#tpsateotw

[en-ternity]

Falling in love with your older brother’s best friend certainly wasn’t one of your summer resolutions. Actually, meeting him wasn’t even part of your plans. But someday, you happened to have no other option than to appear unannounced at his little pottery shop in Seogwipo. A stray kitten in a pet carrier, and asking for a place to stay. And well, you couldn’t help but do (both things).

a summer romance divided into two parts

PAIRING: older brother’s best friend!Jaeyun x fem!reader

WARNINGS (for this part): slow-burnish, mentions of alcohol, reader gets wasted once and Jaeyun has to take care of her, a lot of art references as he majored in fine arts, and usage of the pet name baby quite a lot

PART ONE｜18.5K｜STORY MASTERLIST

Phone calls from Park Jongseong had never been a good sign for Jake.

Jongseong hated phones, and especially — making calls. Over the years that they had been friends, he’d only initiated a call as the last resort in the midst of the last resorts: the keypad of their old dormitory breaking and locking him out. His car stalling when the whole country was already on a break for the Chuseok, and the chances of him finding a tow truck before his mother’s beneficent dinner began were extremely thin. A forgotten file that supposedly could save Jongseong from failing his last law semester and made Jake run through half of the university campus despite his doubts about the paper’s extent. And of course — the most unforgettable one — “call me back in five and pretend the dorm is on fire” when a blind date went particularly wrong.

But that was the problem with receiving so few phone calls from his best friend. It didn’t matter if Jake felt his shoulders stiffening as soon as he saw Jongseong’s name shining on his phone screen — he knew he needed to pick up.

It was almost noon when Jongseong called that day, the pottery shop busy in a way that only happened with the beginning of summer, the vacation season never failing to bring an influx of tourists to Jeju and suddenly making the island a little cluttered.

“Here’s the thing,” Jongseong said. It was such a classic Jongseong way to start a conversation. Dramatic and with a hint of urgency that Jake knew all too well. “I need a favor.”

“Good morning to you too,” Jake replied, immediately receiving a huff at the other end of the line. “I’m awesome, Jay — thank you so much for asking. How about you?”

“I’m serious. Baby is giving me a headache, and I need your help.”

“Your sister?” Jake demanded, his voice coming higher than he intended and making a few customers glance over.

Jake had never met you, not really.  Everything he knew about you was from these tiny pieces Jongseong had given him through conversations. And although Jake was well aware that you had given your brother a few hard moments, as you always preferred to reach out to him first whenever you needed help, Jake couldn’t imagine how he could be directly involved this time.

He spun around, eyes focusing on the other side of the pottery shop’s tempered glass. Sunlight was falling brightly on the town, and bees hummed around the bushes on the other side of the street as they enjoyed the pink-white blossoms that seemed to be disappearing as the summer kept settling heavier and heavier on the island.

Down the street, Mrs. Choi seemed to be enjoying the beginning of the summer as well. She was sitting at a stool by the door of her bakery, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, as she often was — well, whenever she wasn’t screaming at Euntaek, her troublemaker grandson whom people only ever called Mrs. Choi’s grandson with a heavy sigh whenever he appeared around.

“She has been trying for this scholarship in the United States ever since she graduated high school, and now that she got it, out of nowhere, she decided to spend the summer in Jeju — alone. I want you to be her emergency contact,” Jongseong explained, catching Jake’s attention once again. “You’re still living there, right? In your grandfather’s old house, and taking care of his pottery shop?”

It was a too practical way to describe the fact that Jake had almost run away to it — taking it as an inheritance when no one else wanted it — but he only hummed in agreement.

“But Seogwipo is in the extreme south of the island, depending on the area she-”

“I know. It’s only for emergencies — it would take several hours for any of us to arrive on the island,” Jongseong said. “Please, I’m just worried about her.”

“Fine,” Jake conceded. “But why — why did she choose Jeju?”

Honestly, there was no reason for you to choose Jeju aside from your desire to leave Korea’s mainland.

You had thought of Japan at first — being less than an hour and a half away by plane, the neighboring country seemed to be the best option for running away. But the fact was — you didn’t know anything of the language aside from the small vocabulary you had acquired after too many hours watching of Ghibli films, and the mere idea of living there for three months felt as stressful as the reality of having to deal with all the expectations your family had been putting on your upcoming university life in the United States. 

But then, one day you scrolled through a vacation website, and Jeju shone to you. 

It took fifteen minutes to convince your parents — an additional five to annoy your brother — but on the first day of summer, you took a flight to the Korean island and set yourself up in a nice apartment downtown. 

Yet, you had to admit, your runaway hadn’t been that fun — especially with a landlord who seemed to prefer spending all his time checking the security cameras rather than fixing your broken sink and had screamed at you for appearing with a stray kitten in the middle of a summer storm — a black furry thing that wasn’t even fifteen centimeters long but seemed to bother him as a lynx would.

The nights were never quiet there, and the city hardly slept, so instead of the soothing comfort you expected to find in it, you lay awake in your bed wondering if you had done something wrong. And so, when the landlord argued that the cat left or you left, you had no second thoughts before packing your belongings and putting the kitten in the pet carrier you had bought just a few hours earlier, almost like an omen.

You were too embarrassed to call your parents for help not even two weeks into your supposedly independent vacation — too proud to give Jongseong proof that you weren’t ready to be on your own, so you put Sim Jaeyun’s address on the maps app of your phone and took the next bus to the small town he resided in, watching as the buildings disappeared and the fields of green tea stretched boundlessly beneath the summer sun.

It took you exactly one hour and seven minutes to arrive at Seogwipo. With no transfers or changes, the bus stopped just a few streets away from Jaeyun’s address — a pretty road which ran along the South Sea, and made it easy to stroll along the sidewalk. Nothing but the sound of your luggage against the pavement and the waves softly crashing against the dark rocks.

The busiest part of Jeju had been left with the downtown — the tidy streets giving way to open roads and making the bustling cities feel like part of another world — another reality. 

Even the skies seemed to acquire a new shade of blue here. 

There wasn’t much along the path, a convenience store, a library, a tiny bakery where an old lady sat at a stool by its door—

“Do you need help?” she asked. You blinked at her, taking a moment too long to make sense of what she had said because her accent was strong — Jeju dialect in its purest form.

You didn’t need help — your phone’s map app seemed to be working just fine, but you felt bad about sounding impolite. Especially in a place like Seogwipo seemed to be, so you smiled at her, immediately receiving the gesture back.

“I’m looking for my brother’s friend’s house,” you said. “He should live on this street.”

“Tell me his name. I know everyone here.”

“Jaeyun — Sim Jaeyun.”

“Oh! Jake!” she exclaimed, suddenly clapping her chubby hands and startling you. “Yes, he lives straight ahead. I can ask my grandson to take you there.”

“No, it’s okay,” you cut in. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a long walk, but you have luggage, and—” she paused, her eyes falling on the pet carrier hanging on your shoulder. “A cat?”

Your gaze fell on the carrier as well, catching just the idea of an ear, but before you could answer, she was already leaning inside the bakery, filling her lungs and shouting, “Euntaek!”

Euntaek appeared at the door almost immediately. If the old lady hadn’t told you he was her grandson, it would have been impossible for you to notice their connection on your own. They were the opposite in every way — where she was short and plump, he was tall, lanky, and with a mess of dark hair that could have been considered attractive to some other girl out there. But not you — especially because of how he paused then, his mouth curling in a smirk as soon as he caught sight of you.

“This is Euntaek,” she said as he stepped closer. “My grandson. He is always here over the summer, so if you need anything don’t hesitate to come to us and ask.”

“Just Taek is fine,” he said, leaning in, and all of a sudden you could smell him, musk and blackberries — a perfume so strong that if Jongseong were here, he would have advised him to keep it to the cold seasons — together with a faint scent of tobacco, and you didn’t need to be a genius to guess what was in the pack in the front pocket of his t-shirt.

“Stop playing around and take her to Jake’s shop,” the old lady demanded. 

Euntaek straightened himself at her words, looking ahead at the street as if he was suddenly confused, but he didn’t retort — didn’t reply; when he looked back at you, he was smirking once again — almost as if he was satisfied with the situation. 

“Give me your luggage,” he demanded, and you did — partly because you thought it would be good for him to have something to put his attention aside from your presence, and partly because you were starting to feel tired, the events of the day wearing you to the bone. 

Euntaek guided you through the streets as the sun kept going down, your shadow stretching out so long that its edges were already blurring with the approaching night.

“Are you staying the whole summer?” he asked. 

“No, I—” you paused, suddenly unsure. Being completely honest, you hadn’t thought about what would happen after speaking with your brother’s best friend — you hadn’t even thought about what would happen while meeting him. Your plan stopped at your arrival at Seogwipo, and only now were you noticing how faulty it could be.

“Well, it’s a good idea,” Euntaek said, catching your attention once again. “You should stay in the city. Nothing really happens on this side of the island.”

“It seems pretty nice to me,” you admitted.

Euntaek lifted a brow at you, his eyes twinkling with what you swore to be amusement. “Where are you from?”

“Seoul.”

“Ah, a girl from the city-city. I could hear it from your accent,” he said, but there was something within the way he looked at you there that made you doubt it had been only your accent. His eyes trailed through your body — from your goldenish hairpins to the seams of your dress and then, lower, stopping at your ballerina shoes — although you couldn’t tell what could be special about any of those pieces. Everything had merely been a present from a family member. “But I guess it makes sense for you to like this end of the world then.”

