The dorm was silent in the way only 3 am silence existed.
Lights off. Hallway dim. Everyone asleep.
The front door clicked open.
And then—
thud.
“—ow.”
Jun woke up instantly.
Not because of the noise - but because something in it felt wrong.
He sat up in bed, hair sticking up, eyes bleary as he shuffled out of his room. The hallway light cast a soft glow just as a familiar figure stumbled into view, shoes half-off, bag slipping off one shoulder.
“What…?” His words trailed off.
You took exactly one more step before gravity betrayed you.
Jun moved without thinking.
He caught you just as your knees gave out, arms wrapping securely around your waist and shoulders as your forehead tipped forward, missing the floor by inches.
“Whoa– hey– hey, hey,” he whispered urgently. “Easy.”
You blinked up at him, pupils unfocused, lips tugging into a lazy grin.
“Look, it’s Jun-ie!”
“Yeah,” he sighed, half-relieved, half-exasperated. “It’s me.”
You leaned fully into him, weight dead and warm, arms slipping around his middle like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Jun-ie, you smell…like laundry,” you slurred, thoughtfully.
Jun let out huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting his grip so you wouldn’t slip. “Thanks. That’s very flattering.”
You hummed, swaying.
Jun tightened his hold. “Okay. You’re drunk. Exactly how much did you drink to end up like this?”
“Nooo,” you protested, suddenly straightening up to poke his chest with a weak finger. “I’m not…just a teeny bit.”
“Right.”
You pushed him away lightly, moving to take another step into the hallway– only to promptly trip over your own shoe.
Jun felt his heart jump as he launched himself forward, catching you again. “Hey–!”
“Sorry,” you mumbled immediately, words jumbling together. “Didn’tmeantowakeyou.”
“You didn’t,” he lied, already guiding you down the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
You dragged your feet the entire way, stopping every few steps to fidget with his collar, or point at nothing in particular.
“Jun-ah?”
Jun helped you sit on the edge of your bed, lips pursed as he watched you struggle to keep your balance sitting up.
“Yes?”
“You’re really handsome.”
He froze for half a second.
“…You’re drunk.”
You nodded proudly. “Which means I’m honest.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
“Stay,” he said gently. “Don’t move.”
You immediately tried to stand.
Jun sighed, pushing you back down with a bounce. “Okay. New plan.”
He moved into a crouch in front of you, carefully lifting a leg to tug your shoes off one by one. You wiggled your toes the second they were free.
“Ooo,” you giggled. “Feels illegal.”
“I don’t want to know,” Jun muttered, already setting them aside. When he stood up again, you were already leaning sideways, eyes fluttering.
“Hey,” he said softly, steadying you lightly. “I’ve got you.”
You looked up at him, suddenly very serious.
“I trust you.”
Something warm settled in his chest.
Jun helped you lie back, propping pillows just right before heading to the bathroom to grab a pack of makeup wipes and a glass of water. When he returned, you were already laying flat on the bed, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, mumbling to yourself.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’m going to clean your face, alright?”
You squinted. “Why?”
“So you don’t wake up looking like a raccoon.”
“…I like raccoons.”
“I know,” he smiled.
The mattress dipped where he leaned over to reach you; Jun wiped your makeup off slowly, carefully - gentle strokes, patient pauses whenever you squirmed.
You kept grabbing his wrist.
“Stop moving,” he whispered.
“I’m not moving,” you protested. “You’re moving me.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me,” you said, eyes half-closed.
Jun’s hand stilled.
“…You’re drunk,” he said again, much softer this time.
You yawned, fingers still curled around his sleeve.
“Mhm. Night, Jun.”
He sighed, climbing off the bed to throw the stained wipe into a trash can - then moved back to tuck the blanket around your shoulders, brushing your hair away from your face one last time.
You shifted, fidgeted, then reached out again - blindly this time - catching his hand.
“Don’t go,” you mumbled.
Jun hesitated only a second.
“I’m right here,” he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sleep.”
Your breathing evened out almost immediately.
Jun stayed a while longer, watching the way your face relaxed in sleep, the way your hand still clung loosely to his fingers.
Adorable.
Completely, unfairly adorable.
He gently freed his hand, stood up, and flicked off the lamp.
Before leaving, Jun paused - pulled the blanket up just a little higher around you, and murmured quietly to himself:
౨ৎ in order for junhui to afford his college tuition on his own, he needs to claim financial independence by getting married. luckily, he doesn’t have a girlfriend and can find a wife on social media.
contents friend!jun x f! reader smau (ik u guys sighed) romance comedy marriage of convenience friends to lovers mentions of pregnancy and divorce first time no more cliffhanger
from rianca, realised that i have the free will to turn written fics into smaus whenever i get writers block loololol (this is one of those fics). i watched this one tiktok and knew it had to turn into a fic so thanks to my sis for sending me this months ago 😛
part of the Puttin' On The Ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt!
pairing: Wen Junhui x f!reader
word count: 9k
synopsis: There are many things your father never told you when he left you his flower shop; the ever creaky door hinges, the delivery man who can never seem to tell the orchids from the gardenias, and the headquarters of the biggest mafia in New York operating in the employee break room.
Of course you're used to it now, the familiar faces passing in and out of the shop while you pretend nothing is amiss. Until a new face appears, disappearing into the backrooms without a word, bloodied knuckles and a poorly strapped revolver on his hips.
Suddenly, it's very hard to pretend.
contains: mafia!Jun, florist! reader, this is set exclusively in 1920s New York, gangs, violence, guns, explicit mention of blood and wounds, talk of difficult upbringings, prohibition period so talk of alcohol is altered, fluff, angst, suggestive (minors DNI)
[a/n]: only took me years but i finally wrote for jun!!! I loved this concept and I loved jun in this light, I'm so glad this is my debut jun fic and I hope the jun lovers in enjoy reading it!!!! plsplsplsplspls check out all the amazing fics posted by the other writers in this collab, the link to the masterlist is above and right here!! pls give them all da love 🫶
and thank you so much to my lovely lovely jessifer @starlightkyeom for beta reading for me.
masterlist
THE CLINK OF YOUR keys is loud against the lock, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Tensing shoulders and straining ears, you wait, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…Mrs. Miller's Labrador seems to be deep asleep, sparing the building his incessant barks. Tiptoeing down the hall, you shuffle past the loud snores emanating from the Wilsons' apartment, down the steps and out the front door.
For five o'clock in the morning, the streets buzz with a quiet hum. Rickety sounds of wheels wheezing underneath the weight of a ton of firewood, pushed up on the sidewalk under a dripping veranda. Passerbys with erect posture and brisk footsteps step around the slower intrusion like parting water, and you're part of the fleet as you step airily onto the street from the sidewalk.
You can hear the racket of an engine, but with no headlights in sight, you only glance left and right before walking across. The police officers pays you little mind, but you call out, "Morning, Robert, Stan!"
"Morning!" they call back in unison.
Despite the minuscule bustle, the only lights you see on are from the bakers, Paul lugging crates into the establishment. The man had been up long before you, no doubt. It smells heavenly, but Paul is too busy arguing with the delivery man about a mis-order to take your compliment.
No matter, the crisp New York air, perfumed by baked goods and smoke, is overlayed by a cobbled scent you never quite learned to place. Your sister, far far away in Philadelphia, called it urban, said it like it was an insult. You were quick to remind her she grew up in the urban air all the same; it runs in her veins.
You miss the lamppost by a hair, gracefully staggering over your own two feet. It will never matter how many years you take the same turn, the lamppost coming up 28th street will always stand barricade. You deflect to the right side of the sidewalk, and are immediately flanked by a whirring engine in your ear, the obscene creaking and banging of a Ford harassing you as you veer a little too close to the street.
It's around this time during your commute that you have to start looking straight ahead instead of at your shoes or at the closed shops. Stepping over an abandoned string of pearls, you strut down the sidewalk with shoulders back and chin up, air of forced confidence engulfing you.
It was important that you did so, for 28th street at five o'clock in the morning was passageway to the last drunken staggers of haphazardly clothed people, fried and sodden from their whoopees and wingdings, desperate for a cracking excuse to stay out another hour. Two men with their wits hardly about them pass you by, both jelly legged yet deluded into believing they can hold one another up.
Broken glass crunched audibly under your feet, mixed with final drunken hurrahs in the distance, louder than necessary fits of laughter, the occasional brawl with slurred obscenities and muffled thumps and grunts.
It was easier to navigate than what appears, the point was to never look like a darty eyed squirrel in predator territory. They're like vultures, but instead of feasting, they look for meek individuals to inaugurate into the revelry. You ignore every slurred and intonated hellos and how you doings, stalking right up to the alley that would take you to your storefront.
The alley off your flower shop has been wet since your first memory of the place. Your father wasted years of his life in attempts to get it fixed, letters returned and long commutes to city hall in vain. The alley remained as it was to this day.
You step over a puddle and walk briskly out into the greying sky. Dawn was coming in, all while the streets evicted its night shift workers of pearls and dancing shoes into their cold beds, you take the turn towards the locked doors of your establishment.
Maeve's Flowers was named after the wife of the man who opened the place decades ago. Your father bought it when you were young enough to not remember it, a compensation to himself for not being drafted into war for the sake of his crippled left leg, but your memory was full of every conscious moment after that.
There's debris you're not keen to identify at the front door, but you merely step over it and pull the keys out of your bag. Unlocking, you hardly step inside the shop before closing the door and locking it once again. It wasn't unsafe, but it wasn't wise to leave the door open when the rowdiness was yet to dissipate.
You take a moment to look around the shop—just like how you left it last night. It's silent when you place your bag on the counter save for the noise of the mechanical fridges in the corner, still looking around as you take off your coat. The light switch remains turned off, but the minimal light is enough for you. Slowly, with your coat hung over your arm, you take a tentative step towards coming around the counter.
The door behind the counter, labelled with a conspicuous "BREAKROOM" is closed, but you're cautious anyway. You're next to the counter now, catching sight of the sliver of air the door leaves at the bottom.
The light is on.
Backtracking, you walk towards the front door again, making sure to make as little noise as possible. You grab your bag as you go, gripping the handle and pushing down. It's locked, doesn't open when you tug. But that isn't your goal.
You take the handle and give it a good shake, rattling the door against the frame with enough noise to make you cringe. Quickly, you grab your keys and jam them into the lock, unlocking it, only to lock it again.
As you're twisting the keys, you hear the sound of the door clicking open behind you. One last twist, you re-lock the door and turn around. Like you'd just walked in.
He stands there in a suit too put together for five o'clock in the morning, pocket watch dangling from his pocket. There's a bulge on his left hip that is usually concealed by coat. It's a nice thing, black and leather, hiding his gun.
"'Morning, Patrick," you say, feigning mild confusion. Before you can say anything else, he raises a hand.
"We'll be out of your hair in a few. Feel free to start setting up shop." And then door clicks shut once more.
Letting out a sigh, you let your shoulders sag, putting your bag right back on the counter and walking around it. You don't muffle your footsteps, in fact you make it a point to make noise, hanging your coat and bag, turning the lights on. It's bright, but you'll turn most of them off soon enough when the sun is awake and you've pulled the shutters up.
Slipping out the inventory book, you refresh on what needs to be expected from the delivery coming in today, trying your best to pay minimal attention to the sanded conversation happening beyond the door behind you.
Making your way around the counter, you move to the edges of the room to pull the potted plants out of hiding, bringing them to their usual spots where they're seen beyond the unfathomable hues of the flowers. The loud ruckus of the mechanical fridges are next, bringing out the last of the roses, lilies and orchids out of the tiny cold compartment. You set them in their usual spots, making room for the new ones to come in.
Turning the refrigerator off would be a challenge, considering the compressor and switchboard resides within the breakroom. You make a mental note the next time one of them comes out. Joe was clear when they'd bought you the fridges to remember to turn them off when they weren't in use, but you would rather strip Patrick's gun right off his belt and laugh in his face about it than step into the breakroom while it was occupied.
Opening one of the drawers, you pull out your father's old hardwood watch, checking the time. Your flower delivery would be here any minute, and you wonder if you should start feeling anxious about the men in the other room.
You note the crack in the clock face, yet to be mended. It was your own doing, the day you had to face the aftermath of being your father's daughter. At least, who you thought your father was.
It was a week after his death, you'd taken the same route to get to the shop, but this time without him leading you or waiting for you there. Joe was stood outside the door, a pack of Chesterfields being shoved in his pocket from where you could see him around the corner. You watched him light the cigarette, the dark fog of the April morning making quite a scenic view of the man in his dark coat and hat.
You walked right past him towards the door, not realising he was waiting for you. And he had been waiting for a full week.
Your natural reaction to an unfamiliar man telling you he owned a stake in your shop was nothing above baffling, but not more than the glinting metal strapped to his hip. You will never know if he flashed you his gun on purpose or not, but the effect was the same. This was not some ordinary man.
The name Carmine was not unheard of, in fact it was far from it. The puppet master of the largest mafia in the city was not one so easily concealed.
The man took a sledgehammer to the man you knew as your father, bludgeoning the familiar to a face you couldn't recognise. This wasn't the only front he owned, but it was the oldest, and he intended to keep it. Regardless of the line of inheritance.
He stood there, claiming to be a fair man, promising to pay you exactly what he paid your father, give you the protection when needed, in exchange for the small breakroom behind the flower shop counter, and your sworn secrecy.
Joe Carmine had turned your life inside out, because of course, it had already been turned upside down. And he'd done it all before snubbing out his first smoke of the day.
Of course, you've grown familiar to the men over the years. Joe is hardly in, Patrick seemingly taking the brunt of the work around this part of town. You've grown used to the constant in and out of men with withered looks and permanently strained jaws, ignoring them as they loiter around the shop pretending to be interested in the flowers, before stalking right into the breakroom as soon as the customer says their goodbyes.
You don't ask questions and they don't answer them. Perhaps for your own good.
There isn't much to complain about. Business is good, and the extra cash is more than just a tip, and Joe seems to take care of you in his own detached way. You don't know if he and your father were close, and you're not sure if you want to know. The world of Carmine is far from squeaky clean.
It's nearing six on the dot, and you're beginning to contemplate knocking on the door, when Patrick wrenches the door open. You whip around, watching him file out along with a couple more men you recognise but cannot name.
"Apologies, we'll be out now" he says, moving towards the door.
"Do I need to expect anyone during the day?" you call out before he can leave. He turns, his expression detached. He looks tired.
He motions for the men to file out before him, one already fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Once they're gone, he iterates, "None that I know of. But plans might change. You can leave after you close."
Patrick leaves, but not before reaching up to tug the door chime that's tucked away at the end of the day, closing the door with the sound of twinkling metal, marking the day shift.
Marcus has brought you the pink peonies, daffodils, orchids, gardenias and every other flower on your list, but very conveniently forgets the roses.
"Crops not good!" he argues.
"Is the crop not good or is Damson's store offering more for less," you say, checking the gardenias off the list. The guilt look on his face is enough, and you continue, "We've been giving you business before Damson could tell the difference between a daisy and a coneflower, is it impossible to expect a little more loyalty?"
"You'll have them tomorrow morning," he promises. And you're left walking inside with the last box, calling out behind you, "You're lucky I had the foresight!"
You're flipping the sign to open before 7 AM hits, still opening the last couple boxes when the first customer rolls in. It's the usual at this time, business meetings needing a flowery push, housewives wanting colour in their space, a wreath for a headstone, a rose for a disgruntled partner. You move like clockwork, wrapping flowers in ribbon and outdated newspaper, trying to avoid placing the latest statement from Coolidge somewhere noticeable.
It isn't until the afternoon strikes when the other crowd pours in. Most have only just risen from bed, wanting lavish bouquets that rival the ones down every street in New York, enormous arrangements that hardly fit through the door. They come with shaded glasses to hide their eyes, rouge to cover their tired cheeks, a hidden flask under most coats that require the occasional spot of attention.
Men and women come in asking for fabulous, unprecedented, better than whatever Nancy showed out with at the parlour. They could walk out with flowers you picked blind and remain none the wiser.
It's nearing eight o'clock when the rush subsides. It's a weekday, and there's less for you to do than usual. A customer walks in just as you're contemplating closing, a woman in a dark coat and hat, gloved hands folded over her torso, handbag tight against her hip.
"Evening!" you say and she smiles when you smile, albeit a strained one. She looks uncomfortable, but it seems to stem from the loud yelling outside.
"You wouldn't have any daisies left?" she asks.
"Enough for one more bouquet. Would you like an arrangement?"
"Just the last of your daisies, please," she says, wincing in irritation at the ruckus outside. 28th Street was on for the night shift. "Jesus Christ, how do you do it every day?"
"Learn to zone it out," you laugh, gathering the last of the daisies with the petals still intact.
"Oh, you can give me the defected ones too, it's alright," she waves you dismissively, opening her purse to fish out the cash. You gather the flowers together, placing them on the table to wrap them up.
You're busy wrestling a big enough assortment of newspaper when the door chime rings, someone stepping through the threshold into the shop.
Instinctively, you call out, "Evening!" Looking up from your assortment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You think your heart might have stopped.
The man is tall enough to tower over you and everything else in the room, dark coat hung over his shoulders, a mop of ebony hair brushing over his eyes, down to his nape.
He's handsome. At least you think he is.
There's intrusions on his face in the form of smeared blood, tracks across his face like he made a crude attempt at wiping it off but failed. You catch sight of his hands, knuckles in the same state of bloodied, torn and bruised. He might be limping.
He only nods in response to your greeting, and moves over to inspect the floor covered in potted plants. The woman is still rummaging through her bag to notice you falter so visibly, willing yourself to steel, picking up a corner of the newspaper to start wrapping.
You pray he keeps his head turned away, needing this woman to pay and leave before she catches sight of him.
You might not be on first name basis with most of the Carmine clan that utilises this space, but you could spot them by face a mile away. Despite the nature of their business, they all appear to be prim, well groomed men, guns holstered and covered, bruises and cuts bandaged and hidden away.
The racing of your heart stems from a few things, namely that this man is the very opposite of prim and proper, in fact, he's walked in like he got into a brawl with a cement wall. And not to mention, you've never seen this man in your life.
Nothing is indicating you to treat him like a Carmine.
Panic is flooding your veins at the speed of light, an increasing amount of willpower channelling through to keep your hands from shaking. Your knees feel like they're moments away from buckling. You may be used to dealing with bad men, but you've never dealt with bad men.
Your customer is tapping her fingers against her own hand, looking around the shop like she was taking it in. It was significantly more sparse than this morning, but she stares like you were hosting her a garden in spring. You wish she'd stop.
The man is still observing your house plants like he's genuinely interested, brushing his fingers over the green of your golden pothos with his bruised hand, knuckles caked with dried blood.
He's waiting for her to leave. You know he is.
One of the drawers housing your ribbons catch onto the mechanism, taking a few minutes for you to pull the damn thing open. When you do, the force of your tugging makes an audible bang as wood slams against wood. The two other people in the room snap their heads towards you, and you make it a point to not look up. At least, not until you had your ribbon in your hands.
His gaze was on you and the table.
You ignore it as you continue to tighten the strings around the bouquet and pulling the ribbon into a nicer bow. You don't realise how sweaty your palms are till you wipe them on your skirts.
"Right," the woman beings, "How much do I owe you?"
"That'll be a dollar fifty."
The woman scrutinises the bouquet, "But these are more than a dozen."
"The defected are on the house, ma'am," you explain, noting how breathless you sound.
"Oh, that's awful nice of you!" she cracks a smile, slipping the money out of her coin purse and placing them on the table. You count an extra dollar on the table, and you're already opening your mouth to call for her.
But all you hear the distinct ringing of the bell at the door, and when you look up, she's gone.
Slowly, but deliberately, you exhale out of your nose, sliding the coins and bill towards you off the table. You drop them into the drawer, closing it shut.
Then you look over at the man that's now taking steps towards the counter, plastering a smile on your face like all the blood and grime coating his entire being are invisible to you. He's not smiling.
"What can I get you this evening?"
"Patrick said I could use the breakroom for the night." The first thing you note is his voice. It's coarse, but something tells you it's not always like that.
You hesitate for a beat too long, and you know it. "I'm sorry?"
He turns his head, shifting his weight. He exhales forcibly. "Cut the shit. Patrick said I could use the breakroom at Maeve's on the 28th. Is this Maeve's on 28th?"
You're entirely unequipped to handle the situation, especially considering Patrick told you to expect no one just this morning. But he also said plans might change.
You've been quiet for too long, except you have not a clue what to do. "I…I don't know who Patrick is."
He brings a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes. "Listen lady, clearly I've had a long day. I wouldn't know Carmine has quarters here if I wasn't told by someone on the inside."
But is he on the inside?
He continues. "Patrick's gonna be here any minute, and you oughtta let me in before he starts asking you questions."
"Patrick never—"
"So you do know him?"
Shit.
"I can't let you in the back," you state. Clear and simple.
Perhaps it wasn't at all intelligent to argue with a man who's clearly capable of getting himself this roughed up, not to mention one with a gun very conveniently within arms reach. But you aren't choosing to use an ounce of intelligence in the current moment, acting purely on instinct.
"Fine," he says. Moving away from the counter slowly. "I have two options, both of them involve waiting for Patrick to get here."
You don't have a response.
"I can either stay in here, or I can wait right outside. Of course, I look like someone's worst nightmare brought to life and I can't imagine a scenario where you're not losing out on your last couple customers."
"We're closing."
"Scenario number three. You say that, and I say I'm not going anywhere."
Your fists ball up at your sides. "I need you to understand that I can't just let you in. At least not until Patrick gets here."
"You want me to understand? I'm bleeding out on your dainty little flowers , for fucks' sake!" he yells, arms coming up in frustration. Loud enough to rattle you. Taking an instinctive step back, you let your eyes move past his waist, and are quick to note the dark bloodstains on his trousers, and then shockingly, the distinctly crimson shoe prints surrounding him on the floor.
"Why don't you understand that?" he asks.
"I—"
You don't get to finish, because the bell sounds the alarm of a customer at the door, and you're making a split second decision, pulling yourself to sprint around the counter and whispering a harsh "Get inside" to the intruder before you can step over the blood, reaching the customer at the door to block their view.
"Evening!" you yelp as the elderly man comes into view, and then proceeds to flinch at your overenthusiastic greeting.
"I–oh!"
"What can I get you sir?" you ask as he's barely through the threshold. You hear the door of the breakroom click shut, and that becomes one less problem to worry about. Now for the bloody footprints all over the floors.
You position yourself to cover as much of his field of vision as possible, walking backwards as he walks inside.
"I—I was looking for a bouquet for my wife—"
"What kind of flowers does she like?"
"Uh, daisies—"
"I'm so sorry sir, we just ran out of our daises."
"Roses perhaps!"
"We're out of those too, I'm very sorry."
"Well, uh–" The man is stuttering, and you feel a pang of guilt at the way you're spinning him. But you need him out, for the same reasons you pushed the man into the breakroom regardless of what preluded it.
"What do you have?"
"I have…house plants. And a few hydrangeas left."
The man stops and ponders for a moment. His silence is stretching too long, and you add in, "We were just about to close up shop, you see. Not a lot of stock at the end of the day."
"I see..."
"How about you come back in tomorrow morning, and I'll make you a bouquet right out of the garden of Eden. On the house, for your inconvenience."
"I can…I can come in tomorrow, yes."
"Perfect!" you exclaim, leading the man out the door as you talk. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr…?"
"Cohen."
You let him down the steps of the front door and into the streetlights of New York, flashing the brightest smile you can muster. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr Cohen."
And then he's gone, and you're slamming the door shut and pulling the deadlock shut, but not before flipping the open sign to closed, waiting to move the outside displays indoors. You have bigger problems than a few missing plants.
The floors haven't magically reverted back to spotless, which means the man is still in your breakroom.
There's a loud knock on the door, and it startles you enough to have you jumping up. The muffled voice on the other side, loud enough.
"It's Patrick."
You move to undo the deadlock, opening the door for him.
He stands in a fresh set of clothes, pushing his hat back to get a look at you inquisitively. There's a half smoked cigarette in his hands, the scent of tobacco making its way into the shop. "Why's the door locked?"
"I—I couldn't let anyone in."
"Whaddya mean?" his mouth his curled up in mild annoyance, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, stepping on the lit embers. He steps inside, and you step away.
The blood on the floor catches his sight immediately, yet he does nothing to show the slightest hint of alarm.
"Jun made it then," he remarks, still looking at the bloody footprints. he closes the door for you.
"So you did send him," you confirm, mostly to yourself.
"I did. Why does it matter?"
"I just—"
He's walking towards the breakroom, "I don't have all night."
"He came in looking like hell, and you never told me he was coming. I didn't know what to do with him."
"What made you put him in anyway?"
"Customer came in."
"Well," he says, taking his hat off, "lady luck's on your side. Because if it was anyone else…"
He doesn't finish the thought, because you know. And he knows you know.
The door of the breakroom closes, and you're left alone with the sparse of your shop, and the mess you need to clean off the floor.
But the universe deems you a far cry from done for the night, because it's only been seconds before Patrick is re-opening the door, grim look on his face.
"I need water. And towels."
