night in his studio with him, the pressure of a deadline has him mostly ignore you, and leaving you to take a nap.
He watches the way you lie peacefully on the soft couch, your lips parted, little huffs slipping past your glossy lips as you dream. Your shirt has ridden up, the expanse of your back, waist, and the side profile of your breast smushed into the couch cushion, making him abandon his work and move closer to you.
He can see the outline of your pretty pussy, your sweet folds almost falling out from the sides, leaving his mind reeling. He could touch you, and you wouldn’t know. His fingers twitch at the thought, and his heart picks up in pace.
He could do it. Touch you, feeling your warmth under his palm, and if you wake up, he can tell you that he can really be one of your friends. How could you say no? His pockets run deep, and wouldn’t that make you his? His to look at, to touch, to love?
His eyes swirl as the feelings take over his mind, his gaze never leaving your sleeping form. You were his, and as his hand touched your thigh softly, tracing upwards while he watched your face, a lovesick smile formed on his face as he deserted the whole rules he put in place.
No emotions. No complications. No relationships. Today is a bad day, but he knows just how you can fix it.
Minghao - It was only natural for Minghao to find himself in your bed after an amazing concert.
It had been tradition since you two became friends, dancing in whatever seats you got or in GA, as whatever band you two were seeing played in front of you.
As you two got older, sometimes you’d end up buying the overpriced alcohol at the venue, getting buzzed as you held onto Minghao, screaming the lyrics to him like you were his own personal concert. It leaves Minghao flushed in the face, blaming it on the alcohol, while you twirled around him with a laugh.
By the time the concert is over, you’re exhausted and holding onto Minghao’s hand like it’s your lifeline. You yap a million miles an hour, eyes glittering in the street lights as you both get into the cab to head home.
And you’re still drunk off the pictures and videos you took during the concert as you wave him off, giving him a shake of your head. “Don’t be silly, share the bed with me!”
It was like you wanted to see him struggle with what was right.
Your body is flushed against his four hours later. His chest drapes over your back, and your ass sits right over his cock, the clothes you two barely wear the only thing separating him from you.
How could he sleep like this?
His heart raced as you made him wrap his arm around you right before you fell asleep. His hand rests just below your breasts. He can feel the cut in half shirt you wore to bed graze on top of his hand, and he can feel you squirm back into him, your ass rubbing against his cock and making it harden.
His breath leaves his mouth shakily. His fingers flexing against your soft skin as you moan in your sleep, moving even more, and leaving him tensing behind you.
His thoughts spiral, his cock twitching while your huffs increase. He thinks about how easy it would be to cross that line of friendship, to hook your leg back over his, to feel if you’re having a wet dream by dipping his hand between your thighs. He wonders if that wet dream is about him. And he lets your body grind back even more, his cock aching for any attention if it’s from you.
Your moans, your body, and his depraved thoughts have him cumming in minutes. His cock stained his boxers with his hot, creamy seed, making the fabric stick to him uncomfortably.
But he doesn’t dare move, letting his body stay flushed against yours, his body shuddering as you move against him, pulling him into over-sensitivity.
There was another tradition you didn’t know about. This wasn’t the first time this happened, and if Hao had any say in it, it wouldn’t be the last.
He loved going to concerts with you.
Mingyu - Mingyu is no better than a dog.
You’re his best friend, the person who talks shit with him about the customers you two deal with as he cooks and you bartend at the fancy restaurant downtown. Mingyu had been working there a year before you had joined, and the moment he met you, he knew you were it. There were just some people you knew would be a part of your life, whether that be only a chapter or for the rest of the book that was your life. And for him, you were one of those people.
It had started when Mingyu had accidentally made extra food, his ears burning red as he asked if you’d eaten because otherwise this would have to be thrown away. You gladly took the leftovers, giving him a cute kiss from your hand and blowing it over to him with a wink. And he’s pretty sure that’s when he fell in love with you, and he’s also pretty sure that’s when you two officially became friends.
The relationship evolved from joking at work to him driving you home after a long shift, and hanging out on your days off. It was easy to love you, your laughter ringing in his ears hours later after he tripped over nothing. You call him clumsy, and he has no rebuttal, eyes softening as you touch his arm with a squeeze, his heart squeezes just as hard, and he has to look away before he does something stupid.
And as time goes on, his love for you only grows, his thoughts twisting when he’s home alone and his laptop is open on his bedside table.
When he searches online, the videos he watches are nothing like what he imagines when he replaces whatever woman is on his screen with you. It leaves him weak at the knees, and his fist is tightening around his shaft as he wonders how you would look taking him down your throat or, better yet, how you’d sound if he got down on his knees for you.
His dreams come true when, months later, you're sleeping over at his. It had been a long night at the restaurant, but luckily, you both would be off tomorrow, and you demanded to stay the night at his. You said it was because you wanted him to cook breakfast for you. After all, you knew you’d be too lazy to do it later. But now that you’re asleep in his bed, barely clothed, he thinks maybe you did this on purpose.
I mean, why else would you sleep in his bed with just a little tank top and panties? Especially ones that barely covered your pretty cunt.
It was like you were asking him to get a closer look, to have a taste, to see if you were as sweet as he imagined.
And who was he, if not a giver?
He lies on his stomach, between your open legs as you sleep. His mouth pants right over your covered cunt, his eyes dilating as he carefully hooks an arm under your thigh to open you up some more. When his mouth covered your pussy, his breath was warm against your hot cunt, and it wets your pretty panties almost instantly as his tongue laps the thin fabric into his mouth.
He groans, infatuated and debauched, his hips rutting into the mattress beneath him, his cock throbbing as he takes another lap of your sweet pussy, careful not to wake you up. He just wanted to love you.
Dokyeom - It had started innocently. Meeting Dokyeom as a pen pal when you were younger and growing up with him between sheets of paper and postcards.
You two had talked about everything and anything through all the stages leading into adulthood. And when you two went to University you still found ways to send silly photos or updates of dread for finals when they came.
It wasn’t until you graduated that you finally got to see him in person and not over the phone or pictures in sealed envelopes littered with cute stickers.
And it was like he knew you forever, because he did. But nothing prepared him to have his feelings he harbored for you double the moment he laid his eyes on you at the airport. You were even cuter than he imagined, tackling him in a hug like you’ve done this since the beginning of time. His fingers flexed, pressing on your lower back as your body became one with his, your arms circling his shoulders with a laugh of delight.
You went full tourist mode, making him the leading director as he showed you everything he could about his life and where he grew up.
10,000 steps and only more to see tomorrow left you exhausted and leaning heavily into him by the end of day one. His arm was wrapped securely around your waist to keep you up while he hailed a cab home. And you yapped, and yapped a lot, both of you excitedly picking up speed throughout the day, and now, as you two finally make it to his home.
It was simple, a one-bedroom apartment, and clean. And you made yourself at home easily, a smile never leaving Dokyeom’s face, even as you said you would take the couch.
He called you crazy and swiftly had your bags in his bedroom within seconds as he told you to relax.
It was innocent. It was nice.
But five hours later, when you’re asleep, wearing your cute little panties and a t-shirt to bed? You didn’t even wake as he quietly sat right next to you in bed, staring like he couldn’t believe you were real. You were everything to him. His fantasies and dreams didn’t compare to you being in his life and in his bed.
You’re making cute little noises, your arm folded under your head as you lie on your side. And he just couldn’t help himself.
His hand shakes, his heart pumping loudly as he touches your hip. When you didn’t move, he got bolder, his fingers dancing along your skin and up your shirt. When he realized you weren’t wearing a bra, he bit his lip to hold in his groans. His hand kneads your breasts and down your stomach.
You don’t know how long he has wanted you. Just like this. Pliable, soft, and all to himself. He likes to think that as your moans increase, you feel the same, his smile turning lovesick and a little crazed.
He loves you.
Seungkwan - Seungkwan knows he’s not a good friend to you.
How can he be? Friends don’t have romantic feelings for friends. Friends don’t fantasize about how you would look on top of him or underneath him. How it would feel to kiss below your ear, and if you would let out the same sigh you have let out while sleeping soundly next to him.
You two had been friends for years at this point. His family was your family and vice versa. It was you who he texted first in the morning and last at night. It was you whom he fell in love with slowly but surely, and it was you who didn’t know how he felt.
I mean, he stroked his cock to you, his lip caught between his teeth as he held in his whimper. He would think about what it would feel like if you felt the same way. If you thought about him and what he would do if given the chance to be with you.
But Seungkwan couldn’t confess, not when he wasn’t worthy of it. How could you love him when he couldn’t resist slipping into bed with you as you shared a hotel bedroom? It was an accident, on the hotel’s part, overbooking. This was a trip you and Seungkwan had been looking forward to for ages, planning it over a year in advance just so you could spend an entire week together.
So, it was a complete surprise when you two checked in, and the receptionist gave you a sheepish smile. You took it in stride, telling Seungkwan you two could just share a hotel while his brain went into overdrive. And when the receptionist said that there was only one bed, you still didn’t flinch, grabbing Seungkwan’s wrist with determination like he would run off.
And now here he was, palms sweaty, heart thumping as you slept next to him. It was like you were doing it on purpose, going to bed in a tiny tank top and panties. Seungkwan’s face had a permanent blush, and he had to hold his phone with two hands as you told him a happy, “goodnight!” before turning onto your side.
Seungkwan tried really hard to go to sleep, but he just couldn’t. Not when you turned over in your sleep to face him, your eyes closed, lips parted, and your breasts threatening to spill out of your top. When you whimper, his whole body cringes into itself, his cock stirring to life as your body subconsciously moves closer to his.
And when he looks down to see your panties had shifted in all your movement, just a glimpse of your pussy lips almost slipping out has him rolling his eyes back in pleasure. The phone in his hand, which he was trying to use as a distraction, somehow ends up on his camera app. He swallows, his hand shaking, and his corrupted thoughts increasing as he takes the first photo.
A zoomed-in photo of your pretty panties showing the outline of your pretty pussy. It makes his cock twitch, and you sigh right by his ear, making him quickly look to see if you woke up.
When he sees you haven’t, he lets out the breath he’s holding and goes back to his phone. He drags the saved photo to a locked private folder he has, his heart twisting as he opens it. It's all photos of you, depraved, lewd photos he got without you noticing. The same photos he used to masturbate to.
Yeah, Seungkwan isn’t a good friend, not really. But he loves you too much to let you go.
Vernon - Vernon knows this is bad. He knows he shouldn't be doing this. You're his friend, his sweet, beautiful, and innocent friend.
But he couldn't help himself.
Not when you're making such sweet noises in your sleep. You're barely clad in his boxers and the t-shirt he let you borrow. You were supposed to go home after hanging out with him, but then it got too late to call a taxi, and Vernon - ever the gentleman - offered to let you stay over.
You didn't know how he loved you. How he fantasized about you. Stroking his cock to the thought of you. And when you insisted he sleep in the same bed as you, well, he's only a man.
His heart hammered in his chest, listening to the soft noises you made as you slept next to him. His body was stiff, resisting the urge to pull you closer as your leg hooked up and gave him the best view of your pretty pussy. His eyes rolled to the back of his head when he realized your cute little panties molded to your cunt, outlining everything he dreamt about, and he could only take so much.
Carefully, he turned to his side, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His weak heart stuttered as his muscle t-shirt shifted, and he could just see the curve of your breast from the side. His cock twitched, and his leg slotted between yours. He was a weak man, okay?
Vernon bit his lip and pressed his leg up, putting pressure between your thighs and earning a soft sigh from you. A shiver ran through his entire body as he kept his leg there, holding you gently. And when in your sleep, your hips rock against his thigh, subconsciously searching for more friction, he does his best not to cum untouched. His hand grips your hip to help you unknowingly dry hump his thigh, loving how your little noises increase in pitch.
And all he can think about is that he’s taking those boxers back before you leave tomorrow, he can feel them become wet under his thigh, and it’s enough to get him spluttering wads of his precum into his own boxers.
If only you knew what you did to him.
Dino - Dino has been one of your closest friends since elementary school. His mom was friends with your mom, and it was inevitable that you two would be connected one way or another.
And that’s why, twenty years later, Dino finds himself in his bed with you in it.
Just friends.
Just friends.
But when you moan softly into the night air, your body warm and shifting under his sheets, he’s just a man. You two weren’t kids playing tag during recess. Time had passed, bodies developed, and he should be ashamed of the way his eyes trail over your sleeping form.
His cock swells, his dick straining against his basketball shorts as you turn to face him in your sleep. Your shirt, actually his, rides up your waist. It was too big on you, and it scrunched up high so that he could see you’re not wearing a bra.
His eyes roll, and he curses at how his face flushes and his breaths turn shallow. He blinks at the ceiling for a moment, and he is a weak man sliding his hand down his boxers to grab his thick cock. The bulbous tip throbs, a dark shade of red already weeping with his precum.
His gaze flits back to you. You’re sound asleep, lips parted, letting out soft whimpers of air from your mouth as you dream. It's innocent, but Dino’s warping them into something lewd, his hand stroking from base to tip with a wet shlick!
Your leg hooks over his leg, and he shivers from the warmth of your body so close to his while he strokes to the thought of you. Now that you’re closer, he can see the cute little yellow panties you wore to bed, and his mouth salivates.
Your fat pussy lips practically eat the thin fabric covering your pretty pussy and barely covering your ass, too. His hand pumps faster, squeezing his cock harder as his stomach clenches.
The last straw is when he realises you have a damp spot on your panties, right over your cute cunt. His jaw slacks and he gasps, choking on air as his cock jerks wildly, splashing ropes of hot sticky cum on his hand, his chest, and your exposed thighs.
And he knows he is truly a perv because when he sees the wads of gooey seed splattered on your skin, he smiles to himself, he’ll let you wake up confused on what the white stuff is dried on your tummy and thighs, not knowing it’s him.
ᯓ★ Summary: You swore you would never come back to this foggy town. It reminded you of the past you longed to forget, the cozy small town aesthetic being a facade for how it really is— connections and influence get you far, and if you were born on the wrong side of the tracks, good luck.You fell in love once, with the boy from the sunny side of this place, who gave you the best summer of your life. But a scandal forced you to break up and you left, and now years later, you're back to handle family business and he's still there, at the music store, where you first met.
ᯓ★ Pairing: ex boyfriend!jihoon x f.reader
ᯓ★ Genre: 18+, angst, smut, fluff, exes to lovers, small town au (riverdale/twin peaks kind of vibe)
ᯓ★ Warnings: PLEASE READ ALL OF THE WARNINGS—heavy angst (ya'll know me by now), grief, parental loss, family trauma, social prejudice (small town vibes, classism, etc), trauma, graphic violence (fighting but not between Jihoon and the reader), talks of murder, toxic parental dynamics, gang affiliations, smoking (cigs, weed), drinking, very sexual content: lots and lots of kissing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, breast play, oral (f. receiving), jihoon gets jerked off a little lol, nail digging, clit stimulation, rough missionary, multiple orgasms, praise worship (sorta), pet names (if I miss anything lmk)
ᯓ★Words: 34K (don’t look at me)
ᯓ★AN: This story is apart of the Carats Ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua, @starlightkyeom and @100vern. Thank you for coming up with such a fun idea! Check out the other amazing stories here. This story was a labor of loveeeeeee and I enjoyed every bit of the headaches I got from it lol. I cannot thank @hannieoftheyear, @gentleisa, @/starlightkyeom and @yoongihan enough for listening to me bitch and complain and cry about this story being good. You always catch my mistakes and I cannot thank you enough for reassuring me that this did not suck. Especially thank you to Thea for dealing with my atrocious grammar and not booting me off the island a long time ago lol. Love you guys 🤍 The reader is nicknamed Blue :)
Playlist: Pink + White- Frank Ocean, Heavy- The Marias, Show Me How- Men I Trust, Something Along The Way- Nirvana, Violet- Hole!, All I Did Was Dream Of You- Beabadobee ft. The Marias, Sunsetz- Cigarettes After Sex (more songs on the playlist here)
You hate it here.
The fresh scent of petrichor hangs in the air after the morning rain. The fog is unrelenting, swirling around in the backyard of your childhood home, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It’s too quiet, eerie, as if Mother Nature knew you were coming and wanted to give you a cruel reminder of why you haven’t set foot into Carats Ridge in ten years. The memories, the hurt, and the pain are still fresh in your mind and linger in your heart, and now there is one more that can be added to the list: your father is gone.
He died of a heart attack, and it’s tearing you apart. Your dad had health issues, and you begged and pleaded for him to come live with you in New York City, to let you take care of him, and finally leave this god-forsaken place behind. Your mom died when you were barely three, with debilitating breast cancer that took her as quickly as it came. He was all that you had. But he always said this place was his home, his community, and he couldn’t live it behind, after everything.
Well, now he’s gone and done it anyway, and he’s left you too.
His ‘community’, as he so lovingly called it, is The Zodiacs, aka a gang. He led it for as long as you can remember, and his dad led it until he passed, and so on. You were never meant for that lifestyle, as you always kept your head in books and wrote in your journals until your heart was content. You were destined to leave this town, become a writer, and make your voice heard. Being the next in line to lead the new generation of degenerates was not in your plans. Your father knew that and loved you anyway.
God, this hurts.
The Zodiacs aren’t terrible people; they’ve done a lot for the community here on the Southside of Carats Ridge. Sure, they have petty thieves and criminals in their midst, but they are always first in line to pull together money for children, single mothers, and the needy. When your best friend, Lola Apple, had her house burn down, the Zodiacs rallied together and fixed up her childhood home free of charge. They are a family that sticks together, and you do admire that. You try not to think ill of them, even though you are technically a legacy member. But it doesn’t take away your anger, your grief, and the pain that’s etched in your heart. Daddy told you just over a week ago, I have all the time in the world to see you, kid. Just you wait.
Well, you did wait, you kept your promise. But he broke his.
You stay on the balcony a little bit longer, watching the fog slowly disperse as the sun forces itself through the clouds, revealing grass that is dead and gone, as if the soil underneath knows that he’s gone too. The urge to smoke a cigarette floods your veins, the intense craving to feel your lungs burn as you inhale on a stick of death. A little bit ironic, you think. You quit several months ago, wanting to be a good example for your dad. What good is that going to do now?
You hear the motorcycles from a mile away, alerting you that your little peace is going to be cut short. You take a deep breath, inhaling deeply from the pit of your stomach, hoping to take away the anxiety you feel. It doesn’t do much, but it helps. You stare far away into the trees, reminiscing about the time you and Daddy would play hide and seek in the woods until you ran out of breath. You remember fondly the deer and rabbits that would come by from time to time, greeting you like an old friend rather than an enemy. You wish they were here, sitting with you in solace as you remember the few good memories you had about this fucked up town—most of them here at your home, at the music store, and the lake.
“Hey, there, Bluebird.”
You turn slowly, recognizing that throaty voice that you’ve grown up with all your life. Facing Lola, you glance at her and stare at the woods again, noticing the pained expression on her face. You know she’s worried about you, and she means well, but the last thing you want is to hear how people are sorry for your loss. Quite frankly, you want to fucking scream.
“I’m not going to say it, because I know you don’t want to hear it,” Lola says, hugging you from behind. “But just know that I love you, okay?”
You acknowledge her words, blinking away tears that threaten to fall on your face. “The kids aren’t here?” you manage to ask.
“No Blue,” she responds softly. “They’re at home with Vernon.”
Everyone has been calling you Blue or some variation of it for as long as you remember, partly because you prefer blue pens over black, and the journals you kept buying were always some shade of blue. You don’t know if it's your favorite color, but looking at it brings you peace. It makes you feel whole.
“Is everyone here?” You sniffle. “I guess I should go out there and pay my respects, huh?”
Lola scoffs. “If anything, they need to pay you respect.” She shakes her head, a small smile on her face. “Look, I know you never blended into the lifestyle, and let’s be real, you weren’t meant to be in this place. But you’ve brought a great deal of pride to the Southside and showed others they could make something of themselves. Who would’ve known a Zodiac legacy would be one of the best-selling authors in the world?”
You know she is right, but you don’t feel that right now. You want to grieve and be alone, and scream into the void. You want to sit in the darkness and let it swallow you up like a cocoon. But your father, in all his suffering, led the Zodiacs with pride, and you will do right by him, even if you don’t want to.
“I-I’ll be in,” you breathe, wiping your wet eyes. “I just need a minute.”
Lola nods, pulling you into a hug that you know you need, but don’t quite feel like you deserve. “Take all the time in the world.”
You hear her feet retreat, the creaking of the door loud and grating before it swings shut with a thud. Staring out into the woods again, you watch the sun disappear behind more ivory clouds, the thunder making itself heard. You know you should go back inside and get this over with, ripping off the bandaid of sympathies and wellwishes you are going to be flooded with.
But instead, you stay out here a little bit longer, and cry.
A week later, you stand outside the church, the one tall building in this town that has been kept up over the years. Standing in brown and white, it has a red illuminated sign in front that reads “Jesus Saves”. Your dad was a lot of things, and religious wasn’t one of them. But he was loved and respected by everyone here, and it was the pastor of New World Baptist Church who reached out and offered to hold the funeral services. He was best friends with Pastor Matthews growing up, and even though their paths diverged, they remained close until the end. You could have had the services anywhere, but you know deep down, this is right.
Your black dress sways in the light breeze, the warm, humid air passing beneath it. Drawing a cigarette to your mouth, you light it and inhale until your throat burns to your liking, hoping to kill the nerves that curdle in the pit of your stomach. It does nothing but aggravate you further. You scoff at the irony.
“There you are,” Lola steps out from the church, joining you to your left. She takes the cigarette from your hand, inhaling it and exhaling with a deep sigh. “I thought you were quitting.”
“So did I,” you murmur with a shrug. “But promises are meant to be broken, right?”
You make the mistake of looking at her, and the pity on her face cuts you deep. You don’t want people to feel sorry for you; if it were up to you, Daddy would have been cremated and his ashes scattered across the lake. But it’s not what he wanted, and you have to be the good daughter and respect his wishes, after all.
“I’m not gonna break, Lola,” you say aloud, as if you are reading her thoughts.
“I never said you would, Blue.”
The church doors creak open, followed by heavy footsteps. You turn to see Pastor Matthews approaching with a slight limp, a result of a car accident that partly led him to turn his life to God. Or at least, that’s what Daddy said.
“Ladies, we can get started whenever you get ready.”
You nod, gazing at your surroundings one last time and taking in a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
Lola puts out the cigarette, linking her arm with yours as you enter the church together and walk past the pairs of wet and red eyes. You make eye contact with Vernon, who gives you a half-smile while holding his two twin girls, Amethyst and Ruby, whom he shares with Lola. Lola and Vernon have been together since they were kids. They have the kind of love that makes sense for them: it’s familiar, warm, and unique in their own way. Lola was always the spitfire of the two, ready to give anyone a verbal lashing to hell and a fist to match. Vernon is her anchor, keeping her still in many storms, and a part of why she has mellowed out. Vernon is also a part of the Zodiacs, with his father as the vice-leader of the gang and your father’s right-hand man. Since everyone knows you didn’t have any interest in being more involved in the Zodiacs than you are now, you imagine Vernon will be picking up the mantle now, legacy and all that.
The funeral proceeds as planned. Pastor Matthews leads a prayer, and the choir sings about the afterlife, heaven, and things you can’t relate to. You start to zone out when community members pay their respects, not because you don’t care, but because your heart can’t take it. Daddy meant a lot to this side of town, and he was so clearly loved. Seeing the sadness in their eyes and their tear-stricken faces is a stab to the gut. You want to lie down and pretend this day never happened. You want to rewind back to last week when your father told you he loved you for the last time. It’s time to give the eulogy, but your head is spinning. You want to leave—
“I have something to say.”
Whipping your head back, your breath falters, your heart beating wildly against your cage like a captured bird. Walking to the front, his eyes locking with yours, is Jihoon, the boy who changed the trajectory of your life. It’s been ten years since you’ve seen him or heard that voice. He’s not the eighteen-year-old boy that you fell in love with at the music store. His hair is longer, he’s bulkier, and time seems to have been kind to him. Jihoon strides to the front of the church, wearing a black suit and matching rimmed glasses.