You didn’t reply this time, and in the silence that followed, you could tell that he was waiting for you to say something, ask something — do anything to keep the conversation going, but you didn’t know how to do so.

It’s not that you were a quiet person — you weren’t. You had already heard enough remarks from your father to know that you could be considered anything but quiet. It had just become rare for you to be alone with anyone who wasn’t in your circle of comfort already. Between school and extra classes, it had become difficult to find yourself with people you didn’t know — let alone talking to them, and you hadn’t noticed how out of practice you were until you had come to Jeju.

 “Well, we’re here,” he announced.

Just like the rest of the street, Jaeyun’s shop was a single-story construction with white walls and a tempered glass framed by bare wood, like many Korean houses had been built during the Joseon dynasty.

“Give me your phone,” Euntaek said.

“My phone?” you asked, your gaze straying from the shop to the device still unlocked in your hands. His phrase came with no question marks or preamble, sounding more like a demand than a question once again, and you wondered if he was always like this — throwing orders that should have been questions.

“Yes,” he said. “In case you need something — Jake doesn’t have a car, he’s always taking the old Beomseok’s pickup but I-” the ramble kept going on, but as you extended your phone at him, you had already turned back to the shop. 

You had once heard Jongseong telling your parents that Jaeyun had moved to Jeju to take care of his departed grandfather’s shop, being the only one who took an interest in the old man’s business — your brother had even come to help at the beginning of everything, but you never had considered asking him what the shop was about, and now you wished you had so you wouldn’t be so surprised as you caught sight of the tens of pottery pieces — from small mugs to bowls and enormous flower pots, all glazed in the modest tones of Jeju, and filling the wooden shelves at the farthest end of the room.

Down the middle of the shop was a long table and some pottery wheels, their sheer number indicating he not only did it but also taught.

The shop was fairly empty, save for a couple studying the row of mugs, and Jaeyun — standing with his back to the tempered glass.

Euntaek handed your phone back, and you locked it without even looking back at him.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you said. 

“Anything you need, just give me a shot.”

“Sure,” you said, already taking the handle of your luggage and stepping away.

A fluttering of crystal and bells clanked against the door as you pushed it, allowing the summer breeze to rush over the place, the earthy and pond-mud smell of clay taking over your senses as Jaeyun turned to you, a polite smile already playing on his lips. 

Until now, you had never seen your brother’s best friend — not that you hadn’t tried, but his only social media seemed to be Instagram and the absence of posts left you nothing but the group pictures your brother showed you once in a while, blurry things that had been taken in drunken states or so far away that you couldn’t really tell what he looked like aside from the idea of his sun-kissed skin and his dark hair, always curled and always growing past his ears — boyish in a way that was pretty, you remembered once thinking, but up close with the golden light of the sunset washing over him, you noticed that he was utterly stunning, and you became uncomfortably aware of the sun touching your face, turning your cheeks warmer and warmer beneath his gaze.

“Jaeyun?” you tried.

“Jake,” he corrected. “Whenever I hear Jaeyun, I feel like I need to look back to check if my father isn’t here.”

You nodded at him — well aware of the existence of his English name. You had already spoken it in conversations with your brother — rolled through the letters of it absently far enough times to be familiar with it, but there was something different about it now that you could put a face on it. The name fit him — young and beautiful, cheerful and bright. And you couldn’t help but hold the shape of his name in your mouth, trying it on your tongue with its new taste, and he tilted his head to the side, carefully studying you.

“Would you be Jongseong’s little sister?”

“Yes, I-” you exhaled. “I — would you have a spare room?”

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

It took Jake fifteen minutes to finish his talk with the couple and turn his full attention back to you, leaning on the countertop as you told him about the apartment downtown, the summer storm, the kitten — even pulling the animal out of the pet carrier as an appeal, and then, finally, you told him about the landlord demanding you to put it back on the streets and how you simply couldn’t, so you left only with half of the money your parents had spent.

You hadn’t really thought about it, but the words kept coming out rushed and messed up, a single stream of phrases pouring out of you, and you swore to him you were going to find a place somewhere else, you just needed time — and a room for a few nights.

“So let me see if I understood,” Jake said. “You came to Jeju to spend the summer, got a nice place downtown, but because of this kitten,” he stopped then, theatrically pointing at the animal in your hands. “You got kicked out without getting your full deposit back and you neither want to call your parents asking them to help you find a new place nor simply want to go back home?”

“Yes, that’s — that’s exactly what happened,” you said.

You felt childish when the words reached back at you — your whole world becoming so small and silly. So you braced yourself for Jake’s judgment, but he did not. If anything, he tilted his head once again, thumping his fingers against the countertop and you weren’t certain if this was because he was considering your situation or because it was simply quite a lot to take in just a few minutes. But he sighed then, the softest gust of air passing through his lips as a redemption.

“You can’t come here with a stray kitten,” he said. “It’s obvious that I would say yes.”

You must not have truly expected him to agree, because the surprise you felt when you heard his reply stunned you to silence, and in the stillness that followed, you finally noticed how fast your heart was beating against your ears.

You had been terrified now that you could think about it.

“For real?” you asked then.

“Of course,” he said. “I will just close the shop and show you the house.”

You followed Jake back into the street, not knowing what else to do aside from standing there — watching as he closed the door, playing with the key, and locking it.

Outside, the night was slowly setting in, moonless and warm.

“Is it a girl or a boy?” he asked.

“What?”

“The cat.”

“Oh,” you gasped. “It’s a boy.”

“And have you named him?”

“Not yet. I am not even sure if I can keep him, since I am leaving Jeju by the end of summer, I thought about finding a nice home for him here,” you blurted out, focusing on the small furry thing in your hands and when you looked at Jake again, he had already approached you. He was as tall as Jongseong, but differently from your brother he didn’t bottle you in the shadows and made you feel somehow smaller in the immensity of the world. Instead, Jake felt comfortably tall. He smelled like summer afternoons, like orange blossoms and that earthy scent that emanated from the pottery pieces displayed on his shelves. “But it’s probably better to at least give him a temporary name, right?”

“Jeonchae,” he said. “I always wanted to have a pet with this name.”

“Jeonchae is it then,” you replied, and Jake smiled again, this time something beyond his polite lightness and you felt your heart swelling. He had those types of smiles that took over an entire face. You couldn’t even react as he took the handle of your luggage from your hand, guiding you to a side path, and rounding the shop into the back garden — or the front garden. It depended on where you were coming from. His house stood on the other side of it, the design a perfect extension of the shop.

As Jake opened the front door and slipped in, you looked past him and into the hall. At first sight, the inside of Jake’s house was as plain as the outside. The same wooden frames and white walls you suspected he didn’t mind painting after he had inherited it, but as you walked inside, toeing out of your ballerina shoes, you noticed that the greatest of the place didn’t lie on the structure itself, but on the things. Nothing in the living room matched — not the green racks or the maroon couch. The shelves on the far wall were cluttered with books stacked between pieces of pottery and crafted figurines. The last afternoon light spilled through an open window, blending with the yellow lamps and everything was chaotic, bright, and unabashedly joyous.

And you were surprised to notice you loved it.

“Nothing is exactly new, but-”

“It’s lovely,” you said. “Homey.”

Jake looked at you like maybe he didn’t quite believe it — like he quite didn’t expect it, and you couldn’t help but frown a bit.

Your family’s house was minimalist, bare even, everything almost planned not to indicate any of your personalities and you wondered how it would feel to have a place that showed exactly who you were inside.

“Kitchen’s over there,” he continued, pointing at the end of the room as if the open floor plan didn’t make it clear where everything was.

“This is my room,” he said, moving his attention to the first door in a row of three. You could barely get a glimpse of the inside before he continued on, rolling your luggage through the hardwood floor. “The door on the far end is the bathroom and the laundry, it seems a bit cluttered, but well, it is an old house — and here,”

“Can be your room,” he finished, gesturing for you to go in first. And you did so, finally letting go of Jeonchae and allowing the kitten to pad around the room.

A bed lay in the center with only the mattress. And although the windows had been flung wide open, showing the perfect view of the garden, a faint smell of glaze and paint remained in the room, something you couldn’t tell if it came from the pots of paint organized on the shelves, or the pottery pieces themselves — drying on the window frame.

“It was my grandparents’ room,” Jake clarified. “Now I just use it as-”

“A paint room,” you completed. “Is it okay if I look?”

“Yeah, I mean- yeah,” he whispered, running his fingers through his hair.

You crouched in front of the pieces, staying eye level with them. Jake had painted a few with the same earthy tones you had seen at his shop, but others he had drawn on, gorgeous mixes of colors and styles. There were hills in the traditional Korean art style, and flowers in a modern — almost silly way. You could stay there studying these pieces for hours and catching a different detail every time. But as you turned to say something to Jake, you caught sight of a canvas leaning against the wall, a three-dimensional painting, with mountains coming out of the plain canvas that took your words away. Different from everything else, it barely had colors: a mix of black and white and you could feel it, the struggle and the loneliness on the canvas. Your fingers tickled as if you wanted to reach for it — brush your fingers as if to tend the pain, but you forced yourself to remain still.

“My final project from my first university semester,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” you said. “How did you do it?”

“Lots of baking soda — Jay got quite annoyed by the mess I made in our shared room.”

“My brother is a naturally annoyed person,” you said, immediately coaxing a snort of laughter out of him, the sound so silly, yet vivid that you didn’t notice a smile was rising to your lips in response until it was already there.