"What?"
"Hurry!"
Gathering stray towels and a pitcher of water doesn't take long, but as you enter the breakroom, Patrick is putting his coat and hat back on.
The breakroom is small, a couple couches and chairs pushed up against the walls, the remaining holding cabinets you never dared touch. It was mostly empty, sometimes cluttered with guns and unlabelled bottles and a million other things you could never catch from the small glances.
It's cleaner today, if you didn't count for the coat, shoes and other bits of clothing strewn about.
And the fact that Jun, is barely in his undershirt that you assume may have been white at one point. Because right now it shimmers crimson, soaked in blood. There's a particularly dark patch at his right side, concaving inwards.
"Oh…" You knew he was bloodied up, but for some reason you assumed it was mostly the other guy's.
Patrick is putting his coat on, grabbing his things. "Cut his shirt open and clean the wound as much as you can with water, I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" you ask, petrified at being left alone with the scene.
"The speakeasy around the corner, the drug store's gonna ask too many questions."
Alcohol.
He seems to note the look your face, slowing down for a moment to reassure you. "It's a shallow wound. The worst thing that can happen is an infection. Just—just be gentle and use water and towels till I get back."
He waits for you to nod, before slipping out.
Jun's eyes are screwed shut, breathing heavy. There's a moment of bewilderment, how he managed to conduct himself outside without collapsing, you may never understand.
You put down the towels and pitcher of water, moving back outside to gather the shears you use to trim flowers, pans, bowls and tweezers.
He seems to not have noticed you come in and out, but you move closer anyhow. He's slumped low on the couch in an odd sitting position.
"Can you lay down flat? You're putting pressure on the cut."
Sure enough, there's an even larger pool of blood on the couch, dripping like an open faucet onto the floors. He does not seem to hear you for a few seconds, before he opens his eyes.
"Just," he starts, voice barely there. "Just give me a second."
His condition's seemed to have worsened exponentially from your row outside. He gulps, and the begins to shift. You shuffle one of the cushions under his head, not knowing how else to support him as he groans at the movement. Gathering his legs, you aid him in pushing them up onto the couch.
"I'm gonna cut open your shirt," you say, reaching for the shears on the table, kneeling in front of the gash. He barely nods.
The shirt is so saturated it difficult to figure where his shirt ends and his skin begins. You decide to start at the hem, lifting it at his waist, hoping it would help you find the torn edge. It's easier after that, taking a deep breath before bringing your shears to start cutting.
You cut down from his side to the hem, revealing skin that stands out like light amidst the deep red of his blood. Cutting as much you can, you pull the fabric away from the wound as far as possible, blood smeared over every inch of his abdomen, stomach and chest.
His breathing is growing staggered by the second, and you'd be lying if you say it didn't panic you. Passing a wet towel, you drag it over the larger area of the wound first, as gentle as possible.
And then inwards, slowly making your way towards the cut. It looks ghastly, dried blood clumped in places, fresh blood oozing from gaps you cannot make out. You realise it's about to hurt no matter how gentle you go.
"This is gonna hurt," you warn, but don't wait for a response as you bring the towel towards the wound, pressing down.
Immediately, he lets out a loud yelp, breathing louder, groaning intermittently. You push yourself to keep going, no matter the discouraging sounds. He gets reprieve when you stop to drain your soaked towels or bring a fresh pitcher of water. You find a sponge, and use it to squeeze water over the area, anything to get rid of the excess blood and clear the area.
You're losing hope with all the oozing blood when finally, you hear the distinct sound of the door chimes outside, Patrick entering the breakroom that officially resembles a war zone.
"I saw less blood in Belleau Wood, Jun," Patrick grunts as he puts down an armful of supplies on the table, before digging into his weighed coat, pulling out a few corked, unlabelled bottles.
He urges you aside, and you comply as he uncorks one of the bottles, "Premium bathtub gin for the good man. Get him something to bite down on, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker."
You've exhausted every last towel and rag on the premises, stalling for a moment before, bringing your fingers to undo your cardigan, slipping it off your shoulders and bunching it up. Patrick gives you an odd look, but you'd argue this was the least odd instance that's occurred tonight.
You have to force the fabric into Jun's mouth at this point, his resolve visibly crumbling. "Bite down on this. Hard as you can."
Patrick is less cautious, because he takes a swig of the liquid into his mouth, wincing, "Hint of Palmolive, you're in luck boy."
And then he dumps the entire bottled straight onto the wound.
Jun can barely keep still, muffled yells scratching out his throat into a siren. You're wincing at the sight yourself, the stream of reddish liquid mixed with alcohol pouring out onto the floor.
"Hold him steady," Patrick calls out for you, and you have to brace yourself before placing both palms on his shoulders, pushing him down against the couch with your entire weight. He's still squirming, and Patrick is doing nothing but opening the second bottle and pouring straight out once again.
The agony doesn't seem to end, until Patrick decides he's clean enough and relents. Sure enough, the cut is cleaner than you could ever get it with just water.
It takes another hour or so for Patrick to clean him off and patch him up, forcing a few pills down his throat that knock him out almost immediately.
"Wash up and go home, I'll clean up," he finally says, throwing Jun's shoes across the room to let the man sleep his injury off with ease. "We can't move him for a couple days, I'll stay here so you conduct business as usual."
"Do you need anything? Blankets, a mattress—"
"We'll manage, "he waves you off, grunting as he seats himself on the chair. "Need'a keep watch anyway."
You make the conscious choice to ask no more questions, taking one last look at the couch where he's been crudely wiped down, bloody towels and pools of liquid all around him. He sleeps as though nothing is amiss.
You walk out, and close the door of the breakroom behind you.
TWO DAYS. YOU DON'T enter the breakroom for two days.
You get in in the mornings, checking for the sliver of light under the doors, only to find them turned off. Suppliers drop your stock, customers come and go from your unassuming shop.
It's like that night never happend, nor Patrick or Jun to be seen for days, the bloody footprints cleaned off the main floor when you had walked in the next day.
It wasn't entirely odd. Patrick would disappear for weeks at times, so would other members of the clan. Except you'd argue the situation is entirely different considering the pandemonium that preceded the quiet.
It's a whole week after the day that you find the lights of the breakroom illuminating from under the door. A jolt goes through your spine, stepping back instictively. You gather yourself quickly, resuming business as usual as you open up shop.
You're in the middle of checking your order slip when the front door is unlocked from the outside. The chimes are tucked away on the ledge, so there's no sound besides Jun's footsteps as he passes into the threshold.
Instantly, you freeze.
He notices you at the counter, and freezes all the same. There's a moment where you're both opening your mouth and closing it like fish out of water. He closes the door behind him, even locking it like usual.
He's in a different ensemble from the last time you saw him, and you almost don't recognise him. His long black coat, the bloodstained clothes on the floor, the dried grime and blood on his skin. It's all replaced by a crisp suit in a deep gray, pocket watch chained to his waistcoat, a tie at his throat and two toned shoes at his feet. His hair is combed back in a neat manner, a clean homburg hat resting on top. His leather gloved hands grip the handle of the door.
"Morning," you break the ice first.
Clearning his throat, he responds, "Morning."
Silence again.
"Are you…feeling better?"
"Oh yes," he says, but does not move. "I—thank you. For what you did."
"Oh no, Patrick asked and I couldn't just…it's alright! You oughtta stay from those knives, huh?" you chuckle dryly, uncomfortable with yourself. You don't want to ponder on the fact that you attempted urge a clan member to ward off a weapon.
He might be trying to keep your pride, so he responds, "I suppose so."
The door to the breakroom clicks open and its akin to a gust of wind on a hot summer day, Patrick walking out like a buffer sent from Christ himself.
"Great!" he exclaims, and then turns to you. "Remember that face. Try not to let him bleed out on your peonies next time."
Heat surges to your cheeks, and you immediately start sputtering. He brushes you off, like he was only half joking. "This one's addicted to death, we've got a headstone in storage ready for him. Nothing new."
"Are you done?" Jun asks, sighing.
"Wait for me outside, I just need to grab something."
Jun nods, undoing the lock and stepping outside, closing the door behind him. You take the opportunity to turn towards Patrick, who's moving back into the breakroom.
"You said he'd be okay?" you say.
"Hm?" he calls out from inside.
"You said the wound wasn't fatal."
"It wasn't," he reemerges from the room, strapping something onto his belt. "Know that now."
"Now?"
He sighs, "I lied. I didn't know if it was fatal or not."
He sees the look on your face, and interrupts before you can say anything.
"I don't know what was on that blade, and nor does he. He's been out in Harlem for years in this line of work, that place makes New York City look like a playground."
You've never left the city, and you certainly have no desire to. New York has been your everything, and you don't intend to change that. No matter how rough around the edges.
"Don't turn yourself over, doll. Occupational hazard. He knows whats at stake."
You can only nod, letting him walk past you and out the door. "I'm gonna be out of town in the next week," he calls out before clicking it shut and leaving you there.
YOUR FATHER HAD MADE sure Maeve's Flowers would live beyond him, and beyond you. There was little left to learn by the time you inherited the shop, his lessons over the years ingrained into your memory. It was easy, it was natural.
Of course, one of his teachings included the very fickle nature of the stakeholder. Marcus had been indespensible to your father for many years, but there were also the occassional days when he just has to be an absolute pain in your father's behind, and now, in yours.
The telegram came in right as you closed up, sending the last customer away before you turned the sign from open to closed. Marcus has caught himself a cold. And he has no one else to send the supplies through.
You grip the piece of paper in your hands and feel a striking pain pulse in your temple. Looking around, there is no way you could do another day's business without stock, the only thing remaining a few crushed petals and your potted plants. It's nearly eight, and you have to stop and contemplate the possibility of remaining closed tomorrow.
Tomorrow is a Saturday, your busiest day of the week.
There's nothing you can do but stare at the piece of paper and at your sparse plants. It was the end of the day, the last thing you want to do is solve an impending problem. You're left sitting in your chair at the counter, head in hands and trying not to scream instead of packing up and going home.
You don't know how long you've been sitting there when the door of the shop rattles and clicks with someone attempting to unlock it from the outside. When you look up, Jun is standing in the threshold.
His attire is similar to the one you found him in the first time you met, dark clothing that blends in. Except for the unceremonious lack of blood coating his skin, he might as well have worn the same clothes. Even his hair is mussed up, slight curled under his hat.
"I thought you'd closed up already," he says, glancing at the door sign.
"I have," you say, your voice comes out raspy. "I was just leaving."
He only nods, watching as you shuck your coat off the rack, pulling it on as you grab your bag and attempt to head out the door. "There's no need to keep the fridges running, they're empty. And tell Patrick shop's closed tomorrow." He once again, only nods in understanding, and lets you leave.
By the time you get home, you come to terms with losing out on business, and perhaps even grow excited to have a day off tomorrow. You try not to think of what your father would say as you dispense you shoes, coat and bag, walking into your tiny, barren home. He'd closed up shop only twice in his life; one day when your sister was born, and another when he'd fallen so ill he could not sit himself up.
His crippled leg was never an excuse. You close your eyes as you lean back on your bed; you can still see his limp as he walked in front of you towards the shop. He never bought himself a cane.
The feeling surmounting in your chest is suddenly too much, pulling yourself upright in bed to avoid drowning in it whole. It puts your vision to your quarters, and the sight is suddenly equally unbearable.
Working yourself to the bone meant nothing but neglecting every other part of your life. Drained colour of everything you set your eyes upon. A bedspace to sleep and eat and wash yourself, a landing zone for the less productive things in life.
There's a loud knock on your front door, and your gaze darts to your windows. It was past nine o'clock, and fire escape forever mortified you. The curtains show no shadows, so you tiptoe towards the front door, making no sound as oyu prepare to pretend like no one's home.
Unconvering the peephole, you have to bite down a yelp.
Jun stands there in the same clothes as you saw merely an hour ago in, shuffling impatiently. He reaches his fist once more and raps at the door again. Between wondering how on earth he found you and the fear of awakening the wrath of Mrs. Miller's dog, you make the decision to unlock the deadbolt.
Jun does not look startled to see you, confirming he knew where he wanted to be.
"Why are you here?" you ask immediately.
"I—"
"How do you know where I live?"
He raises his brows at that, like the answer was obvious. "It's not entirely difficult to find out. And no, I need not tail you."
Of course. He's a Carmine.
"Why are you here?" you ask again, gripping the door handle tightly.
Jun presses his lips together, shifting his weight. "You don't have to worry about the shipment tomorrow. I handled it, you just need to be there at the usual time to recieve it."
"What?" Perhaps you were a tad too loud, overcome by the confusion, because you suddenly hear the very distinct sound of a growling beast down the hall. Mrs. Miller's dog begins barking through the muffle of doors and hallway.
"What's with all the commotion!" her voice pierces through the walls with reedy accuracy, and you have to think fast.
Lurching forward, Jun is staring down the hall to where the noise is coming from, blissfully unaware as you take a full grasp of the front of his shirt and coat, postively yanking him inside your apartment. You don't wait to think before slamming the door closed and locking it shut.
You also don't look back to assess Jun, because you're on your tiptoes staring out the peephole, sending out a quick prayer that she does not come knocking on your door. When you're sure she's picked a different innocent victim you drop to your heels and relax.
When you look back, Jun is staring at you in even fiercer confusion. "What in Christ's name was that?"
"Mrs. Miller," you reply glumly. "Or her idiotic labrador. Gets set off by anything."
"Right," he clears his throat. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case you were going to try anything else for tomorrow. It's been dealt with."
You furrow your brows. "But I never told you about tomorrow's delivery."
"You left the telegram on the counter. Patrick told me to figure it out for you," he explains.
"I see." You did leave it on the counter in your haste. "Thank you for doing that, and I'll thank Patrick too when I see him—"
"There's no need. You know how he gets," he interrupts. You aren't quite sure, since Patrick's made it a habit to wave off any sliver of gratitude you try to give him for whatever reason. He's not very inclined to Thank Yous.
You only nod, half smiling.
"I'll get going now," he says. "If the coast is clear."
"Ah," you turn around to look into the peephole, staring at nothing but empty hallway for a few seconds. It gives you the opportunity to think, hands curling up against the door as you think about the space in your apartment, the ticking clock that is your life.
Swiftly, you turn around to look into his expecting face. "Would you like to stay for a coffee?"
"Sorry?"
"I'm not brave enough to keep alcohol around the house, I have tea as well if that's what you like."
"You'd like me to stay for a coffee?" he confirms slowly. He's pointing at himself like there are other people in the room you could be talking to.
"Yes. If you would like to, and if you have the time. I just thought since you're here—"
"I'd like that."
Oh.
"Oh." You stare at him, in a little but of disbelief. "Good. I'll put the kettle on. Will that be a tea or…?"
"Whatever you're having."
In a few minutes, you've set your practically unused living room table with two steaming mugs, both of which you had to double, triple check for crawlers and bugs before rinsing and drying. Jun sits on your couch, and you have a brief flashback to the last time you saw him in this position.
"How's your wound healing?" you ask.
"Better than I hoped," he responds. "Scabbed over without pain, I think that's a good sign."
"It is," you confirm. "I'd ask you how you got it but that would be fruitless," you laugh at yourself.
"It was a kid."
That has you looking up from your mug. "A…A kid?"
"I'd been assigned way down in Harlem for the past few years. It's a rough place. Hard to get out if you're in. I was on an assignment when this kid with a knife decided I was up to no good, came up to me in the middle of the street and got me right below the ribs. It was too easy for him, I knew it wasn't his first time."
"But you were covered in everything that night," you recall the grime, the blooming knuckles and smeared blood all over him.
He laughs, taking a sip of his drink before setting the warm cup in his other palm. "People thought I was jumping the kid, that was an episode and then…I still had to go do my job."
"And then you came all the way to 28th? From Harlem?"
"Took the subway, got a couple look but that wasn't the worst of it."
You don't need to ask what the worst of it was, because you know.
Closing your eyes, you cringe to yourself, "And I made you stand there for who know how long."
He chuckles, and you have the realisation that you…quite like his smile. It stretches across his face, lighting him up in a way you didn't realise his face could. It makes him look boyish, like the life he's chosen was meant for someone far, far removed from him.
"I wouldn't normally be as worked up, there's not much else you could've done in that situation. But you stood your ground. That's good."
Your chest flourishes at being told a job well done. "Are you…Are you back from Harlem for good?"
It was a careful question, laced with something you aren't sure you want to admit.
"I might be." Jun is dragging his fingernails across the bottom edge of his cup, contemplating. "I've been given a choice. I might end up taking it as a way out."
"Way out?"
"From Harlem, anyway. It's either Carmine or dead for us."
The weight of what he says settles on you like a blanket. Carmine or dead. You wonder where you stand in this equation, neither sworn in nor an outsider. Are you a Carmine? And are you allowed a way out, ever?
You think of tomorrow, when you'll wake up in the morning as you always do, dress and leave for the same route you could walk in your sleep. Set up shop and do a days worth of trade, all while hiding some of the most dangerous people in the city in your backrooms.
One of them sits on the same couch cushions as you right now, under your roof, drinking from your cup.
The thought should unsettle you. But it doesn't.
And then it hits you.
You sit up straighter, face changing as you turn to face him. "You said Patrick sent you?"
Jun nods.
"Patrick told he was going to be out of town for a week."
Jun's face is blank, blinking at you with a poker face gamblers would envy. And then he breaks.
"He is out of town."
"So you—"
"I saw the telegram on the counter and took matters into my own hands," he admits, but he's as nonchalant as ever, sipping the last dregs from his mug and setting it on the table. "It's getting late, I'll get going now. Thank you for inviting me in."
Inviting was a daring word considering you shanghaied him into your apartment by brute force, but you take it anyway. Other than that, you're not quite sure what to say with this new revelation. You watch him as he stands up, adjusting his coat and trousers as he begins to walk himself to the door.
Catching up to him, you stop when he stops a couple feet from the entryway. He turns to look at you, and you can predict his goodbye.
"Why did you do that?" you have to ask.
For the first time, Jun looks unsure as for what to say. "I know that shop is important to you."
Why do you care?
Your lips press into a line, both your damp hands clasped in front of you. "Was it so we're even?"
Jun is staring at you an intensity you've never experience, an unmatched energy. "We were even the second you got on your knees to help me after I yelled at you."
"Then what's this for?" you press.
Jun takes a step towards you, and you have the distinct feeling he might frustrated. Not with you, but perhaps with himself. "I…I don't know."
"That's not very Carmine of you," you whisper, suddenly realising just how close you've gotten. His gaze is unrelenting, and you feel the familiar rise in your chest that makes it a chore to breathe.
Jun's getting closer, leaning over you like a towering stallion. His breath hits your face, warm and cascading.
"I know."
And then his mouth is on yours, and you're melting like this was the answer all along. His palm and fingers cup the back of your head in a secure motion, pulling you towards him. Your arms fly to grip his body, finding reprieve in the opening of his coat, hands splayed on his fabric covered chest.
He's a demanding kisser, taking what you give in motions that have your knees going weak. You fingers scrunch against his shirt to grip him tighter, the warmth of his skin under his shirt seeping.
You forget where you stand as his other arm holds you up and against him, you hands snaking up to wrap around his neck. His mouth moves against your own like he's already mapped out every hill, dip and crevice, the distinct wet of his tongue on your bottom lip as he sucks.
The feeling is all consuming, one you cannot name. It's tingly, from the top of your head to the tips of fingers and toes. His scent encases you with remnants of coffee and sweet pea. It has you pushing into him closer, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis.
Your lungs are about to give in when you finally pull away, gasping loudly for air as you do nothing to move from your position. Your chest heaves, and so does his, in tandem as you throw your head back to reign yourself in. Jun's eyes never leave you.
You cannot help but smile, one that stretches even more so when you see him crack one too.
"Patrick isn't here—" you start, but do not need to finish.
"I think I heard Mrs. Miller outside."
"Not very safe, Carmine or not," you jest.
"Perhaps another coffee will do," he adds as you laugh. "Or a tea this time?"
He does not let you answer, because he dips his head towards you once more.
All night, two cold mugs remain lone on the table.
✦ genre: soulmate au, angst, fluff, selfdoubt and a lot of insecurities
✦ note: you have no idea just how much I love this story. They're the absolute cutest and a small part of me just wanted to keep building on this story forever. I hope you love it as much as I do
Most people walked through life, but Junhui, he danced. Even before he had met you, he danced. He was a beautiful boy, and doors opened before him in the world of film and acting. But all that changed when he met you.
When he turned 13 he was frantically searching for his mark, but he never found anything. His parents told him it could be a while, but right as he was about to break down he heard you, an echo of a voice inside his head that wasn’t his own.
He didn’t understand what exactly you were saying, but he understood the meaning behind your words, the comfort you were trying to show his panicked heart.
That day he decided he needed to change the trajectory of his life, he needed something other than just acting if he was gonna find you, if you were going to be able to find him.
It took a few years, but he ended up in Seoul under Pledis, surrounded by new people and a language he couldn’t quite speak, and on the days where he felt alone and discouraged you were there to ease his mind and cheer him on.
As the year had progressed the two of you had learned a few new languages to communicate with one another, but typically you spoke Korean to one another. It was good practice for the both of you, and despite korean being difficult to pronounce for you, it was easier than mandarin.
You could still vividly remember the day a male voice spoke mandarin in your mind, it was panicked and desperate. Sad and heartbreaking. Despite not understanding a single thing you tried reaching out in your mind for that little spot that had suddenly appeared in your inner eye.
He hadn’t done it on purpose you quickly realized, it had been the bond that had reached out instinctively.
“You’re okay, just breathe… I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere” You kept repeating the words over and over again until he seemed to calm, until he seemed to hear you.
Unlike Junhui you had always been a very vocal and extroverted person, always the loudest one in the room, the one who stole the attention of everyone without even trying, but after him, after the mark manifested, you drew into yourself, wanting to spend your time with him, getting to know him and his soul.
It was difficult at first, not being able to really communicate, but at some point a few words started to make sense and as the communication became better, and your love for him grew.
He told you about his move to Korea, his dance, his brothers, the struggles of his every day that looked so different from your own.
The mark made it impossible to learn specific details about one another, every time he tried telling you where he was going for his tours, his voice would be muffled. Just as every time you would try and tell him about your university, yours would as good as disappear from his head.
It made it hard, but you both knew people had it harder than the two of you did. You at least had your love singing you to sleep every night.
Junhui was sitting in the beauty room before a shoot. Next to him was Soonyoung, and in his lap sat none other than his sweet soulmate that they had all nicknamed ‘Pink’ due to the famous hair that had brought the pair together.
She ran her hands through his hair as she styled it.
“Do you really need to rub it in?” Dino said with a somewhat low voice.
“Obviously” Pink said before squeezing Soonyoung's cheeks together and kissing his lips sweetly. He chuckled in response, looking just as the hamster he claimed he wasn't.
Jun explained the situation to you through that little link he had in his mind.
Tell them they’re disgusting. You quickly commented with a laugh.
As he repeated the words, Pink clutched her imaginary pearls, before jumping down from Soonyoung's lap, earning her a whine from this very grown man.
“Don’t worry Jun, I’ll make you pretty for her, in hopes that she’s watching along”
He laughed. You had not found him yet, and he doubted that a performance unit song would be what did the trick. But he could always hope.
They hadn’t expected carats to go as feral for the music video as they did. But apparently a little bling and smooth moves would be all it took.
And they did look good, ethereal almost.
Jun couldn’t help but hope that this would mean you found him, after all that was the reason behind becoming an idol.
“I hope you see it” He said in his mind as he reached out.
You knew he did something within the music industry, but you couldn’t even imagine the scale it was actually on. How famous your soulmate was, how beautiful.
Once in a while you stumbled upon Seventeen music videos, but you never clicked on them. There were too many views, and for some reason you had imagined him being from a smaller, more unknown group.
If you were being completely honest you did think that the music was kind of a side gig. A passion that made life bearable. A hobby.
It wasn’t until your friend actually forced you to sit down and watch the newly dropped music video for “Spell” that you realized exactly who he was.
“You have to watch it!” She said as she gently stroked the clock that was counting down on her arm.
You rolled your eyes with a smirk on your lips. “It’s not gonna be him”
She shrugged. “You don’t know that! I’m staying in my delusional era, convinced that Minghao has a clock somewhere on that beautiful body of his”
You pulled her close to you on the couch. “Fine, I’ll watch it”
A small shriek escaped her throat. You could humor her.
Exactly two seconds after the music video had started your heart stopped. Because you knew that voice, and on screen was the most beautiful human being you had ever seen.
The brown curls framing his head, the eyes so soft and kind were looking into your soul. It was him, there was no doubt in your mind.
The whole scenario was overwhelming, you knew the song, he had been humming it for months, singing it to you at night.
“This makes no sense” you said slowly as tears welled in your eyes.
Your bestie had her arms around you in a second, pulling you close as you sobbed into her chest. You didn’t know why, but this wasn’t happy tears, no. You were devastated.
There was no way in hell a man like that, a man like him would be okay, that he would be happy with someone like you.
He didn’t know what he had done wrong. But he had to have done something. You had been quiet now for around 3 days, and it was the longest time since he had found you, that he had gone without hearing your voice.