“What is he doing here?” you whisper in Lola’s ear.
Lola looks confused for a moment, beckoning you to lean closer. “You didn’t know? He was helping your dad from time to time.”
You stare at her blankly, barely registering what she is saying. Jihoon and your dad? Hanging out? Your dad never mentioned it. Focusing back on Jihoon, you study him, waiting with bated breath.
“This was a man loved by everyone, from the Southside and even the North,” Jihoon recalls fondly. “Well, almost everyone.” The light laughter echoes in the small church as he continues. “He showed up to every town hall, ready to speak for everyone in this community, and wasn’t afraid to ruffle feathers to get his point across. I worked with him at the center, and he was just a nice guy to be around. I know I live on the other side of the tracks, but I know I am not alone when I say, he will be missed.”
The members hum and nod in agreement. Jihoon quietly walks towards the back of the church, exchanging a look with you one last time before he disappears from your peripheral view. The church falls silent, and the small movements of shuffled feet and chirping birds are heard. Lola nudges you softly, beckoning toward Pastor Matthews as he moves to the front of the podium.
“Now it is time for the eulogy.”
Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the front, feeling the sympathetic eyes burning into your skin. You make no effort to look up immediately and face the en masse, instead keeping your head down to maintain your composure. Pastor Matthews comes over to you slowly, offering what was supposed to be a comfortable presence, but instead, you feel smothered.
“My father was a pillar of strength,” you begin. “He was a master of everything, and a carbon copy of none. Daddy was original, one of a kind, and the greatest thing in my life.” Your voice cracks towards the end, clearing your throat before continuing. “He was hardworking and gentle, and most importantly, fair. As you all know, I was not meant for the Zodiac life, and he could have made me stay and forced me to be something I wasn’t, or ever would be. But he was a true parent who saw me for who I was, not what he envisioned for me. He saw the good in everyone in this room, and this town, even when they treated him like shit.”
You glance at the closed mahogany casket, surrounded by the most expensive lilies you could buy. You’re filled with a mix of sadness and anger, thinking of the memories where you and he suffered, and the possibility of what could have been if he had left when you asked. “That man is the heart and soul of Carats Ridge, and I don’t give a damn what anyone else says.” Your voice trembles as your vision blurs. “He chose you over me, his own daughter. His only family. That’s how much he valued you, and it is a testament to his character. My father served this place until the day he died, and I hope that if you truly cared about him, you carry his memory in your hearts for the rest of your lives and the next.”
You didn’t mean to come off as angry. You planned to stay calm and get through this in one piece. But damn it, you are mad as hell. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to have at least twenty more years with him. None of this is fair.
You wobble as you walk back to your seat, laying your head on Lola’s shoulder as the funeral drones on until the choir sings the last song. The pallbearers, fellow members of the Zodiac, carry his casket as you lead it, holding a frame of you and him at your high school graduation. The cemetery is behind the church, a plot of land and a tombstone already prepared, as if he knew his time was coming. Dark grey clouds swirl around, dangerously, as everyone gathers around the grave. Daddy will be buried six feet deep, covered with dirt, and never seen again. Your heart tears at the seams.
The wind picks up cruelly, a spirit of madness at play, as it slightly lifts the tent where the burial is happening. The rain follows, warm droplets hitting your body and soaking your dress. The weather called for sunshine and blue skies. What a wicked game Mother Nature is playing on you. You observe everyone, with bowed heads and sorrow, as Pastor Matthews recites more Bible scriptures you can bear. After the final “amen, " men surround your father’s casket, preparing to lower him into the ground. Your breathing is labored and shallow as you clutch the front of your dress. You want to crawl out of your skin.
“Fuck this,” you mutter, shaking your head furiously.
You run, letting your feet guide you through the heavy rain, your hair and makeup ruined. Your expensive dress sticks to your body like wet paper, your bra strap slipping to the side, but you don’t care. You keep running until you can’t anymore, finding yourself at the very end of the road. There are no houses around, just woods and what lurks in them. You let out a guttural wail, letting go of everything you’ve been holding in since you got that call. They say grief comes and goes like waves, and maybe that’s true. But right now you are drowning, struggling to breathe. Veins pop out of your neck as you scream, banging your hands on the ground until they are dirty and slightly bruised. You told Lola you weren’t going to break—another lie told.
You hear the engine through the loud rain, a yellow classic pickup truck speeding towards you and drifting to the right. The passenger door swings open, creamy leather seats appearing first.
“Get in the car before you catch a cold.”
The rain makes it hard to see, the feeling of soft hands pulling you up off the street and leading you into the car. But you know that voice oh-so-well. It’s one you could never get.
“Jihoon.”
He stops, his eyes locking with yours as he wants to say what’s on his mind. But instead, he grants you a mercy, reaching over you to buckle you in, his cologne light and putting you at ease.
“Let’s get you out of this rain, yeah?”
Jihoon wasn’t sure if he should come to the funeral. He hasn’t seen you in a decade, and he thought maybe it would be an icy reunion between the two of you. But here you are, lying on his futon with his t-shirt on and wrapped in a blanket, beautiful and more refined than the last time he saw you. Maybe that’s what happens when you become a best-selling author and the access that comes with it. As it stood in the rain, he saw you running away from the burial. Lola looked distraught, and everyone else watched on with sympathy and curiosity, as though having never seen anyone mourn before.
So he went after you.
There weren’t many places you could have run off to, as the church stands in the middle of a cul-de-sac. The main road would have been too far to run, which left you headed towards dark Sinbrook Forest. When he found you, you were sitting on the street under the pelting rain, lost in your own storm. You didn’t say much while in the car, and he didn’t expect you to—Jihoon knows all too well what grief feels like, and he knew you shouldn’t be alone.
Jihoon was in another city, living his life, when his mother called with the news about his father’s stroke. He worked as a mixer at a music studio and dropped everything to take care of him. It meant working at his family-owned music store while his mother cared for his father, and Jihoon hoped he would eventually be able to return to his new life and arrange better care for his father. That was five years ago.
When his father died a few years later, it tore his mother apart. He supposes losing the love of your life will do that to someone, but it broke her. She refused to leave the house most days, and she wanted him to stay in Carats Ridge forever. He fought tooth and nail to keep living in the small apartment upstairs from the music store rather than in his childhood home. The overbearingness would have been too much, and Jihoon needed time to process his own feelings.
Jihoon thought about you over the years, wondering how you had been and whether you were happy. The last time you saw him, you promised to keep in touch and never to lose that connection. It worked for a few months, then the communication slowed and ceased altogether. He understood you were busy, living in New York, and having a busy life, or maybe you felt like you needed to move on. He was happy for you, truly. But he also felt left behind, forgotten, and, deep down, even now, hasn’t gotten over the girl he'd fallen in love with at the music store.
Ten Summers Ago
Oh, my life
Is changin' every day
In every possible way
And oh, my dreams
It's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
"Dreams" by the Cranberries blasted through the speakers when you walked in, wearing a faded Simpsons t-shirt with dark jeans and sneakers. Jihoon was at the front, strumming the strings on the guitar as he worked on that Saturday. He planned to go to college for music and needed to practice whenever he got the chance. But you were a distraction.
He knew who you were because you attended the same high school, had shared classes over the years, and had graduated just two weeks earlier. You weren’t in the same social circles, so you never actually had a conversation. But as he watched you flip through albums and pick up a variety of them that wouldn’t go together, he became curious. You didn’t seem like the type to listen to Spice Girls, Phil Collins, Nirvana, or Coolio. Now that he thinks of it, he didn’t peg you as a music lover at all. Whenever he saw you, you had a journal in your hands, scribbling away as if you didn’t want to be disturbed.
You also picked up Hot Tub Time Machine and Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist, two movies Jihoon hasn’t seen. As he scanned the items, he saw you looking at the keychains that had just arrived. Your eyes lit up as you touched the bluebird one, taking it off the latch and setting it on the counter. Something odd stirred in his chest, and he wasn’t sure what to call it.
“I’ll take this one too,” you announced, digging in your purse.
You handed Jihoon a $20 bill on the counter, your fingers accidentally touching with a light shock. You jumped back, aghast, as Jihoon stood there, unsure of what to make of it. “That was weird,” you muttered, eyeing him carefully.
“Well, don’t look at me,” Jihoon tittered, scratching the back of his hand. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Do you make it a habit of shocking girls on their eighteenth birthdays?” You pressed, folding your arms.
“N-no,” Jihoon sputtered, at a loss for words. “But happy birthday?”
“Mmhm,” you hummed, your lips pursed together. Then your face broke into a throaty laugh that echoed throughout the store, a contagious one that almost had him joining in. “I’m fucking with you,” you catch your breath. “I mean, it is my birthday, but I don’t think you are going around shocking girls on purpose.”
He broke the bill and placed the change in your hands. The spark didn’t happen again, and he couldn’t help but smirk. You counted the change back quietly, slipping it into your wallet.
“See, no spark,” Jihoon said, holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers.
“Okay, “ you scoffed, grabbing your items off the counter. “Thank you for not shocking me again, I guess.”
He watched you walk out of the music store, leaving an impression in your wake. This was the most you had talked in all the years you had been in the same vicinity as one another; now he was more curious about you than ever.
Your body is dead weight when you finally wake up. It almost feels like you are one with the futon, your body leaving a deep imprint on the cushion. The sun is just now rising, blinding you with its infectious light. You sit up, stirred and slightly shaken as you recount the last day. The funeral, the pelting rain, the six-foot grave your father was supposed to be put in, and Jihoon, who came and took you here, to his place above the music store. Much of it is a blur after that, as all you remember is changing into an oversized shirt and sweats Jihoon had randomly before crashing on his couch. You were too catatonic to speak, your energy drained from experiencing the worst day of your life. Jihoon didn’t force you to speak, and you appreciated it. He just let you be.
You stumble through the apartment, not one hundred percent awake, looking for the bathroom. Finding the door askew, you rush inside, relieving the pressure you felt in your lower abdomen. Jihoon was always a neat freak, and having a clean bathroom is no surprise to you. Everything is in order and in its place where it belongs without a smudge of fingerprints or dust in sight. The decor is simple—white shower linen paired with a clear curtain, black mats, and a black-and-clear soap dispenser. The medicine cabinet is hidden behind the mirror, but you don’t bother going through it. Finishing your business, you wash your hands, splashing more water on your face to stay alert.
Sauntering back to the couch, you observe the layout of the apartment—an open space with brick walls, a bookshelf full of vinyls, CDs, and other standard furniture that makes it his. You can tell he took extra care to form this in his style, and you would expect nothing less from him. Finding your phone on the floor, you grab it and plop back onto the futon. Your eyes widen at the dozens of notifications you received, most of them from Lola, some from Vernon, and one from your agent. Your heart pangs at the messages you received, and maybe you shouldn’t have run off the way you did. It was irrational and maybe a little selfish. But you couldn’t stay there another minute—you felt yourself sinking into the ground with him.
Stifling a yawn, you respond to Lola’s messages with four simple words: “I’m okay. With Jihoon.”
Your phone rings shortly after, Lola’s name displayed on your screen. Taking a deep breath, you prepare for what she is about to give.
“Listen, I’m sorry—”
“I’m not mad,” Lola interrupts, her voice unusually calm. “I understand why you ran off. I mean, I was scared half to death, but I would be more worried if Jihoon didn’t already tell us where you were.”
Letting out a sigh of relief, you walk towards the windows, peering at everyone below, going about their normal lives. The street and sidewalks are still wet with rain, but the flowers in bloom make it worth being outside. You remember the first time you smelled tulips and how its sweet fragrance tickled your nose. The only pharmacy in town stands across the street; next to it are a flower shop and a boutique for fine dresses. You remember walking past them, wondering how the people who ran their shops lived their lives.
“I didn’t realize you had each other’s numbers,” you say, breaking out of self-induced nostalgic trance.
“We’ve worked together a few times, for some events around the Southside,” Lola discloses. “And he and Vernon hang out.”
You mull over her words, trying to grasp Jihoon and Vernon in the same room, actually talking to each other. Even the idea of him being around your father makes your head buzz. “How did that happen, anyway? Daddy never mentioned any of this to me.”
“I’m not sure if you knew this, but Jihoon gave guitar lessons to the children at the community center,” Lola begins. “Your dad helped out around the center, like he always did, and I guess they became acquainted that way.”
Your tongue pokes your cheek, giving this some thought. “I guess. It’s just weird to think about, and Daddy said nothing to me about it. He knows how I feel about this town, but… I don’t know.” Sighing deeply, your heart pierces at the thought of everything that has happened. This town is plaguing you, and you are desperate to get out of it. “I will not be here long enough to dwell on it anyway, so.”
“Oh yes! Speaking of,” Lola’s voice jumps an octave. “Vern and some of the Zodiac are going to help clear out the house before we start doing open houses.”
“Okay,” you murmur.
Lola is also a real estate agent, the only one in town, and gets clients from both sides of Carats Ridge. She is the only one you trust to handle the sale of the house, as it’s too much to bear. Lola is good at what she does, and you know you are in safe hands. It wasn’t what she had set out for herself; she saw herself as an actress starring in movies. But when the fire happened, she stayed behind to care for her mom until she passed. Lola never got that chance to live her dreams, but she seems pretty happy despite that.
You barely hear the front door unlock behind you, turning to face Jihoon as he walks into the apartment, carrying coffee and a large paper bag from the local diner, Mansae. Locking eyes briefly, your stomach does somersaults, unsure of what to make of this moment. “Lola, I have to go. I’ll see you at the house later.”
As you disconnect the call, you smile sheepishly, fidgeting with your hands. Jihoon sets the bag and coffee on the table, rubbing his hands together. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by your truck,” you answer honestly. “But I’ll be okay and out of your hair soon.”
“There’s no rush for you to leave,” Jihoon responds, pointing at the bag. “I brought breakfast in case you were hungry.”
He pulls the contents out of the bag, revealing a container of various donuts, all of which happen to be your favorite. You eye the chocolate one sprinkled with nuts, taking you back to the first time you had one. Your dad brought you to the diner as a treat, letting you have whatever you wanted for getting good grades in elementary school. You chose that donut because it reminded you of a Snickers bar, and you were pleasantly surprised when you bit into it and found it filled with caramel. It was one of the best days of your life.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you eventually respond, grabbing the donut out of the container. “Thank you, though.”
“Of course.” Jihoon nods, reaching into the bag. “Come sit down and eat.”
He holds a breakfast sandwich in his hand, motioning for you to sit at the dining table. Outside, the clouds shift, spilling a sudden, warm glow across the wood table.
“Please? he asks, gentler this time.
Reluctantly, you take a seat at the table, taking a bite out of your donut. The warm velvety caramel oozes onto your tongue, making you involuntarily moan in gratification. You glance at Jihoon, who watches you in amusement. You haven’t had a donut this good since you’ve left town, and you live in New York City. There are some things that you can only get from one place, and donuts are one of them.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a good donut,” you disclose, wiping the corner of your mouth. “Mansae is as good as ever.”
“You know, Mr. and Mrs. Sherbet still run the place?” Jihoon imparts, unwrapping his sandwich. “I still go by there every Sunday with Mom.”
You take another bite, hiding the grimace forming on your face. His mother, Mrs. Lee, had it out for you from the very beginning. Maybe it is because you were from the Southside and dressed like it, but she always gave you a look or said unpleasant things that would have hurt your feelings if you cared. Mrs. Lee isn’t the only person to treat you unfairly in this town, but she adds to the list of reasons you hate it here.
“Looks like nothing has changed much in Carats Ridge,” you say. “I can’t say I miss being back here.”
Jihoon falters just for a moment, briefly, but you caught it. You’re instantly filled with regret. “I’m sorry, that was mean—”
“No, don’t apologize,” Jihoon waves you off. “You are just being honest, right?”
Your mouth opens and shuts without any words coming out. Frustration hits your chest like a sharpened arrow, penetrating your heart deep in its core. Jihoon could never understand how you feel. He’s never had to deal with the prejudice you faced just for being born on the wrong side of town—being accused of thefts, the dirty looks, passersby assuming you weren’t smart, and you weren’t going to amount to anything. He couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to wake up and have strikes against you just for existing. He had the privilege of doing whatever he wanted; you didn’t.
“How have you been?” You change the subject. “It’s been a long time.”
Jihoon leans back in his chair, adjusting his glasses as he mulls over your question. “I’ve been okay. I left town for a while and came back to take care of Dad for a while.”
“Take care?” Your ears perk up. “Is he okay?”
A pained expression is on his face, glancing down as he adjusts his glasses again. “So I guess you haven’t heard then.”
He didn’t have to say anything else; you knew what he meant—his father is gone. The pain of losing a parent, someone you love forever, leaves a permanent, ugly scar on your soul. You never heal from it, but you learn to deal with it, and it becomes a part of you.
“I’m sorry, Jihoon,” you murmur. “Mr. Lee was a good man.”
You mean what you said. Mrs. Lee always gave you a hard time, but his father was always kind to you and made you feel welcome. They were opposites, and you used to wonder how that even happened. You like to imagine that’s where Jihoon got his warmth from.
“It’s okay,” Jihoon sighs. “It’s been a couple of years now, and I have taken over the music store for my mom.”
“Wow,” you respond, nostalgia hitting you soft like a pillow. “I used to love it there.” All those weekends you would spend at the store, listening to Donna Summer, Nirvana, Usher, falling in love with him—
You shake your head, bringing yourself back to reality and ignoring the sudden heaviness in your heart. “You’ve been well?” You smile.
Jihoon’s eyes soften, followed by a slow, tentative headshake. “I guess? It could be worse.”
There is something in the back of his voice that makes you believe he isn't being entirely truthful. But you choose not to press it.
“I’ve seen you on TV,” Jihoon reveals, clearing his throat as he unwraps what looks like a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. “I watched the interview for the anniversary of Blue Valentine. You looked good.”
The heat creeps up on your neck, and you try your best to ignore it. “Oh?” Your mouth curves into a smirk. “As opposed to now?”
He lets out a snort, shaking his head. “You aren’t roping me into that one.”
“Roping you into what?” You giggle, batting your eyes. “I’m innocent.”
You jointly break into peals of laughter, rumbling from the pit of your soul. For a moment, you’re lighter, brighter than you have felt in days. You haven’t felt the disease of grief for almost an hour, and it’s nice not to have that dark cloud over you. But eventually the laughter dies down, and it’s quiet, and the thoughts in your head become louder, urging you to say what’s on your mind. Jihoon glances at you before looking away, busying himself with his sandwich. You finally take the lid off your coffee, expecting to add your fixings, only to realize it’s already there, with whipped cream on top.
“I didn’t forget how you like your coffee.”
“I see,” you murmur, ignoring the light butterflies in your stomach. “Thanks.”
You eat another donut in silence, watching the birds perch outside the window. They flap their wings happily, without a care in the world. It must be nice to live carefree like that, not being plagued by loss. You gaze at Jihoon, studying him for the first time since you’ve been with him. He’s broader, finer, and has grown into his looks, but some things remain the same. Like the style of his glasses, his truck, and the vinyls that are plastered on the walls. He is still a neat freak, with every spot in this loft clean and items placed with purpose. Hanging on the hook is his letterman jacket from Carats Ridge High, where he played football. Most importantly, he still has the same guitar, castaneous and worn as ever, but still in good shape.
You don’t think much about this town, but you have thought about him and how things ended. You never dwell on it long, though, because then you'd be forced to feel it all, and that makes you vulnerable. You can’t afford that.
“I think I am going to head out,” you say, scooting out of the seat. You glance at him before looking away, rubbing your left temple. “I appreciate the coffee and donuts. You didn’t have to do that.”
Jihoon nods, neatly setting down his sandwich. “I know, but I wanted to.”
You don’t look him in the eyes. You don’t want to acknowledge the current of emotions that are pumping through your heart. You nod in response, grabbing your phone and your shoes. You look around for your dress, but it's nowhere in sight.
“Hey, have you seen my dress—”
“Oh! Wait a minute.”
Jihoon scurries out of his seat, disappearing into a closet you didn’t notice, emerging with your dress, dry and without a wrinkle.
“I put it in the dryer while you sleep,’ he explains. “I figured you might not want wet clothes to take home.”
Your fingers rub against the soft material, the faint smell of fabric linen lifting off the cotton. It brings you back to the first time you were in his truck that summer, one he proudly bought, with the same scent hanging from the rearview window. He said it was the only scent that made sense—guess that hasn’t changed.
“Thank you, again, Jihoon.”
Your hand is on the door, almost turned to pull when it’s pushed open, almost smacking you in the face. Standing on the other side is someone you did not want to see: Jihoon’s mother. She eyes you up and down, her face drawn with disgust and contempt as if you were the vein of her existence.
“Hmm, I see you are back in town,” Mrs. Lee remarks, entering the loft and forcing you to move out of the way. “Are you here to cause trouble again for my boy?”
You are taken aback, letting out a scoff as you regain your composure. “No, Mrs. Lee,” you respond, rather short. “My father is dead.”
She pauses for a second before letting out a hmph, throwing her bag on the futon that was still laid out as a bed. “Jihoon, is this how you live now?
“Mom, what—”
Redirecting her attention back to the living room, she waves him off, as if what he says doesn’t matter. She fusses with the blankets drawn on the futon, throwing them aside and folding the futon back to make it a couch. She mutters under her breath, no doubt obscenities about you. You shouldn’t be surprised by this behavior; this is who she has always been. But it opens up an old wound that hasn’t quite healed, and you are one minor inconvenience away from being ready to let her have it.
“Bye, Jihoon,” you say, shaking your head. “Thank you again.”
“Let me walk you out—”
“No.” You insist, harder than you intended. “I can walk out by myself. I’m not a little girl anymore.”
Though you smile at him softly, you’re screaming inside for space to breathe.
“Okay,” he reluctantly agrees. “Call me when you make it back, please?”
You nod, letting out a small breath. “I’ll get your number from Lola.”
“Okay.”
You stare at each other, the silence stretching a little too long, tension filling the air with unspoken thoughts and truths that you’ve kept locked away in a box that you never planned to acknowledge again. Jihoon looks as if he has something to say, his brows furrowing, and you stand there, waiting to hear what comes out of the end of it.
“Can I ask you something?”
His eyes shift to something softer, familiar, making your stomach flutter. “Yeah, shoot,” you reply cautiously.
He exhales softly, running his fingers through his hair. “Blue Valentine… was that about us?”
Your breath hitches, the question catching you off guard. Blue Valentine was your debut novel, which was met with immediate success. You were #1 on the best-sellers list for a year and are still in the top 20, earning numerous accolades and achieving success you never thought you could. But that book is personal, about two teenagers who met one summer and had the best time of their lives before they parted ways and never saw each other again. You’ve been asked numerous times who the muse was behind the book, and you’ve never answered it directly.
“Jihoon, I—”
“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?”
Mrs. Lee’s thin voice cuts through the moment, sounding like chalk screeching on a board. Oddly, you appreciate the irony in this; at least you don’t have to reveal the deep, uncomfortable truth.
Shaking your head, you throw a look at Jihoon before peeking into the doorway. “Mrs. Lee, always a pleasure.” You salute sarcastically, shutting the door behind you.
One Summer Ago
“It’s the fifth anniversary of your debut novel, Blue Valentine. How has life changed since then?”
You sat up straighter, adjusting the blazer you wore over your soft satin shirt. The lights were bright, almost blinding, as you tried to look happy and composed on television. You are on Good Morning America, and you were invited to discuss your book with legendary anchor Ginger Snaps.
“I am much busier,” you laughed. “But I am really grateful to all of my readers who have been on this journey with me. I wouldn’t be here without them.”
“True,” Ginger responded. “But your writing, your penmanship even, is one of a kind. You would have been successful regardless.”
You blinked, unsure of what to say to that besides “Thank you.”
“Absolutely,” Ginger beamed while flipping to the next card. “Now Blue Valentine is about two teenagers from opposite worlds who spend one summer together that changes their lives. So many people have been inspired to find their own Blair and Jackson, and some fans have even sent in personal stories (which we will send with you later).”