“Now that’s the truth,” he said.

“Well, I will leave you to settle in,” he continued. “The wardrobe is empty, aside from a few bed sheets, I think. You can use anything here, and if the paint and pottery bother you, just put it out, I can sort it anywhere else.”

“It’s okay,” you said. “Honestly, thank you so much.”

“I would ask you what you want for dinner, but my abilities in the kitchen are very limited, and there’s no takeout nearby so-”

“Could I help?”

“Don’t worry. Jeonchae is going to help me, aren’t you, buddy?” he asked, leaning down slightly so he could reach for the kitten, scratching the back of his ears, and immediately receiving a low rumble of approval.

You were surprised to see that the kitten, in fact, followed Jake out of the room and through the house, rushing through the kitchen not only as if he knew the place, but as if he were already part of it.

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

You weren’t sure how long you were going to stay at Jake’s house, so you decided not to unpack everything, making settling yourself into his spare room a quick task, and by the time you stepped out to the common area, he was just taking a pan off the six-burner stove and putting it on the table.

You almost laughed when you noticed his very limited ability in the kitchen meant ramen and a bunch of leftover side dishes for the night, the takeout bowls affirming that nothing had been made by him.

There was something endearing about Jake’s clumsy maneuvering around the kitchen, a certain charm in his earnest attempt, but you couldn’t help but worry if his dinners always had been like this — you were a Park at the end of the day, meals not only being important for health, but also a way of caring for yourself and others, so you stopped yourself, trying your best not to show your worry when he caught sight of you.

“I hope you didn’t have high expectations,” he said then, his eyes meeting yours. “It’s nothing like your mother’s or your brother’s — but it’ll fill you up.”

“I wouldn’t expect anyone to be like them,” you said. “Only professional chefs love the kitchen as much as they do.”

His eyes softened as he gestured for you to join him at the table.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he admitted, passing you one of the bowls. You weren’t surprised to notice it was handmade, irregular, and pottery-crafted. You curled your fingers around the piece, relishing the coldness against your skin.

“Are your dinners always like this?” you asked. Jake looked at you on the other side of the table then, taking in how you hadn’t moved yet, and retrieved the bowl from you, ladling a heaping portion of ramen and placing it in front of you.

“You mean extremely unprepared and unhealthy?” he asked, and you gasped. You didn’t mean to offend him, but because you couldn’t find better words to describe it, you remained silent. “Most of the time. But once in a while Mrs. Choi brings me something, sometimes I simply do not eat, so we can say it’s not an every-night thing.”

There was a pause, a brief moment full of awkwardness. But then, Jeonchae leaped onto the dining table, immediately stealing a laugh from Jake. He gave a piece of meat to the kitten, quickly making the apology die on your tongue together with the gasp you couldn’t release, and just like that, the spell was broken.

“Jake,” you called. “What if I take care of dinner while I’m staying here?”

“Oh no, she’s surely a Park,” he teased, but he nodded at you, barely giving himself the time to think between one second and another, and you sucked your breath back.

“Really?” you asked. “I mean, I’m not like my mother or Jay, you know—”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be like them,” he said, and that was it — just your words in his mouth, but you couldn’t help but feel as if the air had suddenly gotten lighter, that heavy pressure on your shoulders disappearing as if it had never been there. It was the very first time you genuinely thought someone who knew your family didn’t expect you to be like them. “But I would need to take you to the market tomorrow, I doubt there’s something usable in this kitchen.”

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

You woke up to the street lights filtering through the darkness of your room and a soft series of curses.

At first, you couldn’t remember where you were. The scent of glaze and paint wrapped around you with a strange closeness, until you remembered the discussion with the landlord, putting the kitten in a carrier, and taking the bus to Seogwipo to meet Jake — Jake.

You slid out of the bed, padding barefoot to the window and opening it in time to find your brother’s best friend adjusting a ladder closer to the house’s wall and taking the first step up to it.

“What are you doing?” you asked because Jake couldn’t possibly be going up to the roof late at night although everything indicated it was exactly what he was doing.

Jake turned to you as fast as the complicated smile took over his features.

“Sorry, I woke you up,” he said, the certainty that he had been the one to wake you up stealing any question from his phrase and so you didn’t reply.

“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked then.

“A bit, yes.”

“Do you trust me?”

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

There were stars, and there were stars in Seogwipo.

Some nights, back at home, you had lingered by your bedroom’s window, trying to spot at least a spare star above the city lights without much success, but as you sat by Jake’s side at the uneven tiles of his roof, and craned your neck to the vastness of the sky, you couldn’t help but sigh at the view, an appreciation sound that came from your bare heart.

In Jeju there were never enough streetlights to obliterate the stars completely — you could always get a glimpse of them without much effort, but in Seogwipo — so far from anything else, the stars created streams of silver against the dark sky.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

“Was it what you expected when you decided to come to Jeju?” Jake asked.

“I don’t think I had any expectations. Honestly, I barely considered it before I decided to come to Jeju. It was there, and suddenly it seemed like a great option so I took it,” you said. “It’s just — are you the youngest in your family?”

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed at your sudden question, his confusion settling heavy on his features despite the lightness with which he tilted his head, and in the heat of the moment, you continued: “I am not blaming Jay or my family, it’s not like that. But there is something about being the youngest child that no one speaks about,”

“When you are the youngest, you live in the shadows of their failures or their successes. It wasn’t my dream to go to the United States to study — it was my father’s. He couldn’t do it back at his time, so he tried to make Jay do it for him, but when Jay failed due to his grades, I became the next in line, and I have been living my whole life like this — trying to fulfill everything they want so I won’t be letdown of my family.”

“When I passed the university admissions interview,” you continued. “got the visa and everything, they started talking about their expectations and it suddenly made me realize that I have never lived a single day for myself, so I think I panicked — I wanted to try something for myself, at least this summer before I go to the United States to live a life I never dreamed about.”

When you finished, Jake had been silent for so long that you thought he had zoned out — leaving you to talk to the vastness of the place. But you looked at him then, and he was there — with the same careful stare he had turned on you this afternoon, and making your cheeks grow warmer.

You weren’t a quiet person — as you had reminded yourself with Euntaek earlier on that day. You were just out of the practice of speaking with strangers. You could eventually be your true self. It wasn’t uncommon. What truly surprised you was how fast Jake had made you open up.

It wasn’t like you considered Jake a stranger, he wasn’t, not really. You had coexisted in each other’s worlds for so long that it was almost peculiar to think you had met just a few hours previously. Yet still, it felt way too nice.

“I do have an older brother too,” Jake admitted then. “He studied medicine in Australia and people love to praise him or say something like it must be hard for Jaeyun to have an older brother like you.”

A breath shuddered out of you with the harshness of his words, and his mouth twisted into something between a smile and a frown, his own history setting heavy on him, and making him pause, his gaze drifting downward.

Jake watched as his fingers moved over his lap as if he was trying to sort his thoughts out, and that was the moment you noticed that whatever he was about to tell you was something he had been keeping for himself for years — just like you — too much like you, actually.

“It’s just like you said, I do not blame my family,” he started. “But because my parents are doctors and my brother always knew he was going to follow their path, I grew up thinking I was the letdown of my family.”

“With my grandfather, though,” Jake continued. “He was an artist — not a very successful one as you can see from the house or from the fact that you probably never heard of him, but he loved it,”

“I used to come here every summer, and whenever I saw him doing pottery — whenever I saw the happiness in him, I knew it was what I wanted to do too, but still, I was afraid I would disappoint my parents so I tried to follow their path and study medicine instead.” Jake had a dull tone, but it was almost like his canvas in your room — you could feel the pain in each syllable. “But then, my grandfather died in my first year.”

You knew Jake’s grandfather had died — had picked the information in the echo of your brother’s conversation with your mother, but you never knew what the man had meant to Jake, and perhaps that was what made your chest ache as if you had just discovered his passing.

“I’m so sorry,” you said.

You reached out to Jake, placing your hand gently on top of his. It hadn’t dawned on you how intimate the gesture was until you felt Jake moving beneath your touch, but before you could pull away he had already turned his palm into yours, squeezing you lightly, and reassuringly.

“It’s okay. It has been five years already,” he said. “Somehow I think I’ve made peace with this as much as a person can be — I mean, grief never ends. It just gives you breaks. Some moments I laugh while remembering him, and others I catch myself close to tears because I saw an old man wearing a blue cap the way he did, but it’s more like a heartache,”

“I wish he were still here sometimes,” Jake concluded. “He always knew how to see through me,” 

“In his last phone call, he asked if I was happy — if I was doing what I wanted to,” he said. “And it stuck with me, you know? I wasn’t — so I came to Jeju for his funeral and decided I could go back to Seoul, but not to med school. I got transferred, and well, I think you know the rest of the story. I graduated in Fine Arts like I always wanted, and came here to take care of his things.”

“I won’t lie and tell you it was easy — it wasn’t. When I told my parents what my plans were, my father asked me if I wanted to be poor like my grandpa. But what I am trying to say is that I understand you,” Jake said. “If you want to stay here for the whole summer to give yourself time, I’ve got you — just be sure to live for yourself because there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Make a list of things you have never done and want to do. I don’t know. Just enjoy your time here.”

A breeze picked up in the following silence, the halted air suddenly stirring and shuddering the bushes on the other side of the street. Seogwipo was so silent at this hour of the night that you could hear the soft rustling sound as they moved, all the world halted enough to give space for that tiny word to settle in.