The remaining of the guys had all picked up on it. He was agitated, annoyed and snapped over the smallest mistakes.
He was currently located in one of the small kitchens in the Hybe building, filling up on water in between breaks of practicing the choreo for the upcoming tour.
Minghao was leaned up against the fridge, arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked at his best friend.
“You need to tell me what the hell is going on” as usual when something was bothering either of them, they spoke mandarin. It gave them a sense of privacy even when there were people around.
Junhui sighed as he looked down at his feet. “She doesn’t speak to me anymore…” it was almost just a whisper, but the hurt, the broken heart that was lying beneath that surface of his was evident.
Minghao pulled him close, and for once he allowed himself to be comforted. He hid his face in his friend's shoulder as he let the silent tears fall.
“Did you do anything?” He asked as he pulled away to look at his friend.
Jun just shook his head as he dried his eyes. “No, at least I don’t think so. I’ve been ragging my brain over and over to find out what could make her pull away. But honestly? The only thing I can think is that she found me… and that she’s disappointed it’s me and not someone else”
His voice shook, and he burried his head in his hands, hoping the tears would stop falling if he just squeezed the palms of his hands into his eyes hard enough. It didn’t help.
“I don’t get it, I thought she loved me… I thought she was supposed to accept me for me, and not judge me for it”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, one that didn’t belong to Minghao, but to Chan. And as he turned there stood the remaining 11 of his brothers.
The youngest pulled him close and as he cried again, they all rallied around him.
Like the first time you had heard him, he hadn’t meant to let you in. But it did happen from time to time, if their emotions were out of control. And what he had said, had broken your heart.
You were convinced it would be for the best, that he wouldn’t love someone as normal as you, someone as boring. You were convinced he deserved better.
But hearing him break, hearing his sobs knowing you were the reason for them. Broke you even more than the potential heartbreak of him not wanting you.
The days following his breakdown he had stopped trying to reach out, and it almost felt like he had given up. You had scoured the internet to find any kind of update, to see what he was doing, if he was okay.
Dino had done a live with Minghao, begging Carats to send Jun all their love because he was struggling.
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, he was supposed to be relieved, supposed to be happy that he, as a world famous artist, didn’t have to settle for someone as ordinary as you.
But you were slowly learning that you had made a mistake. Because Seventeen was despite being world famous, global superstars, kind people.
You had watched every going seventeen episode, seen every music video and over all catches up on everything.
It was funny seeing everything after the fact. You had heard story about his friends going crazy when they played games, and Hoshi and Mingyu especially fit that bill in the ‘Don’t Lie’ episodes.
He was quiet, more quiet in these settings than he usually was with you. But then you noticed it, hidden smiles and small laughs, it was because when he was with them, he talked to you as well.
Always updating you on their shenanigans, filling you in on the new games they made along the way or retelling the jokes he knew you would find funny.
You had fucked up. Severely. Now all that was left to do was trying to fix it.
As the days went by you started to reach out to him. But he wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. He could feel the sorrow in your voice, in the emotions that ran through his mind as you said good morning and good night to him every day.
You never pushed him, and he appreciated that. He wanted to hear your explanation, as to why you had chosen to cut him out, but he was scared, so scared that the explanation would be a confirmation of all his worst fears.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joshua said as he laid a hand on his shoulder.
He sent a tight lipped smile his way. “Yeah, let’s just get through the day”
“Are you still not sleeping?” Minghao said as he looked up from his phone.
Jun shook his head and sent a sad smile his way, his friends sighed in unison as Seungkwan entered the room.
“You need to look after yourself hyung”
“Maybe you need to talk to her” Joshua pushed.
Jun only played with his long fingers as he released something in between a huff and a laugh. “I know, but what if all she wants is to cut the tie between us?”
They would never quite get used to seeing their brother cry, and this past week they’d seen it more than they had in the last few years.
It was his anxiety talking, he knew that, and so did they. But it was hard talking him down the edge when they had no chance of communicating with you, to actually hear your side.
Seungcheol looked into the room, and all he got was a small shake of the head in return from the boys. “We’re going on in 5, game face on Jun”
He took a deep breath and stood from his chair.
Your leg was bouncing up and down, fingers pulling on one another as you simultaneously chewed on your bottom lip.
Something inside of you couldn’t quite figure out how this had happened, how you had made it happen on such short notice. But here you were sitting in a hall filled with carats, waiting for your soulmates and his brothers fansign.
They entered the stage and you literally felt your heart stop in anticipation. And there he was, and if handn’t been because of the lack of oxygen you’re pretty sure you would’ve flown from your seat and into his arms before security would even have a chance to notice.
He’s beautiful, he’s so so beautiful…
He heard your words eccho in his head and for the first time in a week he smiled genuinely all while his cheeks were painted in a subtle blush beneath the make up.
You better be talking about me and not someone else. He quickly responded. It was a pure instinct, needing to know that you still loved him, that the silence hadn’t been because of a lack of love for him.
He heard your chuckle in his head. It’s most definitely you Wen Junhui.
You watched him on the stage, hand quickly flying from his side to cover his mouth. You watched as his eyes sparkled. He turned away from the crowd and made these small almost awkward movements, as if he almost wanted to run away but couldn’t.
Minghao looked his way with furrowed brows, but when he saw his friends smile, he knew that all the anxiety had just been whisked away from his body. And the remaining 12 of them quickly found that the burden they had been carrying was lifted.
“Hi” Minghao said as you sat before him on the long table. He pulled the album you had in front of him closer to sign it. It felt surreal sitting here in front of the people you knew so much about, the people who knew so much about you, but somehow had never met.
“I feel like I owe you an apology” you said with a small voice in mandarin. The mans eyes lit up as he chuckled.
“Why would you owe me an apology?” He asked with curious eyes and a smirk.
You sighed. “Because I’m guessing you’ve had a rough week because of me. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was just when I found out who he was, I suddenly felt like I was lacking in every aspect”
You looked towards Junhui as you talked, and shrugged as you ended the sentence.
“Oh…” you looked up at the beauty that sat there, looking at you with tears in his eyes. He left the album behind and reached out over the table, grabbing your hands in his, giving them a squeeze.
“He was afraid that you were disappointed, that you had hoped he was someone else”
You quickly looked back to Minghao with big eyes. “What?! How the hell would he think that?”
This time it was Minghao's turn to shrug. “I don’t know, but now our time is up, so go get your man”
He sat up in his chair, leaned over the table and kissed your forehead. “I’ll talk to you after”
You heard the gasps, the murmuring that had started in the room. Minghao was known for not playing along with carats parasocial relationships, he was known for always giving people a wake up call. So you could understand the shock of suddenly seeing him kiss a carat at a fan sign.
You also knew your bestie would end up killing you for not bringing her along for this.
Before you knew it you were in front of him. He didn’t look up from the album right away, he just introduced himself, and when his eyes finally met yours, all he saw was you sitting there with an open mouth, trying to get the words out.
He blushed, he actually blushed when he looked at you, and in your mind you heard a small; wow.
You took a deep breath and then you blurted it all out. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry I made you doubt yourself, doubt me, doubt us. It was never my intention. I just, I finally found you and every bad thing I have ever thought about myself was suddenly under a magnifying glass. I felt so ordinary, so plain, so incredibly boring next to you, your life…”
He hadn’t taken a single breath since you had started taking. He knew your voice as well as he knew his own. And before he knew it, before you even blinked he had thrown himself over the table and pulled you close.
“You’re here” he whispered into your hair, loving the smell of your hair, your skin and your perfume.
“I’m here” you whispered back as your hands pulled him as close as physically possible despite the table.
He pulled away and ran a hand over your cheek, catching your tears with his thumb. He rested his forehead against yours as he laughed, a laugh that you returned. It was one of disbelief and pure joy.
You heard all the people move around you, heard as people were ushered out of the room to give the two of you some type of privacy. The fansign would continue when everyone had a chance to calm down.
He stood up and walked around the table. “I can’t believe you’re here, that you actually found me, that you got in here so quickly” He pulled you into his chest and rested his cheek on the top of your head.
You could hear his frantically beating heart beneath his chest, god you could feel his chest, every muscle. Beneath your skin.
I swear you were hand sculptured by all the gods that have ever existed.
You said through the link in your mind. He laughed. Loud and genuine.
You’re so beautiful my love. That you were ever in doubt about being good enough for me… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I loved you more often, that I didn’t tell you more often just how proud I am of you. That I didn’t manage to make you feel safe with me. I promise I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.
He pulled you close with one of his hands on the back of your neck, the other on your cheek. He caressed your nose against his, looking for any type of doubt in your eyes. But he found none. Instead you closed the distance and kissed him.
The room broke out in whistles and cheers, loud and chaotic. Just as you had always imagined they would be.
The two of you smiled, before looking towards those he called his brothers.
They were all over you in a second. Introducing themselves, bickering with one another about who should have the privilege of meeting you first. And Jun, he never let go of you, his fingers stayed intertwined with yours. Just as they were meant to be.
note: as always - please don't be a silent reader, all your comments, theories, likes and reblogs means so so much to me. It's one of the reasons I can keep pumping out a story a week - so please keep it up my loves. and as always; please let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.
being the engineer who knows too much and the sister who’s had enough means standing at the eye of the storm while two men she cares about tear each other apart. jun’s pride could still cost him everything, and yet he refuses to fight to fix what’s broken; neither will minghao. she’s tired of the fallout, but no one listens. a crash was only the beginning. now, can anything bring them back?
🏎️ GENRE/S :: f1 au, smau, contemporary drama, action, psychological, romance, slice of life
🏎️ PAIRING/WC :: wen junhui x fem!reader ⋅ 22,012 words
🏎️ CONTAINS :: rivals(?)-to-lovers tension, teammates-to-enemies-to-(??) for jun and minghao, childhood-friends-to-something-undefined, some smau things, emotional fallout, jealousy-driven angst, idiots in love who don’t know how to communicate, toxic masculinity (pride, refusal to communicate), media scrutiny, invasive paparazzi/journalists, suppressed emotions, power imbalance (professional + personal relationships entangled), high-stakes drama, dramatic crashes (literal and emotional), and two stubborn men who would rather self-destruct than back down, ambiguous boundaries (platonic vs. romantic blurred lines), possessiveness and control (family + teammate interference), familial conflict (brother-sister arguments, controlling dynamics), references to past breakup
⚠️ WARNINGS: kinda physical violence, arguments, car crash/accident, injuries, hospital setting, toxic dynamics, mental strain, psychological fatigue, mentions of rage driving, kinda toxic (?) sibling/friend dynamics caused by the fallout but otherwise good relationship, bits of cussing, possessiveness, implied unhealthy coping mechanisms, smoking, near-suicidal recklessness (though not framed as intent, heavily implied emotional spiral)
🏎️ A/N :: man. so the very first line of this fic is literally just me stealing a tweet that popped up on bee’s @imnotshua pinterest feed. yes, that is how i start writing apparently. you'll also very likely see right away that… i know nothing about f1 lmao. like, i only know the bare minimum to make this fic not collapse on itself, and even then, let’s not look too closely at logic 😭 tbf, the more i think about it, the less it makes sense why i even when joined the collab when em invited me because i knew nothing except “cars go fast,” but i have zero regrets because i had soooo much fun writing this [with one almost disabled hand too, but who’s gonna stop me? no one!] and i did what im supposed to do: write, learn and enjoy. THE THERAPY NOTES AND ALL MAY NOT BE ACCURATE!! im not a medical professional.
i genuinely had so much more to say but i’ll stop before this a/n ends up longer than the fic itself. oh! and i know y’all voted for this fic to drop as one post but tumblr have text block limit :( it’s sitting at 30k+ right now so i’ll be posting the next part very soon [next week, probably]. promise it’ll be a quick update!
🏎️ IMP THANK YOUS :: big big thanks to chee @nothoughtsjustfic for helping me untangle a super important part of this fic. i knew the destination and the fallout, but the whys and hows? absolutely lost. i was stuck on that one scene for a whole week, so thank you chee for being brilliant. if there’s anything that’s wildly inaccurate, just… look away pls bahahaha. thanks to everyone in the server who answered my many, many silly questions, for being the kindest, most fun space to write in. endless gratitude to rae @nerdycheol and em @gyuswhore for beta-ing this monster, and to cam @highvern and em @gyuswhore for letting me be a part of this collab. extra love to jo @daechwitatamic, jess @starlightkyeom, alta @haologram, and fia @amourcheolfor sprinting with me, you made dragging this fic over the finish line so much easier. also, extra love(2) to trixie @joshujin for showing interest in this monster and alta for one day probably unknowingly motivating me (and always scolding me. ily). STARRING — @nothoughtsjustfic @nerdycheol @shinysobi @an-annyeoing-writer
▸ PART OF THE @camandemstudios : LIGHTS OUT & AWAY WE GO COLLABORATION
📌 i hope youll love all the fics in this collab!
I'm being put into an alarming number of situations, is the first thought crossing your mind as you watch Minghao blast past on the circuit, the tires screeching just enough to remind you how unforgiving a Grand Prix can be. Tension is everywhere around you, and everything, everything, seems to be going sideways. You’re not even in the car, and yet you might as well be, bracing for impact with each turn.
You’ve spent years as Minghao’s race engineer, glued to the pit wall, knowing every twitch of his steering and every shift in his throttle like the beat of your own heart. He's meticulous to a fault, he understood every nuance of his driving style, every quirk of his car. You never needed to explain things to him twice, and he never left you guessing—because Xu Minghao, your brother, your blood, has always treated racing like a ritual, and for better or worse, you’ve followed him like it was gospel. He's the one you grew up watching tear up every track. Minghao is not just a driver; he’s an enigma of focus and stubborn will. When he sets his mind to something, it’s done. No questions asked.
And then there’s Junhui—Wen Junhui, technically, but no one calls him that anymore. Just Jun. The wild card. Brilliant, yes, but volatile—a star burning twice as bright and half as long.
He’s got this effortless charm, a raw talent that makes engineers and fans alike hold their breath every time he steps into the cockpit. But underneath that, there’s pride, and stubbornness, and lately, a streak of frustration gnawing at him. The media paints him as the team’s: golden boy, the wildcard, the journalists’ favorite quote on legs, and while none of that is entirely wrong, it all feels so... demeaning, in a way. Because you’ve seen him at four in the morning, crouched over telemetry footage, muttering to himself about brake bias and downforce, sweat clinging to the collar of his black fireproofs. And lately, you’ve watched the tension build in his jaw, heard the silence stretch too long between his radio checks, felt the growing weight of expectation settle like pressure in your chest, too.
Something’s unraveling in him. The footage confirms it even if no one wants to say it out loud: a snap of oversteer here, a braking delay there, moments where instinct should’ve kicked in but didn’t. His lap times are slipping, it wasn't drastically, but enough to raise eyebrows in the garage and prompt whispered conversations you’re not meant to overhear. You know the pattern. You’ve seen it before, in other drivers, in other lifetimes. This is the part where people start making excuses—bullshit about tire compounds, fuel load, headwind—but none of that changes the fact that Jun is faltering, and no one seems to know how to stop it.
And now here you are standing behind the box, biting your tongue as you watch Minghao float through the sector split, while Jun skids wide at Turn 9 and loses another half-second. You’re not supposed to feel this angry. You’re not even sure who you’re angry at. Maybe it’s at Jun for letting this get under his skin. But a part of you thinks, however unfair it is, that he should have known better than to try and outshine Minghao, because there’s only ever been one golden son of Sebong. And right now, black and white checkers feel a lifetime away.
Technical issues haven’t helped. The telemetry shows micro-instabilities Jun hasn't dialed out. His setup still searching for the balance Minghao seems to have nailed. It’s a subtle dance between man and machine, and Jun is stumbling. The team has always relied on the unstoppable dynamic between these two: Minghao’s strategy and Jun’s instinct. Together, they’ve carried the team through countless podiums. It was a combination both beautiful and brutal.
Now, Jun’s faltering threatens to undo the rhythm the team has spent years refining. And you’ve found yourself shifting from being Minghao’s steady hand to trying to steady Jun’s spiraling mess; a task more complicated than you ever signed up for. You wonder, briefly, if this is how stories begin to fall apart—or how they find their fiercest comebacks.
The roar of engines fills the air, vibrating through your bones and shaking the walls of the Sebong Racing garage. Around you, the team works in synchronized bursts — the pit crew ready, engineers monitoring endless streams of data, radios crackling with calculation. Outside, the circuit stretches in a sweeping tapestry of asphalt, curves, and straights; the grand stage that has made both Minghao and Jun legends in their own right even if one now seems to be chasing the ghost of the other.
You grip the tablet tightly, eyes moving between telemetry feeds and the live timing screens. Jun’s car, number 23, slices through the course. Every corner is a gamble; every straight, a test of nerve and machine.
“Sector 1 time is 0.2 seconds slower than his best lap,” you report into your headset. The performance engineer beside you nods, fingers flying over the keyboard, tapping commands into the system while you add, “brake temperatures are creeping up on the front left. We need to watch for degradation.”
Your heart pounds in time with each lap as Jun pushes through the relentless Azerbaijan heat, sweat beading at his temples beneath the racing helmet. You can kind of see the tension in his grip on the steering wheel; fingers white-knuckled, muscles taut like a coiled spring.
Minghao’s car, just a few seconds ahead, is the perfect foil: precise, calculated, seemingly untouched by the shit swirling behind. The two of them are a study in contrast. Jun’s raw aggression versus Minghao’s stoic precision, but that dynamic has long been the backbone of Sebong’s success.
You track the numbers lap after lap, watching Jun close in on P4 before the wear drags him back, his pace slipping at Turn 11 where understeer chews away costing him precious milliseconds. You call out adjustments, relaying updates, hoping to thread the needle between speed and survival. Then, the pit window opens.
“Box, box, box!” The call cuts through the noise.
Your breath manages to catch as the pit crew spring into action, removing wheels and replacing them in a blur of motion. Jun’s car flashes across your screen, the on-board camera capturing the taut stillness in his posture and the movements of his hands on the wheel, and before you can process anything more, he’s already back on the track with the clock pressing hard against his rear wing.
The gap to the car ahead narrows, and your pulse quickens. With four laps remaining, Jun’s radio crackles: “Grip’s fading on the rear. I’m fighting it.”
You adjust the strategy on the fly, feeding him targeted data about cornering lines, braking points, and throttle modulation. Every tiny edge counts, you remind yourself, because at this point, precision is all you have left to give him.
In the final stretch, Jun battles as much as he can, carving through the air with desperate speed, chasing down the fourth-place driver. But the clock runs out, and he crosses the finish line fifth, breathing.
Back in the garage, you exhale, your hands trembling slightly. The team erupts around you, some cheers, some nods of relief. Jun may not have climbed the podium, but today was no defeat; it was a statement. A defiant roar against the slump threatening to swallow him.
You glance at Minghao’s finish time: second place. The crowd’s cheers fade into the night, you wonder if it'll cause any rift, before everything comes crashing down… or finally comes together.
You’ve known them for years. Long before the roar of engines and the floodlights kissed silver onto champagne-soaked podiums. Before they were Sebong Racing’s unstoppable duo, Wen Junhui and Xu Minghao were just two boys from the same neighborhood, running through back alleys and dreaming with reckless abandon. It’s almost poetic, really: two halves of a whole, bound by rivalry and brotherhood.
Jun was always the kid who’d challenge anyone to a race even if it meant running barefoot through broken glass. His laugh was loud, his temper quick — but beneath all that, a heart that could burn brighter than any spotlight. Minghao, on the other hand, was the calm before the storm. Quiet, observant, always calculating three steps ahead. You could see it in the way he moved, how he watched the world. His eyes were not searching for a fight, but for the perfect moment to align itself in his favour to strike. He was the steady hand to Jun’s unpredictable flame.
Together, they pushed each other, dragged each other forward, fell and got up with scraped knees and laughs. When Jun got reckless, Minghao was there to pull him back; when Minghao hesitated, Jun’s encouragement was the spark that lit the way.
As a team, and more than that, as best friends, they were unstoppable, and everyone around them knew it. Their chemistry on and off the track was electric, a volatile fusion of energy and control. And through every victory and every scrape, you watched them grow, side by side, protective and proud.
-
Minghao reached into the folded stack of newspapers on the wooden table and pulled out the front page, smoothing the creases with his fingers before holding it out to Jun. “Look at this,” he said, trying to keep the mood light despite the gravity of the words printed in bold headlines. “The economy’s in freefall again. Can you believe this mess? Inflation’s skyrocketing, markets crashing... it’s a disaster.”
Jun barely glanced at the paper. His eyes sharp, weirdly stabbable beneath the brim of his cap, flicked up momentarily before sliding back to the floor. The sound of the news barely registered with him. Instead, he leaned back against the leather chair, pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, and held it between his fingers with his casual defiance. He brought the cigarette to his lips, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, the orange flame briefly illuminating the lines of his jaw.
As the smoke curled from his mouth in lazy spirals, Minghao watched him carefully, sensing the distance growing between them. He didn’t want to talk about the race, or at least today. That was a raw nerve the older man wasn’t ready to touch. So he settled for conversation about anything but that.
When Jun’s silence stretched longer, Minghao sighed, a breath of frustration. “You know,” he began, trying for a lighthearted tone, “if the economy keeps tanking, maybe we’ll have to race for food instead of trophies.”
Jun’s eyes moved toward him briefly as a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, well, I’m better at burning rubber than burning cash.”
Minghao chuckled, relieved to find some humor. “True, but maybe you should watch those tires more carefully. You’ve been slipping lately, Jun.”
Jun’s smirk faded. His hand tensed around the cigarette, the smoke twisting into tighter rings. “Maybe I’m just tired of the same old track.”
Minghao’s brows furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean? The track’s fine. Maybe you’re the one who’s off.”
Jun’s gaze snapped to his brother’s face. “Off? You think you’re so perfect, don’t you? Sitting there, calculating every move as if you know and own the damn circuit.”
“That’s not it! What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please. Why are you acting as if you really don't know what I'm talking about?”
“I’m not against you, Jun. No one is. You’re under pressure, I get that, but don’t turn this into some kind of war.”
Jun scoffs. “Then stop pretending you're the victim when you’re the one everyone listens to. You think I don’t hear them? You’re the golden one, Hao. Always have been.”
“You’re being stupid, Jun. Why are you taking everything so personally?”
“Because I’m tired!” Jun burst out, his voice cracking around the edges of his harsh tone. “I’m tired of chasing something I’ll never catch. I’m tired of pretending this isn’t affecting me.”
The room suddenly felt smaller and so uncomfortable as the banter escalated. Minghao’s jaw clenched but his voice stayed even. “At least I don’t throw fits and crash when things don’t go my way.”
Jun stood up abruptly, making the chair scrape harshly against the floor. “Oh, so now you’re perfect? You think I want this? You think I want to be the joke of the team?”
“Then stop acting like one,” Minghao shot back, standing to meet him eye to eye. “We’re supposed to be a team. Not enemies.”
Jun laughed bitterly, hollow. “Team? Since when did that matter to you? You’re just glad to see me fail.”
Minghao’s eyes darkened. “Don’t put this on me.”
Jun scoffs, but there's no humor in it, just twisted and bitter. He flicks the ash off his cigarette while not looking at Minghao as he says, “You know, it must be easy for you. Clean races, clean image, clean conscience. You’ve always liked keeping your hands clean while I dig through the dirt for us both.” Minghao doesn’t respond to it, just watches him that feels sharper than anything he could say. “Must be nice,” he taunts, “always being the one who finishes first. Not because you’re better, no, never that, but because no one expects you to crash. They save that headline for me.” His smile turns thin, and he lifts his eyes to meet Minghao’s. “Actually… I wonder if you ever cared whether I crashed or not. Or maybe part of you wanted me to. So you’d finally be the golden boy alone.”
Minghao’s jaw tightens, but his arms stay folded across his chest. His posture is rigid, but his eyes begin to narrow.
Jun leans in slightly, smoke curling from his lips. “Tell me, how long have you been waiting for me to fail so spectacularly you wouldn’t have to pretend you were proud of me?”
The silence is taut and brimming. Minghao still doesn’t speak, or blink, and for a second, it seems like maybe he’ll walk away. But then Jun adds just enough to sting, “You’ve always been a coward, Hao. Hiding behind strategy because you’re too scared to do anything.”
This makes Minghao's fist snap forward with startling speed. His knuckles collide with Jun’s jaw with a sickening sound, and Jun’s head jerks to the side, stumbling a half-step before he catches himself on the edge of the table.
Jun doesn’t say anything. He straightens slowly up, lips parted slightly from the impact that Minghao just caused, his cigarette now flicked off somewhere on the floor, forgotten. His eyes bat once, then again, before he turns toward the doorway until it lands directly on you.
You step into the room and stop short, confused by what you're seeing in the room, the invisible static in the air that you can feel before you even see the mark blooming on Jun’s cheek. He’s still staring at you, and there’s no shock in his eyes—but something halfway between warning and apology.
“Jun—?”
He doesn’t answer you, but just brushes past you with enough force that your shoulder dips slightly from the contact. You’re left in the doorway, blinking, with Minghao still standing there, hand curled into a fist, chest rising and falling in breaths.