“Wow,” you said, astonished.
Ginger smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye that gives you pause. “Take us back to when Blue Valentine was being written,” Ginger presses. “Tell us a deep, hard fact that we don’t know.”
You glanced at your agent, Anna, who gave you a tight nod. Your mind suddenly went blank, a little too long. You saw the questions before the interview and even rehearsed your answers. You’ve done this a million times, yet you are struggling to remember a single thing. Your mind traveled back to him, that summer, where you sat at the lake and listened to Jihoon playing his songs on the guitar. That same summer when he kissed you for the first time, and fireworks sparked in your chest. That very summer, when you blossomed like the cornflowers in your yard and truly felt alive.
But thinking of him also brought you pain. It was a harsh reminder that you haven’t connected with anyone on that level, and to be honest, do you even want to? Get to know someone, experience the highs and lows of a relationship, the heartache—
“Y/N?”
You slowly came back to focus, shutting the doors on those memories and throwing away the key. You can’t afford to feel that right now.
“I’m sorry, Ginger.” You gave her your best smile. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Mom, what was that?”
Jihoon walks to his mother, who is busying herself with folding the blanket you laid in. She takes a sniff of it and gags, throwing it on the floor in disgust.
“That perfume is gross,” she begins, waving her hand in front of her face. “You will need to re-wash that blanket three times.”
“Her perfume smelled fine,” Jihoon lets out a resigned sigh. “And you’re avoiding the subject.”
His mother throws him a look before huffing, stepping around him to the kitchen table. “I’m not avoiding anything; I just simply do not want to talk about her.”
Jihoon shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. His mother has always been like this: pushy, haughty, and truly believes no one is good enough for him. He has tried to date, sure, and has had a relationship here and there, but his mother never liked anyone he brought around, especially you. Mrs. Lee hated you for no reason besides that you lived on opposite sides of the tracks. For whatever reason, when you came around, it burned an ember inside of her that just wouldn’t let up. Jihoon never understood it, which led to constant tension between them because he always defended you. She detested that.
“I don’t want her coming back here,” his mother announces, dusting off her hands. “She is nothing but bad news, Jihoon.”
“Firstly, this is my place,” Jihoon scoffs. “And how, Mom?” He pushes back. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Mrs. Lee stops, glancing at you and then looking away. “That apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Jihoon stands there, bewildered and scratching his head. His mother has shown early signs of dementia, which is also another reason why he stayed behind. As much as he wanted to pursue music still, he couldn’t be selfish and leave her.
“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” he accepts, not wanting to push it further. “Do you still want to go to the farmers’ market in the next town?”
Looking at the set of donuts on the table, she grimaces. “Yes. I want to go before the fresh strawberries and cream cart runs out.”
Grabbing the keys to his truck, she takes one last look at the place, scoffing as she opens the front door. “I’ll be waiting in the car. It’ll serve you right to clean up this mess before we leave.”
The door shuts with a thud, and Jihoon lets out the breath he’d been unironically holding in. He loves his mother, truly, but she leaves him with an anxiety that cracks his chest and fills his stomach with rumbling stones. She doesn’t give him room to breathe or just to be. Her words strike to hurt and are passed off as maternal love. He’s used to it by now, but sometimes, he wants to leave this town and never come back. But he wouldn’t be a good son, and he promised his father he would always protect her.
So he does what’s told, because what else is he going to do?
You’ve been a recluse for the past couple of days. You stayed in your house unless you needed to leave, cleaning it until your fingers were pink and blistered. You undoubtedly smell like lemon-scented cleaning supplies and bleach. You threw away numerous bags of trash and set aside food to donate to the local food pantry. You even mowed the lawn, even though Vernon was supposed to do that. You're sweaty, gross, and in need of a shower—but they’re still so much to do.
The truth is, you have a lot on your mind, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins is keeping you going—otherwise, you would have crashed. Your heart is heavy, and the walls you’ve had built up for so many years are starting to crack. Daddy, Jihoon, this house and the memories, everything is closing in, and it’s suffocating at times. You look at the living room and remember the times Daddy tried to do your hair so you would look nice for school, or when Monday night wrestling was on, and he would order pizza as a weekly ritual. The old stove in the kitchen, where Daddy used to make dinner on the nights he was home. Everything reminds you of him, and throwing Jihoon in the mix, you want to run into the woods and disappear.
Whether you are ready to admit it or not, Jihoon has always been in the back of your mind, and somewhere deep in your heart, buried under a bed of budding flowers. Every once in a while, when you’re in your bed and everything is quiet, you think of the time you shared with him and the warmth that filled your soul. It was young love, sure, but it was still love, and the only time you have ever truly felt it. Experienced it with free will. When you left this town, you hoped to continue, and it festered into a stronger, deeper love that lasted forever.
But it didn’t end like that, and that’s okay, you guess.
You collapse on your childhood bed, wiping the sweat off your forehead with your head down, catching your breath. You still have to go through your rooms and decide what to keep or give away, but first, you need a shower.
“Hello?”
Your attention is on the door, the sound of heels clacking on the hardwood floors you just finished shining. Irritation bubbles in your chest, but when Lola comes into view, it evaporates quickly.
“I didn’t know you were coming by,” you say, pulling off your cleaning gloves.
“Well, you would have known if you answered your phone,” Lola ripostes, raising an eyebrow as she looks around the house. “I told you Vernon and the boys were going to clean this up for you.”
“I know that,” you answer. “But I just needed to keep busy.” You sniffle, the cleaning products making your nose run. “I have a lot on my mind, you know?”
Lola’s face softens, a gentle half-smile appearing. “I know, Blue.”
She sits next to you on the bed, wrapping her arm around your shoulder. “I came to get you out of here, anyway. You are coming to eat with us.”
You knew what “us” meant: Lola, Vernon, and the twins. You wanted a day to yourself, to think, to clean more, and to avoid the world. To not have to see the pity looks you get when you walk to the courthouse or go into Jollibee’s to get a burger and fries. But you don’t want to hurt Lola’s feelings, and you know she means well.
“I need to shower and change first,” you say, looking down at your worn, bleach-stained black shirt and sweats. “I feel gross.”
“Do what you need to do,” Lola nods, plopping off the bed. “I assume that the food in the container needs to go to the community center? We’ll drop it off on the way.”
She leaves you to your thoughts and privacy, shutting the door softly behind you. Blowing a raspberry, you begrudgingly get off the bed, tearing off your shirt and the rest of your clothes, throwing them in the corner. The cool air from the a/c hits the back of your legs like a nice reprieve. You’ve been on autopilot for days; you are slowly starting to feel it, finally—the small aches in your knees and hands, the constant dull pain in your lower back. Maybe you should have let the gang clean the house after all.
You study yourself in the mirror for the first time in days; dark circles surround your eyes from the lack of sleep, and your skin is dull, begging for hydration. Your naked body shines in the golden light of the sun, the most light you have let touch you in days. You’re falling down a rabbit hole, deep into the wonderland of avoidance, and the chasm of you not giving a fuck grows wider with each passing day.
“Shit,” you murmur to yourself.
You step into the shower, letting the water pressure hit your lower back until it goes numb. The steam quickly fills the small bathroom as you inhale, filling your lungs. The tension slowly leaves your body, as if you are floating in a dreamy oasis, standing there for a while, letting your mind go blank as you slowly turn off your emotions. You could do this forever—stand here and be non-existent to the world, and get the peace you truly want. No pain from the constant grief that cuts you open like a fresh wound, or anger from being back at the one place you hate the most. Most importantly, no deep late-night thoughts of what could have been with Jihoon.
You don’t allow yourself to think of that summer often. You try to let the past be the past, move forward, and enjoy your success. You’ve even tried dating, getting under someone new, to get rid of the faint nagging in your heart when you think of him. You ignore the way your heart beats when you think of the times at the music store, sitting on the counter and listening to Pearl Jam on the vinyl. Or the rush you felt when you jumped in the lake together, hand in hand, fully clothed and not caring about how you looked. The silly songs he sang in your ear or the way his fingers ran through your hair—
Knock! Knock!
“Blue, are you alright?”
Lola’s voice snaps back into reality, a jarring mix of white tiled walls and the smell of wet plastic outside a blue shower cocooning you from the rest of the world. Pressing your forehead against the cold, slick tile, you exhale a breath that feels far too heavy.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
There is a brief pause, nothing but the running water hitting the porcelain tub as the sun shifts west. Then finally she responds, “Okay. Change of plans: Vernon is bringing the kids here.”
Slight irritation bubbles in your chest at the change of plans, but you will live. “Okay,” you breathe. “I’ll be out in a few.”
A few minutes into twenty as you wash your body and stand under the water until it turns cold. Your mind is full of noise, an annoying static, and you'd give anything to return to that dreamy oasis. You want to call it off, tell Lola to go home, and see her another day. The adrenaline has worn off, and you want to fall into your bed and sleep until next week, when all of this will be over, and you can leave this place for good. You haven’t known peace since you got that call, and you crave it so much it’s cemented in your bones.
Turning off the shower, you grab a towel while refusing to look at the mirror again. You know what state you’re in, and you don’t give a damn about fixing it. You dry yourself from head to toe and throw on the most comfortable clothes you have, sweats, and an old Spice Girls t-shirt. You’re on a mission to reclaim your life, your peace, and you swing the door open to say exactly that.
“AUNTIE BLUE!!”
Two little girls sprint down the hall and tackle you on both sides, making you falter back into your room. Lola’s twins, Amethyst and Ruby, hug you tightly, and you can’t help but lean down and pull them close, your eyes prickling with tears. You have met the twins before when Lola came to visit you in New York a few times, and when she was pregnant, she asked you to be their godmother. You love them like an aunt would their niece, and you would never want to hurt them in any way. A deep shame floods your body at the thought of sending Lola home without regard for them. Their happy smiles and excited looks seep a light into your black heart, and you are grateful.
“Why are you crying?” Amethyst asks, pulling away slowly. “Did I do something wrong?”
You shake your head, the weight of shame deepening in your chest. “Oh no,” you assure her, brushing her little curls back with a gentle smile. “I had a really long day, but I am so happy to see you two.”
You gaze at Ruby, who studies you carefully, a slow smile spreading on her face. Out of the two, Amethyst is the outgoing twin with Lola’s spunk, whereas Ruby is quieter and more observant with Vernon’s eyes. You can see it now, how she looks you over without much to say.
“Don’t tell me they got all the hugs.”
You know that voice from anywhere, glancing slowly at Vernon, who is standing in the doorway with three boxes of pizza and wings. You, Vernon, and Lola were a trio growing up—nothing could separate you all, even when Lola and Vernon started dating. Vernon is your best friend, too, in a way, though you don’t talk to him as much as Lola. But your relationship is the type where you don’t have to talk all the time. What you all went through, all those years ago, created a bond that could never be broken.
Releasing the twins from your grasp, you walk over to help Vernon with the boxes. Despite his dark brown hair being cut into one of those modern mullets, he still looks the same, even down to his signature boots and jean jacket. He’s always been lean, tall, and has a face that should be in magazines, not slumming it out here on the Southside. But that was never his style; he’s always viewed Carats Ridge as his home, and with a successful bar, Shadow, that has been passed down through generations in his family, he never plans on leaving. He reminds you of Daddy, in a way.
“Hi Vern,” you greet him with a hug. “I dig the cut.”
“Yeah?” Vernon responds with a slight smirk. “Tell Lola Bunny over there that. She hates it.”
You glance at Lola, who rolls her eyes playfully, and an unexpected giggle erupts out of you, taking you by surprise. Slapping your hand over your mouth, you’re filled with uncontrollable laughter, tears in your eyes over such a silly joke. This has always been the dynamic among the three of you. It reminds you of the times when the three of you would come here and hang out with Daddy, eating pizzas, watching The Simpsons reruns, or playing games. The nostalgia is strong and fleeting, making you feel lighter than you have in days.
“Are you okay?” Vernon asks, exchanging a nervous glance with Lola. You sniffle, trying to hold it together from the laughter, the irony of it all. The kids have gone into the backyard, the screen door swinging shut with a slam.
“I’m not okay at all,” you chortle, the shaky breath of laughter dying in your throat. “I’m completely fucked up.”
Saying it out loud shatters you. The pain cracks your composure, and you shatter, crying from the depths of your soul. Vernon pulls you into a hug, letting you sob loudly into his shirt. You are feeling everything, everywhere, and all at once. Through the haze, you hear him tell Lola to check on the girls as he hugs you tighter, holding you together while your chest caves in.
“Let it all out, Blue,” Vernon says gently. “I got you.”
The truth is, no one prepares you for losing a parent so majestically, and how it flips your world upside down. They don’t warn you about how grief is an ugly parasite that eats at you painfully until you’re empty. They don’t tell you that the misery will crush you until you can’t breathe and your world turns black. Your candle, your guiding light, is snuffed out. How do you get that back?
Ten Summers Ago
“Vern! Pass me that spliff, will ya?”
It was after midnight, and you were lying in the back of Vernon’s truck with him and Lola, looking at the stars that decorate the sky. It was supposed to be a shower of shooting stars tonight, and you wanted to see this once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. It was seventy degrees, and the breeze was just right as you’re sitting on the other side of Sinbrook Forest, in front of the field. Taking the joint from Vernon’s hands, you inhaled until your throat burned something fierce, coughing heavily while the others laughed.
“Careful there, Blue. I don’t want your dad stringing me up a pole.”
You lolled up, throwing a look at Vernon while handing the spliff to Lola. “I’m fine,” you breathed. “It just went down the wrong pipe.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Vernon teased, falling into a peal of laughter.
You reached over to pinch him when you heard a crunch of leaves, stopping you dead in your tracks. Lola and Vernon sat up suddenly, turning off the music on the speaker and grabbing a flashlight. Your heart raced as you tried to see through the dark, squinting your eyes at the figure moving down the field. Vernon tapped the flashlight hard on his leg, the light flickering a few times before finally illuminating the darkness. You noticed the familiar faded jean jacket first, the tension in your body leaving you slowly as you recognized the person in front of you.
“Jihoon?”
He stopped, looking in your direction as he covered his eyes from the light. You called his name again, and before you knew it, you were hopping out of the bed of the truck and walking towards him. You were going to the music store a lot more often, but not just to buy music or DVDs. Sometimes you just came by to hang out, listened to undiscovered vinyls with Jihoon, and talked about what you like about each record. You quickly realized Jihoon wasn’t as stuck-up as everyone else on the Northside, and you started to become friends. His mother was sometimes there and gave you a stink eye, but it’s nothing you aren't used to. You still felt the shock in the center of your palm from the first day you met. The feeling is ingrained in you now, and it’s hard to ignore.
You finally reached him, with the light of your phone in your hand, wading through the knee-length grass as it shifts with the wind. “Hey there,” you greeted him. “‘Didn’t know you liked stargazing.”
“I didn’t know you were into stars either,” Jihoon quipped, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Smells like you are having a get-together.”
You felt the heat creep onto your neck, painfully aware of his reference to the smell of weed on your clothes. “Yeah, well, what’s a party without party favors, you know?”
You turned back to Lola and Vernon, who had the flashlight adjusted enough to illuminate the truck. They were locked into an intense make-out session, and you grimaced, knowing better than to interrupt that.
“Well, I guess I’ll be watching the stars with you then,” you decided, turning your focus back to Jihoon. “That’s not a problem, right?”
Jihoon was taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “Do you usually invite yourself to other people’s activities?”
A giggle bubbled through your throat, amused by his question. “No,” you answered honestly. “But I usually make them more fun.”
Walking towards the middle of the field, you helped Jihoon unfold the blanket he was holding and lay it flat on the grass. The sky has somehow gotten brighter, a milky blue never seen before in this town. You marvel at it, your eyes twinkling like the stars above. It’s more beautiful than what you could describe in your journal.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You murmured.
“Yeah. It is.”
You glanced at Jihoon, only to find his gaze had shifted from the sky to you. When your eyes lock, a warm tide rushes through you, making your stomach flutter with the sensation of flying. This isn’t the first time you have felt this, being around him, but here under the night sky, it’s overwhelmingly prominent.
“Do you come here often?” You posed, drawing a circle on the blanket. “I come here a lot, and I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
Jihoon shakes his head, folding his legs and resting his hands on his knees. “No,” he responded. “I usually go down to the lake, but I didn’t feel like being by the water tonight.”
Sugarmore Lake is the only lake in Carats Ridge that runs north to south through the town. It’s the unofficial ‘Switzerland ‘ of the town, where everyone managed to get along and enjoy the lake. Not that a fight or two hasn’t broken out once or twice there, but it’s an unspoken rule that everyone leaves their bad vibes at the entrance.
“I see.” You nodded, leaning back on your elbows. “I don’t go there much, and the last time I went I was fishing with my dad.”
Silence fell between you for a moment, the only sound heard coming from the grass blades moved by the slow breeze. It was comfortable to sit next to Jihoon in a different environment. “Well,” Jihoon muttered. “Maybe you should come with me sometime.”
Your eyes danced at him, curiously, a slow smile spreading on your face. “Are you asking me on a date, Jihoon?”
His laugh tickled your chest, and you couldn’t help but join in. What a silly thing to assume. But then he slowed, and he looked at you seriously, his eyes softening under the low light.
“What if I was?” Jihoon said slowly, looking nervous. “Would it be a bad thing?”
You looked at him with regard, realizing he is serious. You’ve never been asked out on a date before. You’ve been on one or two and have experiences, sure. But no one has formally asked you, at least not in this way. The truth is, you like Jihoon. You liked seeing him at the music store and listening to 60s rock. You liked arguing with him about why disco is overly hated or how 90s grunge is one of the best genres of all time. You loved sitting in the chair while Jihoon strummed his guitar, humming a song he'd come up with the night before. You enjoyed his company. You enjoyed him.
“I don’t think it would be a bad thing at all,” you whispered.
Jihoon smiled at you warmly, his hand shifting towards yours as it brushes against your thumb. A familiar zap is felt between you two, and you throw him a look, rolling your eyes playfully.
“Here you go, shocking me again,” you teased him.
“Oh, please, it’s from the blanket and the stars aligning—”
“Oh, you’re an astronomer now, Jihoon?” you quipped. “Please, tell me more.”
“Well, obviously not, but—”
“—What are you two yapping about?”
Vernon and Lola appeared on your right, holding a blanket and what’s left of the weed. He stumbled before he fell, reaching over you and handing it to Jihoon, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Come on, Lee, take a puff,” Vernon goaded him. “Join the fiesta under the stars.”
Rolling your eyes, you turned to Jihoon. “You don’t have to—”
Your words died down in your throat, watching Jihoon take the small blunt and smoke it. Your mouth parted in shock, watching him inhale and exhale the smoke from his mouth expertly, forming a perfect ‘O.’
“Oh! He gets down!” Lola cheered, raising her fist in the air. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Jihoon chuckled, handing the blunt back to Vernon. “I’m not a square, you know. I know my way around a joint or two.”
“Touche,” Vernon responded, leaning back against the blanket. “My bad. I didn’t know the Northie had it in him.”
Gazing up at the sky, you saw the stars twinkle, brighter than you have ever seen. Then one shooting star came down, followed by two, and then a series. You gawked in awe, a tear streaming down your cheek as you watched the phenomenon happening in front of you. Who knows if you will ever see something so wondrous ever again?
Jihoon’s hand covered you, and instead of a spark, you felt a warmth that made your skin prickle. His skin is soft, you smell his cologne, and the magnetism in the air pulls you closer to him, almost touching shoulder to shoulder. You had so much to say, and it overloads your brain. It’s hard to contextualize anything else you feel other than one word: happy.
“So, the lake?” Jihoon asked, beholding the show in front of him.
Smiling softly, you answered him. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
Jihoon never thought he would see you again, and now you’ve taken over his every thought.
Ever since you stayed at his apartment, he has been replaying the memories you have together. Every corner of the music store reminds him of you, with headphones over your ears and bobbing your head to whatever album you haven’t listened to before. It’s been a few days since you’ve spoken, with you letting him know you made it home. He’s wanted to reach out, his fingers flicking to your contact in the moments where it’s quiet, but his thoughts get the best of him. It’s been so long—would you even want that?
Jihoon has seen your interviews here and there and heard the news about you from Vernon. It’s funny how he and Vernon became close when you left town, realizing they had a lot more in common than recreational weed. When Jihoon started teaching music at the community center on the Southside, Jihoon got to know your dad better. He never understood why his mother didn’t like him—he thought he was cool, a fierce leader, and a protector of the youth. He gave Jihoon words of encouragement when his father passed, and when his health started to decline, Jihoon offered to take him running errands if he needed it. Maybe, subconsciously, it was Jihoon’s way of staying close to you, through him.
The thunder rumbles outside, shaking the windows in his loft. Jihoon watches the lightning strike near Sinbrook Forest, the wind picking up, and trees thrashing around violently. Shaking his head and sighing softly, he picks up his worn guitar and strums a soft tune that echoes in the living room, a melancholic melody that has been stuck in his head for the past twenty-four hours.
I remember when I realized I had feelings for you
We were riding in my truck, driving down to the lake
With the windows down, sunlight turning gold on your face
I knew then what I was feeling was not a mistake
I miss you
It’s always been you.
You’ve been here two weeks, and time isn’t going fast enough.
You handled all the estate stuff for your father, retrieving the death certificate and signing the necessary paperwork to ensure the house was sold and everything else was in order. Vernon and the Zodiacs came to help you clean up the rest of the house, repair the childhood swing set in your backyard, and give the house a fresh coat of paint. Little by little, the pieces of your childhood are taken out, and you aren’t sure how to feel. Relieved? Sad? Numb? Your emotions are a clusterfuck, and that’s not even throwing Jihoon into the mix.
You are grateful for them—the Zodiacs, this community, for coming through for you in your time of need in the name of your father. Your relationship with the idea of being a Zodiac legacy is complicated, but you aren’t ashamed of where you came from or who your dad raised you to be.
“What’s on your mind, Blue?”
Vernon stands next to you, beer in hand, as he supervises the younger crew loading the last bit of furniture into a box truck. He takes a swig, the sweat dripping from his forehead and down his neck on this unusually warm day.
“Just watching the place I grew up change right before my eyes.” You let out a heavy sigh. You eye the glistening beer in his hand. “I see nothing’s changed. Is it noon yet?”
“It’s noon somewhere, Bluebird,” he responds, taking another gulp.
You shake your head, chuckling and folding your arms. One of the older gentlemen, nicknamed Pop, carries out buckets of paint from around the house. His boots squish in the wet grass, walking towards you and setting them down with a whistle.
“Everything is all painted up, Blue,” Pop announces. He turns his attention to Vernon. “It’s a little too early to be celebrating, don’t you think?
Your brows furrow in confusion, darting between Pop and Vernon. “Celebrating what? Is Lola pregnant again?”
“What?” Vernon’s eyes went wide, followed by a dry nervous laugh. “God no. Lola and I can barely handle the two that we have.” He suddenly goes quiet, looking down at his feet, almost ashamed. “The uh.. crowning ceremony is tonight.”
It takes a while to register what he means, but once it clicks, it’s like you’re hit with a heavy stone as you’re caught off guard. The crowning ceremony takes place when a new leader is appointed. It takes place at the Viper, and while the ceremony itself is short, it involves lots of booze and partying afterward to honor the new king of the Zodiacs. You know that your father couldn’t be the leader forever.
“So…” your voice shakes, trying to hold it together. “I take it you are going to be the new leader then?”
“Y-yeah,” Vernon mutters, kicking an imaginary stone from his foot.
When you finally glance at Vernon, the tears come down fierce and hot. You know you shouldn’t feel hurt, you understand this is the way of things, but it’s not his father who just died. It’s not Vernon’s home that is being sold and turned into something you don’t even recognize. Most importantly, it’s not his heart that is being trampled on a thousand times over.
“Blue, I—”
“Don’t worry about it, Vernon,” you sniffle, furiously wiping your wet eyes. “I’m happy for you, truly. I know you will lead the Zodiacs well.”