Enjoy. You weren’t really sure if you understood what it meant anymore.

Your whole life felt like some task. From your academic life to even the parts that used to be the most fun, like reading over the summer or baking a new recipe on a Friday afternoon. They felt like things you had to be really good at in order to prove you were worth belonging. And looking back at it, it just felt so messed up.

“You sound wiser than my brother,” you whispered. “Maybe I should start talking to you instead.”

“Well, you know where to find me now,” he whispered back, leaning toward your side. He was just a bit too close, his scent taking over you together with the summer breezes. He might have noticed it too because he drew a bit back, running his fingers through his hair as his gaze focused on the skyline once again. 

“But it can be a dangerous thing — to get me,” you replied. “I can become really dependent.”

Jake’s eyes lingered as he turned back to you, his lips parting for a heartbeat more, the space between them widening with what he meant to say next, but whatever it had been — was forgotten within a second, and he only swallowed then, licking at his lips.

“Should we go down?” Jake asked. “I have no idea what time it is.”

But he was already picking his way across the roof tiles, taking the first step down the ladder before you had even replied.

You carefully followed him, edging your way onto the roof, but the moment you looked down, you felt your heart contracting, shivers scattering down the line of your spine and making you dizzy.

“Jake?” you called, your voice sounding quieter than you intended to.

“Yeah?”

“Remember when I said I was a bit afraid of heights?” you asked, but he didn’t reply, his eyebrows furrowing as he peered at you. “I don’t mind being in a high place, but I can’t see how high it is.”

“You can’t look down?”

“It makes me vertiginous,” you admitted.

“Okay,” Jake said. “Let’s do it like this — can you sit on the edge of the roof and put your feet on the ladder?”

You nodded, heart throbbing inside of your chest as you carefully shifted your weight and did as he said, finding the first step of the ladder with the soles of your shoes. Either the night had turned colder or your senses had turned very accurate due to your nervousness. You felt Jake retreating the few steps he had taken down, and lingering closer to you, his whole body as warm as he sounded when he finally spoke again.

“Give me your hands,” he asked. “You can keep your eyes straight on the horizon or close them, I’ve got you — just don’t look down.”

You extended your hands to him, and he took them, his fingers curling around yours as he guided you down.

“Isn’t it dangerous for you?” you asked suddenly, but you didn’t dare to open your eyes and check how he was doing it.

“Just a few more steps, Baby,” he said, immediately making you both halt, your eyes opening as the endearing word whistled through the space between you.

It’s not like you thought he meant it to be endearing. Your whole family called you Baby. From your grandparents to your parents and brother — and even their close friends. Probably whenever Jake had heard someone speaking about you the nickname simply came by, but hearing it in his voice felt different, and a flush of warmth crept up to your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s okay,” you said. “I guess Jay called me Baby too much around you.”

“Yes,” he said, the confirmation coming as a tight exhale. “It happened so often that when he first said your name I had to ask who he was talking about and he managed to feel offended.”

You laughed at it, softly, and his mouth quivered in response.

“Just a few more steps,” he repeated then. And with the help of Jake’s guidance, you managed to make it down from the roof.

Jeonchae was already waiting at the house’s door. And you tried not to feel offended when the kitten once again chose Jake, following him through the living room and only stopping when Jake did too.

“Good night, Baby,” Jake said, reaching for his door’s knob.

You did so too, but didn’t turn it. You didn’t want to be the first one to break the moment. Like that one night during a Seollal break when your mother found you awake when no one else was. She asked if you wanted to drink a cup of warm milk with her, and it had been so nice to have your mother all to yourself — so nice to whisper things neither of you really did when it was day. You wanted to relish it until the end, leaving a single sip in your cup even when it was all cold and unsweetened.

But Jake was slightly shaking his head then, a smile on his lips before he slipped into his room.

On the morning of the next day, you woke up to the soft rattle of dishes echoing, drawers opening and shutting before the smell of bread browning and eggs hitting a hot skillet finally reached you.

Morning light flooded through the opened windows of the bedroom, the brightness of it catching you off guard and making you blink a few times before you managed to roll over the bed, trying to catch what Jake was doing, but the gap between the door and its frame was small, bare a sliver, and all you could see was his head tilted toward the stove in concentration and his shoulders moving, the thin fabric of his shirt almost giving you the outline of everything — you stood up abruptly, padding barefoot to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said, promptly extending a mug toward you. You wrapped your hands around the steaming cup, inhaling the bittersweet scent of coffee and vanilla.

“So you aren’t very fond of cooking dinner, but like cooking breakfast?” you asked.

“I guess we all have one favorite meal.”

“Well, that makes sense,” you agreed. “But if I prefer baking, what does it make me?”

“A tea-time person, definitely,” he said. “Maybe you should meet Mrs. Choi, she has a bakery down the street-”

“An old lady? Not even one and a half meters tall? Gray hair and a really fierce accent?”

“I see that you have already met her.”

“She was sitting by her bakery door when I arrived,” you said. “Asked if I needed help, and made her grandson walk me here.”

“She made Euntaek walk you for a hundred-something meters?”

“Very fiercely, actually, but perhaps it was just her accent,” you admitted, stealing a smile from him. It had been so quick — if your heart hadn’t leaped at the sight of it, you would think it had been an imagined moment.

“I thought about going to the supermarket after breakfast,” he said. “Get the things you need, I genuinely only have eggs, three packs of ramen, and bread.”

“Well, you at least have something aside from ramen.”

“Don’t get too excited. Beomseok — an old man who lives at the end of the street sells eggs, and the bread is from Mrs. Choi’s bakery—”

“I’m certainly not proud,” you said, but despite the harsh choice of words, they carried no venom and Jake allowed himself to playfully pout at you. There was something adorable about his expression — almost puppyish, and you had to control your sudden urge and not reach for him, running your fingers through his locks and discovering if they were as soft as they looked.

“Don’t be so mean to me.”

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

Euntaek had told you — more like warned you about the absence of a car among Jake’s possessions, always asking for the old Beomseok’s pickup. So when Jake told you he was going to wait outside, you had expected to step out to the view of a pickup — although you didn’t know what Beomseok looked like, much less what his pickup looked like — or Jake simply standing there ready to walk you to the market, but you hadn’t expected, not for a single second, to see him leaning on a motorcycle with two helmets in his hands. Partly because you hadn’t seen it the night before, and partly because it shone beneath the summer sun, all black, metallic, and nothing like Jake.

You had this odd conviction that often people matched their vehicles. Jongseong’s black Mercedes was made for him, just like your mother’s champagne Audi was made for her, but where Jake was soft his motorcycle was hazardous. And you weren’t sure if it was conflicting or if you had just encountered a new side of him. But either way — it knocked the wind out of you.

“No,” you said.

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you, his hand halting in the middle of the motion of extending one of the helmets to you.

“Can’t we go walking or something?” you asked.

“Why?”

“Jay also has a motorcycle license, and mom made me promise I wouldn’t ride with him.”

“You promised you wouldn’t ride with Jay — I am not Jay,” he said. “C’mon, it’s safe.”

You could tell that Jake was trying to look unamused, but it was clear by the way the corners of his mouth twisted that he was fighting a smile as he looked down the street, looking down the path you had already walked. He watched the whole path from Mrs. Choi’s tiny bakery to his own shop before he moved ahead, the shops and houses you still didn’t know as if he was looking for something.

Bees hummed around the bushes on the other side of the street.

It was so impossibly summer.

“Let’s do it like this: you are crossing off the first thing on the list of things you have never done before,” Jake said, already swinging a leg over the motorcycle. “Beomseok’s pickup isn’t here, so he’s probably using it. Next time we go to the market I promise you — I will ask for his pickup if you want me to, but for today it’s our only option.”

“C’mon, Baby. I’ve got you,” he said, tentatively extending you the helmet once again.

And there it was. Baby. The word being familiar and unknown. Soft and overwhelming. It rolled off Jake’s tongue as easily as it had the night previously. And perhaps because of the lack of surprise, perhaps because of the new insight the daylight brought, but you finally got it. Jake didn’t call you with the fondness your parents did, nor with the fierce overprotection Jongseong wrapped it in. He took your nickname and made it all his. Teasingly as it was overprotective, careful as it was wild. And you felt something moving inside of you. 

Wasn’t that the reason why you had come to Jeju?

You stepped forward, taking the helmet and swinging your leg over the motorcycle before you could even take a breath.

Jake put on his helmet too, looking over his shoulder. He seemed ready to say something to you, but whatever it had been, slipped and slid as he felt you resting your head against his back, the side of your helmet pressed against his jacket as your arms slipped around his waist, hands finding the shirt beneath the denim and twisting the thin material of it until your knuckles turned white. Jake spread his palms over yours, warm and reassuring — summer always clung to his skin.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, a little more breathless. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

And then, there was just the air past your ears, the roar of the motorcycle, and Jake.

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

Jake’s neighborhood had only one market.

It was a small and unassuming building tucked away on a noncommercial street. The owner even seemed to live on the second floor; a few items of clothing hung on a line by the terrace, the white pieces fluttering against the blue sky and spreading a flowery scent through the morning breeze.

There was no parking lot, the door opened right on the sidewalk — not that it seemed to be necessary. The establishment was completely empty aside from the cashier, a girl not much younger than you and with such a bored expression that gave you no doubts that she wasn’t spending her summer morning there by choice.