You stand in the doorway, caught in a moment you don’t yet understand, and all you can manage to say, in the stunned silence that follows, is, “What the hell just happened?”
Minghao doesn't feel the need to respond to you nor does he spare you a glance. His jaw twitches slightly, like he’s chewing on something bitter, and his eyes stay locked on the far away wall, far too calm for your liking.
You take a step inside, your brows drawn tight. “Did you hit him?”
He huffs, dragging his gaze toward you, then scoffs as if the question itself is annoying. “He deserved it,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “And you should mind your own business.”
“Excuse me?” You don’t raise your voice yet, but it’s close. The disbelief in your tone carries more weight than your volume ever could. “Mind my business?” You cross your arms. “You think I’m just going to walk in, see you standing there ready to throw another punch, and ignore the fact that Jun walked out looking like you broke something in him?”
Minghao’s expression hardens, his arms crossing in return, bracing for yet another argument, but with his sister this time.
“I don’t care what stupid defensive reasoning you’re spinning in that head of yours,” you continue, stepping further into the room. “You don’t get to say he deserved it. You don’t get to hit him and then shut down like this. So tell me what the fuck happened, because clearly, something did, and I want to hear all of it.”
He just stares at you, processing what you just let out of your mouth. His shoulders sink slightly as if something in him unclenches, not from guilt, maybe, but from sheer exhaustion.
“He kept pushing,” he says to you. His voice isn’t angry anymore, just tired. “He wouldn’t shut up. He—he knows exactly what to say. Like he wants to be punched by me.” You don't respond, so he keeps talking, replaying the scene in real time. “I tried to talk to him… about anything else. I even brought up the damn economy just to keep things light because I didn’t want to talk about the race because I know it’s still eating at him.”
His fingers uncurl and flex once before falling limply against his sides.
“But then he just—he started twisting things. Saying I liked watching him fail, that I was waiting for him to fall apart. That I’ve never cared about him unless I’m ahead of him. Like I would ever wish that on him.” He sounds like he's so disappointed with Jun for even thinking like this. “I told myself not to react. I told myself to let it go. But then he called me a coward.” Minghao’s eyes darken. “He said I hide behind strategy because I’m too scared to do anything.”
You feel your stomach twist slightly, the shape of the argument becoming clearer. “And you punched him,” you finish it for him.
“Yeah,” Minghao breathes. “I fucking did.”
-
Wen Junhui Finishes P5 in Azerbaijan Amid Rising Pressure and Questions Over Form
Baku City Circuit, Azerbaijan — September 21, 2025
By Staff Writer Ro
F1.com
Wen Junhui crossed the line fifth at the Azerbaijan Grand Prix today, securing valuable points for Sebong Racing in a season that’s been marked by intense scrutiny over his recent performances. After weeks of inconsistency and visible tension within the garage, today’s race felt like a critical turning point; an attempt to turn the ship amid mounting pressure.
Junhui started the race from P7 after a cautious qualifying session on Saturday. While the team cited minor balance issues and unsettled rear-end grip during practice, his long-run pace hinted at potential. The Azerbaijan circuit, known for its technical corners and punishing walls, left no room for hesitation. From the moment lights went out, Junhui had to dig deep.
His first stint was conservative, managing tyre wear and holding position through the opening laps. But it was during Lap 15 that the Sebong driver made a decisive move, overtaking Ocon into Turn 3 after forcing a small error through Turn 1. Jun's radio communication remained terse, focused, and unusually silent through most of the opening half. Mid-race strategy called for a single stop, with Jun pitting on Lap 23 for mediums, coming out in clean air but falling behind the lead pack by nearly eight seconds. From there, it was a slow rebuild. The car, still wrestling with instability through high-speed corners, proved difficult under heavy fuel loads, with the rear stepping out under throttle through Turns 9 and 11, costing tenths per sector.
Despite this, Jun’s pace remained consistent. While he was never truly in contention for the podium, he defended fiercely against Norris and Russell late into the final stint, managing degradation effectively and showing flashes of the calculated aggression that once defined his driving.
“It was a difficult race,” he said briefly in the media pen post-race. “I think we found a bit more rhythm today, but there’s still work to do. The car felt more responsive, and the team did well with the call.”
Team principal Chee Smith echoed the sentiment: “Today was about building back confidence. Jun kept his head down, drove clean, and brought home the points. That matters.”
But with Minghao once again on the podium and the constructors’ race tightening, questions remain around whether Sebong can return to their former two-pronged dominance, or if Junhui is still climbing out from under the weight of something else than balance sheets and brake temps.
What’s clear is this: fifth place in Baku won’t silence every critic, but it may be the first step back toward the front of the field.
Race Result – Azerbaijan Grand Prix (Top 6):
1. Charles Leclerc (Ferrari) – 1:38:11.432
2. Xu Minghao (Sebong) – +4.213s
3. George Russell (Mercedes) – +7.905s
4. Lando Norris (McLaren) – +10.112s
5. Wen Junhui (Sebong) – +12.031s
6. Esteban Ocon (Haas) – +15.382s
📊 Telemetry Highlights:
Best lap: 1:44.908 (Lap 35)
Top speed: 325 km/h on the main straight
Brake temp spikes at Turn 7 mid-stint, monitored but contained
Lost approx. 0.4s due to understeer at Turn 11 in final sector
📅 Next Race: Singapore Airlines Singapore Grand Prix 2025 | Oct 03 - 05
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racedwithjun: it’s just not the same watching him drive now. what happened to him 😭
minghaosleftbrake: not them treating Jun like the scapegoat when it's clearly a team issue
tracksidegossip: NO interaction post race. nah they FELL OUT for real.
↳ only4f1
@/tracksidegossip fr they didn’t even look at each other. don’t tell me “teammates fight sometimes” this is giving actual beef.
↳ ha0_l0ve
@/only4f1 or maybe, wild thought, they were both emotionally drained after a tough race? not everything is some scandalous feud.
↳ only4f1
@/ha0_l0ve ok but this isn’t the first time? it’s been weird for weeks. they’re not even hiding it anymore.
↳ ha0_l0ve
@/only4f1 maybe it’s weird because people like you turn every normal silence into a fallout conspiracy. not everything needs your fanfiction commentary.
↳ only4f1
@/ha0_l0ve nah girl this isn’t silence this is COLD WAR. and i’m not the only one seeing it. don’t act like fans can’t notice.
↳ ha0_l0ve
@/only4f1 notice all you want, but spinning narratives with zero context helps no one. imagine being them and scrolling through this mess.
↳ lyu_aes_thetic
@/only4f1 they’re literally human. they get frustrated, they cool off, they move on. try it sometime.
hotlap_handsome: a p5 is NOT failure. y’all are just so used to him on the podium u forgot he’s human.
96zri8here: Man, I love them so much. Big fan, but wtf is happening??
lyu_aes_thetic: the way some of you talk, you'd think jun crashed out of the sport entirely. he’s having a rough patch, not a retirement announcement guys. seriously, have you considered not fuelling chaos for engagement? if jun or minghao ever saw half of what’s being said here, i hope you'd have the decency to log out in shame. grow up.
hao_verse: hao still liked it 😭 please they’re not over
↳ junlvr07
@/hao_verse EXACTLY he saw the post, and hit like!! that means something.
↳ formulaughs
@/junlvr07 y’all acting like a double tap is a wedding ring 😭
↳ midfieldmeltdown
@/formulaughs okay but be fr… if they were beefing for real he wouldn’t like it. they clearly still care.
↳ lap88despair
@/midfieldmeltdown or he's just doing pr damage control and making sure fans don’t panic morw lmao
↳ caffeine_and_carbon
@/lap88despair even if it’s just pr it then still shows he doesn’t hate him enough. since he's doing damage control it means he still cares
↳ overtakemehao_opls
@/hao_verse caption or not, it’s giving soft launch to forgiveness 😭
↳ minghao.slastnerve
@/junlvr07 it’s crazy how we all turned into emotional analysts over one like 💀
pitstopqueen: no caption hits harder than any press release rn
speedprince97: bro looks like he’s fighting demons in that suit 😩
sup3rf4n.jun: He looks so fucking ethereal omg
burntclutchclub: you didn’t have to punch me like this.
↳ minghao.slastnerve
@/burntclutchclub it’s giving final act
tires.mokeonly: i’m still in denial. they’re fine. they HAVE to be.
ha0_l0ve: they'll be fine
lyu_aes_thetic: y'all are overreacting for no good reason. it's NOT the end of his career!!!! do you guys have nothing better to do other than causing unnecessary drama? imagine jun or minghao seeing these posts. please just stop already
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You return to your office as you instinctively move your hand across the interface and sort telemetry logs and prepare the necessary reports ahead of the next race weekend. The rhythm is familiar to you, but your focus remains fractured and drawn elsewhere. You care for him a lot; it's difficult not to, having grown up with him through the sheer consequence of proximity. He was your brother’s best friend, and by extension, became your company too.
At first, it had been simple—he was just another presence, someone who happened to be around more often than not. But over time, that presence began to hold more weight, and the lines between platonic and something far away from platonic began to slowly blur. If the warmth in his voice when he says your name ever carries more than friendship, but you never let yourself assume. You both know the boundaries. He is off-limits, and perhaps, so are you.
He has always been a good man at heart, albeit complicated. Being the oldest among the three of you, he would often end up staying behind in the house with you when the others left for errands or when schedules didn’t align. that's how even your families were close. You were the youngest among the three but never left out intentionally. You would sit nearby, forgotten by them while they played video games or bickered over lap times and gear shifts, yet you never minded. While Minghao was every bit the dependable older brother, you had always liked Jun more. He was volatile at times, prone to logicless flares of emotion, but even at his most unreasonable, he remained intelligent—someone who understood the world differently, and more vividly, than most.
You never imagined the three of you would enter the same world professionally, let alone work under the same banner. And yet, here you are. It has always been a strange dynamic between you and Jun; not exactly friends, but never just acquaintances. The space between you has always felt undefined, yet inhabited.
For every moment he made you feel seen, you still find yourself at a loss for words. He picked you up from school when Minghao couldn’t, helped you prepare for your final exams when your tutors gave up on your schedule, and—though it remains slightly surreal—he was standing right there during your first breakup, when it all fell apart on the pavement in front of the coffee shop he visited weekly. You had cried, embarrassed and furious, and he handed you two ice creams without a word, both for you, and wiped your tears with his sleeve. Perhaps it was simply awkwardness. Or perhaps it was kindness, hidden in his silence. I was always waiting for him to look at me like I wasn’t just Minghao's little sister. Maybe I still am.
Now, you reach for your cup of tea and settle into your seat, glancing absently at the screen that still displays Minghao’s most recent telemetry. Technically, you are no longer his engineer, but old habits remain intact. You track his data as if the reassignment never happened. And honestly, who would stop you? You both are siblings after all.
You scroll through your phone in repetition. You have always been someone who prefers to stay informed, and after Jun’s P5 finish today, you know the discourse will be unrelenting. One tweet reads, not defending him anymore. we love him, but he looks like he doesn't love racing right now. You know that's not true. He still loves racing. Probably more than anything else, but it's clear that his confidence is eroding. He is not in the right headspace, at least not entirely. It takes a great deal to unsettle him, but lately, he has been allowing criticism to pierce through his skin, as though he no longer knows how to shield himself from expectation.
The more he falters, the more vicious the noise becomes. It's a cycle of weight now, and still, people continue to push. i can’t believe we watched them go from “if i crash, it’s because i trust hao to catch me” to walking past each other like ghosts, says another post, and unfortunately, you cannot disagree. So much of this has happened because Jun won't step away from his pride, and because he lets every word, every result, carve into him. Whatever happened behind closed doors today, you find yourself leaning toward the belief that the greater fault may lie with him. If everything Minghao said was accurate, then Jun provoked him, dragged the fight into a place it never needed to reach, and accused him of things that no brother by blood or otherwise, should ever say. And yet, you hesitate. You could shift the lens and say Minghao lost his calm, because he failed to calm Jun when he very well knew he was spiraling. But then again, Minghao did hold back for as long as he could. They are both responsible in their own way. Still, Jun more so, and yet, even then, you understand. Mental fatigue distorts everything.
You continue scrolling, eyes scanning through post after post, some well-meaning, some ruthless. You only hope Jun doesn’t read any of it, but knowing him, you suspect he already has.
-
HOME > BUSINESS > SPORTS NEWS
BREAKING: Sebong’s Wen Junhui involved in off-track accident hours after Azerbaijan GP
reported by Motorsport Insider | 9:47 PM Baku time
Sources confirm Sebong driver Wen Junhui was involved in a single-car crash near the outskirts of Baku following Sunday’s Grand Prix. While local emergency services arrived on scene promptly, the team has not released an official statement regarding his condition. The incident took place off-circuit, reportedly on a private access road near the paddock exit.
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Fuck, slips from your mouth as your gut drops; you feel it physically, like your heart both stops for a moment and then pounds against your eardrums.
You feel the tremor in your fingers as your eyes scan the article again just to be sure it's not some grotesque prank. But it's real. The page is verified, and the words don't disappear no matter how many times you blink. Your thumb moves automatically, pressing Minghao’s name on the screen as your legs carry you out of your office. The walls blur past as the elevator descends and you grip your phone tighter, muttering prayers beneath your breath that he picks up.
Your anxiety twists sharper with every unanswered ring. You reach the parking garage, practically throwing yourself into the driver’s seat before turning the key with trembling hands. There’s a film of sweat blooming along your back, and your throat dry with dread. It’s not just worry; it’s the sheer thought of being utterly in the dark, the fact that you had to learn about it from the press.
You press the call button for Joshua’s number, hoping the team manager would answer—but the call fails. You press it again, but nothing. Groaning aloud, you drag your hands through your hair and push it off your forehead in frustration while your eyes stay locked on the desolate road. You breathe a few times, then try again. The signal finally holds after trying for so long.
“What is happening?” you demand the moment the call connects, your voice sounding high and frayed.
“If you would stop calling me long enough for a call to actually go through,” he replies, you can hear him being breathless.
“You were doing the same thing,” you snap back without hesitation.
He exhales, “We’re at the emergency wing of the private trauma centre near the paddock exit. No official cause has been confirmed yet, but... if I’m honest with you, it looks like rage driving. He was alone, and lost control. We don’t know what actually happened, yet.”
Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. You swallow hard, because that... makes sense. He had left like a storm, after all, no words, just a mark on his cheek and bitterness in his eyes.
“He’s conscious,” Joshua continues. “Scans show a cervical strain and a grade one concussion. Minor, but they're keeping him under observation.”
You barely manage a nod, even though he cannot see it. “I’m coming,” you let out, before cutting the line and stepping on the accelerator as you drive to where Jun is.
As you step out of the car, your eyes immediately fall upon the mess unfurling outside the hospital. A sea of journalists, cameras flashing without pause, and what seems like half the city’s population press against the barricades while security personnel attempt to hold the tide. You wonder, briefly and bitterly, what it is about human nature that makes this situation so appealing to them.
You push forward toward the hospital only to be intercepted by a guard who mistakes you for just another desperate face trying to force their way through. Your hand immediately reaches for your credentials, but before you can retrieve them, the guard pauses, studies your face, and then steps aside abruptly, recognition flashing through his eyes. He mutters a quick apology and allows you passage.
You waste no time. Striding toward the reception, you make a terse inquiry regarding Jun’s location. The words barely even leave your lips before you're already pivoting toward the stairwell. You don't have the composure to wait for the elevator when the stairs will carry you to the third floor a full minute faster.
When you arrive, you find Minghao seated in the waiting area, his hands clasped together, his eyes fixed on some spot that doesn't exist. Joshua stands beside him, arms folded, shoulders drawn taut. You approach swiftly.
“How is he?” you ask.
Joshua exhales through his nose and replies, “He’s still being monitored. The doctors want to observe him a little longer before they let anyone in. Nothing critical, but they’re cautious.”
Minghao says nothing. You spare him a single glance that holds for no more than four seconds before you look away. There is no accusation in your expression, only a tempered understanding. You don't blame him, and you hope he won't burden himself with guilt either.
Turning back to Joshua, you ask the question that has been clawing at your throat since the moment you read the headline. “Do we know how the accident happened? The extent of the impact?”
“Not exactly…” Joshua doesn't want to explain further right now.
You need answers—whether from Jun himself, or from anyone willing to speak about it or actually knows things.
You still stay away from speaking to Minghao, but are very aware that this is likely his turn to unravel. You don't acknowledge him directly, but you settle into the seat adjacent to his, maintaining an intentional distance. Time moves, and you are not entirely sure how long it has been. Your thoughts are a cyclone of unanswered questions: whether Jun will be permitted to race again soon, or if his condition will force him to sit out. The likelihood leans towards the latter based on your experience in this field for such a long time.
Joshua has stepped outside to attend a call, and Minghao has not lifted his eyes from the floor in nearly twenty minutes. You don't speak to him either. Instead, you reach into your bag that you had blindly grabbed from your office table in your frenzied rush, and get your laptop out of it. Your fingers are still trembling when you log into the Sebong engineering terminal, entering your credentials.
You tell yourself this is just to check for updates, a flimsy lie that barely lasts the length of the thought itself. One new file appears under the internal archive: PVT VEHICLE INCIDENT. It is marked with a cautionary red tag that instantly draws your attention. You don't hesitate before opening it; you already know what you are looking for. And if you're going to sit here and wait, you might as well occupy yourself with reviewing the evidence before confronting Jun yourself—before you tell him exactly how fucking reckless he was, before you tear into him with all the anger you’ve kept locked behind your ribs, and demand the answers you already know won’t come easy.
No visible pedestrians or third-party vehicles involved.
CCTV angle limited; does not capture interior activity.
Aggressive acceleration and lack of controlled inputs strongly suggest impaired emotional state at time of operation.
Internal review pending correlation with telemetry and ESC logs.
-
Your eyes remain fixed on the screen, shoulders drawn taut as you reread the lines until they no longer register meaning, only shape. You drag a hand over your mouth, the pressure doing little to still the pulse hammering at your temple. You know exactly what the numbers mean. The override, the g-force spike, the collision timing—all of it. No mechanical failure, no freak variable. This was a choice. You know for a fact that it was not suicidal, but a recklessness born of his stupid anger.
The report doesn't show his face, but you can see it in your head. You sit back in your chair and your breath catches when you see the red-flagged video file load beneath the log. It’s marked CCTV: External Access Road. You hesitate, but it's only for a moment before you give up and press play. If you're going to confront him, you need to know everything before you cross check.
DATE: September 21, 2025
LOCATION: █████ Access Road, Baku, Azerbaijan
CAMERA ID: CCTV-04-LOT_████████
FOOTAGE ID: ████-BK88-JH
TIME STAMP: 21:03:15 – 21:04:01
[21:03:15] — Subject (Driver: W. Junhui) approaches vehicle: ██████, dark-colored.
[21:03:22] — Enters driver’s seat. Door closes with excessive force.
[21:03:26] — Engine ignites.
[21:03:30] — Headlights activate. Vehicle reverses aggressively, narrowly missing ███████ service truck.
[21:03:35] — Accelerates down restricted access road; fails to yield at security junction.
[21:03:43] — Executes left turn; loss of traction at rear tyres noted.
[21:03:45] — Enters blind bend at unsafe speed.
[21:03:47] — Audible skid; no braking sequence initiated.
[21:03:49] — Front right tyre contacts curb.
[21:03:50] — Vehicle loses directional control.
[21:03:51] — Primary impact: front-end collision with ███████████ barrier, estimated at 60km/h.
[21:03:53] — Smoke visible from engine compartment. Airbags fully deployed.
[21:03:55] — Subject shows signs of consciousness; slight upper body motion recorded.
[21:03:57] — Two unidentified personnel approach scene.
[21:03:59] — ███████ radios for immediate medical dispatch.
[21:04:01] — Footage concludes. Response team en route.
CONFIDENTIAL — INTERNAL DISTRIBUTION ONLY
Do not circulate outside of assigned operations and medical review groups. Violations of confidentiality protocols may result in disciplinary review per FIA and team regulation ████-12.3.9.
-
You no longer know what to think or feel, so you just close your eyes and let time dull the pain of whatever this is, the way you do with most things; waiting for it to fade into sleep. The trouble is that you are not in your apartment or your car or anywhere else where you can sleep like how you simply do. You are seated in a hospital corridor, fluorescent lights above you, and the person you are not supposed to love is lying unconscious a room away.
Even with your eyes closed, you can sense Minghao peek at your screen. You feel it, but it barely registers. A while later, there is a move on your side, followed by a hand guiding your head to rest against a shoulder. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.
Were you anyone else on the team, you would have left hours ago. Engineers have their roles, and their limits, and the boundaries they don't cross. But you are not just anyone, and neither is Minghao. He is not just Jun’s teammate. He is his best friend, his other half on and off the track. And you, well, you are many things to Junhui. Race engineer, yes, but also history. Familiarity. You have known him just as long. Perhaps more strongly in ways that Minghao may never understand. You stay because you want to, and because, perhaps, he expects you to.
You don't know what the outside world is saying. Maybe they’re speculating or spinning stories, but you have never cared for gossip, and tonight is no different. The media will do its job. The public relations team will handle the rest. You let your body go slack, resting your weight against Minghao’s shoulder as your mind quiets for the first time since the news broke.
You hope, above all, that Minghao is not carrying the weight of this night alone. You are angry with him, and you may stay angry for a while—but you hope he is breathing beside you, and that he still knows how to handle Jun, even when everything is slipping.
-
I had not expected to see him that afternoon, let alone have him witness the very moment my pride collapsed onto the concrete pavement outside that coffee shop. It had been raining earlier, so the ground was still damp, and my shoes slipped slightly when I stepped out the door, trailing behind someone who had just shattered whatever illusion of love I had held onto for months. We hadn’t raised our voices, but the finality in his tone had cut deeper than anything shouted ever could. And just like that, he walked away.
I remember standing there, blinking too fast and breathing too hard, unsure whether I was more furious or humiliated. My heart felt too loud, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking. And then, from across the narrow street, he appeared. Jun. He had witnessed the end of something private, something small and devastating, and for a moment, I thought he might pretend he had not. But instead, he crossed over, walked straight into the little shop, and returned with two cones of vanilla ice-cream. He said nothing. Just extended both to me, one in each hand, and watched as I stared at them, confused and glassy-eyed. I took them anyway. He wiped a tear from my cheek with his sleeve, and with a restraint that made me ache in ways I couldn't yet name.
He never did well with emotion. Or probably it was his way of showing care, wordless and unassuming that wraps itself around you without asking for attention. He didn’t stay long, though. He nodded once imperceptibly, and walked back across the street, leaving me alone with two melting cones and a grief that had begun to soften just slightly in the echo of his presence. I felt bad for forgetting about my ex for some time.
-
The noise around you stirs you awake from your uneasy sleep. Your eyes blink open to unfamiliar movement, and as your vision sharpens, you catch a glimpse of someone who resembles Ms. Lee in the far corner of the corridor. You lift your head slowly, only then realizing that you had still been resting against a shoulder while wondering if that woman is Mrs. Smith or not. As you turn, you find Minghao still beside you, his expression blank with fatigue, though his brows knit slightly when your movement draws his attention.
You clear your throat a bit awkwardly. “What’s up?”
He doesn't respond. His eyes merely shift forward again, as if the question had never been asked. Rude, you think, without the energy to voice it aloud.
But now that you’re properly looking at him, you see it. His eyes are rimmed in red and heavy-lidded, the weight that comes not from tears, but from hours of relentless wakefulness. The guilt settles in your chest, like something you should have acknowledged sooner.
You rise from the bench, smoothing down your clothes, and glance around until your eyes land on Joshua in conversation with the attending physician a few meters away. Out of courtesy, you hang back, allowing their exchange the privacy it warrants, until Joshua notices you and waves you over with a brief flick of his hand.
The moment you join them, he turns to the doctor and asks, “When can we see him?”
The doctor adjusts his clipboard. “If his vitals remain stable, then in about an hour. He’s under observation for the next cycle, and we’re monitoring for any secondary symptoms. Given how he responded overnight, I’d say discharge by tonight is very likely—assuming no complications arise.”
Joshua nods once. “Hm, understood. Thank you.”
The doctor offers a polite smile before excusing himself with a thank you before disappearing behind the swinging doors that lead back into the restricted ward.
You exhale and turn to Joshua. “I’ll take this window to head to the hotel for a bit. I want to change and shower before we come back. Minghao should come with me—he looks like hell and hasn’t moved in hours. A change of air might do him good.”
Joshua considers for only a second before nodding. “Yeah, he needs it. And you’ll be back before visiting opens?”
“Before the hour’s up,” you assure him. “Text me if anything changes.”
You return to Minghao, where he remains seated with his hands clasped loosely in his lap, shoulders hunched forward. Without a word, you grip his arm and pull with all the strength your body can muster, determined to rouse him from whatever spiral he has buried himself in. He gives you a strange look, blinking at your persistence, and finally rises with slow, reluctant movements, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to let you expend your energy dragging him to his feet.