You walk away before he can respond, the harsh sunlight beaming on the top of your head. You’re seething with anger, a sense of betrayal stirring in your gut. Your father is barely settled six feet under, and he is already being replaced. It feels so fast, too soon. You can't wrap your mind around Daddy being replaced—just like that.
You walk without a clear destination in sight in an angry haze, just with a drive to get away from everyone and think. Cars whiz by you, passengers looking at you curiously, but you couldn't care less. Your head is humming with static, unable to get a coherent thought together that isn’t laced with profanities. Being mad as hell is an understatement.
Your stomach aches from the anger, but you push through as the sweat swims down your neck. You cross the train tracks that separate the north and the south, and your throat feels like sandpaper, begging for a drop of water to take you out of your misery. But you keep walking, face hot until you see the familiar sign that says “Lee’s Records Store”, red lights illuminated in front of the yellow and white building. It wasn’t your intention to come here, but your body feels more at ease as you come closer to it, the static in your head lessening as you think about listening to music and mellowing out.
Pulling the doors open, the cool air hits your face, and you exhale, feeling relieved. Your eyes scan the door, looking for Jihoon, but instead, you are met with the scornful eyes of Mrs. Lee, standing behind the counter.
“What are you doing here?!” She demands, the disdain clear in her voice.
“I was looking for Jihoon,” you respond, an eyebrow raised. “Is he around?”
“No, he’s not,” Mrs. Lee answers shortly.
You nod slowly, thumbing through the albums to your left. You pick up Nevermind by Nirvana, your thumb caressing the cover's plastic. The first time you listened to this album was here, with Jihoon, sitting on top of the counter. You will never forget the grittiness of Kurt Cobain’s voice blasted through the speakers, the guitar riffs that gave you life, and the drums that stayed in your head well into the rest of the day. It was one of your happiest moments.
“I think you should leave,” Mrs. Lee says suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie. You observe her waddling from the counter, walking towards you with determination. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Yeah,” you scoff, walking around her. “I’m sure Jihoon would disagree.”
A tug on your arm yanks you back, and a nail digs into your forearm. You glance at Mrs. Lee in shock as you quickly pull your arm away. “I told you to leave!” Mrs. Lee shouts, pointing at the door. “All of you Southside people are the same, coming over here, causing chaos, and not caring who gets hurt in the process.”
You stare at her incredulously, feeling wetness drip from your arm. Glancing down, you see the blood trailing down from her nails penetrate your skin. “Lady, what the fuck is your problem—”
Her face gets redder, the anger mounting with each second. "You’re just like him, you know—you come in and take away people’s joy and then leave. You don’t care about my boy and how much you hurt him. You were trash then, and I praised God every day when you left.”
You’re rooted in place, stunned into silence. A discomfort spreads in your stomach, and you refuse to accept what you're hearing. “When you say him, I know you aren’t talking about my father—”
“Yes. Him,” Mrs. Lee sneers. “He was shit then, and I suppose he’s being turned into shit now, six feet under—”
The slap echoed off the walls of the store, your hand stinging as if a wave of fire washed over your knuckles. A red imprint was visible on her face, her glasses askew and about to fall off. You heave, an anger surging through you like no other, your other finger pointing in her face.
“I don’t know what your deal is with me, or my father,” you breathe heavily. “But if you ever disrespect us again, I will snap your neck and throw you into the fucking lake.”
Her laugh bellows throughout the store, her smirk triumphant and all knowing, pissing you off more. "There she is," her voice laced with something sinister. "I knew the Southside trash were still in you, girl."
The front door rings open before you can respond, and there stands Jihoon, holding a large brown bag from the pharmacy. He scans both of you, the smile on his face disappearing quickly at the scene. Shaking your head, you walk around Mrs. Lee towards the door, the adrenaline you had earlier waning quickly as you take in everything that has occurred in the last day.
“What happened?” Jihoon asks, pulling you aside. “You’re bleeding.”
You beckon your head towards his mother, unwilling to look at her without seeing red. “She was disrespectful, and I reacted,” you say simply. “I will not tolerate her bullshit for my father or me anymore, whatever her imaginary beef is with us.”
Jihoon lets out a deep sigh, raking his fingers through your hair. “You’re bleeding. Can you please go upstairs to my place? I have Band-Aids there.”
You gaze into his eyes, your walls breaking down little by little. You are tired, frustrated, and in need of a hard drink. You also feel Jihoon’s sincerity, and you are tired of fighting—your day has been hard enough as it is.
Slipping out of his arm, you head towards the door, grabbing the nearest CD nearby.
“Fine. I’m taking this as my compensation for damages.”
Jihoon observes the state of the store and his mother, putting the pieces of what happened together. His mother’s face has a crimson handprint, her clothing is disheveled, and her glasses hang from her face. She rants and raves, her shrill voice echoing around the store. Snapping out of it, he quickly turns the sign on the door to “closed”, locking the doors with a swift click.
Walking over to her, he gently adjusts her glasses and slips them over her teary eyes.
“Oh, Jihoon,” she cries, letting her shoulders hang in defeat. “That woman is the devil. I don’t want you seeing her ever again!”
It hurts him to see his mother so crestfallen and upset. Jihoon does not appreciate his mother being hit, and a slow ember burns in his chest. His mother is a lot of things, but that's his mother. If it were anyone else, they would have been dealt with already.
But he also knows you, even if it’s been years, and you would have never laid a hand on her. What the hell happened?
He ushers her to the back office, sits her down, and digs through the top shelf, pulling out a first-aid kit. Retrieving a medical wrap, he takes a cold pack from the mini fridge he had stored in the small space, then wraps the cloth around the pack until it’s completely covered. Pressing it on her face, his mother let out a low hiss.
“I want to press charges,” she announces, leaning back into the office chair. “She had no right to hit me.”
Jihoon shakes his head, feeling tension in his right temple. “Mom, I saw the blood on her arm, and it doesn’t look like it came from you,” he discloses, sitting back. “I need you to tell me what happened.”
His mother shifts in her seat, gripping the ice pack in her hand. Her eyes shift nervously, taking a beat too long before she answers. “She comes in the store, looking for you, and I said you weren’t there,” she begins. “Then she starts raving at me, and I asked her to leave… then she slapped me.”
Jihoon nods slowly, searching his mother’s eyes for confirmation, anything that says the truth. Her eyes focus everywhere but him, and it sets an uneasy feeling in his chest he can’t ignore. “So she just slapped you for asking you to leave?”
“Yes.” She nods fervently. “That’s right. That girl is nuts! I don’t care how many books she writes.”
“What about the blood on her arm?” he probes, the imagery clear in his mind.
“It was already there when she came in.” She shrugs.
Her voice fades on as Jihoon zones out, lost in his turbulent thoughts. His mother has said worse things to you in the past, and you’ve never resorted to violence or even raised your voice. Why would you haul and hit her all of a sudden? It doesn’t smell right.
The small monitor that hosts the store's cameras shines under the fluorescent light. He stares until an idea dawns on him like a warm glow. Jihoon moves before he realizes what is happening, opening the work laptop and logging into the security systems. The recordings from the last hour come into view, his index finger thumbing over the mouse pad before clicking play.
“Jihoon? What are you doing?” his mother asks suddenly.
He doesn’t respond—he fast forwards until you arrive at the store. Jihoon watches intently, the audio at max volume as he listens to every word. His mind turns cold, and his chest constricts lightly, watching his mother dig her nails into your skin until it bled. He notices the shock and hurt on your face as you pull away, piecing the missing holes in his mother’s story. Jihoon glances at his mother, who looks ready to pop out of her seat.
“Jihoon—”
He raises his hand as he focuses on the screen, watching in horror.
“When you say him, I know you aren’t talking about my father—”
“He was shit then, and I suppose he’s being turned into shit now, six feet under—”
Jihoon jumps up as your hand connects with his mother’s face, watching her stumble back in shock as you give her a piece of your mind. Disappointment isn’t even the word to describe how he feels. He still doesn’t agree with his mother being slapped—but you were provoked, and that was conveniently left out of her story.
“Jihoon, I can explain—”
‘What is there to explain?” he snaps, pointing at the screen. “You lied to me and had me ready to go up there and defend your honor.” His chest rises and falls in his hurt as he paces back and forth. “How could you say that?”
Her mouth opens and shuts, at a loss for words. Jihoon has never raised his voice at her, let alone been angry. All his life, he has dropped everything to appease his mother, and it’s cost him great things—opportunities, relationships, and most importantly, you.
“God, Mom, you’re unbelievable,” Jihoon laments, shaking his head. “You are cruel, can’t you see that? You have been nothing but unkind to her ever since she started coming around. What has Blue done to you to make her hate her? Why can’t you get to know her? I’ve had it with this Northside vs. Southside bullshit.”
“Lee Jihoon!” His mother astonishes him. “Watch your language?”
Looking at her incredulously, he scoffs hard. “You just lied to me and made someone bleed, and you want to get on me about my fucking LANGUAGE?”
Jihoon’s cup is running over, and he can’t contain it. It’s more than just her treatment of Blue; it’s the infantilization of him and the refusal to allow him to be who he wants to be. It’s always been about what she wants, and what he thinks is best—never about his desires and his dreams.
“Jihoon, I’m sorry.”
He gazes at her slowly, the anger in his chest escalating to hurt. The walls feel like they are closing in, and there is only one thing on his mind—he needs to leave.
Shaking his head, he grabs his keys and his wallet.
“Lock up on your way out.”
You pace back and forth in Jihoon’s apartment, biting your nails as you revisit everything that has happened. The blood on your arm has dried, and you haven’t bothered to wipe it off. Mrs. Lee is a lot of things, and after that encounter, you wish her nothing but an economy middle seat straight to hell. You’ve always thought she was a grade A bitch for how she treated you back then, but you’ve always bit your tongue, not wanting to ruin your relationship with Jihoon, and to keep the peace. You’ve talked to your dad about it, of course, and he’s never had much to say, aside from “I see she hasn’t changed much” and “if she says anything out of line, you come get me.” She had said plenty of things then that were out of line, but you kept those details to yourself, partly afraid of what your dad would do.
But now you are done sparing her, especially after what she said about your father. Fuck her.
You hear the door open before you turn, watching Jihoon storm in with his face red and contorted with anger. Your breath stutters as his chest rises and falls, unsure how to handle this side of him. You’ve never seen him angry, much less at you.
“Jihoon, before you go on, let me explain—”
“No. Don’t,” Jihoon cuts in, raising his index finger in the air. “I have two things to say.”
A slow sting steeps closer to your heart as you stand there anxiously. “A-Alright,” you sputter. “Go on.”
“Don’t you ever put your hands on my mother again,” Jihoon states, his voice tight with conviction. “That is my mother. If it weren’t because it’s you, I would be handling this a lot differently.”
Your lips purse together, a small sliver of guilt puddling in your chest. All you can do is nod as Jihoon’s expression softens, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.
“Second: I’m sorry,” Jihoon says, finally looking at you. “I saw what happened on the cameras. What my mother said was beyond disrespectful, and she shouldn’t have hurt you and provoked you like that.”
You slow blink, registering what he is saying. Your eyes well up, the tears falling before you can stop them. You turn quickly, avoiding his gaze as you sob in your hands. You are tired of holding on, trying to be strong for everyone, not to be seen as this broken woman who lost her dad. This town has brought you nothing but hell, and the sooner you can wrap up Daddy’s affairs, the sooner you can go back to your life.
Jihoon’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as you sob. His fresh linen scent is strong but comforting, and slowly but surely, the tears stop. Turning you around, he gently wipes the tears from your face, studying you until he is done, his fingers tracing down to your mouth.
You bite your lip nervously, unable to say anything else. Your head spins, you are exhausted, and you want nothing more than to lie down. You also want to be held, comforted, and to feel the warmth of someone who cares about you, without any hidden agenda.
“Thanks.” You sniffle, your voice raspy and shaky. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry for hitting your mom, but I understand where you are coming from.”
Jihoon nods, caressing your cheek. “I know. I wouldn’t want you to lie to me, anyway.”
A half smile creeps on your face, gazing into his eyes. Unexpected thunder rattles in the distance, startling you. Turning to the windows, the clear blue sky has been replaced by dark ivory clouds, with lightning striking in several places. Looking back at Jihoon, you step out of his embrace, scratching your arm that still has dried blood on it.
“I should probably go back to the house,” you announce, clearing your throat. “It looks like a bad storm is coming.”
“Blue, don’t be silly,” Jihoon says, shaking his head with a slight frown. “You’re staying here.”
“What?” You jerk your head back. “No, I can make it back—”
“God damn Blue, quit being so stubborn,” Jihoon snaps, running a rough hand through his hair. “It’s too dangerous out there, and I would be sick if you had to walk home in that.” Taking a deep breath, he presses his palms together in a gesture of desperate plea.
“Please, just stay the night. “
You mull over this proposition, gazing into his eyes for any reason to say no. You’re a stubborn bull, you know that, and you know you can make it home, in rain, heat, or snow. But as the thunder booms again, shaking the windows, you let out a heavy sigh, realizing you will not win this round.
“Fine. I’ll stay.”
Jihoon’s eyes light up like a beacon in the sea, and you involuntarily smile in return. Unfortunately, your walls are too beaten down to mask how you feel.
“Are you hungry?”
Your eyes shift nervously, acknowledging the ache in your stomach from the lack of food you have had all day. Adrenaline has kept you full, but you realize you should have had more than just a coffee at Jolibee’s.
“Yeah,” you respond, biting your lip. “I could eat something.”
Jihoon nods, heading into the kitchen. He rummages through his fridge, pulling out different deli meats, cheeses, and a hoagie roll.
“You still like Italian subs, right?” Jihoon asks, glancing at you.
You smile softly, your body relaxing as you watch him assemble your favorite sandwich. “Yeah, I do.”
The rain beats on the window, heavy, angry pellets dropping outside. The light flickers momentarily, stopping Jihoon in his tracks. Glancing at each other nervously, you step closer to the window and look at the damage outside. There wasn’t any mention of a major storm tonight; just light rain that was only supposed to last for an hour. The storm rages outside, tree limbs flying through the air and people scurrying into buildings to stay dry. The thunder booms again, followed by a lightning strike that hits the building's fuse box, shutting the power off completely.
‘Well, there goes that,” Jihoon says, followed by a clap of his hands. “I have some flashlights in here that can help us out.”
Turning on the light on his phone, he walks towards the closet by the front door, shuffling through a box until he pulls out two black flashlights. He places one in your hands, your fingers brushing against each other, creating a spark that makes you both jump back. The first time was a coincidence, the second time is suspicious, but this is the third time—and this has never happened with anyone else.
“I see you still have your powers, Electro,” you tease him, rubbing your hand on your shirt.
“You’re still fixated on that,” Jihoon dismissively says, jokingly rolling his eyes. “Maybe it’s you who’s shocking me. Have you considered that?”
“I doubt it,” you reply, blowing a raspberry. “Why does this only happen with you? Riddle me that.”
Jihoon doesn’t respond. He instead taps his flashlight until it turns on, teasingly shining it in your face.
“Hey, you jerk,” you laugh. “I can’t see.”
You raise your hand over your eyes from the light, reaching out to him with the other, and move to grab the flashlight from his hand. You miss and grab his wrist by mistake, pulling him close to you. Jihoon finally lowers the light; the luminance bounces off the wooden floors and illuminates the living room. The smiles on your faces slowly disappear, the storm rolling on in the background like an ambiance.
“Sit with me?” you ask softly, pointing towards the futon.
“Yeah, let me put the food up,” he murmurs, retreating to the kitchen.
Plopping on the futon, you close your eyes, recalling the day’s events in your mind. Mrs. Lee, Vernon, the crowning ceremony—all of this alone would give anyone a major headache. You pinch the space between your eyebrows, rubbing it gently until the pain fades, the storm slowly fading in the background. A wet cloth suddenly brushes against your left arm, making you jolt.
“Relax,” Jihoon says softly. “I’m wiping the blood off your arm.”
Your body relaxes as your breathing slows, and you lean back against the futon. “Thank you.”
He mumbles something inaudible, adjusting the flashlight on his lap to look at your arm and removing every stain of crimson until it’s gone. He takes the band-aid he had placed between his fingers and tears the thin paper off, placing it carefully where you were wounded. Jihoon’s thumb presses against it softly, making you wince.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“It’s fine,” you whisper.
Glancing at him, you inch closer, as if something is pulling you together at all costs. The air is thick, your heart and your mind on the same page for once, begging and wanting what’s been in the back of your mind for ten summers now. His hand places over yours, familiar and warm, just as you remembered it.
“Do you think, if what happened didn’t happen all those years ago, you would have stayed?”
You think about the question carefully, searching in your heart for the truth. Smiling softly, you gaze at him again, tightening your hand in his. “Maybe?” you answer, your voice shaking. “Or maybe you could have come with me, and we would have had different lives.”
You lay your head on his shoulder, intertwining your fingers with his. You feel comfortable and safe with Jihoon, and for the first time in a long time, at peace.
Ten Summers Ago
Your father was accused of murder.
Mayor Peppersnitch was found dead in a tub full of water and blood, and it wasn’t an accident. The mayor’s mansion was riddled with broken glass and bullet holes, a gnarly crime scene that shook the quiet, shady town. The FBI swarmed every corner of this town, infiltrating your fave hideouts and monitoring the hallways in your schools as if the killer was going to show up at the school the next day. It was madness for those couple of weeks, and it escalated further when your dad was carted out of your house in handcuffs, shoved in the back of the police car, and taken somewhere hours away. You didn’t understand it; you and your father were home, and you told them that. Why is all of a sudden the number one suspect?
Apparently, someone had a tip that they saw your father and his motorcycle leaving the mansion in the dead of night, though there was no proof. You had to find a lawyer who was willing to take your case, and if it weren’t for a camera from a neighbor’s house that showed your dad was home at the time of the murder, he would have been thrown in prison for life. That month he was gone was hell, and everyone who wasn’t a Zodiac or Jihoon treated you like some pariah, as if you were wrong for defending your father. You weren’t welcome anywhere on the Northside, and people made an effort to cross the other street if you were coming. You felt lonely, abandoned, and most importantly, hurt.
The worst part about all of this? The day he was taken away, you just found out you were waitlist accepted into NYU.
“I’m not going to go to New York.”
You stood in front of your father with your head held high, absolute in your decision. He just came home the day before, the bruises on his wrists still rough from the handcuffs the feds shackled onto him. He sat up on the couch, giving you his undivided attention.
“You just came back home, and I don’t think it’s the best time for me to leave,” you continued. “I will get a job and help around the house. Maybe I will go to junior college in Shiningdale—”
“No.” Your father rose from the couch, all six foot four of him towering over you. “You are not going to miss out on this opportunity because of me.”
“But Daddy—”
“NO!” The bass in your father’s voice deepened, sending a chill down your spine. “You will go to New York, attend that university, and make something of yourself. I didn’t raise you alone for fourteen years just for you to throw your life away.” Taking a deep breath, he motioned for you to sit on the couch. You sauntered over, and he ambled, pulling you into a hug and holding you close. You could smell the husky smell of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke. It made your nose tingle.
“You have a gift with your pen, Blue.” Your dad’s voice was softer, hitting you hard and soft in your heart. “You have a way with words that I could never even think of. Just like your mother.”
You glanced at him, the mention of your mother making your breath stutter. He rarely talked about her, and you don’t remember her much, aside from her laughter, which you sometimes hear in your dreams. You were three when she died from cancer, but she has always had your dad’s heart.
“Mom used to write?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
“Absolutely,” your father confirmed with a smile. “She used to write me poems all the time.”
He got up suddenly, went into his room, and shuffled around, rummaging through papers and boxes. He returned with several notebooks, each with different hand-drawn blue flower decorations. “I kept her poems, thinking one day you would want to have them,” he explained. “I… still read them from time to time.”
“Daddy, no..." You smiled, leaning into his warmth, taking a notebook as you bite your lip. "I can’t just take this. It feels wrong.”
“Kid, you gotta quit worrying about your ol’ man,” he gruffed, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Your mother would want you to have them… and I want you to take them with you to New York.”
You studied him carefully, understanding that there was no changing his mind. Taking the rest of the notebooks, you cradled them to your heart, feeling a little closer to your mom.
“I’ll take good care of these, Daddy.”
Jihoon is stirred awake by the flash of electricity that turns on the apartment lights and by a loud beep from the microwave. Rubbing his eyes, he feels around for his glasses, patting around softly while you lie on his chest, still asleep. He finds them lying with a grasp underneath the futon, sliding them smoothly on his face. He lifts you gently as he gets up, laying you back comfortably on the futon as he stretches. You hardly stir; your face is relaxed, asleep, and somehow more beautiful than he remembered.
You didn’t talk much more during the storm. Jihoon held you close while it went on, and eventually you fell asleep. He could have slept in his bed, but he wanted to hold you just a little bit longer. He never thought he would have this chance to do it again; to know this grown-up, famous person you’ve become. He wasn’t as angry with you for hurting his mother anymore. The more he thought about it, the more he understood why you reacted the way you did. It opened his eyes to his mother’s behavior, and he knows down the line, decisions will have to be made.
Jihoon starts cleaning the apartment, meticulously wiping the counters and returning everything to what it was before he left. He likes order, putting things back where they belong, and making sense of what is out of place and why. It’s the way he goes through life, as he feels there is a reason for everything, even if the answer isn’t found yet. It’s what keeps him going, he supposes.
“Hey.”
The soft, groggy voice made him pause. He glances in your direction, setting the towel on the counter. “Hey,” he breathes. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
You shook your head, sitting up slowly and smiling sheepishly. “No,” you confirm, your voice still thick with sleep. “The microwave was loud; I just lay there for a bit.”
Jihoon's laugh is light, chuckling at the irony. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It woke me up, too.”
Your hand covers your mouth as you stifle a yawn, your free arm stretching as you rise slowly from the futon. Your hair is disheveled, you have sleep in your eyes, and Jihoon thinks you’re the prettiest woman he has ever seen. He stares longer than he should, watching you adjust your shirt and scroll through your phone. You shake your head with a groan, shoving it in your pocket.
“Do you want some tea?” Jihoon asks, leaning casually against the counter, trying to keep his gaze from lingering. “I have a few things here.”
You don’t answer right away; you stare at the floor, lost in thought. “Blue?” he calls out softly, unfolding his arms. “Are you okay?”
Slowly snapping back into focus, your gaze lifts to meet his. You offer him a small smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Oh. Yeah.” You nod. “Tea is good.”
Jihoon mouths ‘okay’ and pulls out a teapot he got from the Wen Thrift Store down the road. The family that runs it has a son named Junhui who is about the same age as him. Junhui travels a lot, sends things from time to time that they could sell at the shop, and that’s how he came across this antique teapot. He uses it almost every day, preferring to wake up to tea rather than coffee. He prefers to drink more natural, herbal drinks, and having a tea does his body good.
Jihoon pours water into the pot and sets it on the stove to boil. “I have a lemon zinger tea. Is that cool?”
“Mhm,” you hum, eyes focused on your phone again. “Whatever you have is fine.”
Jihoon busies himself with making your tea, trying not to focus on your sad and sleepy eyes. He tries not to think about how comfortable you were lying on his chest, how nice it was to hear you deeply breathe on him, not crying, hurt, or in a rage. He avoids noticing the moments stretch whenever he is with you, and how your hair still smells like vanilla and cream.
Jihoon hasn’t had many regrets over the years, but not fighting harder to keep in touch with you, to resume what you had that summer, has been one of the biggest regrets of his life. The dull ache of missing you that he thought he could put away and move on from has stuck with him ever since.
Sneaking a glance at you, he notices your sour disposition, sulking with your phone clutched in your hand tightly, “What’s wrong?” He probes, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel.
Your mouth opens and shuts, words failing to come out. You shake your head in disbelief, rising from the couch and handing him the phone instead. “I’m sure you knew about the ceremony that happened tonight?”
Jihoon looks confused, looking at what’s displayed on the screen. It’s Vernon being raised in the air, holding beers in both hands, with a caption that says “our new leader”. Jihoon watches your body shift uncomfortably, a slow fire starting in your eyes.