She didn’t even take her eyes off her phone as you both stepped in, the faint din of the latest summer hit coming from her earphones and being the only sound mixing with the whir of the freezers.

Jake promptly took the shopping cart from the entrance. And there was something so domestic about the whole thing — so intimate in the way he pushed the shopping cart around the aisles, you by his side, elbows brushing, and hands tucking into each other whenever you wanted to stop because it was easier like this. It made your chest ache and suddenly it felt unkind to think of Jake just as your brother’s best friend — all the acknowledgment of him being given by a third party — so you started a game. It was simple, this or that questions that weren’t even that deep, but Jake tilted his head to appraise you, taking his time to think about it every time. And when he started to ask them back, you smiled at him, cheeks a bit warmer because it felt less like politeness and more like he wanted to know you too.

You turned to the final aisle, being greeted by a dozen candies and snacks, boxes and packages in an aggressive assembly of colors and almost mockingly being in their majority from America.

“What are you going to study in the United States?” Jake asked, perhaps noticing it too.

“Law,” you said as if it were just a fact. Because, well, that’s what it was, but the word hung in the air like a weighty secret. And so, Jake blinked at you, momentarily taken aback, before he decided to move his attention to the shelves, his fingers fumbling through the cereal boxes with a concentration too unpretentious to be unpretentious.

“Is there something else you would want to study? Aside from law?” he asked then. It could have been just a simple question, no different from all the others you had been asking and answering. But perhaps because of how he asked it, it very much felt as if Jake had already divined all the nuances of your whole being.

If you were to tell the history of your family, law school was so entangled in it that it was impossible not to mention it. Your father’s mother had been a judge, a rare gem as your own grandfather used to say — although you weren’t sure if it was because she managed to get such a high position in a field where women were so rarely seen back in their time, or something else. Your father’s father had a mind of his own, so ingeniously crafted that his university refused to let him go, and made him a professor where eventually, your father came to study and met your mother, the successor of a long line of counselors.

Family gatherings had always brought Legal Language — even when it wasn’t necessary to. The word abrogate was used more than deny and you knew that following their path was the only way to truly blend in. Jake had understood it, perhaps all too easily due to his own past, and it made your lips part, surprise stunning you for a moment.

“I never stopped to think about it,” you said, already stepping forward.

You tried to pretend you were not so excited when your eyes caught a familiar cookie on the topmost shelf, extending your hand toward it without much success as your fingers hadn’t even skimmed through the package.

“Jake, could you—” you started, but he was already there, easily closing the few steps you had created. One of his hands rested on the shelf at the level of your waist as the other reached for the package for you, your fingers brushing and tangling.

“How many?” he asked. His voice threaded through your hair, and all of a sudden your body became extremely aware of his proximity. Jake was all around you — all inside of you; when you breathed in, everything that came into your lungs was the scent of summer, that odd mix of orange and earth that Jake was.

“Five?”

“What are you going to do with so many cookies?”

“It’s my comfort cookies,” you said, your lips barely closing at the end of the sentence because you meant to explain — you meant to tell him that once when you had failed an exam, Jongseong had been the one to come and pick you up after school. Your brother didn’t really know what to do with all your sadness, so he just took you to a convenience store nearby, bought all the types of cookies and ice creams his allowance could afford, and somehow this one became your favorite — the one thing you always found yourself keeping stocked for the rough days so perhaps it would sound less childish to Jake. But before you could do so, he was echoing what you’d said. And you didn’t even need to look at him to know he was smiling. You had heard it, the softness turning his voice warmer because he thought it was endearing rather than childish, and you allowed the explanation to die on your tongue unsaid.

“What about the list? Have you thought about it?” he asked after a moment. “The things you haven’t done yet, but want to.”

“Not yet,” you admitted. But it struck you later on — when you arrived back at his place, catching the sight of the pottery pieces on his shop’s shelves through the tempered glass.

“Pottery,” you said. Jake stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, shopping bags still hanging in his hands, but when you glanced over at him, he was beaming. “I’ve never done pottery.”

“This one is easy to cross off,” he said.

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

“Is it really fine to not open the shop like this?” you asked. But Jake didn’t reply. Instead, he walked to a drawer you hadn’t noticed the existence of until now, taking out an apron and slipping it over his head.

It was nearing noon and Seogwipo was already alive, locals and tourists strolling along the sun-bathed street on the other side of the tempered glass.

You saw a woman peering inside the shop as her little daughter tugged at the hem of her dress, but the door was locked, and a small handmade sign said the shop was closed.

“I’m the owner,” he said. You looked back at Jake, your tongue rolling around a retort. But he had already walked back to you, slipping an apron over your neck and making whatever you had thought of saying slip and slide with the weight of the thick material on your shoulders. His breath brushed through your cheeks as he leaned on you — warm and sweet-smelling, cream and strawberries from the ice cream you had shared while stocking up on groceries as he took the strings of the apron at your back and brought them to the front of your waist, clutching them safely.

“It’s not too tight, is it?” he asked.

“No — no, it’s not.”

“Good.”

You sat in front of a pottery wheel, watching as Jake filled a bowl with water and arranged it on a cart, wheeling it to your side. Everything there was so carefully designed and considered that you couldn’t help but think about how this shop had been built with love.

“Okay,” he said. “What do you want to do?”

“What would be the easiest?”

“There is no such thing,” he replied.

“What?”

“As long as you don’t want something that requires a lot of pieces and carving it’s easy.”

“A vase then?” you said. “Very tiny, preferably.”

Jake brought a stool to the other side of the wheel and sat down on it. His knee brushed against yours, a scarcely there touch that you could barely feel his denim jeans against your skin, but maybe because your body was still lingering on the ride back, and the way he had reached for the cookies for you, you felt a flush of warmth rushing to your cheeks, that heat that seemed to be becoming a frequent feeling around Jake.

The fact that he had pretty hands didn’t help with anything — you hadn’t noticed it until then, artsy hands made for masterpieces, and you weren’t really sure if it made it harder or easier to watch as he pounded the clay into a ball and plopped it onto the wheel, but when he looked at you, your body felt perilously close to coming undone.

“Ready?”

“I’m not sure,” you said.

“Do you know what’s fun about pottery?” he asked. “You can mess this up. If you dislike it or change your mind, you just pound it back into a ball and start all over again.”

“Don’t stress too much about it,” he continued. “Just enjoy the process.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Baby,” Jake said. “You don’t need to make it perfect, no one is judging you.”

And that was it again — just your words in his mouth, but you suddenly felt as if the weight of the world had been pulled off your shoulders.

No one was judging you. Your parents, your teachers, your brother, or your grandparents. You didn’t need to prove anything for them here.

“Okay,” you repeated.

“Wet your hands, and gently cup the clay.”

“Am I supposed to step on the pedal already?”

“Not yet. Cup it first,” he said. “Thumbs in the middle.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah, now you step on the pedal.” You did as he said, allowing the wheel to move beneath the clay, twirling between your cupped hands, almost ticklish.

“Okay. Now use your left hand to give it a slight pressure. Your right is more for balance, to keep it upright.”

“It’s starting to get confusing,” you said.

“Like this,” Jake said, gently placing his hands above yours before he folded you over, clay immediately seeping between your fingers with the pressure and smearing Jake’s hands, filling the air with that earthy scent you somehow had already grown used to.

“You’re pressing my right hand,” you said. “Isn’t it the one for balance?”

“It’s confusing my brain,” he confessed.

“What? Don’t you teach pottery?”

“Yes, but I never put my hands on people’s work, I usually just explain.”

“Are you somehow saying I am the worst student you’ve ever had?” you inquired. You weren’t sure if you had intended to be funny, but suddenly, Jake was laughing, the sound rattling you to the core, and you couldn’t help but stop, watching him.

If you thought Jake’s smiles took over his face, when he laughed, it seemed to resonate throughout every line of his body. He tilted his head downward with the vehemence of it, his eyes closing, but not before you noticed how they were shining, glinting specks in his dark eyes.

And God — Jake wasn’t just pretty, but he was the embodiment of summer, warmth, and sunshine always stuck to him, and making him glow. When his shoulders fluttered, it made something within your chest hum, and you forced yourself to blink, redirecting your focus to the clay.

“Maybe we should stay on the same side?” you asked then.

Jake stood up, taking his stool and swiftly settling it behind you. His chest pressed against your back as he positioned his hand above yours once again, and your heartbeat rumbled so loudly that you almost didn’t realize he was speaking again; “left hand to give pressure. Right to keep it upright.”

“Is it the part where I tell you that I hate to feel dirty?” you blurted out.

“You hate it?” Jake asked, letting go of you only to brush his fingers on your cheek, quickly smearing it with clay. You gasped at it, lurching up so fast, you almost tripped over the pottery wheel as you turned to look at him, but he only laughed once again, and instead of protesting, you reached for him too, smearing his jaw.

And that was it, the room was filled with laughter and clay.

The vase was destroyed by the number of times you both had brushed your hands on it, smearing your palms only to clean it on the other — if that was the right term — handprints being left in its wake. Jake’s arms were already covered when he finally gave it a break, looking at you and offering the precise moment when the idea struck him. His smile turned a bit wilder, a bit teasing, and before you could truly understand it, he had closed his fist around the vase, sealing the top of it, but handing a good amount of clay.