He still says nothing, so you talk first, “Let’s go back to the hotel,” only to be met with his utterly bored expression. You let out a breath, visibly annoyed. “Come on.”
His brow twitches, and for the first time since yesterday, his voice cuts through the silence. “It’s not time to play.”
“I’m being serious.”
He responds by simply sinking back down into the chair.
You steel your voice. “Jun will be ready for visitation in an hour. I need to freshen up, take a shower, and I’ll be back before then.”
That, at least, provokes a shift. His shoulders ease just slightly, the tension in his jaw softening, though he does well to mask it. “Go ahead,” he mutters.
You cross your arms, irritation bubbling just beneath your skin. “I’m not going unless you come too.”
“Sure,” he replies flatly, eyes trained firmly on the floor, refusing so much as to glance your way.
Your patience starts getting thin, and you lean in just enough to provoke him. “Oh, so you do care about Jun. I see.”
That gets his attention. He turns to you with a flash of frustration in his eyes, and before you can even begin to salvage the moment, before you can remind yourself that you are catastrophically bad at damage control, his hand closes tightly around yours. He tugs you forward without any warning, leading you behind him through the corridor with his strides.
“Let’s go then,” he voices it out, clipped but resolute.
You shake your head to yourself, trailing in his wake, unable to suppress the thought. This pride will be the end of them one day.
Minghao begins to walk in the direction of his parked car when you call out and tell him that you will be driving and that you will be taking your own vehicle instead. He offers no resistance, which surprises you slightly, though in retrospect, his silence makes kind of sense.
The two of you settle into your car without another word, fastening your seat belts before you begin the short drive toward the city.
Barely two minutes into the journey, he finally speaks, asking where exactly you are headed. “The hotel,” you reply evenly, not glancing away from the road.
He frowns. “This isn’t the way.”
You blink unimpressed, and ask, ”Did you genuinely think I meant the hotel booked for the team?” He doesn't answer, and you scoff before adding, “That hotel is literally thirty minutes away from the hospital, and there would be no way to return before Jun’s visitation window if you went there.”
He just nods and says, “Figured.”
“As if,” you respond under your breath dryly.
You reach the hotel in about five minutes. These days, hotels of decent standard are scattered across every part of the city, and this one is both conveniently located and secure—on par with the team’s official booking, but far closer to the hospital. You and Minghao check in quickly, presenting your identification, and are offered a large suite with two separate bathrooms. One room was sufficient; not only is it the more efficient choice, but privacy is paramount, and the front desk is given explicit instruction to limit all disturbances. You make a note to request heightened discretion in the event that anyone recognizes Minghao, and the staff assures you of reinforced security.
Sharing space with him is hardly strange. You are, after all, his ex race engineer and his sister, and now serve as Jun’s current engineer. Your name exists enough in public circles that no one will dare misconstrue the arrangement.
Once inside, you waste no time. You push Minghao toward one of the bathrooms and disappear into the other. Neither of you speak until later. Showers are taken quickly, steam and silence doing what they can to dull exhaustion that was carried in. You both emerge in white robes, only to change back into the same clothes from earlier because desperation wins over style. When you exit the bathroom, Minghao is seated on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands still.
You cross the room and stop in front of him.
"I'm sorry," you begin. "I don’t really know what to say." He doesn’t respond and not even a shift in his posture. You continue, "I was a little mad at first, but I never blamed you. I just… I hope you don’t either. I hope you don’t sit here and spend the rest of your life convincing yourself this was your fault."
Still, no reply. His eyes are lowered on to the wall or whatever there is. You reach out to ruffle his hair, intending to step away, but he finally speaks.
“It is kind of my fault,” he says tonelessly. “I worked him up. I didn’t back down. And now he’s in a hospital bed and might not race for weeks.” You remain quiet while waiting for him to continue speaking, because you know he’s got more to say. “I could tell he wasn’t doing well. The things he said to me after the race… I know I pissed him off, but it wasn’t just that. He doesn’t see me as a teammate anymore. He sees me as competition. Maybe even worse.”
He just states it plainly with certainty you can’t argue with.
“I know,” you admit. “It felt like that. But Jun isn’t himself either. You both know how to pull each other apart. It’s not one person’s fault.”
“I still can’t let it go,” he says. “Because, what he said… it was still wrong.”
You sit beside him, unsure of how to fix a fracture neither of you caused alone. You pat his shoulder with a, “It’s okay,” then step away to answer the knock at the door, already assuming it to be room service.
The clock reads forty minutes past the hour—twenty minutes remain before Jun’s visitation begins. You feel prideful about yourself [a bit of Minghao for understanding the importance of time management] for managing to freshen up within time, and also for offering Minghao a semblance of comfort, however unqualified your words may have been.
You retrieve the meal from the cart, choosing something simple and clean, and hand one portion to Minghao with a gesture, your hand nudging the container into his as you say, “Eat up. I’ll check us out.” He accepts it wordlessly, following behind with your shared bag slung over his shoulder; your laptop the only item you brought in your rush to the hospital last night.
The hotel check-out was fast, and you return to the car, taking the wheel as Minghao settles beside you in silence, his elbow resting against the window, fingers pressed lightly to his temple. You don’t speak. This is how he grieves: quietly, inwardly, without any invitation.
The drive back takes just under five minutes—mercy from the city’s usual congestion. You pull into the hospital entrance with eight minutes to spare before Jun’s visitation window begins.
As you begin to walk toward the lift, Minghao reaches out and catches your hand, prompting you to pause and glance back at him with expectation of why he just stopped you. He hesitates for a moment before asking, “Are you okay?”
You respond with a smile, assuring him, “I am managing just fine.”
He lowers his gaze slightly and murmurs, “It must be difficult for you too—being Jun’s race engineer and witnessing the rift that’s grown between us.”
Yet you shake your head and tell him, “I'm doing what I can, and all I really want is for Jun to return to his usual self, to put his pride aside, and for you to heal from whatever has been festering.” He gives a nod in acknowledgment, so you offer a final remark with lightness in your tone, “Stay focused and gather all the points you can while you still have the advantage, because once Jun returns, I won’t be giving you any leeway,” before you start walking again.
Thankfully, you arrive just in time. “The doctor will call in a minute,” Joshua informs you, and you nod with an, “Alright.”
You and Minghao take your seats in the waiting area, waiting in silence until the doctor eventually appears. The team principal and Joshua are the first to go in, followed by a few other staff members whom you insist should see Jun before you, so that when it’s finally your turn, you wouldn't need to rush out.
Minghao remains beside you throughout the wait, wordless but present, until nearly half an hour passes and the room finally empties. Joshua raises his hand and gestures for the two of you to enter, so you rise and follow him in.
The moment you step inside, your eyes go straight to Jun. He is the only thing you see at first, then the angry purple spreading across the ridge of his cheekbone, and the dried blood cracking at the corner of his mouth. You feel your throat tighten and emotion clawing its way up, but you swallow it down. Accidents are part of this world, inevitable, even necessary sometimes. They teach caution. Still, if this had been Minghao, you know you would have been by his side from the moment it happened, for as long as he needed, even through all the arguments and cold wars that define your sibling bond. But with Jun, it’s different. The relationship is just as important, but off-limits all the same, and you remind yourself of that bitter truth as you glance at Minghao, who, like you, says nothing and remains standing.
You move forward and take the seat to Jun’s right. “How are you feeling?” you ask nicely, making sure your voice is measured.
“Hurts like shit,” he murmurs with a faint attempt at a smirk, and you allow yourself a small exhale.
Minghao remains still behind you, and not once does Jun acknowledge his presence. The tension is deafening. Jun doesn't look at him, and Minghao says nothing, though you can feel his silence that is laced with a hurt that you know all too well.
He didn’t sleep, and barely breathed through the night, yet his best friend can't spare him a single glance. Your patience begins to fray. You bite back the anger that simmers under your ribs, because now isn't the time. Jun may be upright, awake, responsive—but he is still healing. And though the conversation is shallow, all surface-level civility, it's enough for now. The grogginess in Jun’s tone matches what the doctor told you earlier—he may be alert, but he is still weak, and the real confrontation can wait. For now, you stay.
-
📰 BREAKING: Wen Junhui to Return to China Following Off-Track Accident in Baku
Reported by Rev from Grand Prix Bulletin
September 22, 2025 | 11:08 AM
Sebong Racing has confirmed that driver Wen Junhui will be flying back to China for recovery following an off-track vehicular accident that occurred hours after the conclusion of the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.
According to an official team statement, the incident took place on a restricted-access road near the paddock zone late Sunday evening. While no third-party vehicles or pedestrians were involved, preliminary reports from both internal telemetry logs and security footage suggest the accident was the result of aggressive acceleration and unstable control inputs, signs consistent with impaired emotional focus rather than mechanical failure.
Junhui was transported to a medical facility immediately after the incident. Team medical officials have now disclosed that the driver sustained a Grade 1 concussion and cervical strain, both of which require rest and ongoing monitoring, though his condition remains stable and non-critical.
“While Jun’s injuries are minor by medical definition, the decision to repatriate him to China was made in consultation with our medical advisors and his family,” said Sebong team principal Chee Smith. “Recovery in a familiar and private environment will ensure a more comprehensive return to form.”
Junhui is expected to remain under rest and observation for the coming week, after which further evaluations will determine his timeline for return.
The team has not commented on the emotional circumstances leading to the incident, though internal sources note tensions following the race and visible signs of mental fatigue. Further updates will be shared as they become available.
-
Sebong Confirms Wen Junhui to Sit Out Singapore GP 2025; Reserve Driver Jeon Wonwoo Steps In
September 23, 2025 — 9:02 AM GMT+1
WRITTEN by RaeSide
Sebong Racing has officially confirmed that Wen Junhui will not participate in the upcoming Singapore Grand Prix, citing medical recovery protocols following his post-race accident in Baku.
The decision was made after extensive review by both FIA medical staff and Sebong’s internal team of specialists. Though Junhui’s injuries are namely a minor concussion and cervical muscle strain, they don't pose long-term risks, but doctors have advised that he refrain from high-speed driving until cleared in full. The team has not ruled out a return later in the season, but have confirmed he will miss at least one race, with further participation evaluated on a week-by-week basis.
Stepping in to replace him is Jeon Wonwoo, Sebong’s official reserve and simulator driver since 2023. Known for his composure during testing sessions, Jeon will make his Formula 1 race debut in Singapore.
Wonwoo has been instrumental behind the scenes with data simulations and development feedback. He’s familiar with both the car and our engineering protocols, and we’re confident in his ability to deliver a composed performance under pressure. — team manager Joshua Hong.
Junhui’s absence raises short-term questions about Sebong’s strategy in the Constructors’ Championship, where the team is currently positioned fourth. Nonetheless, team representatives emphasized that the priority remains Junhui’s full recovery and long-term performance sustainability.
The driver pairing of Minghao Xu and Jeon Wonwoo will run the weekend in Singapore, with practice sessions providing the final car setup evaluations.
Further announcements will be made ahead of the next race weekend.
-
“So, um, I’ll see you later this week,” you say, standing beside him at the terminal gate, your flight to Singapore now boarding. Though you're momentarily unassigned, duty calls, and the team expects your presence.
Jun reaches out to pat your head, his hand staying there for a second before he says, “Take care. Work well. Don’t overthink things too much.” You nod, though both of you understand what goes unsaid—he is still unwell, emotionally and mentally, and you're not entirely certain whether he truly wants you near him right now.
You want to stay back, scream at him, make him talk to Minghao, and finally release all the frustration and pride he's been clinging to. Perhaps if he just talked, if he stopped misreading the only person who’s been in his corner all along, it wouldn’t feel so suffocating between them. Maybe if he threw that cursed phone out of the window, half his miseries would resolve themselves. He'll begin therapy soon enough, and you'll visit when it seems he is ready to face you—and the anger you’ve been holding back.
You step forward and wrap your arms around him, holding him while his arms return the gesture in full. He feels warm, familiar, and so yours, even though he isn’t. Pulling away with reluctance buried beneath your composure, you bid him goodbye and walk alongside Minghao and the rest of the team towards your gate, leaving Jun behind to board his own flight to China, which is scheduled to depart in another hour.
You settle into your seat beside Minghao on the plane. It has always been routine for the three of you to alternate seating arrangements. Sometimes Minghao and Jun would sit together, other times Minghao with you, while Jun shared a row with Joshua or someone else.
Barely two minutes pass before Minghao glances at you from the side and, in a tone that holds no trace of humour, asks, “Do you have feelings for Jun? Romantic feelings?”
Your breath catches, and for a moment, you are too stunned to speak. “What? Absolutely not. Are you insane?” you say, though the denial tumbles from your mouth far too quickly for comfort.
“That hug didn’t look platonic to me.”
You blink at him, offended. “It was just a hug, and I wasn’t exactly holding a stopwatch. What, you want us to high five next time?”
“I’m serious,” he turns fully toward you now. “I don’t like it. I don’t want you getting close to him outside of work.”
You frown. “You do understand that we grew up together? Do you?”
“I don’t care,” he states plainly. “And I don’t think Jun sees you the same way you see him.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “What is wrong with you? We’re strictly platonic. Jun and I have always been that way, and honestly, even if we weren’t, you have no right to dictate who I’m close to.”
“I do have a right,” he snaps. “Because you’re not just some girl I know. You're my sister, and even if I didn’t have that right, it still wouldn’t be him.”
You exhale, trying to calm yourself. Minghao’s pettiness is unusually transparent right now. He’s almost never like this openly emotional, sharp-edged in his judgment, but maybe the strain of their recent fallout has clouded his usual logic. Or maybe this has always been how he felt. You’ve never tried opening up to him about your feelings for Jun, largely because Jun himself has never shown the faintest hint of interest, but now you are certain: if there is anyone in this world you cannot tell, it's Minghao.
You rest your head back against the seat and turn slightly toward the window, hiding the swell of exhaustion behind your lashes. You try to calm your heart, try to tell yourself this conversation is simply an outcome of stress and temper. But deep inside, you're forced to confront the truth that if this is how Minghao reacts to just the idea of you being close to Jun, there's no universe in which you could ever admit the feelings you’ve been carefully tucking away. You can't tell him.
“I just don’t get why this bothers you so much,” you say after a pause. “Jun and I are not like that. We’ve never been like that.”
“That’s the problem,” Minghao's arms are crossed as he leans toward you slightly. “You’re too close, and maybe you’re too blind to see how that looks to everyone else.”
You shake your head as your patience thins. “There is nothing to see. We grew up together. We trained together. I’ve seen him puke after track drills, and he’s watched me cry over simulation crashes. If that’s romance to you, then I feel sorry for your future spouse.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says tightly. “You’re affectionate. You care too much. You look at him like you’d wait forever if he just turned around once.”
You blink at him stunned not by the accuracy, but by the fact that he noticed at all. “Even if that were true,” you say carefully wording it, “he’s never turned, and you know I wouldn’t let feelings get in the way of work. I’m his engineer, Minghao. Not his lover.”
Minghao huffs a bitter laugh. “I don’t want you to be either.”
Your eyebrows pull together. “That’s not your choice to make.”
“It is when it’s Jun,” he snaps. “Anyone but him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you say flatly. “You’re being petty because you two fought. That’s not a valid reason to hate him all of a sudden.”
“I’m not being petty,” his voice rising despite himself. “I’m being honest. You deserve someone who won’t treat you like a background convenience. He doesn’t even really see you, And yet you... you’d burn for him, wouldn't you?”
You don’t answer, because the silence between you says what you never will.
Minghao slumps back slightly but doesn’t look away. “He’s not the one for you. I’m sorry, but I won’t pretend to be okay with it.”
Your chest tightens and thoughts tangle, “you don’t have to be okay with anything, but you also don’t get to decide what I feel.”
“I don’t want to watch you get hurt by someone who doesn’t even know how lucky he is.”
Your voice softens just a bit but still going strong. “That’s not your responsibility.” He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t agree either.
-
You begin your day before dawn, arriving at the paddock ahead of schedule because you refuse to feel unprepared. The garage is quiet this early, so you station yourself at your terminal, reviewing the overnight data logs one last time: tyre degradation simulations, downforce mapping, delta spreads between Wonwoo’s FP2 runs and Jun’s historic baselines on the same circuit.
Though Jun is absent, your mind operates as if he were still here. You annotate setup preferences that might translate for Wonwoo, cross-referencing them against driver feedback from trackwalks and telemetry overlays. You don't speak much to anyone unless approached; your presence is understood and your focus remains uninterrupted and respected by the team. When Wonwoo enters for the morning briefing, you pass him the updated car behaviour notes you compiled, stating only the essentials and then stepping aside to allow his own engineer to lead.
The technical director asks for a final debrief before you depart for China to check up on Jun, so you remain behind after the garage closes to update the central log with your recommendations and analysis. You keep your wording neutral and impersonal, although every graph you touch still reflects Jun’s style of driving. Before shutting your laptop, you upload one copy of your notes onto the secured remote link, the one only he and you share. You don't write a message to go with it.
At the end of the day, you return to the hotel with the others, pack somewhat, and leave a short message with the team operations manager regarding your flight to Shenzhen. No one asks why you are going, because they already know. They already know that you aren't travelling for leisure, nor for the reassignment, you are going because Jun is still your driver.
As you make your way through the airport, prepared to confront every irritable checkpoint officer just to get to your gate, your phone rings. The caller ID displays Minghao’s name, so you answer without hesitation.
“Where are you?”
“At the airport. Where else would I be?” you respond without hiding your irritation.
But then, a shoulder nudges yours, and as you turn around to see who's bothering you, you almost cuss. Minghao is standing directly in front of you, phone still pressed to his ear with an infuriatingly blank expression on his face.
“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask, stunned.
He doesn’t reply immediately, instead, he falls into step beside you with his boarding pass in hand, and offers only a slight shrug. “I had a day,” he just states. “And I don’t trust you not to cry alone in your bedroom.”
You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth twitches. “Just say you don’t trust Jun not to flirt with me while recovering from a near-death experience.”
He scoffs, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. “I just don’t want him thinking you flew across countries for him alone. That’s the problem with Jun. Y’all keep making it too easy.”
You say nothing, but you know he means you more than anyone else. You’re painfully aware of how the accident and Jun’s coldness afterward have affected Minghao. You’re equally aware that your brother doesn’t want you around Jun without some sort of emotional chaperone, convinced you’ll slip or fall into feelings you swore to deny. It’s part overbearing protectiveness, part jealousy, paranoia, and entirely Minghao. He would never admit it aloud, but tagging along is his way of keeping watch and from shielding you without saying he’s worried.
And if you're being honest, he shouldn't be worried. You’ve wanted to hit Jun, scream at him, and kiss him all in the same breath for years now. You’ve long since accepted that you like him more than you probably should, but you've also accepted that you will never tell him, because it’s clear he doesn’t feel the same. If you ever confessed, he'd shut you out, and you aren’t willing to lose whatever closeness remains.
Still, Minghao’s antagonism stirs pettiness in you. The more he insists you can’t be with Jun, the more tempting the idea becomes. But regardless of what your brother believes, the truth remains unchanged: you found love in the only place it wasn't supposed to be, and that is, in your brother’s best friend.
Boarding is miraculously smooth, thanks to Minghao’s privilege, and you find your seats quickly. Once settled, he leans toward you with the composure of a man about to deliver a public service announcement.
“Listen carefully,” he begins. “No romantic stares, no emotional monologues, no touching. You are there to check on your driver, not to fall in love.” You roll your eyes again, but he isn’t finished. “I know you’re lying through your teeth, but I’m choosing to believe you because we’re blood. And blood is thicker than water. But I swear, if you so much as look at him in a way that confirms anything, I’m flying him straight to Antarctica.”
“You hate him that much now?” you huff rolling your eyes.
“Hate is generous,” he says. “I loathe him.”
You don't bother to argue further, allowing Minghao to cling to his so-called loathing of Jun as he pleases. Deep down, you know it's a complicated mixture of jealousy, frustration, and genuine concern that fuels his bitterness. You choose silence over confrontation, understanding that some battles are better left unwaged, especially when the feelings involved are so tangled and unresolved.
After nearly four hours in the air, you arrive at Shenzhen airport without incident. The journey was uneventful, and soon after landing, you and Minghao part ways to return to your respective residences. it's decided… rather declared, that he will pick you up in an hour because, in his own words, you cannot be trusted alone with Jun. You know his possessiveness for what it is: a blend of paranoia and pettiness, that only a brother could justify. You comply without protest because you are too tired to argue, and it's not as if you are planning to propose or fuck Jun or something. You return to your apartment, unpack, wash your face, and rot onto your bed. There, you drift in a fog of thought: Jun’s injuries, the impending shift in the team, Wonwoo’s upcoming responsibilities, and the undefined shape of your own role within it all. Eventually, fatigue tugs you under without any warning.
The doorbell startles you awake. You drag yourself out of bed, shuffling across the floor, brushing hair from your face as you reach the door and twist the lock open. Minghao stands there with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, expression unimpressed.
"Let’s go."
"Why?" you croak, voice hoarse from sleep.
"I told you I’d pick you up. We’re going to see Jun."
You look at him dazed. "I just woke up. I thought we were going later."
"Unless you changed your mind and don’t want to see that dumbass, I’m still driving."
You frown and cross your arms. "I obviously want to see Jun. And he’s not a dumbass."
Minghao rolls his eyes with theatrical exaggeration. "You’re defending him now? Great."
You glance down at yourself and gesture vaguely at your oversized t-shirt and socks. "I’m not going anywhere looking like this."
"You had an hour to get dressed, and you don’t need to look good to visit someone in recovery. You’re not there to impress him."
"I’m not trying to impress him," you huff. "I just don’t want to look like a corpse in public."
"No one’s looking at you anyway."
"Fine. Since you’re so sure, now I’ll dress up just for Jun."
He raises an eyebrow, "That’s pathetic."
You ignore him entirely, spinning on your heel as he mutters under his breath, and disappear into your room, already mentally pairing your eyeliner with petty vengeance.
You get out of your room fully dressed, adorned as though you were preparing for an evening date rather than a patient visit. It's rare for you to put this much effort into your appearance without a formal occasion, and while both Minghao and Jun have seen you dressed elegantly before, it was always for birthdays, ceremonies, or team events—not for an undefined visit on an unremarkable day. You have never simply chosen to look beautiful for no reason, and certainly never in front of the two of them without context.
Minghao glances up at you, unimpressed. “Go change.”
“No.”
He scoffs and looks away. “You look ridiculous. You’re not walking into Jun’s room looking like this.”
“You’re being dramatic,” you brush invisible lint off your sleeve.
“You’re being shameless.”
You inhale and then glare at him. “I’m literally just dressed. I’m not naked. Let’s go.”
“I’ll tell him you did it for attention.”
“I’ll tell him you cried watching K-drama clips on TikTok last week.”
His jaw tightens. “Low blow.”
You smile, sickly sweet. “Still want to keep playing?”
He says nothing, just storms ahead toward the elevator with his shoulders tense and silent in his sulking. Despite all the pettiness exchanged, you follow him out the door, neither of you having won the argument, and Minghao visibly bitter about it.
The drive goes in complete silence just as you anticipated, and before you can even register the passage of time, Minghao pulls into the familiar residential complex. Jun has been instructed to remain at home under strict rest, with no physical exertion or simulation training permitted until cleared by his attending physician, who is scheduled to visit at intervals of four to five hours for neurological observation and vitals monitoring, as per the team's medical protocol.
You step out of the car and walk toward the entrance, knocking on the door yourself because Minghao, saturated in his own quiet resentment, can't be bothered to lift a hand and do even the smallest gesture of civility. Moments later, the door swings open. Jun appears on the other side, and for a fleeting second, his expression lights up in genuine surprise at the sight of you—then stays a moment longer, clearly taken aback by how beautiful you look, eyes momentarily flicking down in disbelief before rising again to meet yours.
“Surprise,” you smile at him.
His eyes move past you to the figure beside you, and just as quickly, his face falters. The warmth dissipates fully as his gaze rests on Minghao. Without a word, Jun steps aside, granting you enough space to enter, though it’s clear the atmosphere has already changed.
You walk into his apartment, the scent and arrangement as familiar as ever, and lower yourself onto the sofa.
“How are you feeling now?” you ask as you glance over at him.
Jun leans against the wall with his arms crossed, “Better than yesterday. Still a bit dizzy when I get up too fast,” he admits to you though his tone sounds a bit quiet.
“Are you eating properly?” you follow up.
“Trying to.” He shrugs, then looks toward the hallway, “Nurse dropped off some food earlier.”
Minghao remains standing, arms folded, as if part of the furniture. “They said you’ll have your next evaluation in a few hours?” you ask.
“Yeah. Doctor's coming at four. Might change the medication again depending on the scan results.”
You nod, “And the team doctor? Did they call?”
Jun lets out a slight sigh. “They called in the morning. Said I’m grounded until they get three clean reports in a row. Something about balance reflexes and neural feedback. I don’t know.”
“It’s standard, you know that,” you are watching his face carefully as you talk.
He offers a nod, eyes drifting away. “Still feels like shit hearing it.”
You glance at Minghao who hasn’t moved. “You want to say something?”
“No.”