“I don’t know what this is,” Jihoon states, handing her back the phone. “What is that?”
“It’s a ceremony that announces the leader of the Zodiacs,” you explain, folding your arms across your chest. “Vern was made the leader.”
“Oh,” he responds, brows furrowing as he understands the situation. “Isn’t that a little early? Your dad just died.”
Your eyes widen, lighting up significantly as you look relieved. “See! You get it!” you exclaim. “I was so mad when Vernon told me (which he didn’t tell me until Pop mentioned it to him in front of me), and I just started walking until I saw something familiar.”
Your shoulders relax as you lean against the counter in thought. “That’s how I ended up downstairs,” you explain, with a softer tone. “I thought maybe I was crazy for feeling hurt by it. I know they have to choose a leader eventually, but Daddy is barely six feet in the ground.”
You blink furiously as you try to hold back tears, wiping your eyes furiously. “Did anyone give a fuck about my father?” You break out in a sob, covering your face with your hands as you start to cry. Jihoon immediately pulls you to him, rubbing your back as you cry into his shirt. He knows all of this too well. When he lost his father, he was sad and missed him, but Jihoon had time to process that he didn’t have long to live and make peace with that. You didn’t, and everything is being thrust onto you with no remorse. And now the world is moving on while you’re stuck in the same place. He knows how that feels.
Jihoon pulls back slightly, lifting your face and wiping your tears away. He notices the way your chin trembles and the light is gone from your eyes, replaced with a hurt that cuts deep. He wishes he could take your pain away, put it in a jar, and throw it in the ocean, never to be seen again.
“Look at me,” he whispers, catching droplets from the corner of your eyes. “I know everything feels shitty right now, and you take all the time you need to heal. But I have your back, okay? I always have. Whatever you need.”
You nod fervently, your breathing slowing as you start to relax. Jihoon makes the mistake of gazing into your eyes, seeing the woman he’s longed for a decade, standing in front of him with a history that can’t top anyone else that he’s connected with. His thumb brushes against your lip by mistake, wet from tears. You nod slowly, as if you read his mind, and you feel the same thing he does, inching closer until your noses barely touch. Smiling gently, you brush his hair back, regarding him with a look of adoration.
“Why are you so nice to me?” You murmur, locking your eyes with his. “You have very well have told me to fuck off, but you still stick around.”
Jihoon studies you for a moment, weighing the scales in his mind. He wants to be honest with you and tell you how he feels, but he also knows you’re vulnerable, and he doesn’t want to take advantage of that. Gazing in your eyes makes him want to forgo his inhibitions and tell you what’s in his heart and mind. Taking a step back, he looks at his floor conflicted.
“Jihoon.” You breathe his name in a way that invokes something wild in his spirit. “What is it?”
He shakes his head, looking past you at the brick wall. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
“What’s fine?” You question him, reclaiming space in front of him. “You aren’t being very clear.”
Jihoon’s feet are planted to the floor, unable to move. He’s acutely aware of how close you are to him, and he fights every nerve in his body to reach out to you. But you touch him instead, lifting his chin to meet the same, warm face that he fell in love with.
“Tell me,” you plead with earnest eyes.
Jihoon exhales lightly, anxiety eating at him from the inside. “I have to say something, and I don’t want you to freak out,” he reveals, his heart beating wildly as he gauges your reaction. Your brows knit in confusion, but you nod slowly, giving him the space to say what’s on his mind. “You’ve been on my mind a lot, even when I tried to forget you. You’re everywhere I go, and not just because you are a big-time author now. I know this is a shitty time to say this, and I’m sorry. But you are hard to forget and to get over, Blue.”
Your expression is calm, as if you’re processing what he’s said, and it makes his stomach drop. Did he say the wrong thing? Did he say too much? It stays quiet a beat too long, and he shifts nervously, shoving his hands in his sweats.
“Is that how you feel?” You ask gently. “Did you mean all that?”
“Yes. I miss you.”
Before he can blink, you kiss him.
It’s needy, titillating, and fills his veins with a high he has been chasing since that summer. His hands cup your face, embracing your soft lips against his, and walking you back until your back hits the fridge. Everything disappears, fading in the background as he deepens the kiss, elated that he might have his girl back. Your hands run through his hair, tugging it softly and moaning in his mouth. He has not experienced this side of you before, so sensual and in control of yourself, but he is willing to learn all of it for you.
“I need you,” you murmur, your eyes snapped shut as you pull on his shirt. “I need you, Jihoon, please.”
He pauses, holding your gaze and needing direct confirmation. “Are you sure? We don’t have to do this.”
A smile tugs at your lips before kissing him again, slipping your tongue into his mouth, and grabbing the back of his neck. “It’s what I want.”
Smirking against your lips, his kisses travel to your neck, sucking on the soft skin that he’s being given the honor to touch.
“Whatever you need, Baby.”
You moan earnestly in his ear, stuck in the trance set by Jihoon. He never imagined he would ever see you again, let alone touch you, kiss you, and profess his feelings to you. See, Jihoon is not an emotional guy and doesn’t say more than he needs to, and that’s always been fine by him. The less you know, the better. But you make his heart want to burst out of his chest. You make him want to feel love and not be afraid of it. You make him feel alive. You make him whole.
Jihoon’s lips return to yours, desperate and commanding, kissing you with everything he has. Every moan from you drives him closer to the edge, and he craves you more. With a quiet, searching look, he waits for your nod of approval before his hands move to the buttons of your jeans, sliding them slowly down your legs. Throwing them out of view and not caring where they land, his breath catches at the sight of your legs, completely enamored.
“What are you doing?” You ask softly, biting your bottom lip.
A slow smirk flirts on his mouth as his fingers travel up your thigh, moving dangerously close to your clothed center. Your breath hitches as he leans in closer, delicately pulling your panties to the side. Your pussy is dripping already, your sweet essence barely staying contained. His mouth waters at the thought of your taste, his tongue begging to lap in between your folds.
“Please, Jihoon,” you whine, massaging the back of his hand. “I want this.”
Jihoon doesn’t hesitate; he dives in, moaning with gratification as he tastes your sweet, warm cunt. You taste better than heaven, a delicacy that he could never get enough of. He pauses briefly to take off your panties and discard them. He wants to see the full picture, this slice of heaven in between your legs. Taking a long swipe in between your folds, you let out a mewling moan, much to his satisfaction.
“Y-yes,” you purr with heavy eyelids and a smile. “God, yes.”
He growls in between your legs, sucking and eating you salaciously with a fervent hunger he can’t contain. His cock hardens in his pants, begging to be touched. He lifts, roughly shoving down his sweats and springing it free, and rubbing his shaft with his free hand. His face is smothered in your cunt with your juices dripping down his chin, and your sweet moans are a melody from his own doing. Jihoon never wants this to end.
“J-Jihoon. Fuck, you’re so good at this.”
Teasingly, he nods with his lips wrapped around your clit, smirking as your eyes flutter to the back of your head. Jolts of pleasure shoot through his cock as he gradually picks up his own pace, his hand tightly wrapped around his girth. He continues to chase his high feverishly and yours, slipping his tongue into your hole. You gasp, shuddering at the sudden switch-up. Your hips slowly wind to his rhythm, your moans echoing louder in a crescendo, whimpering incoherent sayings over and over.
“I got you,” he grunts, lost in his own pleasure. "You can trust me.”
You come undone on his tongue, gripping his hair tightly as you give him everything he wants and more. You are a sight to behold, your toes curling as he works you through your intense high while also chasing his own release. Jihoon is in a haze of lust, vigorously jerking himself off to your wet pussy lips, tipping over the edge.
“Oh, fuck,” he cries out, his orgasm gushing out of him and spilling over his hand. His gaze locks in with yours, continuing to stroke himself until he is spent, his load freely landing on the floor. Resting his head on your leg, his chest heaves as he comes out of the bliss, leaving soft kisses along your calf. The sensation makes you giggle, then you let out a deep exhale.
“Wow,” you say with a dazed look. “I don’t think I have experienced that before.”
Jihoon looks at you slowly, with curiosity. “You’ve never orgasmed before?”
You shook your head, your eyes shifting nervously. “Not like that.”
The teapot whistles loudly, startling you and making Jihoon jump up, forgetting all about it. The steam blows angrily out of the hole, indicating the water is ready to be served with the tea. Quickly turning off the stove, he grabs the cleaner and paper towels, wiping the mess that he made on the floor until it is gone. He notices you watching him with an expression he can’t make out.
“Are you okay?” he asks, glancing at you as he pulls up his sweats. You don’t answer right away, and the silence stretches on that gives him pause. Setting the teapot off the hot stove, he saunters over to you, caressing your forearm. “Blue, are you with me?”
He can tell you’re lost in your own thoughts, his heart racing as he hopes they are happy ones, and of him. Your eyes fix on him, a slow, relaxed smile on your face. He slowly releases the breath he was holding, feeling more at ease. “Yeah,” you finally respond. “I’m with you.”
“Okay,” he nods, feeling more at ease. “I’ll make your tea.”
Your eyes scan the room, undoubtedly looking for your panties and your pants, thrown on the opposite ends of the apartment. Jihoon busies himself making your tea, adding the herbs, and letting it sit in the hot water. Hearing you say that no one has ever made you orgasm in that way does something to him. He’s not a prideful guy, but he will not lie and say he didn’t like the sound of that. Jihoon hasn’t been with many partners, and he has experience, but he hasn’t made love to them the way he did with you.
You’ve officially made him a pussy-drunk fool in love.
Jihoon notices it’s too quiet and sneaks a glance at you as you slide your jeans back onto your body. He notices the way your hands press against your jeans as you rub your thighs. Your hair is messy, your eyes are glossy, and he finds you so fucking irresistible.
“What’s on your mind, Blue?” Jihoon probes, finishing preparing your cup. Walking over to you, he places it in your hands with a towel underneath. “It’s hot.”
You mouth thank you, taking a sip cautiously. Your brows furrow, observing the porcelain cup in your hand. Some of it drips down your chin, and before you could react, Jihoon is wiping it away with his thumb. “This is good,” you finally say, a small smile on your lips. “I’ll have to get this brand for my apartment.”
The air sucks out of him a little, a jarring reminder that you will be leaving here soon, and who knows if you will come back. He studies your face, noting how you close your eyes with each sip, as if you are going to place in your mind that brings you peace.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks, softly nudging your knee.
You lock eyes with him, and your sleepy eyes fill him with an infectious warmth and a familiar adoration that is only for him. “For the first time since I’ve been back here, I can breathe.” You hesitate, setting the cup in your lap and locking your eyes with his. “Thank you for that.”
Jihoon feels the sincerity in your words, falling deeper into your orbit and this moment. “I’m glad I could do that for you.”
Ten Summers Ago
“So you’re leaving, huh?”
You were with Jihoon at the lake, throwing rocks along the dark waters as time passed by. The sun beamed on your heads in the mid-afternoon without a cloud in sight. It was your last day in Carats Ridge, and your car was packed to the brim, ready to go. Your last days were spent getting ready for your journey, tying up loose ends, and grabbing anything you could take with you. You spent time with Lola and Vernon with Jihoon in between, and your father threw you an unwanted going-away party at Shadow. You smiled through it, knowing that his intentions were in the right place, and he wanted to show off his only daughter going to college. He deserves the bragging rights, you think. He’s been through a lot after all.
“Yeah,” you confirmed, the word right in your throat as you throw another pebble. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
You glanced at Jihoon, acknowledging his glum expression and instantly regretting your flippancy. “I’m sorry, Jihoon. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did,” he responded quietly, his gaze fixated on the water. “But I don’t hold it against you. This time hasn’t been exactly kind to you.”
It still didn’t stop you from feeling bad. You had feelings, real feelings, for Jihoon, and the last thing you wanted to do was hurt him. He made you feel seen, he understands you, and treats you like he loves you, not someone he tolerates. Your heart twisted at the thought of not seeing him every day or touching his skin or hearing his voice. Jihoon had single-handedly made you believe in love and in your right to good things. He’s changed your life.
You’ve played a lot of scenarios in your head, wondering if you could truly make a long-distance relationship work. Jihoon was attending college in the next town over, pursuing a bachelor's degree in music. He wanted to travel the world and make connections while he is studying, and he can’t do that here in Carats Ridge. His mother tried to make him stay home and work from the music store, but he insisted on leaving, saying he needed a “fresh start”. Jihoon said that if it weren’t for his father finding his acceptance letter in the mailbox, he wouldn’t have known he made it in.
Ultimately, your worlds are about to become far apart and distant, and you both agreed that this had to end.
A slight wind picked up, gently shaking the leaves in the tall trees. There is no one else at the lake for miles, almost too quiet for your liking. The birds that were hidden in the trees fly east, as if the wind had disturbed them from their rest. You gazed at Jihoonhrow as he threw more pebbles and successfully made them skip. Your thoughts were loud and chaotic; your heart pounding in your ears. You didn’t want to leave him, but you couldn’t stay here anymore—too many bad memories, too much hurt.
“Hey,” Jihoon’s deep voice brought you back to the present. He wipes his hands on his pants from the dirt, coming behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You lean into him automatically as he presses a soft kiss on your shoulder. “We’ll still keep in touch. You will not get rid of me that easily.”
A chuckle bubbles in your throat, temporarily relieving the tension in your chest. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you tease him, keeping your voice light. “I bet you are going to miss me while I’m gone.”
Jihoon doesn’t respond right away, as if he is considering the weight of your words. “You have no idea.”
Turning to face him, you take his hand in yours, interlocking your fingers together. Your time together may have been short, but it’s changed you in the best way. It frustrates you that this didn’t happen years before, when you saw each other at school almost every other day and shared classes. Imagine how those years could have been different if you had this connection.
“You won’t forget me, right?” you whispered, resting your forehead on his.
“Of course not,” he responded, lifting your chin to meet your eyes. “Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know.” Your voice shook. “I mean, we’re going to be on different sides of the country, and who knows when we will see each other again, and I—”
“Blue, stop,” Jihoon interrupted, calm but firmly. “You act as if we are not going to keep in touch. I don’t care what happens from here on out: you are unforgettable. One of a kind, baby.”
You took in what he said, letting it seep deep until it penetrated your soul. You wanted to believe him, that you would keep talking and would keep what you have going until your paths cross again. But you were also realistic, and you came from a different life than he does. Eventually, he would’ve found someone his mother would like and who he’d love like no other. You’d be an afterthought, a blip in the history of Lee Jihoon.
Maybe it’s better to cut ties, for good.
“You know I love you, right?”
Nodding slowly, you bit your lip, looking down at the ground. “I know. I love you too.”
“Okay then,” he asserted, caressing your arm. “We will just focus on school, and everything will work out. We’ll still talk all the time.” Jihoon pulled out his phone and looked at the time. “Alright, I need to take you back home. I don’t want your Dad to skin me alive.”
You let out a chortle, imagining the thought of your dad going after Jihoon for making you late for your trip. Kissing your cheek, he led you away from the lake and down the rocky path back to his truck, holding your hand along the way. You were going to miss this, being in his company and just existing with him. To think you came to the music store looking for music and left with a life-altering connection and a love you never felt before. It was funny how life is like that.
The ride back to your house was silent, nothing but the wind in your hair and your arm outside the window. You weren’t afraid to admit you were happy to leave this place and see what New York has to offer, but not at the expense of losing this—losing him. He could say that you will keep in touch, but you know how these stories usually end.
Maybe it was for the best.
The morning sunlight blazes through the window, shining directly onto Jihoon’s face. In an effort to shield his face from the sun, he accidentally slaps his face, making him sit up quickly in reaction to the pain.
“Ah, fuck,” he groans.
Jihoon slept on the futon again with you, falling asleep shortly after you had your tea. There wasn’t much conversation after that, and he thinks, after everything, it’s what you needed. That was your first sexual experience together, and as intense as it was for him and as much as he enjoyed it, the dynamic has changed. Jihoon knows you’re going through a lot right now, and you’re leaving here soon, but he can’t help the way that he feels. He’s in love with you still, and what happened several hours ago intensified it. But where does that leave you and him?
Patting around on the futon, he instantly notices it’s lighter and colder than when he fell asleep, compared to you in his arms. Grabbing his glasses off the floor, he shoves them on his face, clearing his vision and leading to impending disappointment; you were gone.
Jihoon groggily rises from the futon, folding it upright from its bed position and folding the blanket. The bathroom door is askew, and he knew you were gone, as the apartment isn’t big enough to be anywhere else. A piece of paper flies from the blanket, swinging lightly until it lands near his foot. Curiously, he picks it up, turning it over and reading the cursive-written words:
I’m sorry.
Jihoon stares at the paper before letting out a harumph that itches his throat. Shaking his head, he shoves the note into his sweatpants as he is filled with the resolve to handle this in person. He will not let you run away from him that easily.
The same thing happened before when you left town. You promised to keep in touch, and you did for a while, but then his calls started going unanswered, and he was left on read. Jihoon was hurt about it, especially having to get updates from Vernon and Lola about your life and how you were doing. Eventually, he stopped asking and started to move on. He’s dated other people and had one serious partner, and he thought he was finally getting over it and could stomach seeing the color blue again.
But then you came out with your book, a story about you and him, and he was sucked back in. Jihoon ignored his feelings and kept them under the rubble in his heart and mind for so long, but soon you were everywhere, and he couldn’t escape you. Your book was on every shelf, and when the rumors of you dating a certain Buck Layton were swirling around, you were on every news station. When Jihoon came back to Carats Ridge to help his father, you were the talk of the town. Everyone was proud of you, which he found ironic. But unfortunately, you were stuck in his head.
Eventually, that relationship ended; they grew apart, and they left town shortly after. Around the same time, your father started coming into the music store, looking for tunes to play on the speakers at the community center. Naturally, they struck up a conversation, and somehow Jihoon found himself helping at the center, teaching guitar lessons to the kids there. Jihoon discovered that your dad was a cool guy who was liked by everyone, despite being from the Southside. Well, almost everyone. His mother didn’t like that he was friends with Vernon or went to the Southside as often as he did. “I don’t want any of that trash to rub off on you” were her exact words and then some. But he didn’t care—he felt for the first time in a long time that he belonged somewhere.
And it somehow made him closer to you.
Jihoon doesn’t know whether this is divine intervention or a clear sign from the Universe, but you’re back in his life after almost ten years. He wasn’t letting you go that easily.
With a renewed resolve surging through him, Jihoon makes quick work of straightening up his living room and kitchen before racing to get ready. He brushes his teeth as if he is running out of time, and showers until he feels clean and good enough for you. Through all of this, you are locked in his mind, and he can't help but wonder how the conversation will go and if you feel that electric shift, too. He figures you have to, right? Blue Valentine is clearly their story—you have to admit that at least.
Throwing on a white t-shirt and a pair of boot cut Levi’s, he slides on his favorite boots, brimming with excitement.
Knock! Knock!
Jihoon freezes, staring at the red mahogany colored door. He wasn’t expecting anyone over, and he didn’t over anything, but he is a man on a mission, and he will have to deal with it on his way out. Unless it’s you, and you have decided to come back.
Heart hammering and grabbing his keys, he swings the door open, hoping to see your face. Instead, he is met with mild disappointment that curdles in his chest like milk.
“Jihoon.”
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, stepping out of the way to let her in. “Mother.”
She waddles inside like she owns the place, setting her bag down on the clear end table. She looks tired, bleak, as if she didn’t sleep at all. Jihoon is upset with her, sure, but he still wants her to be healthy above all else.
“I was about to leave,” Jihoon’s voice is flat. “So, unless this can’t wait, I have to go.”
“Jihoon, I…” Her voice falters, as if something is holding her back. “I think it’s time for you to know some things.”
Jihoon’s stomach drops, caught off guard by the sudden reveal. The air has left the room, replaced with a tension that slowly suffocates. Clutching the keys in his hands, he curses internally and shuts the door behind him. He bites the inside of his cheek, motioning for his mother to sit down on the futon. Taking a deep breath, he asks the fated question, “What do I need to know, mother?”
His mother’s fingers danced nervously in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground and on everything but her son. “July 30, 1994. That’s when Raymond made his promise to me.”
Jihoon stares at her, the wheels spinning in his head. “Raymond?” Then it clicks. “Blue’s father?!”
She nods solemnly, finally looking at him with prickling eyes. “Yes, the very one.”
He stares at her incredulously as he tries to make sense of it. “What promise are you talking about, Mom?”
She stares into the void as if recounting memories, a faint smile on her lips. “He was the love of my love. My first love.”
“You… and Blue’s father?” Jihoon asks slowly.
She confirms with a nod, looking away in shame. Jihoon blinks profusely, shaking his head in bewilderment. He doesn’t know what to believe, whether his mother is even telling the truth. He knew she had a hatred for Southside people in general, and he assumed that the hate for your father was because of the adjacency, not because of a sour past.
“Back in those days, things were different,” his mother begins. “He was the star football player, and I was the cheerleader and president of the student body. We were great on paper, and I thought we were great together, too. He was my first boyfriend, and we understood each other better than anyone, especially both being from the Southside.”
Jihoon’s jaw goes slack, hit with another revelation that jumbles his thoughts even further. “YOU are from the Southside?”
His mother finally looks at him, affirming with sad eyes. “Yes.” Clearing her throat, she continues. “We were one of the few from there who were going to make it out of this town and make something of themselves. I was going to fashion school, and Raymond was going to go to MSU for football, make it big, and we would start our lives together. But some things happened at home with his old man, and he had to stay home, but he still encouraged me to go. We agreed that I would leave and pursue what I wanted, and then I would come back, and we would resume our lives together.”
His mother pauses for a moment, then rises from the futon and walks to the window. Jihoon is at a loss for words, processing everything that’s been said. “So what happened after that?” He frains softly.
“We wrote letters to each other here and there, and I thought he was the one. I wanted him to be the one. But when I came back home after graduating, I found out he didn’t feel the same way.” She sniffles, wiping a lone star from her right eye. “I expected everything to go back to what it was, but I found out he was with Camille, and turned out she was pregnant with their daughter.”
Jihoon stiffens, piecing everything together and finally making the connection. “Camille… Is that—”
“Yes,” his mother confirms shortly. “That’s her mother.”
He sits back slowly, his eyebrows raised at the revelation. Jihoon’s mind is going a million miles a minute, replaying every moment and everything his mother has said about the Southside and how she acted. At first, he’s numb, but slowly he fills with a cocktail of sadness and anger, appalled by this betrayal. This is worse than his mother being cruel to you for the hell of it—this was personal for her, and now personal for him. You didn’t deserve this.
“So,” Jihoon breathes, trying to keep his emotions in order. “All this crap you said about the Southside and how there were no good people there, were you speaking from experience?”
His mother whips around, wrinkles of surprise on her forehead. “Jihoon!”
“No, mom, let’s talk about it,” Jihoon retorts, raising his voice. “You told me all my life that the Southside people were nothing but thugs and degenerates, and you damn near had a heart attack if I even looked at someone from there. I am glad I never listened to you—I would have missed out on the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Surely you don’t mean that?!” His mother gasps. “Not over that tra—”
“I would watch very carefully what you say to me next,” Jihoon says firmly. The color drains from his mother’s face, and he couldn't care less. “You treated her like crap ever since she started coming around, all because you and her father had some old fling. Did you even love Dad at all? Or was he just a rebound to make yourself feel better—”
His mother marches over to him, slapping him across the face, leaving his left cheek stinging and his ears ringing. He stumbles, placing his hand on his cheek to soothe the pain. He wants to cry, but he’s too stunned to speak, gawking at the audacity of his mother.
“Don’t you ever, EVER, say I didn’t love your father,” she says through gritted teeth. “He knew what I was, and he loved me anyway. Your father is a godsend.” Her chest rises and falls in anger, her ears turning beet red. “Your father was better than me in so many ways, and I thank God he came into my life when he did. I did love your father, and that’s a cruel thing to say.”
Slowly regaining feeling on his face, he stares at the ground, his chest aches with an indescribable hurt that has changed the trajectory of their relationship. “Is it?” Jihoon says solemnly, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You loved Dad but not enough to forgive Raymond and spew your prejudice bullshit, right?” He cannot stomach looking at her anymore, his insides churning the longer he stares. “I need you to leave.”