You reached for his wrist, but as you tried to prevent him from dirtying you even more, you threw both of you out of balance. You hit the floor first, in a heap, the sound of your bodies collapsing on the concrete floor muffling the curse Jake released.

He braced himself above you, his palms spreading just a few centimeters away from your head as he pushed himself up, but he was still too close. When his lips parted, his breath brushed through your cheeks, the same sweet scent from early on, heating your whole body and pinning you in place.

The warm light of the summer sun had found its way through the tempered glass of the shop, pouring over Jake in a beautiful and dazzling alchemy. Your fingers were clammy with clay, sticky with a grayish mix, but he didn’t mind it when you reached for him, palm splaying against his neck, fingers sliding to where his t-shirt hung loosely, if anything his skin shivered where you touched it. And he released a breath stronger than before, taking you both out of the haze.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked then.

“No,” you whispered.

Jake nodded, very slowly before he stood up, offering you his hand and helping you stand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. You weren’t sure what he was asking sorry for, the destroyed vase, the clay fight, for falling on you, or for the way your body was flaming up, every piece of skin burning with the bare memory of him against you. “We can start over.”

You blinked at him, taking a second longer to look back at the vase. It had gone shapeless above the wheel, a good part of it lost in the middle of the fight and the top had been destroyed where Jake’s fist had closed on. It surely had no use aside from a very peculiar ornament, but you once had heard about people wanting to retain moments, turning the immaterial memory into something concrete so they could carry it anywhere and that ruined vase was it — it wouldn’t matter how many years passed, or where you were, whenever you looked at this ruined vase, it would remind you of Jeju, of golden suns and breezes that smelled like earth, and orange blossoms at the end of afternoons — it would remind you of Jake.

“I like it that way,” you told him. Jake furrowed his eyebrows at you, but he didn’t say anything, taking a string from the table, and cutting the vase from the wheel.

“We have to let it dry before doing anything,” he said. “By tomorrow or the day after, we can fire it—”

“Wait, so people don’t take their pieces home?” you asked.

“They do,” he said. “I mean, they get it delivered later. I fire it and send it to them later.”

“Out of Jeju?” you asked, and Jake hummed at you, half focused on putting the vase on a wooden tray and taking it to the far end of the shop, letting it rest closer to the sink.

“It was my grandpa’s idea,” he said. “What better trip souvenir than something you did yourself? That’s what he used to say.”

“He seemed like a nice grandfather.”

“He was,” Jake told you. “I just wish he knew I’m continuing it — that I didn’t let my father sell this shop.”

“He knows,” you whispered. “I’m sure he knows.”

Jake paused then, looking back at you as if you had just said what he needed. And you didn’t know how to react — you had never been someone people relied on. But somehow you found yourself liking it.

“Come here.”

You stepped closer to him again, and he took your hand, using a wet towel to clean the clay from your fingers, your wrists, his hands hovering over your skin, but not quite touching it.

“Jake,” you called. You weren’t sure if you wanted to say something more, it had just slipped through. And in the midst of your silence, he looked at you with the same golden eyes and sun-kissed skin.

“Give me another towel,” you asked, and he quickly obeyed, getting another towel and handing it to you.

As you took the towel with one hand, you reached for his chin with the other, gently tilting his head to the side so you could clean his jaw, and then his neck, taking all the evidence of your touch from his skin.

“I’m sorry. I think I pushed clay into your ears.” Jake snorted at you, something you always thought to be weird coming out as endearing from him.

“I like having you here, Baby.”

“I like being here.”

For the next six days in Seogwipo, you barely did anything — yet it felt like everything.

Mornings always started with you and Jeonchae sitting on the kitchen counter as Jake hovered over the stove, the widest variety of bread and eggs you had ever seen being prepared. And nights always ended the opposite way. You prepared dinner as Jake stood within reach, always ready to open cans and cut whatever you asked him to.

You had to go to the market a few more times, but you stopped complaining about the motorcycle at some point — mostly because when you finally met Beomseok and his pickup, the man seemed pretty convinced that you were Jake’s girlfriend or fiancée or whoever could make him say, “you two should marry young. Living your life peacefully is better than anything else”, and you would rather never encounter him again.

Just the memory of it made your cheeks burn.

Jake taught you how to use the credit card machine, and allowed you to handle the payments. You packed orders and watched as he taught people how to do pottery — never touching their work, it is just for his worst student, he whispered when another girl who’d just graduated high school seemed pretty and annoyingly insistent on trying to make him guide her.

By Thursday Jake asked you if you wanted to help him glaze a few pieces, and when you told him you were afraid of messing up, he laughed at you.

“It’s transparent glaze, Baby,” he said. “I don’t know how you could mess this up.” But you liked using the kiln, being the first one to see how Jake’s pieces had turned out after being fired, and organizing them on the shop’s shelves to be purchased.

Mostly, though, you sat at the long table of the shop, Jake, and an endless thread of stories being your company. He couldn’t stay much still, you quickly noticed, always having to be working on something or using gestures throughout his stories. And you couldn’t help but think how Jake glowed there — in the place that made him into the person he was today and something within you broke to think of a time he almost lost it all.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

It was Friday morning, the usual hustle and bustle of customers coming temporarily on hold due to the end of the week, the events in downtown being more interesting than wandering through the small towns and Jake had taken the opportunity to work on a piece of clay as he tended to do when the movement was low, but this one seemed different from his typical methods. He wasn’t using the wheel, but molding it with his bare fingers and a few tools.

“Sculpting,” he said, turning the piece toward you, and only then did you notice it was a cat. Chubby and furry.

“Oh my God, is it Jeonchae?” you asked. “I want it, charge me. I want it once you finish.”

“It will be one thousand won, but for you, I will do half of it,” he said, his gaze dropping to the clay once again, but you let your eyes linger on the dark fringe of his lashes, the curve of his full upper lip.

It was easier to look at him like this.

“Do you want to try?” Jake asked.

“What?”

“Sculpting.”

“No.”

“C’mon, I’ve got you,” he said, already rolling a stool closer to him and patting it for you to sit on.

“Jake, I am going to mess Jeonchae up,” you said.

“I’ll help you,” he said, convincing enough to make you walk to him, but before you could do anything the fluttering sound of crystal and bells clanking against the shop door resonated as it was pushed, Mrs. Choi and Euntaek loudly announcing their entrance.

“Oh, sorry for interrupting. I brought some freshly baked pastries for you two,” Mrs. Choi said.

Jake stood up, cleaning his hands on his apron as he walked to them and accepted the tray Mrs. Choi was handing him. The old lady rambled about how she had accidentally baked an extra tray this morning, and Euntaek took the opportunity to come in your direction — quickly taking Jake’s unattended stool. He barely settled himself in before his fingers reached for you, taking a stray strand of your hair, and brushing it behind your ear. His touch was like a static shock, a spark of energy where skin met skin, about as comfortable as it would have been to be electrocuted.

“You didn’t call,” he said. “Or message.”

Euntaek didn’t sound angry or annoyed. If anything, he sounded bemused. As if he wasn’t used to the fact that he might have been forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, using your wrists to not only brush any other strands he could come to find but to subtly create a distance between you. He smelled like his cigarettes, burning formaldehyde, and tar — something so different from Jake’s scent that you felt the back of your throat burning.

“I’ve a busking tomorrow night. It’s at a bar close to Jeju City,” he said. “You should come. I can drive us there. We’ll enjoy the rest of the buskings, and then go to one of my bandmates’ place for an after-party.”

“Do you have a band?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, and for the first time, you felt like he was being genuine instead of performative — like he was genuinely proud of having a band. “Rock, but we play anything once in a while depending on the place,” he said. “So what do you think?”

“I—” you started, looking back at where Jake and Mrs. Choi stood. Although the old lady was still talking, Jake’s eyes were on you as if he had been looking at you the whole time and you suddenly forgot what you were going to say, being mercifully saved by Mrs. Choi calling for her grandson.

She stepped out of the shop, gesturing for Euntaek to hurry up because they had left the bakery unattended. He stood up, his smirk unfaltering.

“Text me your reply, or just shout out the door, I will surely hear from down the street,” he said then, winking at you before he followed his grandmother outside.

Jake closed the door behind them, leaving the tray on an empty wheel before he came back to you, sitting on his stool and tilting his head at you.

“What was that?” he asked. “You seem troubled.”

“Euntaek invited me to go to his busking in a bar tomorrow,” you confessed. “He has a band.”

“Oh.”

You didn’t notice how still Jake had become until he rubbed his finger against his thumb, brushing his digits as if feeling the remnant of the clay there a moment later.

“But I don’t know-” you admitted. “What do you think?”

“You don’t want to go?” Jake asked. There was a shift in his expression then, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was suddenly thinking you were looking up at him as a brother because you knew that once upon a time, he was at his university dorms, catching the echoes of your conversations with Jongseong through the phone — listening to how you always came up to your brother for advice.

He seemed abruptly tired at it, the whole day wearing him out to the bone.

“That’s not it. Jay used to have a band in high school, did you know?” you asked. “He had those kind of buskings, but I never went — so I got curious, but Euntaek is a bit-”

“Peculiar?”

“If we are speaking kindly, yes,” you said, and you were not sure why, but it got both of you smiling at each other, foolish and unreasonably, almost as if you had just thrown an old inside joke. And the intimacy of it got you looking away, your face catching the afternoon light coming from the tempered glass and giving you something to blame on how warm your face felt.

But Jake reached for you then, his thumb softly caressing your cheek, and you couldn’t deny it — it was all because of him.