Jun exhales, maybe a bit annoyed. “Did you drag him here?”
You shake your head. “No. He insisted on coming.”
Jun scoffs under his breath. “Of course.”
“Stop it,” you say. “Both of you.”
You lean back into the couch, preparing yourself to play mediator in the war they still refuse to let die between them. Minghao turns to you with a look so dumbfounded and wounded, it makes you wince.
“What did I do?” he demands, his voice fogged with disbelief. “He literally just insulted me and I’m the one who needs to stop?” You open your mouth since you are painfully aware of how flimsy your neutrality must look, but you forgot how to speak under this pressure. Minghao lets out a bitter laugh and then turning to Jun, adds with somewhat of no respect, “For your information, I don’t trust you to be alone with her.”
Jun looks a bit stunned at that and raises his eyebrow. “What is wrong with you? Since when are you so protective?”
“She’s my sister,” Minghao snaps at him. “And no, I don’t trust you.”
“Do you think I’d do something to her?” Jun’s tone climbs. “She’s my engineer. We’ve spent just as much time together, if not more, than you have with her. This is so ridiculous.”
You shoot a horrified glance between the two of them, feeling the room heat up, yet you remain frozen, unable to defuse anything.
“Well, from now on,” Minghao cuts in and you can see his jaw visibly clench, “I’ll be around every time she’s here.”
Jun scoffs. “You think I’m going to make a move on her? That’s what you’re scared of?”
“Yes,” Minghao replies flatly.
You stare at him, bewildered. Just days ago he was accusing you of making a move on Jun, and now he’s flipped 180° completely, convinced it’s Jun who poses the threat. You keep silent, unsure which version of your brother is more unhinged.
Jun’s expression twists in frustration. “She can stay here if she wants, but it’s disgusting that your mind even goes there.” That hits more than you expect. So this is how he sees it. The idea of me… of us, together in any way, is repulsive to him. Not just implausible. Repulsive.
“If you can have the audacity to think I’m a threat to you, then I absolutely have the right to see you as a threat to her,” Minghao tells Jun as a matter of fact.
Jun falters at that, momentarily taken aback. You, sitting between them, watch two people you love destroy years of friendship with each exchanged words aimed just low enough to scar. You feel helpless, all you can do is sit still and hope they stop before the pieces are too small to fix.
Jun recovers his composure then looks directly at you. “If she wants to spend time with me, she will. I don’t need your permission, Minghao. You don’t control her. And if she wants to date me, she’ll date me. If I want to date her, I will.”
That catches you off guard, making your breath hitch for the smallest second. Minghao stiffens, stepping forward as his jaw tightens. “You think this is control? You think I’m doing this for fun?” he hisses. “You’re delusional if you believe you’re some innocent victim here. You’ve done nothing but shut me out, and now you're pretending you care?”
Jun’s voice hardens, “You’re the one drawing lines in places they don’t exist. I’ve never seen her as anything but—”
“Stop. Please. Just stop.” You shoot up from your seat which makes both of them shut up. You inhale shakily and turn to Jun, trying your best to stay composed. “I should go now. I’ll visit again soon, but I’m leaving China tomorrow morning. Please take care of yourself until then.”
“You don’t have to leave just because Minghao’s being ridiculous.”
You shake your head firmly. “I’m not leaving because of Minghao.” You look at both of them now and no longer try to mask the exhaustion etched into your expression. “I’m leaving because both of you are being ridiculous. You’re ruining something that’s been standing for over a decade, and for what? Misplaced pride? Bruised egos? You both need to grow up. This isn’t just what happened on that track or in that hospital. It’s how neither of you know how to speak when you both should and how both of you would rather fight than admit you're hurt.” A tear slips down your cheek, and you make no effort to hide it. “You’re both being fucking dumbasses.”
For the first time in like fifteen minutes, both their heads are bowed. You're sure it's not because they feel guilty, but maybe because they had in the faint realization that they’ve let it go too far. And you walk away with your heart heavy, because someone has to be the adult here.
You slide into the passenger seat and close the door with a tired exhale. A minute later, Minghao joins you, wordlessly settling behind the wheel. He doesn’t speak for a while, only stating he’s starting the car, and you remain silent as the car comes to life. The road begins to blur past the windows before he finally breaks the silence.
“I’m sorry for how I kept going back and forth with him. I know it probably exhausted you too.”
You rub your temple, your fingers pressing against the tension gathering at your brow, and offer him a nod. “I appreciate that. And I’m sorry too. I know asking you to stop must’ve hurt, especially when you weren’t the one who started it in the first place. He hums barely audible, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You wait a second before speaking again. “Jun is wrong right now, but he’s not stable enough to see past his own thoughts. He needs time to figure out that you’re not his enemy. And in the meantime, you seriously need to control the absolute nonsense that keeps coming out of your mouth.
He scoffs, but not without a tinge of guilt. “So I should just stay quiet and let him keep saying whatever the hell he wants?”
“No. Try being kind for once. Or at the very least, be the bigger person. Stop shouting like you're twelve and listen to what he’s really saying.”
“He doesn’t want to talk. He just wants to make everything my fault.”
“Maybe because he thinks it is, maybe because he needs someone to blame, and maybe, if you actually showed him that you still care, even a little, he'd realise how stupid all this is.”
Minghao gives you no reply, and from the tight press of his lips and his grip on the steering wheel, you can tell he has chosen to take your advice of silence. It's not because he agrees with you and understood what you said, but because he believes arguing further would only affirm his suspicion that you're speaking nonsense.
The car rolls to a stop outside your apartment building. You reach for the handle, but before you can open the door, Minghao speaks sharply, “Don’t sneak out to see him alone.”
You whip your head to him and throw your hand in the air, exasperated. “Drop that attitude. And while you’re at it, you still owe him an apology for that punch. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
“I’ll think about it.”
And with that, you step out, shutting the door behind you and walking toward the building without another glance.
-
CONFIDENTIAL PSYCHOTHERAPY SESSION NOTE
Filed by: Dr. Lin Yuchen, PhD, Clinical Psychologist | Federation Medical Advisory Unit – Performance and Trauma Division
PATIENT: Wen Junhui | Professional F1 Driver, Sebong Racing
SESSION DATE: September 27
SESSION #: 2 of 6 (Post-Incident Acute Cycle)
LOCATION: Private Residence – Shenzhen
DURATION: 65 minutes
PRESENTATION & INITIAL OBSERVATIONS:
Patient received me at the door with a neutral expression and remained courteous but notably distant throughout the interaction. He remains under medical observation for minor concussion, soft tissue injuries, and a bruised orbital ridge. Though cleared for conversation and light psychological engagement, he demonstrated mild photosensitivity and occasional disassociation.
Arrived to the session having just completed mandatory physical rehabilitation check-in. Hair slightly damp, likely showered recently. Wore casual clothing which was a loose-fitting hoodie and sweatpants, indicating an attempt to remain comfortable. No outward signs of distress but sat angled toward the window, eyes tracking movement outside more than meeting mine.
Mood flat. Affect constricted. Minimal gesturing. Paused frequently, required some prompting. Showed resistance to discussing certain topics, particularly around team dynamics.
SESSION THEMES:
1. Professional Displacement & Loss of Rhythm
Expressed difficulty reconciling with the current state of non-participation. Verbalized frustration not about the accident itself, but the subsequent void in routine:
“It’s the noise I miss. The schedule. The weight of the suit. Not even the adrenaline—just… waking up and knowing who I am.”
Demonstrates emerging identity disturbance triggered by sudden removal from competitive structure. Physical limitations compound the sense of stagnation. Patient repeatedly mentions ‘points,’ ‘lead,’ and ‘margin’ in reference to standings, yet does not mention the collision directly until prompted.
2. Interpersonal Conflict
The conversation eventually shifted toward the recent altercation with teammate Xu Minghao. Describes it not as an argument but, A break I didn’t want. When asked to elaborate, the patient reluctantly admitted guilt and emotional fatigue, stating:
“I said things I wouldn’t say if I’d slept. Or if I wasn’t afraid of what he’d say first.”
Patient perceives former friend as now inherently mistrustful of him. Describes Minghao’s protectiveness toward a shared colleague (engineer) with derision but also some resignation. Direct quote:
“He probably thinks I’m going to hurt her. That I’m reckless with people too. Maybe I am. Maybe he’s right.”
This led to mild agitation. He briefly removed his compression brace, then returned it to his wrist without comment. No aggressive behavior exhibited, but non-verbal indicators pointed to internal distress.
3. Emotional Detachment & Avoidance
Efforts to explore emotional fallout from the accident yielded guarded, often dissociative language. Patient resists feeling vocabulary, preferring metaphors. When asked how he felt seeing others worry for him:
“Like I was watching them through a one-way mirror. Everyone’s looking, but no one really sees you.”
There were subtle but recurring allusions to a specific individual (the aforementioned engineer) regarding perceived disappointment and concern. Mentions her by first name only once, but refers obliquely five times.
Though romantic implications were not stated outright, the attachment appears more than professional. Patient was unwilling to explore further, deflecting with a, It’s not relevant. That statement alone, however, denotes awareness of its emotions.
TREATMENT PLAN:
Encourage cognitive restructuring around self-worth beyond physical output and competitive success.
Guided journaling: reflections not only on race strategy but emotional responses to team interactions.
Begin boundary work and processing of rupture in primary friendships (esp. with Xu Minghao).
Introduce somatic grounding techniques to reconnect body awareness during post-injury stillness.
Postpone any attempts to process affectional confusion until baseline regulation is re-established.
PROGNOSIS:
Patient displays clear signs of psychological fatigue, loss of purpose, and fractured relational trust, but still maintains executive function and a desire to ‘fix’ what has been broken. Insight is emerging, though distorted by pride and shame. His readiness to speak, even if reluctantly, suggests openness to recovery.
NOTABLE QUOTE (UNPROMPTED):
“I’ll race again. That part’s easy. But I don’t know if I’ll get them back. I mean the people.”
NEXT SESSION: Scheduled October 3rd, 10:00 AM CST
NOTE: Recommend medical clearance for light social interaction but continued restriction on team-related stressors. Emotional monitoring advised should tensions escalate post-Shanghai debrief.
-
You decided to be good. You don't sneak out at night, or risk another argument with Minghao, and also don't attempt to soothe your own anxiety by showing up at Jun’s door again. Instead, you do what a good girl should do: you stay in your apartment, shower off the noise of yesterday’s clash, fold your clothes, and pack your luggage for Singapore. When sleep eventually comes, it's brittle and shallow, but at least it comes.
The next morning arrives with the inevitability of duty. You wake before your alarm, and after getting dressed, you meet the Minghao in the lobby. He's already waiting, arms crossed, back leaned against the tinted van. He doesn't say much, but his gaze stays on you as you approach, trying to read whether you disobeyed him. You meet his stare evenly, offering a nod that answers everything and nothing at once. So he doesn't ask.
The ride to the airport is boring. You do your job. You travel back as instructed. You board the plane to Singapore with Minghao, your credentials clipped neatly to your chest, your mind lodged somewhere between two cities, two boys, and a hundred unsaid things. And even as the plane lifts from the tarmac and the ground falls away beneath you, the weight on your chest doesn't lighten.
You didn't see Jun again. You were good. And yet, it hurt a bit.
Upon arriving in Singapore, you do what your role demands. You sit through the race briefings, cross-reference data from the last track with the early feedback Wonwoo provide during FP1, and adjust your notes accordingly for strategy recommendations. Although you are technically unassigned as Jun’s race engineer until his return, the team has requested you to observe and provide performance insights from the pitwall, acting as a backup and strategic consultant where needed. You don’t complain; it's better than rotting in a hotel room thinking about what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.
During Practice 2, you pace behind the monitors, headset on, scribbling observations while Minghao complains about understeer in Sector 3.
“It’s too twitchy mid-corner,” he says.
“Copy that,” you say into the comms, “Tell the garage we’ll adjust front wing angle by two clicks. Check tire pressures while you’re in.”
Though it isn’t your job to respond, the team still values your input enough to let you speak when necessary. Wonwoo, in the meantime, is really consistent, pushing laps with clean exits, sending no complaints unless asked. The real test comes on Qualifying night.
You find yourself once again standing behind the pitwall console, as you watch Minghao taking pole by two-tenths. The team erupts into applause, and you allow yourself a small smile. You glance toward where the engineers stand over telemetry, and Wonwoo walks back to the garage after securing P6 on the grid, which, with a penalty to another driver, promotes him to P5 for race start. He nods to you from there, and you raise a thumb in return. He is nice.
Race day arrives, and there's this common tension going on. You go through the motions: data review, temperature checks, telemetry coordination, race simulations. You remain by the engineers rather than in your usual position, giving necessary feedback where applicable. You stay in your lane, but you stay involved.
And when Minghao takes the chequered flag first, you press your knuckles to your lips, unwilling to cheer too loudly. The others flood the pitwall with roars and claps, but you remain composed, recording the final lap deltas and making notes of post-race debrief points.
Wonwoo finishes P5. It was solid, clean, measured, and no mistakes. There was no drama, too. You’ll mention it in the report later.
After the national anthem fades and the trophy is lifted with yet another champagne spray saturating the podium air, you return to the garage unassuming among the clapping staff and celebratory clatter. This win marks Minghao’s tenth this season. It's no small feat, but it feels procedural now, expected. You remain composed and you offer nods where needed.
The energy shifts later in the hospitality room. Minghao slips into the seat beside you without asking and hands you a chilled glass of water he didn’t pour for himself.
“You’re sitting like you’re not allowed to smile,” he says.
“I’m working,” you answer nonchalantly with your eyes still fixed on the digital sheets on your tablet.
“You always say that when you don’t want to talk to me.”
“I always say that because I’m always working.”
He huffs but says nothing further and tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, his elbow brushing against yours a little too often. You know what he’s doing. He is hovering like a territorial cat, and while it would usually make you roll your eyes or shove him off, tonight you simply remain still. Joshua throws you a long look from across the room, saying nothing. He knows. All four of you now live under the same shadow.
Wonwoo passes by and slows when he spots you, offering a lopsided but sincere smile.
“Thanks again,” he says. “For the notes before FP2. That adjustment made a real difference.”
“Glad it helped,” your tone is warmer than it has been all evening, though it costs you something.
He doesn’t stay long, just a respectful nod and then he’s gone, weaving through people who slap his back and offer grins for a job well done. P5 for his first race in Jun’s car is something no one’s overlooking.
You stare into your water and breathe. It should’ve been Jun.
Minghao catches the shift in your expression and leans closer. “Don’t do that. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not yours either.”
“Didn’t say it was. Just saying you don’t have to sit here like someone died.”
You finally turn to face him. “No one died, yes, but something… I don't know.”
He doesn't reply, only sighs, leaning back and rubbing his neck. The moment stretches into silence, familiar and awkward, until he mutters with an attempt at nonchalance:
“I’m hungry. Let’s go eat some real food. You’re gonna collapse from guilt and granola bars.”
“Fine. But I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“It's okay. I don't want to talk about this anyway. If I hear Jun’s name again tonight, I’ll drown you in the fountain.”
“Try me.”
He snorts at you. You walk beside him through the dim hallways. You don't know if this is peace or another intermission before another war. All you know is that Jun should have been there. And you would have really smiled, had he been. But now, you're just moving forward. Because there’s no pit stop for feelings in real life.
-
Jeon Wonwoo Impresses with P5 Debut in Singapore: Pressure Mounts for Returning Star Jun Hui
Marina Bay, Singapore – October 5
In a dramatic night under the lights of Marina Bay Street Circuit, Sebong Racing’s reserve driver Jeon Wonwoo made a formidable entrance into Formula 1’s one of the most demanding calendar stop, finishing his debut race in an impressive P5—equaling the position veteran driver Jun Hui secured just two weeks prior in Azerbaijan, before being sidelined due to a car crash.
Wonwoo, who had only a handful of full-length simulations and limited FP1 laps to acclimate to the car, demonstrated remarkable composure across the 62 laps, handling tyre degradation and safety car restarts with the calmness of a seasoned driver. His defensive drive against Mc Karen's Lando Norris in the closing stages drew praise even from rival engineers, cementing his position as more than a temporary replacement.
While all eyes were on Xu Minghao as he secured his 10th win of the season extending his championship lead, Wonwoo’s strategy-disciplined P5 has sparked inevitable comparisons within the paddock and press circles. His consistency, particularly on the mediums during the middle stint, mirrored the exact performance metrics Jun posted during his last race finish before the crash.
This symmetry is raising eyebrows.
Jun, a proven contender and long-standing pillar of Sebong’s two-pronged championship strategy, has undeniably delivered brilliance this season. However, critics argue that his recent races have lacked the sharpness expected of a title rival, especially alongside Minghao’s dominant form. With Wonwoo delivering a clean, mistake-free race in a car tailored for someone else, the conversation is shifting towards accountability, and not replacement.
“Wonwoo’s composure under pressure is what you expect from someone in their third season, not their first Grand Prix,” said a former F1 team principal anonymously. “If you’re Jun, you’re watching that race from home and taking notes.”
Insiders confirm Jun is recovering well in Shenzhen, continuing his medical evaluations and therapy ahead of a tentative return. Whether he’ll be back for the next race remains uncertain, but what is clear is that expectations will be different when he does rejoin the grid.
For now, Sebong's bench is proving it runs deep. And with a rookie stepping into a star’s seat and delivering identical results, the message is kind of loud: in Formula 1, your past wins matter, but only your next race secures your future.
-
everyone_woo: thanks for your hard work!
softlaunch_police: read the room maybe??? your driver literally isn’t racing??
soli.https: excuse me?? oh we SERVED tonight
moralspinal_out: can someone explain how this isn’t PR suicide? like your race engineer partying while the driver’s injured?
noflagsjustdrama: okay but imagine being Jun and seeing this. like. be serious for one minute
junfanclub.mx: why does she look like that 😭 i would also throw a tantrum and crash my car if she stopped being my engineer
↳ soli__luvs
@/junfanclub.mx she didn't stop being his engineer bro
lapdog.law: not saying she’s heartless but it’s giving “i’m good luv, enjoy recovery”
turn1dramaqueen: i know that dress got minghao checking ppl around her 5 times before leaving
turn1toxic: nah if my engineer did this while i was laid up recovering i’d never speak to her again
coffeeforcrashes: do engineers not have code of conduct or something? this feels wildly inappropriate
formula_haos: y’all are seeing the dress i’m seeing the absence of Jun in that seat
↳ dxnf1ghtjun
@/formula_haos no bc the car was built for him and she built the car
↳ carbontension
@/formula_haos realest thing i’ve read in weeks
↳ arian_2001
@/dxnf1ghtjun she built the car??
↳ dxnf1ghtjun
@/arian_2001 bro-
junhui_zone: no but genuinely imagine being replaced and then seeing her look like this 🫠
↳ heartsforhao
@/junhui_zone "replaced" is crazy 😭 he's on medical leave, not fired
↳ tracklimitsarefake
@/heartsforhao still hurts the same tbh 💔
teamradiofromhell: she posted champagne while Jun’s probably on painkillers rn. girl what
oversteer_obsessed: why do i feel like this is a breakup post for two people who were never public
↳ f1girlfail
@/oversteer_obsessed because it is
↳ lyu_aes_thetic
@/f1girlfail you both are looking too much into this. This is literally just her posting a cute photo
↳ turn1dramaqueen
@/lyu_aes_thetic yeah but why now??? she’s been silent since jun’s crash and then she drops this serving??? suspicious
↳ caffeine_and_carbon
@/turn1dramaqueen because maybe they’re professional? idk just a thought 🤡
↳ junhui_zone
@/oversteer_obsessed someone check on jun. if my engineer posted this while i was stuck at home recovering, i’d start rethinking my life
↳ engineeredchaos
@/oversteer_obsessed just here to say she looks amazing. like, unfairly good. f1 girls are really out here winning
↳ tracklimitsarefake
@/turn1dramaqueen okay but she’s jun’s engineer, not minghao’s. it makes sense she'd be quiet if he’s off-track. probably doesn’t wanna distract the team.
↳ lyu_aes_thetic
@/tracklimitsarefake thank you finally someone with a brain
↳ midfieldmeltdown
@/f1girlfail Y'all are so fucking stupid. From where are you getting the news that there's something romantic???? This is literally so stupid. THEY ARE FRIENDS AND COWORKERS
↳ haoisnotokay
@/turn1dramaqueen you people need sleep
softlaunchsyndrome: this isn’t minghao’s sister anymore this is a public figure i need to respectfully stalk
brakebiasbitch25: wild how quick she went from "worried about the team" to "catch me in the lounge”
haoisnotokay: so we all agree she's the axis of the garage universe right
↳ engineeredchaos
@/haoisnotokay her being silent is louder than the commentary
engineeredchaos: this is why engineers deserve podiums too. she SERVED.
hotlap.heaven: idk what her skincare routine is but she needs to release it to the public immediately
drs.daddy: she has no business looking this good after a 3-day race weekend i’m actually offended
carbonqueen.yn: everytime she posts the grid loses 3 tenths from sheer distraction
gridgirlgate: so your driver’s sitting out injured and you’re out here posting thirst traps? okay then
lap88despair: she my roman empire
↳ softlaunchsyndrome
@/lap88despair real
helmet_husbands: if she told me to recalibrate my fuel mapping i’d say thank you ma’am
undercut_universe: someone get FIA on the line because this level of beauty is unfair advantage
-
-
CONFIDENTIAL PSYCHOTHERAPY SESSION NOTE
Filed by: Dr. Lin Yuchen, PhD, Clinical Psychologist | Federation Medical Advisory Unit – Performance and Trauma Division
PATIENT: Wen Junhui | Professional F1 Driver, Sebong Racing
SESSION DATE: October 3
SESSION #: 3 of 6 (Post-Incident Acute Cycle)
LOCATION: Private Residence – Shenzhen
DURATION: 70 minutes
PRESENTATION & INITIAL OBSERVATIONS:
Patient appeared more withdrawn than previous sessions, though punctual. Visible eye bruising reduced from prior week. Sat cross-legged on couch with arms crossed for the majority of session, avoiding eye contact. Responded monosyllabically at first, though engagement improved by midpoint. Several long silences were observed, but notably, he did not resist them.
Mood cynical. Affect blunted but mixed with hostility. Quick to dismiss encouragement. Frequently rubbed his neck and left shoulder—residual injury discomfort likely, though may also indicate anxiety.
Patient expressed growing resentment toward his own limitations, no longer describing the situation as temporary. Referred to himself as a “cautionary tale” and “ghost in the garage,” implying feelings of disposability and obsolescence.
“They don’t bench machines unless they’re broken. So maybe I am.”
When prompted on what he believes the team sees now, he replied:
“Someone they can replace. And someone who deserves it.”
There’s a notable collapse in self-concept tied to not just physical performance, but usefulness. Even discussing his prior technical input with the car, patient downplayed the significance:
“If the setup worked better for someone else, maybe I never understood the car in the first place.”
2. Lingering Impact of Previous Confrontation
For the first time, patient revisited the conflict that occurred during a recent visit from two close individuals (names omitted). Previously withheld details were offered, albeit disjointedly and under emotional strain. He described the interaction as ‘a test [he] failed’ and referred to the confrontation with his teammate as ‘a complete combustion. Mutual.’
“He thinks I’d hurt her. Like I’m the threat.”
“Maybe I am. Not like—physically. But I know how to ruin things just by being in them.”
Describes himself as ‘unwelcome’, though could not articulate whether that feeling was imposed or self-generated. Referred to their voices during the exchange as tired of me, and repeatedly emphasized that he doesn’t blame them.
“I was angry. And I still am, but mostly at myself. I can’t even argue right. I just lash out, and then they look at me like I’m a mess they can’t fix.”
Mentions, something I said that I shouldn’t have, though declined to repeat it. Appeared visibly ashamed, pulling sleeves over hands and lowering voice. Made an offhanded comment:
“She left anyway. Not because of me, but it felt like it.”
Patient shows signs of internalizing the breakdown in the dynamic not only as his fault, but as inevitable. This belief requires restructuring.
3. Complicated Longing & Misplaced Attachment
Although he maintains the relationship in question is strictly professional, there are clear signs of blurred emotional boundaries.
When asked how that made him feel, he paused, then said:
“Like I should disappear more often. Things seem smoother when I’m not in the way.”
There is no explicit acknowledgment of jealousy or romantic desire, but patient’s fixation on her perceived distance and his own absence suggests unconscious emotional entanglement. He describes himself as ‘the static in a signal that used to be clear,’ and claimed, she’s better at her job when I’m not around.
This spirals into more self-condemnation:
“I’m not stable. I’ve known that, but I thought I could hide it better.”
Attempts to challenge this narrative were met with deflection or sarcasm.
TREATMENT PLAN:
Continue narrative therapy to reframe self-perception and unlearn ingrained patterns of guilt attribution
Deepen focus on identity apart from achievement or proximity to performance metrics
Introduce structured role-playing in next session to confront interpersonal ruptures safely
Begin monitoring language around self-worth for cognitive distortion (“I ruin things,” “I should disappear”)
Keep exploration of attachment to unnamed colleague implicit until patient volunteers it without shame
PROGNOSIS:
Patient is cycling through shame loops and resistance, yet shows increased openness to vulnerability, albeit in indirect ways. Though he refrains from naming desire or pain plainly, his metaphors and posture betray them. Notably, this session marks the first unprompted elaboration of interpersonal regret and subconscious longing.