His mother’s eyes widen, taken aback by his request. “Jihoon, you have to forgive me. I am your mother.”
Mother. A six-letter word that would usually make him feel warm and appreciative of the one he was given. But instead, he’s filled with anger and a hurt that will take away if he lets it, and he is done letting her get away with her misgivings under the guise of knowing what’s best.
“You are my mother in name only,” Jihoon responds bitterly, enunciating each word. “I love you, and I will continue to care for you as the duty of your son, but that’s it.” He stomps towards the door, swinging it open with a force that rattles the papers on the dining room table. “Go.”
His mother hesitates for a moment before stalking towards the door, stopping in front of him with furrowed brows and a crestfallen expression. “I love you, Jihoon.” Kissing him quickly on the cheek, she rushes out of the apartment, waddling down the steps as fast as she could.
Jihoon exhales a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding, though no sign of relief came. You left him; his mother just dropped this bomb on him and hit him with all her might. He woke up today intending to get you back, to match the energy of the sunny skies outside his window. Instead, the day is crumbling, frustration looming over him like a heavy cloud.
Undeterred, he waits several minutes, allowing his mother time to exit the building; not eager for another blowout. Once he thinks the coast is clear, he bolts out of his place, hopping into his truck and revving the engine with a renewed focus.
I’m coming to you, Blue.
You know you’re a coward for leaving the way you did. It was necessary, though.
You let yourself slip for one night, feeling sad, grief, loneliness, and wanting to be touched and feel good, which led you to make some choices. You didn’t mean to lead Jihoon on, not that you’re saying you don’t feel the same way about him, and did not equally enjoy what you share. You loved every minute of it, and as you lay in his arms, with your back pressed against his chest, you wanted more. Even now, you crave him like a bad habit; the images of him in between your legs will undoubtedly be seared into your brain forever. But to be quite frank, you’re a hot fucking mess.
Jihoon deserves someone who has their head on straight and isn’t running on empty. He deserves someone open and willing to love him wholeheartedly and committedly. He deserves the sun, the earth, and every single shooting star in the sky. You love him enough to admit that if he accepts you for who you are right now, you will hurt him. You aren’t the same person he fell in love with back then. You know deep down, he will leave you, and that’s another heartbreak you aren’t willing to go through.
You approach your childhood home at the end of the street, standing tall, bright, and almost unrecognizable with the new coat of paint. You slow your pace before pausing to take in your old neighborhood for the first time since you’ve been here. The houses look mostly the same, and you are willing to bet you have the same neighbors. The air even smells the same, earthy, almost like pine. You hate the smell of pine now, after growing up with it for so many years—the last thing you want is to be reminded of here.
A red pickup truck pulls up to the driveway, with "Choi’s Movers" displayed in bold white font. Your stomach twists as you're not prepared for whoever is coming out of the truck—and it would be your luck that Lola and Vernon are both here.
“Hey, there, YN,” Vernon says sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets.
You glare at him sharply, letting out a gritty scoff. "Really, Vernon? First name bases now?" Your eyes flick to his leather jacket, noticing a new patch that says ‘prez’. "Congratulations are in order," you remark dryly.
“Come on, Blue, you aren’t being fair,” Lola cuts in, now standing in front of Vernon. “You know this is how we do things here. Eventually, someone was going to have to take over.”
“Lola, it’s not even about the ceremony. I don’t care about the stupid ceremony—”
“Yeah, we fucking know—”
“—What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Lola?!”
“You know exactly what I mean, Blue,” Lola snaps, frustration etched on her face. “You never wanted to be a part of this, and that’s fine, but don’t sit here and act like you get to pick and choose when operations resume. YOU know, eventually we would have to move forward.”
You turn away from them, shaking your head in frustration. “You don’t get it,” you mutter.
“Well, help me understand that because from where I stand, you are being a little ungrateful.”
Before today, you could confidently say that Lola and Vernon never hurt you. You were the best of friends, as close as thieves, and made a pact always to support each other, no matter what. You never thought the day would come when there would be conflict, let alone you versus them. But now, it’s clear that the Zodiacs come first, even over you.
“Wow.” You stare at them, your hands clenching as you try to control your temper. “I’m ungrateful? I didn’t even want to have the fucking funeral. If it were up to me, I would have cremated his ashes, kept him with me, and been satisfied. But I know Dad didn’t want that.” Your blood boils as your anger mounts, and you saunter closer to Lola. “It was never about you guys moving on or Zodiac tradition—it was about the fact that you couldn’t wait to have the ceremony at least until I was out of town. It would have hurt a lot fucking less.”
Slowly, Lola’s expression shifts from anger to understanding, then to shame. The pulse in your temple twitches, heavy and agonizing, making you pause. The heat does you no favors, making you stumble back. Lola and Vernon move faster than you can blink, breaking your fall.
“Let’s get you inside,” Vernon suggests, grabbing hold of your arm.
“I’m fucking fine,” you bite, attempting to snatch yourself away from their grip.
“Blue, quit being fucking stubborn and let us help you.”
“Whatever,” you mumble, your vision disoriented by the second. Lola unlocks the front door, and the rush of cool air hitting your face is welcoming. Most of the furniture is gone, sans the lone air mattress and suitcases that you have stored in your bedroom for the time remaining you had here. You arranged for your dad’s things to be stored in New York, so his memories will never be forgotten.
Vernon leads you to your bedroom and lays you softly on the bed. You avoid contact, not ungrateful for the help, but still too mad to acknowledge it with a thank you. Lola comes in shortly after, handing you an ice-cold water bottle, presumably from the fridge, and a couple of Excedrin. You take it from her, drinking slowly due to the slight nausea you feel in your stomach.
“It seems like you’re dehydrated,” Lola observes, giving you a once-over.
“Maybe,” you pant, drinking the last bit of water. “I’ve been doing a lot of walking back and forth between the Southside and the Northside.”
Vernon’s brows furrow in confusion. “You could have asked us for a ride, you know?”
Cutting your eyes at him, you roll them and fold your arms. “Yeah? With all the party planning you had going on?”
Vernon’s eyes shift, looking down with a look of shame. “I’m sorry about that, alright?” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. “We didn’t think about the timing of everything, and how you might feel about it.”
“Yeah, Blue,” Lola adds, sitting on the foot of the bed. “We weren’t trying to hurt you.”
You let out a heavy breath from deep within, rubbing your temple with your finger. The pulse still throbs, but the pain is lessening. The anger slowly seeps out of you along with the rest of your energy. With heavy eyes, you nod. “I think we said a lot of things, and I’m not really in the headspace to talk more about it,” you say honestly. “I appreciate everything you have done for me since I have been back in town, and it’s not lost on me that you lost a great leader. But I lost my dad, and it’s barely been two weeks. So I apologize if I’m not always showing I’m on my best behavior or grateful.”
Guilt washes over their faces, and you look away, feeling your own regret. Maybe you were too mean and could have tried to talk to Vernon instead of walking away. Maybe you could try to see things from their point of view. You hate this contention. Above everything, they are your best friends, and even though the wounds are still fresh, you don’t have the energy to fight with them anymore. Your soul is tired, and it’s not something that a bed and sleep can fix.
“I’m going to try and get some rest,” you announce, shuffling around in the comforter. Vernon and Lola exchange nervous glances, hesitant to leave. You let out an exasperated sigh, straightening your posture. “I’m tired, okay? I had a long day yesterday and today, and what I really need is a shower and rest.”
“You almost collapsed out there,” Lola points out. “I don’t feel right leaving you here alone.”
“Lola, please,” you respond. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, you’re doing a bang-up job of that,” she quips, adjusting your blanket. “I’m not leaving you here alone. You could be dehydrated.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Blue, quit going back and forth and accept our help,” Vernon cuts in with a clipped tone. “It’s two against one. We’re not going anywhere until we know you’re okay.”
You shake your head, huff, and look at the wall. The stubborn bull in you wants to keep going, push for your way, and not accept anything else. But you also know them, and they will not back down. Your head throbs again, your vision starting to blur. You’re exhausted and haven’t been sleeping much since you’ve been here.
“Fine,” you reluctantly concede. “But I would like to get some sleep. It’s been quite the twenty-four hours.”
You sink lower into the air mattress, covering yourself with the blanket as you try to get comfortable. Vernon leans and rubs your shoulder before he leaves, the echo of his boots gradually fading in the almost empty house. Lola climbs on the other side of the mattress, pulling you into a backward hug. “You know I love you, right?” She murmurs. “I would do anything for you, Blue.”
You nod sleepily, your words caught in your throat. Lola and Vernon mean well, and you know that, but you can’t help being a clusterfuck of emotions right now. They say grief comes and goes like waves, but your emotions have been nothing but high tides since the day you got the news. When will things get better?—When will you get better?
“Vernon and I will be right outside the door,” Lola assures, slowly rolling off the mattress. “Just holler if you need us, okay?”
Your sleepy eyes finally get the best of you. Your mind is half there, and in another dimension. “M’yeah,” you manage to mumble before exhaustion finally takes over, and you fall into a deep, satisfying sleep with Jihoon and the lake being the last image you saw.
Ten Summers Ago
The wind whipped through your hair as Jihoon drove down the long road that led to the lake. It was the perfect weather, with the sun peaking through the clouds, occasionally giving you a reprieve from its harsh light. Your hand hung out of the window, pretending you were pressing keys to the beat of the song playing on the radio. Jihoon glanced at you occasionally, asking if you were okay, and you nodded or responded with a ‘yes’, hit by the bottle of nerves that settled in your stomach. It’s not like you hadn’t hung out with him before; those times were different, under friendly circumstances. Whereas this is more romantic, a real date, something that could change the trajectory of your relationship forever. You were scared to death of it changing for the worse, and you wonder why you even agreed to this, but in the back of your mind, you think you would’ve regretted not taking that leap and finding out whether this is more or if it was all in your head.
Jihoon played a mix of 80s, 90s, and early 2000s songs from a playlist that he made on the iPad specifically for the trip. He said it was for the “vibes,” but you think he wanted to impress you. Little did he know, he didn’t need the playlist to do that—you already fell for him.
“We’re almost here,” Jihoon announced, lowering the sound of the music.
“I know,” you replied, sitting up in your seat. “I’ve been here before, remember?”
“Yeah,” Jihoon returned, a smile tugging on his lips. “But you haven’t been with me.”
Feeling the heat rush to your face, you looked away, pursing your lips to suppress the smile he put on your face. “You’re a real Casanova, you know that?”
“No, I’m just Jihoon.”
You rolled your eyes, a chuckle escaping your lips. He pulled into the lake shortly after, driving to the far end next to the dock. There was no one else around, and the trees were in full bloom, giving you the right amount of shade and privacy. Your skin prickled as the car slowed to a stop.
“Wait here.”
Jihoon hopped out of the truck, coming around to the other side and opening your door. Taking your hand, he helped you out of the car, his eyes traveling down to your short shorts and freshly shaven legs. You can’t say you didn’t like the attention, as it was nice to be desired. You were thankful you had applied baby oil before leaving the house.
“Do you like what you see?” you queried, following his gaze. “I just shaved this morning.”
Jihoon’s face turned beet red and embarrassed, stepping back considerably. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ogle at you—”
“Jihoon, it’s fine.” You waved him off with a giggle. “I want you to ‘oggle’ at me. At least I know you think I’m hot.” Reaching into the bed of the truck, you grabbed hold of the cooler. “Now show me where we are taking this thing?”
“Oh, I got that!” Jihoon exclaimed, hastily taking the cooler. “Let me show you we’re going to be.”
He led you away from the usual rocky, earthy path that leads to the docks, instead taking you to the grassy patch dotted with dandelions and daisies. There lay the same blanket he had when you watched the shooting stars, accompanied by pillows and baskets. You faltered, touched by the detail and thought that he put into this. You gazed at him with an affection that warms you to your core, observing the satisfied glimmer in his eyes.
“Jihoon, you didn’t have to do all of this.”
He didn’t lose his pace when he reached for your hand, connecting his soft fingers with yours. “I know. But I wanted to.”
Reaching the blanket, he motioned for you to sit as he took out the contents of the cooler. You noticed he had your favorite sandwiches and snacks packed, and even managed to grab chocolate-covered strawberries because you once mentioned you'd never had them. You watched him set everything in place with care, your face beaming with joy.
Pulling out a Bluetooth speaker, he returned to the playlist he made for this day, setting it farther away to create an ambiance. He wore a simple black t-shirt and light blue jeans, but you found him incredibly attractive. His glasses were clipped to the top of his shirt, and a strand of his hair kept falling on his forehead. His muscles flexed as he moved things around, heightening his appeal. You pinned your knees together, ignoring the heat in between your legs.
Then suddenly, you had an idea. “Let’s go for a swim!”
Jihoon stopped in his tracks, looking at you, bewildered. “You want to go swimming now?”
“Mmhmm,” you hummed, dropping your purse onto the blanket. “We can swim and then work up an appetite after.”
Jihoon hesitated, his eyes scanning the spread he was almost done setting up. You knew it was impulsive of you to do this now, but if you stared at him any longer, things were going to happen on this blanket. At least you weren’t offering to take your clothes off in the lake.
“Okay,” his voice trailed off, his eyes widening as he watched you take off your shorts. You didn’t want to get all of your clothes wet, so you figured that at least having dry shorts and a wet t-shirt was a good trade-off. But what you didn’t expect was to see him undress, taking off his shirt and undoing the button on his jeans. The heat surged through your neck, and it’s not just because of the weather.
“I always keep a change of clothes in my truck,” Jihoon explained. “I can change into something else.”
“Uh-huh,” you mustered, staring at his abs. “Let’s go get wet, yeah?”
Realizing how dirty that sounded, you mentally slapped yourself in the face, shaking your head as you walked toward the dock. Jihoon is to your right, slightly ahead of you, looking into the dark blue waters. The wind swayed the leaves on the trees, but otherwise it was quiet, and you had the lake to yourselves, it seemed like. Making it to the end of the dock, you kicked off your sandals, the soles of your feet gracing the warm wood.
“I have to ask,” Jihoon said suddenly. “Why go swimming now? You could have said something before, ya know?”
You stared at him, caught off guard. “I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to take a dip.”
“Maybe,” Jihoon responded. “Or there is something else going on here?”
“Nope.” You shook your head fervently. “Nothing more is going on.”
Jihoon perused you, and in that moment, you knew he thought you were full of shit. But you held on to your poker face as best you could, stepping closer to the end of the dock. “I guess we should probably—”
Jihoon carried you swiftly and jumped into the water, the surprisingly cool water surrounding you whole. It was refreshing and cool, and it put you at ease. Rising to the surface, you heard Jihoon laughing, splashing water on your face.
“Hey!” you cried, returning the favor. “At least give a girl a chance to wipe her eyes.”
You couldn’t help but join in on the laughter, feeling liberated and no longer shackled by the bundle of nerves you felt earlier. You realized, in hindsight, it was stupid to randomly suggest swimming right when you were about to eat. You thought Jihoon was sexy, and maybe you should have accepted that instead of trying to run away from it.
Jihoon swam closer to you, his face wet with water droplets and his hair slicked back. He looked even better wet, almost unethereal.
“So are you going to be honest with me, now?” Jihoon goaded, swimming in a deliberate circle around you. “I’m not going to judge you, you know that, right?”
“I know,” you responded, trying to sound casual. “But it’s honestly silly.”
He stopped his circling, treading water directly in front of you. “Try me.”
“I don’t want to ‘try you’—”
“—just tell me, Blue.”
Your chest tightened as you bit your lip, the familiar clench of anxiety coiling in your stomach as the bundle of nerves floods back. “You were sitting there, putting everything together, and you looked really hot doing it, and I didn’t know how to handle it. So I suggested we swim. I didn’t know you were going to get naked—”
“—I’m not naked.”
“You know what I mean!” you exasperated. “ Honestly, this was stupid, and we should just go back and eat—”
He shut you up with his lips on yours, and it was like fireworks went off—a sudden, explosive burst of sensation that echoed through every fiber of your being. Your chest sparked with an euphoric joy that made you dizzy, and you almost didn’t believe you were kissing Lee Jihoon, the boy who had your affection for the past month. You deepened the kiss as his hands graced your waist, your heart racing a million miles a minute. Your feet were impossibly light in the water, and you felt like you were floating, untethered and completely suspended in this moment. You’ve never experienced this before, and you don’t want it to stop.
Jihoon pulled away, leaving a lingering kiss before taking your hand and leading you to the dock, pulling himself up effortlessly, and then helping you up after. You were in a daze, your mind still reeling from that one kiss, and though you’d had kisses before, none of them felt like that.
“Next time, don’t hide from me,” Jihoon remarked with a cheeky grin. “I want you to be open with me, no matter what.”
You didn’t bother defending yourself; you knew exactly what he meant. “Mmhmm.”
“Good.” He nodded with a satisfied look on his face. “Now is your appetite worked up, or do you want a round two in the water?”
You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “You are never going to let this go, are you?”
Jihoon took your hand, leading you back to the blanket, where your shorts and food awaited. “A Southsider at a loss for words for a naked Northie?” He let out a chortle. “Never.”
You wake up slowly, the blanket protecting you from the golden hour light shining through your blinds. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust, filled with crust from the deep sleep you endured. You reach around lazily for your phone, finding it beside the air mattress and connected to a charger. Weird, you thought to yourself; you don’t recall connecting it to one before you fell asleep. Tapping the screen, your eyes widen at the time, realizing you have been out cold for almost five hours.
Fuck. You didn’t mean to sleep this long.
Sitting up slowly, you accidentally knock over a fresh bottle of Gatorade, the plastic bottle rolling until it hits the door with a soft thud. You’re still in a haze of sleep, repeating the events that happened within the last twenty hours—the ceremony, Jihoon’s mother, the argument with Lola and Vernon, Jihoon, and the intimacy you two shared. Regret eats at you as you think about how you left, yearning for the warmth you felt in his arms, the softness of his lips when he kissed you, and, most importantly, his voice, and how it soothed you when you needed it most. Your bed is unbearably cold now, a deep chill settling in your bones as you force yourself to face the truth: you miss him.
Sitting up slowly, you let out a loud yawn, relieved to be cured of the nagging headache you had earlier. You hear shuffling outside your door, giving you only a moment’s notice to cover yourself with the blanket before the door opens. You see Lola’s chocolate brown curls before you see her, a worried look on her face as she comes with a sandwich and fries opened in a to-go box. The bread smells fresh, a warm invitation to your stomach as it grumbles loudly.
“I take it you’re hungry?” Lola teases, sitting at the foot of the mattress. “You were dead to the world for a while, girl.”
“Yeah, apparently,” you snort, sitting straighter. “I feel a lot better, though.” You eye the sandwich again, your mouth watering at what looks to be your favorite, an Italian sandwich on rye bread. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
“It’s never trouble to make sure my best friend is okay,” Lola states, waving you off. “Plus, it wasn’t me who brought the food.”
Your head ticks, your brows burrowing in confusion. “Was it Vernon?” you ask gently. The weight of guilt sags your shoulders, thinking about the argument earlier. The ceremony still hurts you, but after sleeping, the thought of falling out with your best friends makes your stomach flip. “I’m sorry,” you say meekly, unable to look her in the eye. “I feel like shit.”
“I know,” Lola responds, closing the box on the sandwich. “I’m sorry too, for calling you ungrateful and not thinking about how having the ceremony while you’re still here would have affected you.” Her eyes glisten as she blinks profusely, her voice wavering. “You’ve been through a lot and had to handle most things on your own, and I should have thought about you more. I’m sorry.”
Your heart twinges as the tears fall on her cheeks. “Oh, God, Lola, no.” You panic, shuffling out of the blanket and scooting next to her. “You have done more than enough for me. I couldn’t have gotten through the house affairs or handling my dad’s estate without you.” You wrap your arms around her, your own eyes stinging.
“Yeah?” Lola sniffles, quickly wiping her eyes.
“Of course,” you murmur, laying a kiss on her cheek. “When have I ever told you a lie?”
You manage to get a chuckle out of her, and it puts you at ease. Her arm wraps around you, and you sit in silence, simply existing with each other. Lola has been in your life forever, and you could never thank her enough for being your rock throughout all of this. Vernon, too, by extension, in his own way. This is undoubtedly the hardest thing you have ever gone through.
Lola reaches over, handing you the forgotten sandwich and placing it on your lap. “Make sure you eat that. I know you’re starved.”
Your finger brushes against the styrofoam box, a small upward curve on your lips. “Tell Vernon I said thank you for this.”
“Oh, um, it wasn’t from Vernon,” Lola says, biting back a smile as she rose from the bed. You stare at her, waiting for her to reveal where it had come from, but she stands in silence, her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl unable to keep a secret.
“So this came from my fairy godmother, then?” you joke. “Or maybe it was the twins—”
“If you have a fairy godmother, then so do I,” Lola chortles, shaking her head.
“Then who was it from?”
Always dramatic, Lola takes her time to respond, keeping you in suspense as she tries to suppress her laughter.
“Come on, Lola, spit it out—”
“Jihoon dropped it off while you were sleeping.”
You freeze, not expecting to hear his name. You nod slowly as shame overwhelms you, causing you to fall back onto the mattress with a grunt. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” Lola interrogates, pulling you upright. “Is it the sandwich or him?”
You throw her an annoyed look, slightly irritated that you have to answer the question. “Him, obviously.” You roll your eyes.
“Well, what did he do?” Lola surmises, her voice rising. “Do we need to kick his ass? I’m gonna call Vernon.”
“What?!” you exclaim, staring at her incredulously. “No. He didn’t do anything. It was me.”
“Oh,” Lola realizes as she sits back on the mattress. “What did you do?”
“That’s kind of a loaded question, Lola,” you reply with a groan. “A lot has happened in the past day.” You pick at the cotton on your shirt, focused on the small string that’s sticking out of place.
“Try me,” Lola suggests, gently taking your hand. “What happened?”
Sighing heavily, you meet her eager gaze. “Do you want me to start with when I slapped Jihoon’s mother or skip to when I kissed Jihoon?”
Lola’s eyes widen at your revelation, and a smirk spreads across her face. “You've certainly been busy.”
“Oh shut up,” you roll your eyes. A knot tightens in your stomach, and you fold your legs to your chest, hoping to ease the guilt penetrating your abdomen. “I feel bad enough.”
“About hitting his mother?” Lola gibes. “Because don’t. That woman has been a bitch since Jesus was alive.”
You let out a laugh that comes from deep within. “God, no.” You shake your head. “I will never feel bad about that, especially after the shit she said about my dad.”
“What the fuck?!” she gasps, shaking her head back. “What did she say?”
So you tell her everything—from the moment you left the house to storming out of the record store with blood dripping down your arm. You showed her the flesh wound from Mrs. Lee’s nails puncturing your skin, now puffy and swollen. You wince when Lola touches it, the tarrying sting still taking some time to get used to.
“You have a lot more restraint than me,” Lola comments, examining your arm. “I don’t think I would have been as nice and walked away. Is she crazy?”
“She’s batshit,” you grumble, anger simmering in your gut. “I could have maybe forgiven or tried to be nice to her for Jihoon’s sake, but fuck that. I am successful, not broke, and have a great life. She could die today, and I would gladly spit on her tombstone.”
Lola’s eyebrows shoot up, throwing you a tickled look. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m just saying,” you say straightforwardly. “Being back here has brought me a lot of clarity.”
“Uh-huh,” Lola hums, nudging her knee towards yours. “Would any of that clarity have anything to do with Jihoon?
Your breath catches in your throat as a sharp pain blooms in your chest at the thought of him. You dislike feeling this way about him, wishing you could see him as just an old memory without residual feelings, the intense desire that surges through your veins, or the longing in your heart that yearns to kiss him again. You never intended for this trip to become complicated; your only goal was to bury your father peacefully. But returning here has scrambled your thoughts and disturbed your peace, making it even clearer that you need to leave.