“Clay,” he explained, turning the pad so you could see the remains when you looked back at him. “About Euntaek — well, it’s Euntaek, but in any case, you can just call me and I will pick you up. So you should think about it. If it is something that you want to do, you should go.”

And you thought about it.

You thought about it through the rest of the afternoon as Jake attended to the few customers who came in. You thought about it when you prepared dinner for the two of you and separated a few pieces of meat to treat Jeonchae. You thought about it as you washed the dishes, appreciating the handmade pieces before you handed them to Jake to dry.

If you were to be honest, go on a busking, go on a date, have a night out in a bar — or whatever variation of Euntaek’s invitation could be named as would never make it into your to-do list for the Summer — not on a first draft.

Jongseong had a band back in his school days, so the idea of watching a busking wasn’t that foreign to you. But neither had it been the reprobation of your parents, the way your father lightly clicked his tongue as your mother screamed that he should be taking care of his grades instead. 

“Priorities, Jongseong, priorities,” she would always say, her tongue rolling around the word as if it could be a threat by itself. But in the end, it didn’t really matter that your brother had given them a few concerns over the years because you didn’t. You were the trophy child of the Park’s family, the one who declined any invitation and stayed at home to study and bring the good grades. The one your parents could brag about and proudly whisper, oh, Baby never gave us that kind of trouble, whenever an acquaintance complained about their children doing anything remotely upsetting.

Yet how much of this had been caused by the heavy weight of parents’ expectations rather than any genuine lack of desire to do anything? Have you never really wanted to watch one of Jongseong’s buskings?

You looked at Jake as you passed him the last bowl, and suddenly his words came back to you.

No one is judging you here. You had nothing to prove at Jeju, and maybe that’s what brought in your final decision.

“I will go,” you told him. “It’s just something I’ve never done. And in the worst case, I just cross it off and put it on my never doing again list, right?”

“You have a never doing again list?” he asked.

“Yes, I created it intending to put riding a motorcycle, but unfortunately, I’d no choice in the matter.”

Jake laughed at you, that one burst of happiness that got him tilting his head downward with the vehemence of it, and something within you hummed. “It isn’t that bad.”

“Oh, it is,” you confirmed. “My hands are all sweaty every time we ride that thing and let me tell you — my hands never sweat,”

“But I really enjoy doing the shop’s things.”

Jake tilted his head to the side, his eyes twinkling beneath the yellow lamps. He seemed more like himself than he had during the whole afternoon and oh — oh, how much you liked him like this. “I’m glad to know, Baby.”

Sunsets at Seogwipo were perhaps the prettiest thing you had ever seen. When the sun dipped into the sea, the skies acquired a tone so vivid; it felt as if the town suddenly gained the power to hold the light a moment longer than anywhere else in the world. And although Jake had told you that mid-July was supposed to mark the start of the rainy season to the island, Saturday’s sunset was no different. Bold stripes of light bathed the living room as you made your way to his bedroom.

Jake’s door was ajar, but he didn’t seem to notice your approach as he continued to work on the canvas in front of him. And for a moment, you remained perfectly still, simply unable to disturb the scene unfolding before you. There was something about him when he was focused — something almost ethereal. Jake could never stay much still, too restless for the world around him — he always had to gesticulate throughout stories, pinch the hem of his shirts in the middle of the silence or fidget with his fingers, but whenever he was working on something, he seemed channeled — the act of making art, turning into art itself. Beneath the afternoon light, the soft fabric of his well-worn linen shirt clung to the curves of his shoulders, subtly and tenderly shifting with each movement of his brush. And you could have stayed there watching him forever if you’d been allowed, but he halted then, his brows furrowing as he evaluated something, and you forced yourself to raise your hand and knock.

“Come in,” Jake said.

You pushed the door open, quickly revealing the great mess his room was. Nothing in the house was genuinely big, but Jake managed to make his room even smaller with the number of canvases and stacks propped against the walls. Everywhere — everywhere, there was something that proved he was an artist. Notebooks stuffed with paint-stained pages, stray brushes, and paint cans. Jake was sitting on the floor, hunched over his newest project, but he straightened his back against what he supposedly called a bed when you stepped in, the two mattresses sitting in the middle of the room and guarded by Jeonchae. You breathed a little harder, inhaling the smell of the paint he was using, and Jake — just Jake.

“I’m about to leave,” you said, but your voice came so small, you doubted Jake had heard you over the rustling sounds that came as he stood up, stepping over to his desk and taking a cloth to clean his fingers.

“Is he coming to pick you up?” he asked then, still focused on his hands.

Jake had been in a strange mood all day. You had assumed it was just the heat, settling heavily on the day and spreading with the certainty that summer had arrived. Also, there hadn’t been many customers today, so he decided to close the shop when you said you were going to go to the house and get ready, but there was something there, lurking just behind his actions, some private distress that you couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Yes, Euntaek will be here in a few minutes,” you said, but Jake only hummed in response.

“Don’t you want to come?” Your question caught his attention, prompting and immediately making him pause. 

“I don’t think Euntaek’s invitation extends to me, Baby.”

“But you could.”

“Do you want me to go?” he asked, finally looking at you, and to your surprise, he was smiling. It wasn’t even half of the smiles Jake tended to give you, it barely curled the corners of his lips, yet — it was enough to make you feel your heart leap inside of you, because yes — yes, you wanted him to come. You would feel so much better if he were with you. But something shifted within him in the next second, the sudden smile fading once again, and you swallowed your reply, taking a step closer to him as you held out a package of your favorite cookies to him.

Jake immediately held out his hand, halting only when he noticed what you were giving him. 

“Are you trying to console me?” he asked.

“You have been in a strange mood the whole day, so yes,” you said, and in the heat of the moment, you turned away, already walking out of his room and into the common area.

You were surprised when you heard him following you across the living room and calling — not Baby, but your name — your given name softening in his voice and rolling through the space between the two of you. It was the first time he’d said your name, and it caught you off guard. Not only because of the novelty of it, but because no one ever said your name the way Jake did — so slow and deliberate as if he wanted to taste the sound of each letter on his tongue, and relish the way he made you gasp.

“Wait,” he said. “Just — just call me if you feel uncomfortable with anything, okay?”

“Actually call me even if you don’t — even if you simply want to leave. I can go pick you up — I can ask for Beomseok’s pickup if you don’t want to come back with the motorcycle, just-”

“I will,” you said. “Thank you, Jake.”

He gave a slight nod in your direction, running his fingers through his hair as if to fix it — but the motion only left it even more tousled. A few stray strands fell across his forehead, causing you to lift your hand, the tip of your fingers brushing them back into place before you’d even thought it through.

His hair was soft beneath your touch, but still somehow different from what you had expected. It was real — too real.

Jake leaned into your touch, coming closer and making his hair fall all over again, but you didn’t mind brushing it back again, this time tucking it behind his pinkish ears, and it too — was too real.

“Do you want me to walk you to his car?” he whispered.

“No, it’s okay,” you whispered back.

Your phone rang then, signaling Euntaek’s arrival, so you forced a breath in, steadying enough to pull away for the last time before making your way through the front garden and down the small path between the shop and the stone wall, out into the street — your thoughts trailing behind you, still caught on everything that had just happened.

Euntaek stood against the rugged frame of a Jeep, the design striking with sharp angles and almost too-aggressive lines as its sleek black exterior glistened under the last of the afternoon sun. Honestly, every detail — from the gleam of the chrome grille to the meticulously crafted wheel rims — was exactly what you expected Euntaek's car to be.

People matched their vehicles, so what was the story behind Jake and his motorcycle?

“Ready to go?” Euntaek asked.

You nodded.

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The bar was already full by the time you arrived, but you suspected it always was — Saturday night or any other night. It seemed to be one of those establishments downtown that locals relished precisely because its reputation was tarnished by the fact that it wasn’t on the tourist pages, or if it was — it wasn’t as a recommendation. 

People milled around on the curb, chatting in their strong Jeju accent as they waited for friends. 

Euntaek held his hand out in your direction as you walked past them. It took you a few seconds to notice that he was offering it to you, and a few more for you to accept it, allowing him to lead you through the entrance and into the bar. 

The rest of his band had already arrived, spread around a table with a few girls among them. Euntaek exchanged fist bumps with them, telling you names and roles you couldn’t truly hear beneath the roar of the place but you pretended that you did.

Jinho — or at least, that was what you understood — smirked when he caught sight of Euntaek with your hand in his, and immediately, you felt like telling him it wasn’t it.

One hour in the car with Euntaek had offered you enough to understand him. He wasn’t interested in you — not even a little. If there was something he found interesting about you, it was the fact that you were from outside the island. 

He was flirtatious, yes, but it was as if he wanted to prove something — to be something.

Euntaek had dreams too big for someone born on the island. He wanted to go to Seoul, not like the quick trip he had with his parents a few years back or his graduation trip, but to stay there, get cast by a big company, and live off his music because that was what he loved to do — just like Jake and pottery. Dreams that didn’t fit the expectations, and you couldn’t seriously hate Choi Euntaek after this.

Actually, looking at him there, underneath the flickering lights, you found yourself wondering how Jake had been when he was younger. Was that when he got the motorcycle? A little rebellious act because he needed to prove something to the world? You really wanted to ask him.

You really wanted him here right now.

Euntaek pulled out a chair for you, finally letting go of your hand as he reached into the chest pocket of his jacket and took a single cigarette from its pack, lighting it up with no ado despite being indoors.