Insight is deepening, but distorted by a belief that affection, if received, is undeserved. Still no indications of suicidal ideation, but monitoring is advised due to rapid spiral in internal language.
NOTABLE QUOTE (UNPROMPTED):
“I used to think being intense made me a better driver. Now I think it just makes me impossible to be around.”
NEXT SESSION: Scheduled October 10th, 10:00 AM CST
NOTE: Recommend withholding any further team visits for now, unless explicitly requested by patient. Emotional volatility remains acute, particularly around interpersonal triggers. Consider video session if patient’s physical recovery plateaus again.
-
Before departure, you spoke with Joshua to make sure no problem would come up once the team boarded their flight to the United States for Round 19. Although you wouldn't be attending this race in person, you had already provided comprehensive notes to Wonwoo's engineer and made sure Wonwoo felt secure enough to reach out if needed, leaving your contact available and assuring him of your online presence. You simply didn't want to be at the race this time and managed to convince Joshua to grant you the week off, or at least until Jun was cleared to return. Joshua understood your request without pressing, and the arrangement was made with no questions asked.
Now, standing alongside the team at the airport, your presence is just pretentious. Minghao had warned you not to see Jun behind his back the last time, but he never said anything about meeting him later. Technically, then, you're not breaking any rule. Even if he had objected, it wouldn't change the fact that he has no authority over your decisions. You listened to him once; this time, you won’t. While Minghao boards the plane with the others, you slip away unnoticed, sure that he won’t realize your absence until long after takeoff. He never tracks you that closely. He will likely assume you're seated elsewhere or forget altogether. You can ignore his messages for a day or two if needed.
After exchanging a sneaky signal with Joshua, you walk in the opposite direction and board your own flight to Shenzhen, departing a few minutes before the others lift into the sky—leaving Minghao oblivious to the fact that his sister is not on board.
-
Now that you're in Shenzhen with twenty missed calls and over fifty unread messages from Minghao deep, you decide you'll visit Jun the next morning. Tonight, however, you’ll rest. There’s not really an actual reason not to let Jun know that you’ve arrived in China, but you choose not to. If someone tells him, so be it. Pulling up the latest physical recovery notes in his file, you skim through the updated entries. You see that his vitals are stable, his mobility has improved, and the reports suggest a consistent physical recovery, which puts you marginally at ease. Still, there’s no access to his psychological records in your engineering clearance, and if his mental state were as sound as his muscle function, none of this would be happening in the first place. You can only assume—hope, probably blindly, that things are improving. Deep down, your instincts say otherwise to you.
The morning arrives faster than you expect. You prepare yourself, choosing your usual casual outfit this time, unlike your last visit. As you zip up your jacket, a memory tugs: Jun’s face had registered something that you didn't understand when he opened the door that evening. It probably had been the surprise, or maybe, in part, the sight of you overdressed, standing in his doorway, him trying not to feel self-conscious or embarrassed or shy for you. You remind yourself that it shouldn't be embarrassing. It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now. You pick up a few jelly snacks and hot pot for him along the way, small stuff like foods that he’s always liked.
By the time you park outside his building and step into the lift, Joshua’s name lights up your phone. You answer, only to hear Minghao’s voice cut through the line before you can even greet him.
“Why are you in Shenzhen?” he demands. “I told you not to go see him.”
You ask him. “Why not?”
“Don’t talk back to me,” he snaps. “I said not to, and that should’ve been enough.”
The elevator dings open on Jun’s floor, but you stay rooted, thumb pressing the button for the ground floor again. You’re not about to have this conversation outside Jun’s door. “I thought you were over your paranoid big-brother phase,” you say coolly. “Apparently, I was wrong.”
Minghao scoffs at that. “You thought I was over it, yet you didn’t even tell me you were going. You snuck off like a damn teenager. What are you so afraid of?”
You press your tongue against your cheek and exhale through your nose. “Maybe I just didn’t want another lecture.”
“That’s not an answer,” he retorts. “You don’t trust me to handle things? Or do you just not want to admit that you care about him more than you’re letting on?”
“That’s not it either,” your fingers tighten around the phone.
“Then what is it?” Minghao’s voice climbs. “Because from where I’m standing, this is looking a lot like you playing both sides, and then acting like you're just doing your job.”
You laugh at that accusation bitterly. “You want to talk about acting? You’ve been pretending he doesn't exist since the crash. I don’t see you visiting. I don’t see you checking in. If I’m just doing my job, what are you doing?”
There’s a pause on the line, and then, he says, “I’m not the one sneaking around. And I visited with you last time.”
“Oh, yeah, of course you did. I forgot you visited with me,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “You want me to be a good sister? Then stop making that harder. I’m being a good engineer and a good neighbor or friend or whatever, who happens to at the very least, care. Maybe you should try that too—come see him if you ever have the time.”
Another pause, followed by a tight laugh. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be hiding it. People who think they’re doing the right thing don’t dodge calls.”
You hesitate, because he’s not wrong, and that annoys you more than you’d ever like to admit. “I don’t need your permission,” you eventually reply. “And you don’t get to gatekeep concern. He needs someone, and it clearly isn’t you right now.”
“You think you’re saving him?” he's probably rolling his eyes. “He’ll drag you down with him, and you’ll let him.”
“Then maybe stop watching from the sidelines,” you snap at him. “And maybe stop being so goddamn proud and be the brother you used to be. He misses you, you know.”
“I’ll come when I’m ready, and when he himself is ready,” he says, voice a lot colder now. “But you? You’re going to regret making this mess worse.”
You close your eyes. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll contact you later—when I actually feel like it. Now give Joshua his phone back.”
You hang up before he can respond and step out of the building entrance, the hot pot warming your fingers through the bag. Whatever awaits behind Jun’s door, it can’t possibly be as exhausting as this.
You turn on your heel and re-enter the building, going up to his floor before knocking twice against the door. Moments pass until you hear the sound of approaching footsteps, and soon, the door creaks open to reveal Jun standing there with his expression caught somewhere between mild amusement, surprise, and bits of sleepy haze. Seeing you, he steps aside without a word allowing you to enter.
Bracing your hand against the wall for balance with your shoulder hunched slightly, you lift one foot behind the opposite knee and unfasten your shoe. You glance over your shoulder, giving him a sheepish, low-key guilty smile trying to soften the abruptness of your visit.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Jun’s murmur still sounded rough with sleep. “I just woke up.”
“Then I’m right on time,” you raise the hotpot container in your hand with a sway. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
He shakes his head, and you nod with satisfaction, slipping into the waiting pair of slippers at the door before heading straight for the kitchen. You wash your hands methodically under cold water, letting the chill bring you back into some sense of normalcy, and begin pulling out what’s needed: bowls, ladles, a pot, utensils, the seasoning packets, chopsticks, and some greens from his fridge.
“It’s not exactly hotpot o’clock, but who cares?” you say, barely raising your voice over the running tap. “You can get yourself something lighter for dinner later. I brought plenty, anyway.”
Jun doesn’t offer much in response, just watching in silence. His eyes trailing after your every movement as if he's trying to decide whether to intervene or simply surrender to your presence. You turn toward him once more.
“Go wash up,” you tell him, nodding toward the hallway. “Come back when you're fresh. I’ll have everything ready by then.”
He disappears into the corridor with a reluctant sigh, and by the time he returns, clad in loose grey sweats and a towel drying the ends of his damp hair, you’ve already set the table—broth simmering, ingredients laid out, condiments placed to the side, steam curling in the air in fog. You pull out his chair with a gesture of your hand and give him his chopsticks.
He sits down in the seat, and you follow suit, taking your place.
The broth simmers between you as both of you begin eating, the table radiating some heat that contrasts the silence in the room. Jun lifts his chopsticks to his lips, looking at you between bites with that unreadable look of his, before he finally speaks.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the States right now?”
You bring the bowl to your lips, sipping the broth as your eyes remain fixed on the rising steam. “I took this race off,” you let him know. “Joshua knows. I told him I’d be working remotely if needed until you’re cleared to return.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, so instead, he pauses mid-chew, eyes fixed somewhat on you as though re-evaluating you entirely. A second passes before he rises from his seat and walks toward the cupboard in the corner of his open kitchen. You tilt your head slightly as you follow his path with your eyes, only for him to return moments later and wordlessly place a spoon in front of you.
You blink at him, mouth forming a small oh as you reach for it. “I forgot,” you admit with a chuckle. “Thank you.”
He says nothing, returning to his seat while picking at the floating lettuce in the pot, placing one onto his plate before taking a photo of it on his phone.
You glance at him, resting your elbow lightly against the table’s edge. “You’re looking a lot better than you did last time,” you remark, watching his eyes soften with the faintest trace of amusement. “How’s recovery been going?”
He nods, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s alright,” he replies.
You take another sip, then set your bowl down. “When do you think you’ll be ready to race again?”
His smile fades and is replaced by a shadow of something colder. “I don’t know,” he answers with his voice low and clipped.
You reach across and pat his shoulder, making yourself sound warm and coax. “You’ll be back soon.”
He exhales with something nearly like a scoff, muttering under his breath, words too hushed to catch.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” he says, then adds with a small grin, “Just eat before you choke and end up spraying noodles out your nose.”
You snort under your breath and lift your spoon again. “I’d rather die.”
He shrugs. “You’ll just embarrass yourself. It’ll be a great memory for me.”
You shoot him a narrowed glance but return to your food. Once both of you have finished, you stand, gathering both your plate and his before he can move.
“I can clean up,” he says, starting to rise.
You gesture firmly for him to sit. “Nope. Sit down. You’re supposed to rest.”
“I’ve been resting for days.”
“Exactly. Rest while you still can,” you stack the bowls near the sink. “You need to get back to the circuit, remember?”
“I’ll get there,” he leans his head against his palm as he watches you move around his kitchen.
“Sooner if you don’t strain yourself,” you say pointedly.
“You sound like a trainer.”
“I sound like someone smarter than you.”
He laughs at that, then stretches his legs out beneath the table. “You sound like someone bossy.”
“You sound like someone ignoring medical advice.”
“You sound like someone who’s being annoying on purpose.”
“You sound like someone who doesn’t know how to take care of himself.”
“You sound like someone who keeps showing up unannounced.”
You turn around, arching a brow as you dry your hands with a towel. “And yet here I am,” you say simply.
He exhales because he's really not arguing with that. His fingers drum against the wood of the table, eyes never straying from you as you finish tidying up and moving around the room like you’ve done this dozens of times before… you actually did. Neither of you chooses to question how natural it all feels.
You let out a huff as you sink into the couch making your shoulders slump with aimless exhaustion that has no real source that you know of. Without glancing toward Jun, who still hasn’t sat down, you reach for the remote lying carelessly on the coffee table, switch on the television, and begin scrolling with half-hearted laziness through the list of half-watched series and forgettable suggestions.
“Do you want to watch something?” your eyes barely flicking toward him.
The question is rhetorical. You’re already scrolling with your purpose, not waiting for his answer, and your fingers eventually settle on the paused episode of 2 Broke Girls that you were supposed to finish last month before shits and other things in life took precedence. You press play just as a small sigh escapes your lips, contented in the most passive way.
Jun, still standing where you left him, doesn’t move. His eyes bore into you with an expression so unreadably blank, so full of unimpressed disbelief and restrained exasperation, it’s almost comical: a stare that lands somewhere between annoyance and flabbergasting, as though he’s trying to understand whether you’re being serious or just remarkably dense.
“Why are you actually here?”
You glance over your shoulder because the tone of his voice is making the back of your neck prickle. You force a sheepish chuckle and tilt your head slightly toward him. “What do you mean?”
His eyes narrow, but his tone doesn’t change. “Why are you actually here?” he repeats.
“I told you already,” you say, feigning exasperation as you turn the volume slightly higher and return your attention back to the screen. “I took this race off. We literally had this conversation less than half an hour ago.”
You can feel his gaze pressing into the side of your face, burning with suspicion and something more pointed than irritation, more stubborn than concern. He’s trying to read you. He’s doing it on purpose, and he knows it’s working. You sigh, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen, and look at him dead on, expression drained of humor or patience.
“I was worried about you, alright?” you say evenly. “I just wanted to check on you. That’s why I came.”
Your words hang in the air for a beat too long, but he doesn't soften. “Worried?” he repeats, dryly. “What exactly were you planning to do with that worry? Feed me hotpot and change the channel?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sorry, was I supposed to show up with pity?”
“You did exactly that.”
“No, I didn’t,” you shrug at that as you get off the couch and begin pacing around the room, sliding off dust from surfaces with your finger and arranging items to pretend to be busying yourself, doing anything to avoid prolonging the conversation.
The day stretched on with you working on your laptop while Jun tended to his own tasks, neither of you revisiting the tension from before, though an undercurrent of it stayed in any room you both happened to share. When his prescheduled online physical examination meeting started, you joined in and listened to the updates even though his condition reports had already been sent to you.
As the day unfolds, you move through the apartment, doing small tasks, arranging items for him, preparing his meals, and making small adjustments to his environment.
You take the knife and begin slicing the cucumbers for the salad. Jun remained quiet all day long until now, speaking only when absolutely necessary. The sound of footsteps behind you draws your attention, and when you glance over your shoulder, you find him leaning against the countertop, and for a brief, unwelcome instant, your mind latches onto an absurdly inappropriate thought before you immediately avert your gaze, forcing yourself to concentrate on the cucumber slices. Jun clears his throat and his presence presses against your awareness once again, and you feel your cheeks warm as you pause mid-chop.
He initiatively speaks up for the first time, “When are you leaving?”
You hesitate before responding awkwardly, forcing a light lilt into your voice. “I, um, I’ll stay the night in the guest room,” you begin, stumbling over your words. “I was planning on coming over for a few days to check on you, and, well, since I trust the doctors, it’s not strictly necessary, but I want to see for myself how you’re doing, how your recovery is going, and make a mental note of what I’ll need to focus on when we’re back in the car, what needs adjusting, what needs attention. It’s just easier for me to stay for a few nights than to run back and forth every day, and I thought I could keep an eye on things while you can’t really leave the house and hangout with me so that I can… see how you're doing and basically do the same thing that I just explained. You’re looking fine, I know, so there’s probably not much to worry about until you get the official clearance, which I’m hoping will be soon.”
Jun doesn't interrupt once, standing there as you finish your rapid-fire explanation, and once you draw a breath, he simply just turns and walks away. Relief washes over you, tempered by the reminder that this should never feel awkward; the two of you have shared countless moments alone before, even if this is the first time you’ve stayed over without Minghao present.
Returning to the task at hand, you gather the chopped cucumbers and other chopped vegetables into a bowl and reach for the soy sauce, only to realize it is stored in the cupboard just above your reach. Stretching on tiptoe, you strain to grab it, and in that instant, a body moves behind you, his hand lightly brushing against yours as he reaches for the bottle. You pivot as your body momentarily freezes, and meet his eyes that's now looking down as he silently withdraws his hand from the above cupboard, allowing you to take the soy sauce from his hand yourself. “You don’t have to,” you pour it over the vegetables, “dinner will be ready soon, and you should sit down.”
He gives no reply, only a flat neural expression before moving toward the sink with some chopsticks and plates, clearly intending to help. You immediately step to his side, intercepting the utensils. “No, don’t do anything,” you insist. “Sit down. I’ll wash and plate everything, and it’ll be on the table soon.”
He hesitates for a moment as he tries to resist your insistence with just his furrowed brows, but eventually relents and sinks onto a chair, leaving you to gather the plates and scrub the utensils.
When you finally set the meal in front of him, you tell him about how much you prepared, feeling happy and giddy at sight on the table. “I figured it would be easier if everything was ready at once; no need for you to get up or lift anything.” You see nothing change in his expression. He doesn’t respond, but you notice the way his fingers tighten around the chopsticks for some reason.
The dinner proceeds without much chatting, until later, when you finish your portion, pushing the empty plate aside. You stand to retrieve the remaining dishes and stack them carefully as you hum tunes to yourself, a habitual thing you always keep when occupied. Noticing a few stray vegetables left on the counter, you reach to wipe them into a bowl, moving it carefully so as not to make a mess.
You bend slightly to reach for a low cabinet and pull out a clean towel and dust the edge of the countertop where some crumbs had gathered. Straightening, you reach up to adjust a small spice jar that had tipped over from before, and just as Jun steps forward, reaching for the cup he had left near the sink to carry it to the dishwasher, you move first, gently taking it from his hands. “I’ve got it,” you say, smiling at him.
Jun freezes, his fingers twitching as if he wants to grab it back from you. His jaw tightens, and in a loud sharp voice, he finally snaps: “Just fucking leave! I don’t need you here babysitting me.”
You stop mid-motion, towel in hand and pivot to face his glare. The soy sauce bottle still sits on the counter where you’d both reached for it together—a small, dumb reminder that neither of you had really wanted the day to end like this. “I’m not babysitting you. I’m just helping while you rest, that’s all,” you take a small step closer, “you don’t have to act like this.”
“I said leave! I don’t need you here!” he snaps again, the anger in his tone sounds layered and you know it's with helplessness he won’t admit.
You feel a flash of irritation from the sting of his outburst clashing with your patience. “You’re being childish,” you sound calm as much as possible, though your hands clench at your sides.
“You don’t understand anything, and to be honest, it’s disgusting that you think you’re a saint by sticking around like this.”
You meet his words with nothing in your eyes and let the silence speak for all the thoughts between you. You fling the towel from your hands onto the floor, “Do you think I am here because I have to be? Minghao didn't even want me to come, yet I am here because I chose to be. Clearly, you are still too proud to accept that anyone gives a shit about you.” Without another glance at him, you take your bag, slide your laptop into it, and turn toward the door, leaving the apartment with your attention focused entirely on the path ahead.
You fail to notice that, behind you, Jun’s eyes already glimmer with regret, yet his pride holds his lips in silence.
✦ in fiction we trust. love, celeste ˶ᵔ⤙ᵔ˶ sorry again for breaking this up instead of dropping it in one go. tumblr text limits win this round 😔 formatting this beast was actually so fucking hard, i swear i almost cried with how many times the editor crashed on me. pls be kind and i hope you looked away from the formatting if something looked weird lmao. anddddddd, if you made it this far, tysm. i’d love to hear what you thought, so, feel free to drop an ask, it’ll help me know if i managed to land what i wanted with this part
★ | member — junhui x fem reader
★ | genre — smut, strangers to lovers (first date au)
★ | word count — 3k
★ | synopsis — your first date with jun has been good, but all you've been able to think about all night is how to get him alone.
★ | warnings — unprotected sex, creampie, big dick!jun, car sex, fingering, jun is a boobs guy, lowercase intended, title is a baekhyun song and you should listen to it
★ | notes — i'm still on hiatus, sorry i know it's been a while - my personal life has been really busy as i'm graduating college in a little over a month! anyway as a treat here's an old draft. remember to reblog if you like this :) ily huihuis
as far as first dates go, junhui would say this one has been pretty good. sometimes you really click with someone right away, and he can’t speak for you but he definitely felt it tonight. you’d spent so long talking together, that the waiter had had to ask you to leave so they could close the restaurant.
"can we park somewhere?" you ask suddenly, to his curiosity. he nods and pulls into the exit lane to get off the freeway, but the next words that come out of your mouth he wouldn’t have guessed in a million years.
"i've been really wet since dinner, and… i wanna ride you. if that's cool, i mean."
his cheeks have never turned that many shades of red so quickly before, but he's not one to complain when an opportunity presents itself. he can't lie and say he hasn't been stealing glances at your beautiful tits all night long and hoping that sooner or later he'll get to see them bouncing in his face.
it doesn't take long before he's found a secluded spot at the back of an empty parking lot; it's past midnight, after all, and most places are closed by now. as soon as the ignition's shut off you're scrambling to unbuckle your seatbelt and climbing over the center console to plant yourself in his lap, and god, you can already feel how hard he is beneath you.
his hands find your waist immediately, starting to slide up your sides as you fumble with your pants. you can't remember the last time you were this greedy, this impatient, and especially on a first date. but the way his hair falls in his face, the way he’d grinned mischievously at you every time you’d make a joke, and the way he's been staring at you all fucking night like he wants to devour you — you can't help but want him.
you can feel your panties sticking to you as you push them away and slide them down your legs. the crampedness of his car and the way your body is angled makes it awkward to pull off gracefully, but neither of you seem to care. his hands are still gripping your sides with his thumbs beneath your breasts, resting there almost like he's forgotten what he's doing. his eyes are fixed on your face, enamored with the little frustrated scrunch of your nose as you struggle to fling your clothes off.
he finally seems to snap back into action when you've successfully stripped your lower half and begin focusing your attention on his jeans. he squeezes your sides a little rougher, just enough to get you to stop, and your eyes flick back up to his.
"can— can i see these?" he asks, his voice a little more gruff as his fingers slide closer to your breasts.
the wicked grin you give him in return makes the both of you start to move a little faster. his dick is painfully hard by now, and all he wants to do is press his nose between your tits until he suffocates in them.
you take your hands off his zipper and move up to your tank top, pulling it down to sit beneath your breasts. you start to reach behind you to unclip your bra, but he's too quick; within seconds you feel the pressure in your back release, the straps slipping down your shoulders as his fingers expertly undo the clasp. he does it too easily, too practiced, and it only makes you want those fingers inside you all the more.
he doesn't hesitate to remove the loose fabric and toss it into the backseat, leaving your breasts bare on display in front of him. his hands resume their position at your chest, and he's so fixated on them that you don't even think he fully notices when you go back to working on his zipper.
but his attention refocuses when he feels the pressure from his pants loosen, and he lets out a groan when he looks down and sees your hand palming his bulge. he's no stranger to one night stands and he's had more than his fair share of hookups, but god, this might actually be the best night of his life. he manages to bring one hand away from your boobs long enough to swipe it between your legs, and he nearly hisses at the feeling. you weren't lying earlier—you're fucking soaked. so much so that when he pulls his hand away to look, three of his fingers glisten under the dim streetlight, connected by thin strings of your arousal.
he needs you on his cock, now, and judging by the slick on his hand you're probably wet enough to take him without any prep. but his last shred of sense is screaming at him to sink his fingers deep into your pussy first until you're shaking on his lap, and he's obliged to listen.
he's never been this desperate to fuck someone before, and if he had any coherent thoughts still running through his brain he might be embarrassed about that. but you're so equally enthusiastic that he honestly can't bring himself to care. it's not every day that a date goes this well, so you might as well enjoy it.
junhui traces your entrance with his fingertips, making wide circles around the area without touching where you really want him. he's teasing, he can't help it, but he's also waiting for you to let him continue. he glances up at your face again, and he smirks in satisfaction when he sees that cute little frustrated scrunch of your nose again, your mouth hanging slightly open and your shoulders braced in concentration.
"you want my fingers?" he asks. he's trying unbelievably hard not to push his hips upward to get the feeling of your wetness brushing against his bulge. it's probably even more restraint than it's taking you to not start grinding down on his leg and work yourself to completion that way. but the voice of reason in the back of your head is telling you that that won't be nearly as satisfying as cumming on his cock or his fingers will be, and so you resist.
"please," you choke out, your hips writhing in the air from the lack of stimulation.
he finally complies, teasingly tracing around your lips one last time before pushing into you. you can feel his fingers getting wetter and wetter each time he plunges them into you, curling them at just the right angle that makes your knees weak on either side of his hips. your whole body is alight from his touch, every nerve on fire, and you already know it's not going to take much more for you to fall apart.
his other arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you firmly planted against him despite how hard your body instinctively tries to buck away from the pleasure. your hands fall to his shoulders as you struggle to hold on, and you're sure he can feel your nails digging into his skin, but he doesn't say anything. he just continues to fuck you with his fingers, silently watching your face as the car fills with wet, messy noises. no one in your life has ever gotten you this close so quickly.
suddenly he pulls his fingers out, and you shudder in frustration as you feel your orgasm ebbing away. he holds his dripping fingers in front of your face, and without him even needing to ask, you open your mouth and welcome them. his fingers are hot against your lips, the bitter taste of your own arousal coating the inside of your mouth as you swirl your tongue around them. somehow he doesn't seem shocked at your immediate reaction; he seems pleased, even. yeah, this is the man you've been waiting for all your life.
your eyelashes flutter as you suck, unable to control the choked whimpers and whines that slip past your lips. your self control is waning, and without thinking your hips start to grind against him, desperate to keep the stimulation going.
you're quick to speak after he pulls his fingers from between your lips, satisfied with the way you've cleaned them for him. "wanna cum on your cock, junnie," you whimper. the nickname slips out without thinking, and you’re still unconsciously rubbing yourself against his clothed bulge. your eyes are blown wide when he looks at you, and while the rational part of his mind knows it's because it's dark outside, he can't help the surge of pride that rushes through him seeing you so fucked out already. if this is what you look like, just from riding his fingers? he can't wait to see what you look like taking more.