“Things with Jihoon and me are… interesting,” you admit, drawing a circle on your hand with your finger. “I don’t know if what I feel is the same love I felt when we were kids or if this is gratitude, but fuck, Lola, I haven’t been with anyone else who makes me feel the way he does.” Sighing deeply, you stand, pacing back and forth. “I keep thinking about that summer and how, for those few short months, they were the happiest of my life. Even with Daddy being accused of murder, he was there for me. Never treated me like I was dirt or someone beneath him. Jihoon made me feel seen as a person; he loved me, genuinely, and I can never forget that. Or get over that, ten years later.”
Lola hangs on to your every word, motioning for you to go on. “Even now,” you continue. “He sees me. I don’t have to be on with him all the time, reserved, or anything other than who I am. God, Lola, when he kissed me, it sparked something in me. He made me forget about all this shit with my dad and my pain and made me feel like a person again. I wasn’t just this grieving daughter, but someone who was desired and needed and maybe still loved. I don’t know what this is, as I said, it’s fucking complicated. But I know that I haven’t stopped thinking about him all this time, and after cutting him off the way I did, he is still here, wanting to be with me, I think. And that says something.”
Your chest heaves, realizing you’ve been talking without taking a breath. Your heart beats heavy and hard, as if you have several horses stomping against your ribcage. You desperately grab the bottle of Gatorade that was forgotten on the floor, untwist the cap, and guzzle it down. Lola looks at you, amused, folding her arms with a knowing look.
“What?” You pant, wiping the corner of your mouth. “Speak your mind.”
“Well, I don’t think this is complicated at all,” Lola states, rising from the mattress. She places her hands on your shoulders, leaning closer to you with a smile. “You, my friend, are in love.”
The room seems to tighten, your heart beating loudly in your eardrum. “What?”
“Love. L-O-V-E,” Lola asserts. “It’s a different kind of love, obviously, from back then. Not the same puppy love, that new feeling you get when you realize you love someone for the first time. This one is more mature and aged, and you have the beauty of a decade apart and some time spent together to bring you clarity. Why do you think your relationships haven’t worked out, Blue?”
You twist your mouth with a grimace. “They didn’t work out because they weren’t the right people for me.”
“Right, my point,” Lola points out. “Listen, they didn’t work out because you know, deep down, they don’t make you feel the same way Jihoon did. You’ve had some great potential relationships that could have lasted. Remember Solar? She was crazy about you. Or that actor who bought you roses every week just because—”
“—I told him I didn’t like roses,” you interject. “He had comprehension issues. And Solar was great, just not for me.”
“Sure,” Lola says, rolling her eyes with a soft laugh. “But every time, you say you didn’t feel fulfilled. But guess who does?”
Your spine stiffens as a wave of revelation washes over you. You’ve had a few relationships and casual dates here and there, but they just never clicked with you. You’ve been trying to fight it all this time, hoping to get somehow rid of these feelings and thinking maybe if you left town, they would leave too. But the feelings have lingered, and now you’re forced to carry it on, and accept the truth—maybe you are still in love with him.
“I have to go,” you say suddenly, the words bursting out of you before you can second-guess yourself. You dig in your bag and pull out a change of clothes and your toothbrush, undressing and throwing your shirt aside as you storm into the bathroom.
Lola blinks, surprised by your abruptness. “And where are you going?”
You peek out of the door with a gentle smile and a wink, your mind made up and your decision set. “I have to have a talk with someone.”
Jihoon sits in his truck, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, lost in thought. When he arrived at your house, Vernon met him at the door, telling him what happened. He wanted to see you first thing, and he offered to take you back to his apartment, where he could watch over you. Lola came around then and said you needed the rest and to check in on you later. He stood there, struggling with the idea of leaving you there instead of bringing you home, here, like he wanted. But he didn’t want to do too much, and he agreed to leave you be, only to come back thirty minutes later with your favorite sandwich and fries from Jollibee’s. All he could do was worry about you and hope you didn’t almost faint because of him and what happened the night before.
“Blue is going to be fine, bro,” Vernon assured Jihoon then, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. “She’s tough, and Lola will not let anything happen to her.”
Taking Vernon’s word, he left and came to the music store, tidying some things and opening for business. It is unusually busy today, with new people coming to town for the Founders Day celebration this weekend. It slipped his mind, with everything going on, and after the days he’s been having lately, he doesn’t feel much like celebrating—all his thoughts are filled with you. He played Donna Summer in your honor, nostalgia hitting him hard as he thought about the debate you two had over disco. You were a staunch supporter, and he hated it, but by the time you left the store, you made him a believer and a lover in Studio 54 and the Bee Gees. The way you reveled when you played the extended version of “I Feel Love” by Donna Summer is something he’ll never forget. It was as if you were enshrouded in dark purple light, dancing slowly to the vinyl's lyrics. Who would have known the Southsider in the graphic t-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers was so well-versed in music?
Jihoon closed up at six on the dot, counting the money made and tidying up the store all under thirty minutes. He’s been sitting in his truck for almost an hour, wondering whether to give you space and let you rest or come back to check on you. Sure, he could easily text Vernon or Lola to get an update, but it wouldn’t be enough. Jihoon wants to be with you, even if you are asleep. He wants to relive the light snores he felt on his chest last night, when everything was good and perfect. He’s had a taste of what it’s like to have you again, and Jihoon doesn’t want to give that up so easily.
Fuck it, I’m going there.
Jihoon turns the ignition in the trunk, set to pull off and head south, when a familiar red truck pulls up to his left. The passenger side opens, followed by a pair of legs he knows so well, hopping out of the truck in jean shorts and a tank top. Jihoon’s heart patters; happiness is not even close to describing how he feels as he watches you wave goodbye to Lola. He’s starting to think maybe this is some fate.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Jihoon calls out, pleasantly surprised as he rolls down his window. “I heard you had quite the day.”
“Yeah, something like that,” you respond sheepishly, locking eyes with him. You bite your bottom lip, and he can tell you’re nervous. Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out the CD you took from the store, a limited-edition “Abbey Road” album by the Beatles. “I believe I owe this back to you,” you say, handing it over. “I just grabbed anything in my haste of anger.”
“Nah, you can keep it,” Jihoon laughs, shaking his head. “I think it’s the least I can do for my mother’s behavior.”
With a smirk, you nudge the CD against his chest. “Oh, I know,” you say. “But I deserve better than the Beatles.”
A chuckle slips out of his throat, taking back the CD. “Yeah, you definitely deserve a lot better.”
Noticing the glow on your skin and how relaxed you are puts him more at ease. You seem more well-rested, happier, and, dare he say, at peace. You smile at him softly, your eyes twinkling with something that makes him feel warm. Jihoon is enchanted, and if he stares any longer, he will get lost in your eyes.
“So you came all the way here just to return the CD?” Jihoon asks, tapping the plastic cover. “I mean, that’s nice of you and all.”
“Maybe,” you tease him, stepping closer to the truck. “Or maybe I wanted to see you.” Your smile fades as you place your hand on the rim of the lowered window. “I think we have some things we need to talk about.”
Jihoon’s pulse quickens when your fingers brush against his, the smell of your perfume intoxicating and hard to ignore. “I agree.”
“Some things were said…” Your voice trails off.
“Mmhmm,” he hums, gazing at your beauty. The wind blows randomly, swaying your air in its direction. “Some things happened as well…”
Eyeing his apartment window, you return his gaze with a knowing smile. “So, do you wanna do this at your place or mine?”
The air shifts when you walk into Jihoon’s place. Everything looks the same, still in order, but there is a tension that you can’t deny, a pull of gravity that wants to collapse in his arms and kiss him until you’re out of breath. You are the type of person who needs to understand your feelings before you believe them, and for the longest time, it didn’t make sense why your equilibrium felt off when you were with him. You were supposed to be wild beyond grief and not capable of feeling anything else but that. But damn Jihoon for making you feel good things, for making you feel what Lola thinks might be love. You left him and cut him off, and he wants you anyway. You don’t deserve him.
“Are you hungry? Do you want anything to drink?” Jihoon points towards the fridge. “I can make you another sandwich if you want.”
“No, I’m okay,” you assure him. “I’m still kind of stuffed from the sandwich you dropped off.” A warm wave washes over you, thinking about how good that meal replenished you when you needed it the most. “Thank you for that, by the way.”
“It wasn’t a problem,” he responds. “I went there to go see you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He lets out a chuckle. “ Vernon and Lola told me to beat it.”
Your eyes widen, amused by this revelation. “Oh, did they?” You laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. They had me locked in there like I was at Fort Knox.”
“I bet,” he surmises. “They were just looking out for you.”
You nod, glancing at your feet before looking at Jihoon again. “I know.”
It falls quiet between you two, punctuated only by the faint sounds of cars and people heard from below. Your thoughts whirl like a tempest, each one vying for escape, but your words are caught in your throat. Ironic, considering you’re the best-selling author here.
“Blue, what are we doing?”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, “I don’t know, Jihoon.”
You study the way his brows furrow as he rubs the back of his neck. Your stomach free-falls, feeling guilty. Maybe that was the wrong answer, but you don’t want to lie to him either. “Jihoon… I don’t know what we are doing or what’s happening,” you begin. “I thought I would bury my Dad and go back to New York and pretend Carats Ridge doesn’t exist, as I have been. I didn’t expect to come back here and reconnect with you, and to feel all these things.”
Jihoon stares at you, registering what you said. “What do you feel, Blue?” Jihoon harps on your last sentence. “When you look at me, what do you feel?”
Butterflies in your stomach as you nervously step closer to him. “Present,” you answer honestly. “I don’t feel numb or dead inside when I’m with you. You make me warm and bright, and I swear to God sometimes I hear birds sing. You make my heart beat in ways I didn’t think were possible. You were the only one who went to look for me when I ran away from the funeral. You kept me safe, you keep showing up for me when I don’t deserve it, and when you kissed me, Jihoon? What we did? I have never felt that alive with anyone. It fucking scares me.” Wrought with all the pent-up feelings you kept locked in, tears fall down your face as your walls start to break. “I don’t know if what I feel is the same love that we had years ago or if it’s something else entirely, but—”
Jihoon kisses you heatedly, knocking the wind out of your chest. Jihoon, the more thoughtful, composed, and calculating of the two of you, is kissing you like his life is on the line. You’re being set ablaze all over, your hands digging in his hair and matching his same intensity. You tug at his shirt, pulling it off and throwing it out of your line of sight.
“I love you,” Jihoon breathes in between kisses. “It’s always been you, even a decade later.”
His confession makes you pause, pulling away from him slightly. “What?”
“I-love-you,” Jihoon enunciates. “I know you don’t know what kind of love you feel for me, but I can tell you mine: it’s the same way I felt ten summers ago. The same love that wanted you to stay, the very love that held out for months and years, hoping to hear from you again. I tried to bury it away, push it to the side, to pretend it didn’t exist because you weren’t in Carats Ridge. But it’s always been here, deep in the crevice of my heart, and I’m tired of fighting it. I want you—and I’m willing to take whatever you’ll give me.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, your mind reeling as you take in his confession. Jihoon loves you and has never stopped; it’s exhilarating and terrifying. You spent a decade creating a life without him, chasing the high of falling in love with someone who makes you feel safe. When you tried to forget this town, you tried to erase him too, keeping his memory in a heart-shaped box. But some things are meant to be revisited, and you’re ready to stop running.
“I love you, Blue,” Jihoon repeated, softer this time. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”
You stare into his eyes, those same familiar, kind eyes that saw through your defenses and your bullshit. Lola was right; this isn’t the puppy love that you experienced when you were teenagers. This love is deeper, richer, packaged with time and separation that brings you more clarity. You were empty when your dad died, and yet Jihoon managed to spark something unexpected in you, and you are almost whole again.
“I love you too,” you whisper, releasing the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “God, I love you, Jihoon, and I don’t think I’ve ever stopped.”
A visible wave of relief washes over him, a slow smile beaming on his face. “You love me?” he asks, closing the space between you two.
“Yeah,” you say, giving him a once-over. “I do.”
You kiss again, but this time it’s tender, softer, and it sets your soul on fire. Your hands trail along his abs, fiddling with his belt as his hands are on the button of your jeans, undoing in one swift move. A giggle erupts in you, happiness not even the word to describe how you feel. Something blooms in your chest, an unfiltered joy, a light finally appearing in the circle of darkness you’ve been shrouded in for weeks.
Jihoon walks you back to the futon, helping you out of your shirt and shorts before laying you down gently on the cushion. He’s enamored with you, watching you unhook your bra and slide out of your panties. You feel raw, sexy, and wanted. Taking your lips again, he lowers you onto the couch, towering over you. trailing his kisses down to your neck. He finds the sensitive part of your neck and sucks hard, sending chills throughout your body and arousal to your core. You moan in his ear, your hands finding your breasts and caressing them. You’re on an unadulterated high.
“I want you,” you mumble, lifting his face to look in his eyes. “Fuck, I need you, and I don’t want this to stop.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want, Blue,” Jihoon says earnestly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kisses you again with a hunger that gives you a further high, his tongue dipping in your mouth. You help him out of his jeans, shoving down his briefs that freed his hardened cock, dripping with precum on your stomach. Instinctively, you reach down, thumbing it along his shaft and watching him shudder. This new side of him, surrendering to you... You like it.
“You keep doing that,” his voice wavers. “And I’m not going to last long.”
“Yeah?” you goad, pumping faster. “What if that’s what I want?”
He chuckles in your ear in short pants. “You’ll get that. But I want to taste you again.”
Jihoon slides down your body, leaving trails of kisses on your breasts. His eyes are crackling with hunger, sucking on your sweet mounds insatiably. Your legs part eagerly, anticipation sitting in your stomach. His hand brushes against your folds, feeling the slickness of your dripping heat.
“Already?” Jihoon smirks.
“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes playfully, slightly embarrassed. “I can’t help it.”
He licks his bottom lip, fixated on your center as he lowers himself. “I’ve been thinking about this since last night,” he coos, blowing a cool breath on your clit. Your legs shudder, your cunt begging to be touched, teased, and tasted. “I think I’m addicted.”
Before you can respond, his tongue flattens along your slit, lapping up your juices and sending electric jolts throughout your body. Your hips buck in response as your moans carry throughout the apartment. Jihoon groans in your cunt, so enthralled with your taste as his fingers dig into your waist. You melt further into the futon, riding a wave of the abyss you don’t want to come down from.
“Jihoon, I think…” you whine. “Fuck Jihoon, I’m—”
You cling to his hair viciously as you scream his name. He holds you down with a firm grip, refusing to let you go until he has had his fill. “Fuck, Jihoon,” you whimper. “I can’t stop cumming.”
He lifts his head slowly, his lower face covered with you as he licks his lips. “Good.”
You pull him into a fervent kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and falling deeper under his spell. His cock pokes against your leg, and it earns a giggle out of you. “Aren’t we eager?” Your finger draws a circle on his chest, right above his heart. You give him a sly grin, pulling him into another heated kiss that sets you on fire. Jihoon’s hand creeps against your leg, lifting it up slightly to give him space. Leaving you with a brief, parting kiss, he lines himself against your entrance, his tip graciously pressing against your sopping hole. You’re still coming down from your high, but you want more of this and more of him.
“I’m ready,” you smile softly. “I’ve waited so long for this.”
He enters you slowly, allowing yourself to adjust to his size, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. His thick cock makes your walls flutter, begging for Jihoon to go deeper. As if he read your mind, he picks up the pace, his eyes fixated on him going in and out of your pussy. “Give me more,” you beg, digging your nails in his shoulder. “I want all of you.”
“Whatever you want, baby.”
Jihoon pulls out and slams into you, making you gasp in surprise. The futon creaks beneath you, shoved out of place and knocking into the end table. The lamp titters before finding its balance, the light spinning in a small circle. “Careful,” you mutter. “We don’t want to go breaking things.”
“I don’t care,” he groans, forehead falling against yours. “You feel so good.”
In this moment, you realized you forgot to ask about condoms, but the way he drags his cock in and out of you as he thrusts again, throws the thought out of the window. He fucks you hard, deep, knocking the air out of your lungs. The pleasure is gratifying and dizzying, spreading through your veins until you are completely overcome.
“That’s right, baby,” Jihoon murmurs against your mouth. “Feel it.”
You kiss him hard, your nails raking down his back and leaving angry red streaks across his skin. He hisses at the sting before kissing you again, this time messy and desperate. “You don’t know,” he pants, thrusting slower, “how long I’ve thought about this.”
His hand slides between your bodies, fingers brushing against your clit in tight circles, and your entire body jolts. You gaze into his eyes, strung and fuck out, a babbling mess as you cling to his shoulders. “You…fuck” you breathe. “Don’t stop, please.”
The room fills with skin-to-skin slapping against one another, shaky breaths, and the shaky moans you’ve been trying to restrain but failed miserably. You’re completely into it all, the only thing that matters being your world in this tiny apartment and the man you never truly got over.
“You’re so beautiful, Blue,” Jihoon says suddenly, his thumb brushing against your lips. “You’ve always meant everything to me.”
Your chest aches at the sincerity in his voice and the softness in his eyes. No one has ever looked at you the way that he does. He sees all of you and loves you anyway.
Pulling him down into another kiss, you whisper breathlessly. “Then show me.”
JIhoon lets out a rough laugh that dissolves into a groan when your hips roll against his. He buries his face into your neck and loses the remaining composure he had, thrusting into you erratically, sucking on your neck hungrily. The futon edges into the end table again, knocking the lamp down and shattering it. Your bodies stayed in rhythm, your body rocking into every snap of his.
“Jihoon,” you warn, your voice throaty and wet. “I wish you could fuck me forever.”
“Good,” he mutters. “That’s the plan.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and Jihoon curses under his breath. His hand slips down your body, fingers pressing into your hip hard enough to bruise.
“That’s it, baby. Take it.”
His words spark something in you quickly, your orgasm crashing through you suddenly, hot and violent. You unravel loudly, barely catching your breath as your thighs shake uncontrollably. Jihoon kisses you everywhere—your forehead, the corner of your mouth, your cheek, wherever he could. He whispers he loves you over and over as his thrusts turn sloppy and desperate. With one final, deep thrust, he pulls out quickly, emptying himself on your lower stomach, letting out a deep, guttural moan. You watch him with hooded eyes, his expression turning into something tender that makes you melt. There is no one in the world who makes your heart beat the way he does.
“Are you okay?” He breathes, leaning to kiss you. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
You shake your head with a gentle smile on your lips. “You could never hurt me.”
For a while, neither of you moves. You are still coming down from your hazy cloud nine, your skin is damp, and he breathes heavily in your ear. You wish you could stay here forever, in this apartment, and not have to deal with the real world and the reality that the happiest moment of your life took place in this fuck ass town.
“Stay with me,” Jihoon murmurs sleepily. “I’ll ask Lola to bring your stuff here until you have to leave, but please, just stay.”
A laugh escapes you, quiet and breathless as your fingers strum through his hair. “Now, why would I do that?”
He lifts up slightly, one eye closed with a lopsided grin meant just for you. “Because you love me.”
Because you love him. He isn’t wrong about that.
“Throw in breakfast, and I might consider it,” you quip, nestling back on the cushion.
A deep chuckle rumbles from him as he lays his head on your chest. This is the love that you want; the type that makes you warm and safe, with your heart in his hands without a care in the world because you know he’ll protect it. It feels like home when you’re with him. Like the summer that you never moved on from, that you will now get to experience for the rest of your life.
Three Summers Later
“We’re back with the critically acclaimed author of Blue Valentine, back with a new book and its sequel, ‘Ten Summers Later’. Welcome back YN.”
“Thank you for having me, Ginger,” you greet her warmly.
It’s been some time since your dad died, and although time heals all wounds, the scars are still there. Sometimes it’s a commercial, movie, or simply looking at your mother’s journals that remind you of him, and how much he sacrificed for you. You have your moments, especially around the anniversary of his death, but you breathe easier now. You know Daddy is looking down with your mother and is proud of you, and you will see them again when your time comes. But at least you didn’t have to go through it alone.
“I have to say,” Ginger begins, “The last time we spoke, you said ‘Blue Valentine' was one and done, and you were looking to write other things. What changed your mind?”
A slow smile slinks on your lips, your head nodding slightly as you think about your reason. “It was time, I think,” you say thoughtfully. “It’s been a long time since I revisited that story, and I thought about the place I was in when I wrote it.” You pause briefly, clearing your throat before continuing. “Some things have changed.”
“Would you like to expound on what has changed?” Ginger inquires. “I mean, look at you. You’re glowing!”
You chuckle, straightening your posture. “Thank you… And I mean my father died, and I had some time to process things and address hidden feelings that I thought I would keep buried forever. Now I’m free from that burden, and I’ve let that bloom into something beautiful.”
“Would that beautiful thing be your relationship with Jihoon, the platinum-selling recording artist?” Ginger presses. “You’ve been seen around the world together, at his shows, and it looks like you grew up together.” Ginger pulls out a yearbook from your high school, already having a page bookmarked that shows you and Jihoon’s pictures. “Was he the inspiration behind Blue Valentine?”
You smirk with a shrug. “Maybe.”
You glance at your agent, Anna, and the live audience is full of your fans who have signed copies of your new book. If someone had told you three years ago you would be where you’re at now in life, you would ask them what they were smoking. Sometimes it feels too good to be true, and you will wake up tomorrow, and it will have all been a dream. But you’re still here, still breathing and standing strong… and a part of that is because of Jihoon.
You went back to New York as you planned, and your relationship was long-distance for a while since he still had the music store. Jihoon decided to pursue music again and went viral by chance for a song he came up with in the shower. Everything was a blur after that, and he found himself with a new record deal and fame beyond his dreams. He eventually made it to New York City, to you, and you’ve been together ever since.
During that time, Jihoon had to straighten out some things for his mother, who needed full-time care for her dementia. He eventually told you about her past with your father, and it shook you to your core. Your father never talked about Mrs. Lee unless it was in relation to you, and he was so nonchalant about her that you almost didn’t believe Jihoon. It wasn’t until he pulled out an old yearbook that had them photographed as prom king and queen that you saw the truth for what it was. It didn’t change your perception of your dad, and you don’t have his side of the story, but it was something you had to sit with for a while. In a way, you could understand Mrs. Lee’s hurt and bitterness, but it doesn’t erase the way she’s treated you. You could never forgive her.
Regardless, you and Jihoon worked through it all, determined to stay connected and make it work, whatever it was. You even found yourself going back to Carats Ridge from time to time to see him, Lola, Vernon, and the kids. You still hate that town and don’t stay more than you have to, but you’re more at ease when you drive in, and you’ve learned to accept Carats Ridge for what it is. You’ve had some good memories mixed in with the bad, and with the help of your therapist, you’ve been at peace with it.
“So what should we expect with this next beginning?”
The rest of the interview flows smoothly, and when the cameras shut down, you unhook the mic before the producer can make it to your chair. Sliding out of your seat, you give a hug to Ginger before walking to your agent, who is busy typing on her phone.
“That went well?” you probe, adjusting your blouse.
“That went better than expected,” Anna beams, showing hashtags on social media. “There is a lot of buzz about your book and, of course, your relationship.”
“Yeah, I bet,” you scoff, shaking your head. “It still feels weird, being out in the open like this.”
“Aww, I can only imagine,” Anna rubs your shoulders. “But you two are solid, and it’ll get easier, I’m sure.” She looks at her watch, her eyes widening. “Oh, we have to get out of here.”
Anna rushes you into the dressing room, grabbing your belongings and practically shoving you out of the door. You wave goodbye to your fans who were waiting in the hall before getting on the elevator. It hums quietly as it goes down, the chill of the a/c sending goosebumps throughout your body. Glancing at your phone, it’s a quarter till 10, and you stifle a yawn. You’ve been up since six am getting ready, and you haven't seen Jihoon in a few weeks due to his tour. You don’t sleep well when he’s not around, and you’ve had to substitute with buying a body pillow to hold until he comes home. You miss him a lot, and there’s not enough FaceTime calls in the world that could make you feel better.
The elevator dings at the lobby, and you step out swiftly, with Anna trailing you from behind.
“So what’s the next stop?” you ask, turning to face her. “Are we doing a bookstore, or do I have a small break for a nap?”
“Neither,” Anna confirms, with a mischievous glint in her eye. '“You have other plans, ma’am.”
“Huh?” Your brows furrow. “What do you mean—hey!”
Anna slinks her arm with yours and takes you outside, taking you to a suspiciously yellow pickup, a very familiar truck that you know all so well. Standing outside of it, waiting for you is Jihoon, who looks at you with a tenderness that makes you melt. He is supposed to be on tour, across the country in California, and yet here he is, pulling you towards him with that sexy smile.
“Hi, Blue,” Jihoon greets you with a kiss. Your eyes flutter, and your knees buckle, placing your arms on his shoulder as you kiss him back. Your heart is ready to beat out of its cage, your body buzzing with excitement to finally hug your man.
“Hi,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. “I thought you were going to be gone for another week.”
“I was, but today is an off day,” he explains, placing his hands on your waist. “And I missed you.”
“Yeah?” you respond, licking your bottom lip.
“Yeah.”
You have so much to say, but the words are caught in your throat. You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his as you lean in for another kiss. You love him, truly, madly, and deeply, and you don’t regret the decade it took to bring you back to him. What you have is so much better than the love of that summer, and this time, you will never let him go again.
“Alright, I’m done here,” Anna announces, already walking towards the parking lot. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Mhm,” you murmur, returning your attention to Jihoon. “Let’s go home.”
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.
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.
—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!!
Synopsis ✨ Your boyfriend never takes risks. He's the most careful person you know. But one picnic on a warm summer's day is about to make him risk it all.
Genre ✨ Fluff, smut, established relationship
Warnings ✨ once again there's very little plot but quite a bit of porn, public sex, sex in nature, a brief hand job, she rides him, it's all very soft, they're so in love, p in v unprotected sex, he cums inside her, a brief mention of periods (oc isn't on hers), lots of fluff, Woozi is a worrier about literally everything
Word count✨ 5k
a/n ✨ I don't really have anything to add here other than he's the perfect man and I wanted to put something fluffy and cute up before the second part of my mafia fic. Thanks for reading! 💕
“I think,” you gulp, hands on your hips and squinting from the sun, “that my legs are going to fall off. Jihoon when will we be stopping?”
“Soon sweetie, very soon!” He chirps, marching off up the hill.
It had looked more like a gentle slope earlier this morning when you’d first set off on this “jaunt” as your boyfriend had called it. A test of your relationship you’d call it. But he said it was an easy hill and that you’d enjoy it once you set off, he’d even made a promise that he’d make it worth it for you.
He had that smirk on his face that you knew would only lead to something bad, but in the best way possible. And to be honest, the idea of your boyfriend wanting to fuck you at the top of a hill mountain already had your pussy dripping.
Though it was a shock.
Jihoon was not a reckless man. He makes you both your lunch every day, packing you both a mid-morning snack, a main lunch which always consisted of two side dishes alongside a smoothie he’d made that morning and then a piece of fruit for the afternoon before you set off home from work.
He makes sure your laundry is folded neatly, he changes the light bulbs every three months even if they don't need changing, so that they ware down at the same time and he even measures out the equal distances between the spices in your spice rack.
He likes things orderly. Done properly. He doesn’t like to break the rules.
That’s what made you so determined to say yes to this torture jolly day out.
Sex with Jihoon had always been incredible, but him wanting to fuck in public? Even though that “public” is a flowery meadow at the top of hill. Was thrilling, to say the least. He isn’t someone that takes risks. And if he does, it’s something he’s thought out for weeks beforehand.
When he’d suggested you both try out using handcuffs, he’d researched how it may trigger people, the best material they should be so as not to hurt you and even how long someone should have their hands bound above their head before it affected blood circulation.
You loved that about him. It was everything that made him, him. But fucking up a hill? Very unlike your Jihoon.
The sun was bright, lighting up the little daisies and wild flowers that were strewn across the emerald fields of grass. It was picturesque. It wouldn’t surprise you if there was a well with fairies flying round it somewhere. It was perfect.
But fuck was it too hot.
And your legs may actually be falling off.
You’re certain you’ve got blisters between each of your toes.
And you could eat a full family size pizza to yourself at this point.
“You’re saying all this out loud sweetie, you do know that?!” your boyfriend hollers as he continues on his quest up Everest, “I don’t think there’s a dominos at the top of this hill in the middle of the country side!”
“There might be, you don’t know the location of every dominos in the world Jihoon.”
“I know a lot. How one woman can eat so many pieces of garlic bread is beyond me!”
“Hey! That’s not my fault! I can’t help what my body wants when I’m losing hundreds of gallons of blood each month!”
“I know you can’t,” he turns back to you, big smile shining in the sun as he holds his hand out for you, “now. We’re right near the top, come here.”
You take his hand, grimacing a little at how sweaty you both are but heart jumping a little even after so many years together.
“Close your eyes,”
“Baby, if I close my eyes I’ll trip.”
“You’ll never trip whilst I’m holding your hand.”
Fuck he’s so good with words. His smile becomes even brighter when he notices he’s managed to fluster you a little with that last comment, cheeks pink and a silly smile you’re trying to hide.
A few more steps on the dirt track path and you come to a stop.
“Open.”
You open your eyes, blinking a little to adjust to the light again and what you see takes your breath away. You can see everything from up here, it’s like being on top of the world. You can see the city in the distance, rice fields and villages down below and you’re sure if you squint, you can just about see the ocean.
How did even find this place? You ask yourself as your turn around on the spot, eyes finding something more beautiful every time you stop. There’s literally nobody around, the top of the hill is as luscious with grass and wildflowers as it the path up here. It’s perfect. It’s like something out a fairy tale.
“Baby this is......How did you know about it? I’ve never heard anyone talking about this trail”
He beams at you as he sets out not one, but two picnic blankets in the longer grass, wanting it to feel a little like you’re caged in and cosy in the longer grasses.
“Seokmin told me about it. Though when they came up here, it was just before that storm we had the other week. So they never made it to the top.”
“That’s too bad,” you look back at the view, “this view is stunning Jihoon.”
“I’m pleased you like it,” you feel his arms snake round your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out into the distance, “are you hungry?”
“For what?”
He looks a little confused when you turn around with a devilish smirk on your lips, hoping he means eating something other than food.
“I brought a picnic?” he blinks at you, looking pretty puzzled.
Which puzzles you because aren’t you here to fuck?
Your stomach drops.
Maybe you’ve misjudged this whole thing. What a fucking idiot. Of course Jihoon doesn’t want to do anything up this hill. If you can see the whole world. They can presumably see you. But they wouldn’t truly see though. But even then Jihoon would see it as too much of a risk.
But you’d been thinking about nothing else since you saw his smirk. You can’t help feeling a little disappointed, even with the world’s greatest view in every direction you look.
You could eat, you suppose. It’s just a shame it’s not him eating you.
“That sounds good.”
You try to sound upbeat but you’re aware it didn’t necessarily come out that way. You can tell from the fact that he watches you carefully, almost warily, as you sit down on the picnic blanket.
“What did you bring?” you smile, brushing off the disappointment.
You may have gotten the wrong idea but that isn’t Jihoon’s fault. And if you know him like you know you do, it won’t just be a simple picnic.
“My mom’s gimbap and all your favourite side dishes,” he rushes excitedly as he takes the containers carefully out of his bag, “and I even got those seaweed rolls you like from the fancy take out place. And then we’ve got strawberries for dessert and pink lemonade that I’ve put in the thermos thing to keep it cold..... What?” his speaking slows when he looks up at you.
He looks at you wondering why you’re grinning at him like the Cheshire cat, still getting all of his containers out of his bag.
“Nothing,” you shrug, “I’m just the luckiest woman in the world.”
“Well that’s handy,” he leans over to kiss you quickly, “because I am the luckiest man in the world.”
God you’re both sickening sweet, big smiles beaming at each other as you just sit and gaze.
You manage to pull your eyes away from each, the promise of his mom’s gimbap and your rumbling stomachs forcing your attention away from each other.
You feel like you’re in some sort of bad eighties porn film. Sat like some flustered woman whilst you watch the hot sweaty man in front of you drink lemonade, watching his throat bob and a little drip down his chin. Fuck, why does he have to be so hot all of the time? Can’t he give you some sort of reprieve and just do something disgusting every now and again, to make you feel a bit better and not feel like a dog in heat.
The food was as incredible as you thought it would be, Jihoon would never just bring a plastic wrap covered sandwich to a picnic. If he could, you’re certain he’d have hauled up a table and chairs, with some candles to complete everything. But what he had done, with the blankets and the food, and even making sure the lemonade stayed icy cold and refreshing, was perfection.
“Honey?”
“Hm?”
“Why did you go all weird before when I asked if you were hungry?”
You pause, a strawberry midway to your mouth and eyes wide.
“I didn’t” you shake your head like that will make it in any way more convincing.
“You did. Did I not make this special enough? Did you think there was something up here?” he looks around like some sort of attraction might suddenly appear.
Your heart cracks a little. How can he think this isn’t special? Everything you do with Jihoon is special, even if you’re just sat balling socks, being with him makes it special.
He isn’t going to let this go though. He never does. He’ll dwell on it, thinking he’s done something wrong, when in reality it’s just your horny brain and reckless thoughts.
You sigh. Wanting a big gust of wind to come and blow you off this hill.
“I thought.....earlier when you suggested all this, I thought...... I thought you wanted to have sex with me.”
He blinks at you. Face blank. Wheels in his head turning painfully slow.
“Who else would I want to have sex with? I only want to have sex with you.”
Those wheels may have come a grinding halt.
“I know that Jihoon. I meant........” you gesture your hands around, hoping it might get his brain working without actually having to say it.
He stares.
Then stares a little longer.
Stares even longer after that.
You feel like the world is moving in slow motion.
You can pinpoint the exact second he realises what you meant.
“HERE?!”
He looks around like even thinking about it might make some random law enforcement officer appear, and drag you both away for daring to consider fucking in public.
“______, THIS IS A HILL!”
“I’m sorry. Are you suggesting if it were a mountain, it would be ok?”
“NO I AM NOT. YOU CAN’T..... IT’S WRONG...... IT’S AGAINST THE LAW!” he splutters, eyes wide.
He’s reacted exactly how you knew he would when he brought up why you’d been weird, like a scandalised old lady.
“Look, will you please calm down. I saw I’d gotten it wrong and it’s been so perfect, let’s not let my horny brain ruin it.”
His cheeks are flushed, his mouth opening and closing as you sheepishly go back to your strawberry, trying not to look at him.
You knew he’d be embarrassed, you didn’t think he’d be this embarrassed.
“Is it…..” you look back at him, licking the strawberry juice off your lips, not really noticing in your embarrassment that his eyes are transfixed by your mouth, “is it something you want to do? You’ve never mentioned anything about exhibitionism.”
“I’m not an exhibitionist Lee Jihoon.” You chastise him, equally as horrified as he was earlier on. “I just saw your smirk….”
“What smirk?”
“The same one you have before you’re going to do something utterly filthy. But I guess this time it didn’t mean that. You must get as excited about hills as you do about sex I guess.” You shrug, going back to your strawberries and still not noticing how he’s becoming more and more on edge as he watches you eat them.
A peaceful silence falls over you as you lay back and watch the fluffy white clouds float by, happy in the knowledge that you’ve cleared the air, you’re both on the same page.
But sadly for you, you’re not on the same page.
Jihoon has very much not forgotten what’s just happened. In fact, his brain is in overdrive.
There’s literally nobody around and it is such a lovely afternoon with the birds chirping and the sun shining. And the grass is quite long, if you heard voices there would be a suitable amount of time to cover yourselves up and stop whatever you were doing. And fuck do you look good, little shorts and his t-shirt. Simple, yes but you make anything look good. The way you were eating those strawberries, the juice droplets clinging to your lips before you licked them away, shit he wants to be the one to lick them away.
This is definitely not the reason he brought you up here and you don’t seem disappointed or pissed off that it isn’t going to happen. But would it be that big a risk?
Normally he’d spend a good couple of days thinking about the risks of anything before he does something. New coffee percolator? He printed out the results from three comparison websites so that you could both make an informed decision. When they discontinued your favourite toothpaste, he went through the fluoride levels in all of them to find one that matched your existing one. Fuck even with the tv subscription, he made sure you both watched it enough to warrant committing to an annual plan to save money, rather than the monthly subscription.
Jihoon doesn’t take risks.
But today? And what you’ve just suggested, fuck does he want to try.
His brain is very much still considering the risks, but he fears his semi hard dick in his shorts might be getting the final call in this decision.
You hear a rustling of containers, presuming Jihoon is tidying up a little before he comes to take in the clouds with you. And like clockwork, he appears at the side of you, lying on his side, head propped on his elbow and a soft smile playing on his lips.
You don’t think much of it, just smile back at him and then go back to staring at a cloud that looks a lot like Mr Pickles, your dog growing up.
“You know my pet do…. What are you doing?!” Your eyes snap to his, noting his fingers are playing with the waist band of your shorts.
“Well,” he says softly, fingers tucking under your waist band and moving slowly down to your pussy, “I was thinking, I weighed up the pros and cons,” his fingers rest on top of your panty covered heat, your breath hitching and eyes unable to leave his, “there is nobody around and it is such a pretty day.”
“You never take risks, why now?” you rush out, heart beating strongly in its cage.
“Because you mentioning it already has me hard just thinking about it,” your eyes wander down his body, landing on the tent in his shorts, your pussy clenching at the sight, “and you know I always like you in those shorts. I thought you just wore them randomly, now I know you thought I was going to fuck you up here, it makes more sense you're wearing them. Such a tease.” He presses two fingers down onto your already dripping pussy, the thrill of it making you bite your lip in the hope that would stop the moan begging to break free.
“We just need to be quiet, can you do that baby?”
“You’re” you gulp when he starts circling your clit over your panties, “you’re the one who’s whiney, not me.”
“Can you blame me?” He mutters as he retrieves his fingers and gently pulls your hand to sit up so that he can take your t-shirt off, “you’re so perfect and you’re always so good for me. Any man would want to let you hear how good you make him feel. I’m not ashamed of that.”
Your fingers tug a little on his t-shirt, wanting to be able to see his abs shimmer in the sunlight and he wastes no time in giving you want you need. And fuck is it a sight to behold, all those hours in the gym are really paying off for him, his slightly sweaty skin glistens and arms flex every time he runs his hand through his hair, a habit you love that he does more when he’s nervous because of how biteable his arms look when they flex.
He chances one last look around before he quickly takes his shorts and boxers off and kneels on the picnic blanket, eyes eating you up even if you’ve still got your shorts and sports bra on.
“Come here,”
You don’t need telling twice, you move at the speed of light to peel your skin tights shorts off you. It’s just as you move to take your panties off that sensible Jihoon seems to resurface though.
“Wait, maybe you should keep those on?”
“You can’t be serious, babe you’re butt naked!”
“I don’t mind someone seeing me completely naked. Well. I do. But I definitely don’t want someone seeing you completely naked!”
“Maybe I want to be naked!”
“Do you?” he asks pointedly, knowing damn well you’re just being awkward.
“Well.... Not really. The option would have been nice though.”
“Do you have to do this now?”
You try to mask your smile but you can’t help it being there. It’s just the sight of him sat in the sun, in the middle of a flowery meadow with his hard dick against his stomach, it’s so bizarre it’s almost funny.
He is right though, you suppose, it’s easier to cover up what’s happening if you’re both not totally naked, so you concede to keep your panties and sports bra on and crawl over to him, a small smirk still playing on your lips at the way he stares at your tits when you’re leaned over facing him.
Jihoon is so distracted by his staring that he doesn’t notice you reaching for his dick, his breath hitches when you take him in your hand, starting to pump slowly whilst you kneel in front of him, both of you sat knee to knee in the long grasses.
“Don’t,” his breath catches in his throat when your thumb circles his tip, “do that. We haven’t got time, I’m already going against all my morals not making you cum first before I fuck you.”
“You’re such a good man,” you snicker, enjoying the way he rolls his eyes playfully even though you can tell he's caught between unbearably horny and fucking terrified you’re going to be caught.
“You won’t be mocking me when I split you open in a few seconds.”
He takes your shock as his queue to pull you more towards him, you now straddling his luscious thighs as he continues to kneel on the pink gingham picnic blanket.
“I don’t think you’ll be splitting me open,” you mumble as you leave little kisses down his neck, the mixture of sweat and his cologne creating a heady mix that makes you want him even more, “I’ve been dripping since we left the house .”
His hands grip your ass painfully hard at that admission, knowing just how much you’ve thought about his, thought about him fucking you like this, has got you so riled up makes him even more eager to risk everything.
“Is that right? You’ve wanted me to fuck you so badly your pretty pussy has been drooling just thinking about it?”
You don’t answer him, you can’t, because the second he utters his last word, his fingers move your panties to the side and he runs two of his long digits through your soaking folds.
“Fucking hell, you are wet. I didn’t know you wanted to fuck in public so badly?”
“I don’t. Or I didn’t. It’s only been on my mind today. And it’s probably not something I want to do again. But I don’t know, there’s nobody around and it’s so perfect, it just feels right.”
He pulls his head back to look at you, you can tell he’s little hurt that you’ve never told him about this. But in your defence, before today, you’d never considered fucking at the top of a hill, or anywhere outside of your home for that matter.
Unless you count Seokmin’s bathroom that one time but it was more drunken humping than actual fucking. That’s not the point. This whole thing is something you’d never even considered, let alone craved.
“Oh it definitely feels right,” he chuckles as his soaked fingers twirl around your clit, not particularly hard but just enough to get the reaction he wanted from you.
It isn’t painful necessarily, just a bit.... uncomfortable?
He watches eagerly, holding your panties to the side like the gentleman he is whilst you lift your hips, lowering yourself slowly down onto his swollen tip.
Maybe you were being cocky earlier because it turns out he is splitting you open a little. He’s big. Bigger than many would imagine for a man of his height. And normally what he said earlier is true, he does make you cum either on his fingers or his tongue before he even thinks about entering you.
He sees you wince and straight away his hands are on your hips, nimble fingers kneading your flesh to soothe you a little.
“You good? We can stop, I can ea...”
“It’s fine,” you shake your head, wanting him inside you more than anything, “just.....play with my clit please,”
Your last words come out more as a moan with how attentive Jihoon is, he didn’t even need you to finish the sentence before he’s doing anything he can to make you more comfortable.
And fuck does it. His fingers are like a soothing balm, relaxing you a little more with how good it feels as he circles your bundle of nerves slowly, meaning you can lower yourself a little more onto his throbbing length.
You bob up and down a little, your hole adjusting to the stretch a little each time and it goes from a little too much pain to just the right amount. Your gummy walls pull him back in each time they feel like his hard length might be daring to leave your leaking cunt and eventually you find yourself completely bottomed out, thighs resting on Jihoon’s as he squeezes your ass slowly.
It’s only now you’re sat, your boyfriend’s cock fully nestled inside you, that you realise just how perfect this whole thing really is. It’s like something from snow white, the birds are chirping like they’re singing you two your own personal soundtrack, there’s occasionally a gentle breeze that cuts through the afternoon sun and the colour of the wildflowers seems even more vivid now you’re where you wanted to be all day.
“I love that you’re at one with nature baby but I swear to fucking god if you don’t start moving soon, I might actually start crying.”
You’d almost forgotten what you’d mounted him to do.
“Sorry,” you chuckle, giving him a quick kiss before you start to circle your hips.
You both moan at that first movement before giggling to each other that in your quest to be quiet, you’ve both fucked it up immediately.
His hands are on your ass grinding you on his dick, the feeling of him stroking along your walls is perfect, it’s like you can feel every vein and ridge on his cock as you slowly move along his length.
Your foreheads come to rest on each other, goofy smiles being exchanged as you speed up a little more. Your soaked cunt needing him like the rest of your body needs oxygen. He’s so deep in you, you’re sure his tip is nudging your cervix every time you grind down onto him.
You hold each other close, your arms around his neck, playing with his hair, sweaty foreheads still conjoined as your ride him, your aching cunt moulding itself to shape of his throbbing length each time you move your hips.
“You’re so perfect, you’ve never looked prettier honey,”
“What? All sweaty?” you snicker, hips grinding down onto him again and again, your clit bumping his little patch of hair above his cock every time you do, making your head spin and pussy clench.
“No,” he squeezes your ass, “well, I mean yeah we’re both sweaty. But in this light, nothing around us but nature, you look even more like a goddess than normal,”
Your heart clenches almost as hard as your pussy. He is so good with words, never once in your whole relationship have you had to question how much he loves you. He’s always shown you, told you, how much he loves you. Your friends always call him a simp or down bad but he doesn’t care, as long as he knows you know that he loves you, he’d take their name calling any day of the week.
And the feeling is mutual. You’d been called clingy in the past by your exes but with Jihoon, he gets positively pouty if you’re not draped over him while he’s cooking or not begging him to come to the store with you because you can’t bare to not have him with you.
It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Almost as perfect as the way your whole body alightens every time you drag your leaking hole along his hard cock.
“You,” you gulp, trying to suppress a moan when his tip hits you just right deep inside you, “you look perfect too. I felt like I was watching some erotic film earlier when you were drinking.”
“Is that right?” his eyes sparkle at your admission.
“Hm-mm,” you hum, kissing his smiling lips quickly as you keep grinding in his lap, “you looked so pretty. So handsome.”
Your grinding speeds up, the way he drags along your walls and your clit kisses just above his dick every time just makes you more and more needy. You wish you’d had the forethought to set your phone to record this, the way the sun glistens on you both, blue skies and green grass both shining, you’re certain it’d be something you’d watch again and again on nights when he’s working away.
“You close?”
He knows you are, he can feel your cunt fluttering around him and knows it won’t take long until you come undone all over him.
Jihoon isn’t faring much better either, the way your ass feels in his hands and the thrill that someone might see such a beautiful woman riding him in this seemingly perfect setting, makes him feel like the luckiest man in the world. To hold you close like this, to feel your heart beating in time with his as your pussy sucks him back in like your life depends on it, proves he's the luckiest man in the world.
“So close,” you whisper, eyes never leaving his as your hips speed up just a little more, your pussy clenching even more when he squeezes your ass a little harder.
One. Two more quick swishes of your hips and you feel a wave of ecstasy wash over you, your body now matching the heat of the sun baring down on you. You hold Jihoon close, tugging a little on his hair as he keeps guiding your movements with his hands on your ass. With him still grinding you down onto dick, he helps you ride out your high, your body tingling as you feel his tip hit your g-spot deliciously again and again.
Just as you’re coming down, you feel him hold you down hard on his length as his body vibrates underneath you, his face buried in your neck as he tries his hardest not to moan and groan at how incredible it feels to fill you up. The last shocks of your orgasm are finished off perfectly when you feel his warm spurting deep inside you, his perfect release making this whole thing even hotter. Both literally and figuratively.
Your breathing is heavy, wrapped up in each other even though it’s sticky and sweaty. But you don’t care. Your only care is how euphoric it feels to be so close to each other in this idyllic setting, with the love of your life. You swear even the birds are singing an even more cheerful tune because even they know how much you to love each other, and how fucking incredible that feels.
“SHIT!”
He jumps, holding you closer to him.
“What?!” you try to turn around to see where his panic is coming from.
“Don’t make any sudden movements. It might charge.”
And when you do glance round. Your heart stops.
It’s beautiful. A light brown deer with chestnut brown spots on its head, staring at you from the stone that marks the top of the hill.
What a dufus.
“Babe it’s just grazing. It won’t hurt us,”
“One fuck in nature and suddenly you’re an expert?”
“I’ve seen Bambi,” you say knowledgeably, nodding your head and joining in his giggling.
“Well then, I bow to infinite wisdom,” he bows his head, kissing your fabric covered breast softly.
“Shall we get cleaned up? It’s getting pretty late and it’s a long walk back down.”
“Just a few more minutes, let’s just stay like this for a while?” he holds you impossibly closer.
“You think it’s worth the risk?” you challenge, kissing the tip of his nose as he snuggles into you, his now soft length still nestled deep inside you.