"you want my cock, baby?" he groans, testing out a nickname of his own and watching how you bloom from the praise.
you lift your hips enough for him to pull his dick out of his pants and finally get a good look at what's going to be rearranging your guts tonight.
"you're so— thick," you choke out, trying not to stumble over your words, but your mouth is watering at the sight of him and all the previously reasonable thoughts in your brain have instantly been replaced with pure want. he's so much bigger than you expected.
"can you take it?" he says, confidence faltering a little when he sees how enraptured you're staring. he's used to hearing the shock and excitement in people’s voices when they see him, but he knows from experience that having a big dick isn't always what it's cracked up to be.
you're silent for another second, blinking as you try to collect your thoughts, and then you lift your head and kiss him hard. but you pull away just as quickly, barely giving him time to register everything as you nod.
"yeah. i can. want you to make it fit," you breathe out, a whisper against his lips, and all he can do is groan and kiss you again. he pulls you tighter against him as your mouths crash together, the heat between you building more and more with each passing second. he's still not even inside you yet, but you're both moving your hips in tandem as if he was, chasing the friction that isn't there yet.
junhui finally pulls back again, creating barely enough room to slip his hand between your bodies and fist his cock. his free hand squeezes your hips roughly to get you to stop moving long enough to line himself up with your pussy.
you finally sink down onto his length, and both your loud groans fill the compact space. he hisses at the tight feeling around his cock as you whimper, eyes squeezed shut again in concentration. he can feel your walls throbbing against him as he struggles to keep himself still, knowing you're still adjusting. fuck, he wants nothing more than to pound into you like there's no tomorrow, but he has to wait. he's way too close to the edge already, so he starts counting the seconds in his head to try and distract himself until you're ready. you can feel every inch of him stretching you open, buried so deep in you that it makes your head spin.
your legs are already starting to burn from sitting in this position but after another minute once your muscles start to relax, you manage to lift yourself up and push your hips back down. it's an agonizingly slow rhythm as his cock forces itself into the tight space, but you still haven't quite caught your breath. you keep moving at this pace, up down, up down, in out, in out, until he grips your hips and pulls you down to stop your motion with him fully buried inside you.
"want me to take over?" he whines, and it catches you off guard to hear his voice a little higher and a little more broken than before.
the noise that leaves your mouth can only be described as inhuman, and he nods in acknowledgement as you give up control. there's a few seconds of pause, as if giving you a chance to change your mind, before he snaps his hips upward and you immediately let out a squeak, a heavy breath of pleasure mixed with relief. his arms settle around your lower back for leverage, which forces you to arch your spine and push your chest into his face. but that only seems to spur him on even more as he buries himself in your breasts, pressing against his cheeks.
when jun groans you can practically feel the reverberations in your ribcage, and you wrap your arms around his head to keep him in place. the new pace he's set isn't much faster than before, but it's a thousand times more intense as he fucks into you, filling every part of you to the brim with each thrust.
it only takes a few more rough snaps of his hips before the coil inside you breaks, and you have to hold back a scream as your body contorts in ways you didn't even know were possible. your voice is nearly hoarse as you cry out his name over and over again, begging him not to stop, not to change anything, to please just keep fucking you. and he listens, doing his best to keep you upright despite the way you writhe in his grip. with your breasts in his face he can feel your heartbeat in his ears as if it's his own, and it takes so much concentration to make sure he doesn't immediately follow you over the edge right after. when your shaking starts to subside a little and he's positive he can't hold back any longer, he tips his head back to speak.
"where can i—"
you interrupt before he can get all the words out. "inside. i'm on the pill. please."
he whines and buries his face in your breasts again, leaving sloppy kisses all over your skin between curses muttered under his breath. with a few more rough thrusts he's done, holding you even tighter against him as he spills into you and groaning louder when you clench your muscles around him.
"fuckin' milking my cock," he hisses into your chest with eyes shut, his voice rough from how hard he's focused.
your hip bones ache, both from the position and from the sheer size of him that you aren’t accustomed to, and you slump into the passenger seat with your legs still across his lap. his hand immediately slides between your thighs, his large palm cupping your pussy to collect his cum that's beginning to leak out of you. it takes him a second before he's able to form words, but he rubs your thigh soothingly as nods at you.
"napkins in the glove box," he manages, and you're jolted back to reality as you remember you're still laid out in his car and he probably doesn't want to get cum all over his seats.
with his free hand he reaches for your panties, which somehow ended up on the dashboard, and he passes them over to you as he starts to clean you up. you lean your head back against the window and let out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to come back down. the cold glass sends a chill through you as you feel the warmth beginning to drain out of you, bare skin prickling with goosebumps.
after a few minutes and a few crumpled napkins tossed on the floor, he clears his throat, and you manage to refocus your eyes enough to meet his gaze.
"your place, or mine?"
"huh?"
your ears are still ringing from the intensity of your orgasm, and you're not sure what he just said. it kinda sounded like he wants to sleep over with you, but there's no way a guy as hot as him wants more than just a quick fuck.
"would you rather go home or come back to my place?" he repeats. "i'm not leaving you alone after that. you need a shower, and probably some tylenol." he winces a little and looks down at his lap, and it's almost strange to see him so shy after he just fucked you into another dimension. "i probably should've given you more warning. car sex isn't that easy on a first date, but fuck, you took it so well, and—"
"you can come over to mine," you interrupt him, still laying halfway in the passenger seat and trying not to be completely useless even though you feel like a melted puddle. "best first date i've ever had."
you can tell the exact moment that your words register in his brain, because the relief that spreads across his face is plain as day. as soon as you can muster all the strength you have left, you sit up and pull your legs back over into your seat, pushing yourself into a comfortable position.
"next time i want to fuck your tits," he exhales shakily as he puts his seatbelt back on, though his voice comes out more like a squeak.
"next time?" you ask, making your best attempt to playfully raise an eyebrow at him. he may be bringing you home and taking care of you, but that doesn't guarantee there's going to be a next time. well, maybe it does. you're really looking forward to there being a next time.
he scoffs, only fumbling a little bit to shove his keys into the ignition. "don't play dumb. i know you enjoyed that. don't act like you don't wanna see yourself covered in my cum after i'm done with you."
the shiver that runs down your spine and the way you instinctively press your thighs together is all the confirmation he needs.
i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did please reblog with your thoughts, or leave a comment or send an ask! it shows me that people are interested in my writing, and knowing people liked this makes me want to write more! i put a lot of time, love, and effort into my writing, so feedback is really appreciated and motivates me to keep posting :) thanks for reading!!
Summary: What is the best thing in the world? The three colored cat!
“Baba, that’s a cat.”
Anya’s tiny arms were looped tightly around Jun’s neck as he carried her from daycare toward the car. Her finger — small, chubby, and still sticky from afternoon snacks — pointed at a kitten crouched beside the rear tire, its tail flicking lazily under the warm after-school light.
“Mm, yes, that’s a cat,” Jun replied, amusement softening his voice. He slowed his steps so she could get a better look, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. Anya leaned forward, squinting with the seriousness only four-year-olds could muster.
“Ugly color!” she declared with complete confidence.
Jun sniffed back a laugh, his shoulders shaking.
“Nooo,” he drawled dramatically, pretending to be offended. “It’s a three-colored cat. There’s no such thing as an ugly-color cat.”
Anya tilted her head — her usual thinking pose — lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Then she released a long, exaggerated sigh. “Alright. What color cat?”
“Three-colored cat,” Jun repeated, smiling as he shifted her higher on his hip.
“Oh!” Anya perked up instantly, kicking her legs in excitement. “It has orange! And black! And lots of white! Cute!”
Her joy burst out of her like sunlight — warm, bright, and impossible to contain. She wriggled in his arms as if ready to launch straight toward the kitten, and Jun tightened his hold with a soft grin, laughter slipping out before he could stop it.
“Can we bring it home, please?” she pleaded. “I’ll take care of it. Promise.” Her eyes grew round and glossy — the exact weapon she used whenever she wanted something. A tiny pout trembled at the corners of her mouth, just enough to make Jun’s heart clench in the helpless way only fathers understood.
“We need Mama’s permission for that,” he said gently, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. His tone carried that soft responsibility — the kind meant to cushion disappointment without crushing hope.
Anya froze. Her pout deepened. “But Baba…”
“That’s the rule,” he reminded her, tapping the tip of her nose. “Big decisions need Mama’s yes.”
She slumped against his shoulder with dramatic defeat, letting out a sigh far too heavy for a four-year-old.
“Mama always says no…”
Jun smiled — quiet, helpless — because she wasn’t entirely wrong. “Well,” he murmured, lowering his head to kiss her hair, “maybe she’ll say yes this time.”
Anya peeked up, hope flickering back into her eyes like a small spark relighting. “If I say ‘please’?”
“If you say please,” Jun whispered, “and… maybe if the kitty likes you back.”
As if summoned, the tricolor kitten let out a soft meow and turned its head toward them, its eyes curious and unafraid.
Anya’s mouth fell open in wonder. “Baba,” she whispered urgently, tugging at his shirt, “I think it likes me.”
She hesitated — a tiny, worried crease forming between her brows. “But what if Mama still says no?”
Jun shifted her closer, lowering his voice to something tender and steady. “I’ll find a way, baby,” he promised. “Anything for you.”
*
“No…”
You stared at the bathroom light switch like it personally betrayed you. One click. Nothing. Another click. Still darkness.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh and facepalmed. Of course. Of course he did. There was only one man in this house capable of creating chaos with the confidence of a movie villain, your husband, Jun.
First, the jar incident. Every lid tightened to the strength level of “Olympic gold medalist.” You’d nearly dislocated your shoulder trying to open the salt. And of course you had to call him over for help. Which was extra annoying because you two had just argued about the tricolor kitten Anya begged to adopt.
Second, the water spontaneously giving up on life while you were washing dishes. You’d been mid-scrubbing a plate when the faucet sputtered.
Cue you yelling, “Jun, the sink is having a breakdown.”
He “fixed” it and, very conveniently, took over dish duty with suspicious cheerfulness.
And now? The bathroom light. Sabotaged. You flicked the switch again — aggressively this time — just to make sure he heard.
Right on cue, Jun appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom like he’d been waiting backstage for his entrance.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked, voice all soft innocence.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, giving him your best “I am onto you” stare.
“Why? What happened?” he said, mirroring your posture — leaning back on the wall, arms crossed, smile growing way too fast for someone who was supposedly concerned.
“Stop it,” you said flatly. “You know I don’t like cats anymore.”
Jun lifted his eyebrows as if you just accused him of murder.
“We’re done talking about the cat, babe,” he declared, hand on his chest like a man reciting wedding vows. “You said it was final. No cats. And I respect that.”
He said it so sweetly you almost believed him. Almost. Except for the tiny smug curl at the corner of his mouth.
You exhaled sharply and ran your fingers through your hair. “Then explain this,” you gestured wildly. “The jars. The water. And now—”
You flicked the switch again like you were summoning a ghost. “The light won’t even turn on.”
Jun walked toward you, humming thoughtfully, inspecting the light with all the seriousness of a man checking a potato.
“I’ll fix it, babe,” he said, patting your shoulder. “No need to get all worked up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, I am worked up. I’m fully worked. I’m premium worked.”
Jun bit back a laugh — badly. “Why would I sabotage the house?” he asked, as if the answer wasn’t four years old, chubby-cheeked, and currently plotting with crayons in the living room.
You crossed your arms tighter. “Because you and your daughter want a cat.”
Jun pressed his lips together. “Allegedly,” he corrected.
You threw your hands up. “Oh my God.”
He leaned closer, smiling like you just declared war. “Babe,” he whispered dramatically, “this is all a coincidence.” You stared at him. Another flick. Dark.
He stared back. “…Coincidence?” you repeated.
Jun nodded, eyes sparkling. “A very adorable coincidence.”
Jun tightened the last screw on the light fixture, stepped back with a flourish, and flicked the switch. The bathroom lit up instantly. He turned to you with both hands raised like he’d just completed a magic trick.
“Done. You may do your thing here, your majesty.”
You stared at him. Long. Hard. The kind of stare that usually came right before you chose patience over prison time.
Then you sighed. A deep, soul-drained sigh. “I don’t want to act childish,” you said slowly, “but you’re definitely doing one, Wen Junhui.”
Jun clutched his chest dramatically. “I didn’t do anything, babe…”
“Yes,” you muttered, brushing past him, “and I’m the Queen of England.”
You stepped into the shower, letting the water drown out your irritation. But the whole time, you could practically feel Jun smirking from outside — smug, confident, absolutely certain he’d win.
And annoyingly, he would.
By the time you stepped out, skin warm and hair damp, Jun was sprawled on the bed like he owned every inch of it. One arm behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to show the faint lines of his stomach — he always looked like this right after mischief, relaxed and very, very pleased with himself.
You grabbed your towel tighter. “Jun,” you called.
He hummed, eyes on you instantly.
You exhaled, defeated but strangely lighter. “Bring that cat,” you said. A pause. “Tomorrow.”
*
Anya had been talking nonstop since the moment Jun buckled her into her car seat.
The kitten — tiny, fluffy, and extremely confused — sat in the small carrier Jun had oh-so-mysteriously “already prepared,” right beside her. Every few seconds, a tiny paw poked through the bars, batting at the air.
“Mama, it likes fruit names,” Anya declared with the confidence of a CEO presenting a business proposal.
Jun tried — truly tried — to keep his eyes on the road, but his smile kept growing each time Anya babbled another name.
“Kiwi,” she repeated, leaning forward to stick her face against the carrier. “Do you like Kiwi? Blink if yes.”
The kitten blinked. Anya gasped dramatically. “Baba! It said yes!”
Jun laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s not how blinking works, baby.”
“Yes it is,” she insisted, crossing her arms with a tiny huff. “Cats blink when they like you.”
You turned a little in your seat, raising a brow. “She’s not wrong,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.
Jun shot you a look — that soft, ridiculously fond look — the one that appeared any time you defended his daughter’s logic.
Anya wasn’t done. “Or Banana!” she chirped, tapping the cage lightly. “Banana is yellow. This cat has orange. Orange is ALMOST yellow. So Banana!”
The kitten meowed once, confused but cooperative.
Jun let out another quiet laugh, the kind that rumbled warmly through the car. “She’s really committed,” he said, glancing at you with a grin. “Kiwi or Banana, huh?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, curving up despite yourself.
“But… isn’t Kiwi Banana gonna be scared to go to the doctor?”
Anya’s voice was small but grave, the kind of seriousness only a four-year-old could summon over a tiny creature sitting in a pet carrier.
They were on the way to the vet, and the kitten — newly christened Kiwi Banana, thanks to Anya’s triumphant declaration of “Three colors, two names, one kitten!” — let out a soft mewl from inside the cage.
Jun glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “You think so, baby?”
“Yes,” she said immediately, clutching her stuffed bunny tighter. “Doctor means needles. And needles means… ouchie.”
She made a little face, scrunching her nose in sympathy toward the kitten.
You turned slightly in your seat. “Anya, the vet is a nice doctor. They help animals feel better so they can grow strong and healthy.”
Anya didn’t look convinced.
“But Baba, what if Kiwi Banana thinks we’re betraying it? We just met! What if it runs away from home and never forgives us and becomes—”
She paused dramatically.
“—a wild forest cat?”
Jun’s laugh slipped out before he could catch it. “A wild forest cat?” he echoed.
“Yes!” she said, pointing one finger into the air like she was explaining a legal clause. “Because if you feel betrayed… you go to forest.”
You pressed your lips together, holding back a laugh.
“Is that how it works?”
“Yes,” she said again, with absolute finality.
Jun shook his head with a smile. “Baby, Kiwi Banana won’t get scared. You know why?”
Anya leaned forward a little. “Why?”
“Because you’re going with it,” Jun said gently. “And Kiwi Banana already likes you.”
The kitten meowed right on cue, as if agreeing.
Anya gasped softly, eyes going wide.
“Baba… it said yes again.”
Jun shot you a look — proud, soft, slightly smug — and your heart dipped, warm, despite your earlier resistance.
You turned back to Anya. “And you can hold its paw while the doctor checks it, okay? That’ll make it feel safe.”
“Mama,” Anya said suddenly, her tone shifting into that quiet, suspicious softness children use right before exposing adult secrets.
“You seem to know a lot about cats.”
“I thought you don’t like cats,” she added, squinting at you like a tiny investigator.
You cleared your throat. “I don’t dislike cats,” you said carefully. “I just… don’t prefer them.”
Anya tilted her head. “But you said vet is nice doctor. And you held Kiwi Banana like he’s a fragile egg. And you said he needs warm towel and quiet place and also you wiped his eye—”
“Okay, okay, detective,” you cut in, holding up a hand. “I know basic things.”
Jun turned his head for a second, the movement small, almost hesitant—like he’d just said something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to.
“Mama used to have… ten cats,” he said quietly.
The words hung there, softer than before, slipping into the air the way old memories tend to resurface—uninvited, but gentle.
You didn’t respond right away.
Your gaze had drifted somewhere past the kitten, past the parking lot, past the afternoon light—somewhere Jun couldn’t follow. Not yet.
Anya, oblivious, perked up. “Ten? Mama, really?”
But Jun wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking at you. The way your fingers tightened slightly on the strap of your bag. The way your breath paused—just a moment.
The way your eyes stayed distant, even though your face tried to arrange itself into something casual. He’d heard the story before—briefly, vaguely. Ten cats. A busy little house. You, smiling in every memory.
You finally blinked, shaking yourself back. “That was… a long time ago,” you murmured, giving a small smile that didn’t sit the way your real smiles usually do.
Jun watched you for another second—really watched—before turning back to Anya.
“Yeah,” he said, gentle. “A long time ago.”
The tone settled over the three of you like a soft breeze—warm, but carrying something else in it. Something unspoken. But for now, he didn’t press.
For now, he just understood.
*
“We’re doing it together…”
“Don’t leave me!”
“Please…”
“Don’t—!”
You shot up with a broken gasp, air clawing its way into your lungs. Your chest heaved, fingers trembling against the sheets as the last echo of the nightmare clung to you like something alive.
Jun stirred immediately. He blinked awake, already reaching for you before he was fully conscious.
“Love?” His voice was soft, rough from sleep. “What’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer—your breaths came short and sharp, sweat cooling along your temples. He pushed himself upright beside you, worry settling into his features the moment he saw your expression.
“Hey… hey.” Jun cupped the back of your head gently, guiding your forehead to his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a dream.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, as if needing proof that he was real—that he was here.
Jun wrapped an arm around you, firm and grounding, the kind of embrace that held you without trapping you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m right here.”
The room was dark and still, the only sound was your uneven breathing—slowly, slowly softening as his thumb traced steady circles on your arm, coaxing you back into the present.
“Is it the fire again?” Jun asked quietly, once your breathing began to steady.
You hesitated—then gave a small nod.
Jun didn’t press. He simply reached over to the nightstand, fingers closing around the glass of water he always left there for you before bed. Just in case.
“Here,” he murmured.
You took it with slightly trembling hands and brought it to your lips, sipping slowly. The cool water helped—grounding you, pulling you away from the lingering heat of the flames in your dream. Jun watched you with gentle eyes, his hand resting lightly against your back, steady and present.
When you lowered the glass, he brushed a strand of hair from your face.
“You’re safe, love.”
The dream always came the same way— a fire swallowing your childhood home, flames crawling up the walls faster than your legs could run. And your cats— all ten of them— were trapped inside.
In the dream, you always tried. You always screamed for them. You always reached for the door even when the heat blistered your skin. And just like every time, you always failed.
Only one of them had survived in real life. It had escaped the fire by a miracle— bolting out through the back window just in time. You found it the next day, shaking so hard its small body rattled against your arms.
Life after losing the house was no kinder. You moved from place to place, your one surviving cat clutched to your chest, its terrified eyes mirroring your own. The only difference was that you’d become good at pretending you weren’t scared.
“We’re doing this together,” you used to whisper to it at night.
But even together wasn’t enough. It left you, too— not by choice, but by life’s cruelty. And the wound it carved into you never really healed.
You remembered crying over the tiny grave, hands shaking as you pressed the soil down. “I should’ve given you a home.”
That guilt settled in your bones. And from then on, you weren’t the same. You distanced yourself from cats— from the memories, from the attachment, from the possibility of losing something you loved that deeply again. Any cat was too close to the past. Too close to the fire. Too close to the pain you never let yourself revisit.
You ended up on the living room couch that night, legs curled beneath a blanket, the shadows quiet around you. Sleep wouldn’t come—not after the nightmare, not with your heart still unsteady.
Jun was already fast asleep in the bedroom, worn out from the day. And you— you didn’t want to show him this side of you again. Not tonight.
A tiny meow broke the silence.
You blinked, surprised. Kiwi Banana—somehow—was already padding across the floor, wobbling a little as it hurried toward you. You hadn’t even noticed Anya’s door was open a crack.
Before you could react, the kitten hopped onto the couch and plopped onto your lap, immediately purring. Its tiny paws kneaded at the blanket as it made itself comfortable, then finally rested its head on your thigh with a soft sigh.
A small smile tugged at your lips. The ache in your chest loosened. “You’re just like her,” you whispered. Your old tricolor cat. “Same color… same personality.”
Kiwi Banana answered with a muted little meow— whether in agreement or mild complaint, you couldn’t tell. You let out a tiny chuckle anyway. The fear you’d been carrying—of loving a cat again, of remembering—faded just a little.
“Tell me she’s okay…” you murmured, hand brushing gently over its tiny back. Kiwi Banana cracked one eye open, stared at you, meowed once— and then, in true cat fashion, turned around to present its butt to you before settling down again.
You snorted softly. “Rude,” you whispered, still smiling.
You leaned slowly against the couch’s armrest, your hand resting lightly on the kitten’s side. Kiwi Banana’s breathing grew slow, steady—warm against your leg.
And before you realized it, lulled by the soft purring and the quiet comfort, your eyes drifted shut. Sleep came easier this time.
*
You woke to the soft sound of someone whispering nearby—light, excited, and terribly close to your ear.
“Mama… Mamaaa, look…”
Your eyelids fluttered open, slow and heavy. Morning sunlight was already spilling through the curtains, warm and gold against your skin. The blanket had slipped halfway off, and curled right on top of your stomach was Kiwi Banana, purring like an engine.
Then you saw Anya. She was kneeling beside the couch in her pajama shorts, hair sticking in every direction, eyes wide with pure wonder.
“Mama, you’re soooo cute…” she whispered dramatically, as if she’d stumbled upon a rare forest creature. “Sleeping with Kiwi Banana… like best friends…”
You groaned softly, rubbing your face. Kiwi Banana stretched, tiny paws pressing into your shirt before settling again. “Anya… why are you awake this early?”
Though judging from the light, it wasn’t that early—just earlier than your usual waking time.
She puffed her cheeks. “I woke up and kitty wasn’t in my room! So I followed it. And then—” she pointed at you with all the intensity of a detective revealing a culprit— “I found this.”
You glanced down at the kitten sprawled on you like a warm, furry badge.
“Mama likes Kiwi Banana now?” Anya asked, hope sparkling in her eyes.
The kitten yawned—as if answering for you.
You exhaled, resigned. “…Maybe a little.”
Anya clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. It didn’t work. “BABA!!” she shrieked towards the hallway, “MAMA LOVES KIWI BANANA!!”
From the bedroom came Jun’s sleepy, confused voice, “What—already? It’s morning…”
You covered your face again. Too late. L The whole house already knew.
Kiwi Banana didn’t stay that tiny for long. Months passed, and somehow the kitten who once fit perfectly on your stomach grew into a round, spoiled ball of fur—with a belly that jiggled when it trotted and a face that had perfected the art of guilt-tripping you into extra treats.
Jun swore it wasn’t his fault. You swore it wasn’t yours. Anya didn’t swear anything—she openly blamed both of you.
“Mama, you love Kiwi Banana too much,” she complained one afternoon as the cat waddled proudly across the living room like a royal parade float.
You scooped the chunky creature into your arms anyway. “And what’s wrong with that?”
Kiwi Banana purred, melting into your embrace with the confidence of a cat who knew it was adored.
The fear you once held—the ache of old memories, the guilt, the trauma—had softened over time, replaced by something gentler. Something healing.
Jun wrapped an arm around your shoulders from behind, resting his chin lightly on your head as he watched the cat kneading your shirt with chubby paws.
“Told you,” he murmured with a smile, “you were always a cat person.”
You shot him a look. He kissed your cheek anyway. Kiwi Banana flopped dramatically in your arms, exposing its belly in complete trust.
And for the first time in a long, long while, loving a cat didn’t hurt. It felt like coming home. The home you built now—warm, noisy, messy, full of laughter. Full of Jun, full of Anya.
And full of one very fat, very loved Kiwi Banana.
End.
Footnote:
Grief lingers, but love does, too.
Two years ago, the fire took my home… and all the little lives I loved within it. The guilt clung to me like smoke, staining everything I touched. But my tricolor Simi — my brave girl — survived long enough to show me that even in ruin, love doesn’t burn out so easily.
Fly high, my baby.
I carry you in every quiet morning, every soft memory, every warm place my heart still knows how to hold.