“It’s bad for your health,” you blurted, the words somehow spilling out of your mouth, quick and sharp, if not accented, and drawing a laugh out of him. Euntaek took the cigarette away from his mouth, considering it between his fingers before he stubbed it out against the table. The ember died immediately, but the smell remained.

“Just because I am with you tonight, Baby,” he replied, making you halt at the nickname. “I have been meaning to ask, I noticed it’s how your brother calls you-”

“My brother?” You interrupted. Although Jongseong did call you Baby, you couldn’t imagine how Euntaek would have come to know.

The crowd cheered as a band took the stage, and Euntaek whistled as if you hadn’t said anything. For a moment, you thought he didn’t hear you, but when the vocalist introduced the other members, he turned to you again.

“Jake’s your brother, isn’t he?” he asked.

“No,” you said. Perhaps it had been the speed at which you denied it, or perhaps it had been the vexation, but you could swear the smirk on his face faltered, dropping to an unsure smile.

“So what are you?” he asked. “Grandma was pretty convinced that you were siblings.”

“We’re—” you started, not sure what the rest of the phrase should be. Jake was still your brother’s best friend, and maybe he would always be, the years only making their friendship unbreakable, but you’d already discarded this sole connection after the trip to the market, knowing it was too unkind to define your relationship through a third party. You’d shared every breakfast ever since you arrived in Seogwipo, spent every afternoon together, and ended each day over dinner, but the word friend didn’t come as easily as you expected it would.

“We—” you started again, being mercifully saved by the arrival of another girl — Arin — this time you’d heard it clearly as she’d shouted it into your ear, making it sting. She knew everyone there, or at least, that’s what you thought. When she hugged you, it held the same easy intimacy she had with everyone around the table, as if she were a long-lost friend from your childhood, like maybe once upon a time, she had held your hand as you played tag with the other children at your parents’ attorney gatherings.

And perhaps, that’s why, when one of Euntaek’s bandmates said something that made him stand up and tell her to take care of you, you didn’t really think anything of it.

You didn’t question it when she announced she was going to grab a drink for you. You just watched as she stood up, making her way to the bar at the farthest end of the room.

“So you’re the Seoul girl?” The girl beside Arin’s now empty chair shouted, immediately bringing your attention back to the table. You didn’t think she meant to be rude, but her question made you pause then, the lack of practice of talking with strangers getting the best of you once again, and almost startling you — Jake always made you feel so comfortable that you nearly forgot how awkward you were with strangers — perhaps you were; perhaps you weren’t the Seoul girl. It was quite difficult to tell as you imagined Seoul had a lot of girls, and a lot of girls who were wandering through Jeju during the summer meeting them, but you nodded at her nevertheless, receiving a mere cool as a reply. And before you could do anything to save the conversation, Arin had already returned, her hands curled around a few shot glasses.

Under the low light, the pink liquid seemed pale and fizzed in the glass as bubbles rose along it, and a thin ring of sugar clung to the rim.

It smelled like fruit — like those bright, artificial candies your mother hated.

“It’s sweet,” Arin said. “Like candy, so drink it in one go. If you sip it, it’s disgusting.”

“It’s disgusting anyway,” the girl in the chair cut in. “And I’m not drinking it — not after last time.”

“C’mon, Minji!” Arin called. “Be fun! Or I’m making the newbie my best friend.”

Newbie.

The word made you feel even worse than Seoul Girl, and another flush of warmth crept up to your cheeks.

Minji didn’t reply this time, and Arin turned her attention back to you, offering you a glass. 

“Drink it in one go,” she reminded you, and you did.

At first it tasted sweet, with a faint burn of tequila, but then, the world began to distort a little at its edges, and by the time you placed the cup back on the table, everything had already gone softer.

The bar erupted in cheers as another song picked up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to lift your head.

It wasn’t like you’d never had alcohol in your life — you had. Sipping your mother’s martinis before it was even legal. Taking Jongseong’s champagne crystal flutes at parties and pretending it was ginger ale until your legal age came and you could order it yourself from the counter bars. You were no stranger to the taste of alcohol on your tongue. So you couldn’t understand why your senses seemed so slow and the world so blunted around you.

Your mind seemed too full, too empty, too askew.

Perhaps you should’ve eaten more. Jongseong always told you to only drink on a full stomach, and you hadn't eaten much today. 

In the middle of the bar, the colorful lights flickered and faded, immediately making you dizzy.

“I think — I think I need to go to the restroom,” you said. 

Minji glanced up at you, her previous revolted expression shifting to concern as she noticed your state.

“It’s on the second floor! Third door!” she called out, gesturing toward a winding staircase in the corner of the room.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, not sure if she’d heard you over the pounding music, but you were already moving towards the staircase and gripping the railing until your knuckles had become white. The steps seemed to shift and sway as you approached, the lights casting odd shadows, and making it hard for you to judge the distance between them.

You tripped as a guy bumped into your shoulders on his way down, his laugh reaching your ears too muffled despite his closeness.

“Someone might have had too much,” he said, but you didn’t. You knew you didn’t.

God, what was this?

You forced yourself to climb the last steps and move forward onto the second floor, the tips of your fingers skimming against the wall for balance, until you reached the third door.

Mercifully, the restroom was empty, allowing you to close the door behind you and lock it.

For several long minutes, nothing happened. You stood alone in the dimly lit room, your hands trembling as they gripped the slick surface of the sink. The coolness of it contrasted sharply with the heat suddenly radiating from your skin, and you tried to use it to calm yourself down, but the chaos outside continued unabated, echoing off the walls, and the desperation overtook you as you sank onto the black tiled floor, pulling your knees tightly to your chest.

Then you reached for your phone.

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

Jake picked up so fast it felt almost as if he’d been holding his phone the whole night — waiting, although you couldn’t quite picture it. Jake was never the type to keep his phone close, always leaving it somewhere and forgetting it. You’d half expected your call to go unanswered, but his voice found you instantly.

“Baby?” he asked, and it stuck in your chest, warming it like the sun through his pottery shop’s tempered glass — gentle, bright; and suddenly you could breathe again.

“Jake,” you whispered, but when the name reached back at you, you noticed how your voice didn’t quite sound like yours. It was thin, scraped raw by the panic clouding your thoughts, and a sob rippled through you. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I—” You swallowed. “I only had one shot, but it doesn’t feel right. I feel a bit dizzy, and my hands are shaking — Jake, I—”

“Where are you?” he cut you off.

“Restroom,” you said, realizing only a beat later that it wasn’t enough. “I locked it.”

“Good,” he said. “You did good, Baby. Are you alone in there?”

“Yes.”

“Can you send me the bar’s location?”

“I-” you began, moving the device away from your ear as you tried to, but your fingers were clumsy, slipping across the screen as if they belonged to someone else and another sob rippled.

“Baby, listen to me,” he said. “It could be dehydration. It could be the heat. It could be a strong drink. It could be just the panic making it worse, so I need you to stay calm, okay? I‘m on my way.”

You managed to share your location, hearing an exhale at the other end of the line.

“Keep the door locked,” he ordered softly. “And don’t open for anyone else. If someone knocks, you don’t answer unless it’s me.”

You hummed in response, hanging up so softly, you wondered if he noticed.

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

You couldn’t tell how long it took.

Time wasn’t feeling right. The minutes stretched a moment too long, and when it finally moved again, you wondered if that had been all.

But eventually, it came: a soft knock and then— 

“Baby?” he called. “It’s me, Jake.”

A breath shuddered out of you, almost sounding like his name, a small call that you weren’t sure if you intended to release as you reached for the lock and turned it, allowing him inside.

Jake was mad, and you could see it. As he knelt in front of you, the muscle in his jaw clenched in a small twitch that didn’t quite fit his soft face. Yet he didn’t allow that anger to take over his tone. When he called your name, it still held that same slowness and deliberate softness he had reserved only for you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered then. “I don’t know what happened. I—” you stopped, trying to gather your intoxicated thoughts. But everything was a distant blur still, your mind just too slow for anything. 

“Baby,” Jake called, gently as he reached for you, his fingers curling around yours, holding your trembling hand and bringing it to his cheek. “It’s okay, I’ll take care of you.”

“I promise,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” you said, but Jake just smiled at you, that one broad and reassuring smile.

“It’s fine — let’s go home.”

Jake had said this exact phrase a good number of times already: as his fingers reached for the keys of his motorcycle outside the market, outside the pet shop where you went to buy Jeonchae’s food on Wednesday, and as he dropped the shop’s apron after a particularly busy day. But there was something in the way he had said it tonight, so softly and full of protection, that home didn’t sound like a synonym for a house — for the place where you both have been sharing over the past week — but somewhere else, somewhere greater, and something in you ached.

You were safe. You were safe with him.

You hadn’t really thought of crying — perhaps the anguish of the whole situation robbed you of the most common reaction, but the moment Jake kissed the inside of your wrist, it was as if he had broken that thin thread you had kept to prevent yourself from breaking, and tears flowed from your eyes as if they would never stop.

Jake didn’t need to ask you to hold onto him, you did it as soon as he curled his arms around you. One on your back, the other supporting the back of your legs as he lifted you and carried you like you hadn’t been taking up so much space in his world.

When he reached the main floor and the flickering lights pummeled you once again, you pushed your face further into his neck. The scent of clay was gone, replaced by the faint smell of the flowery soap bar he kept in his bathroom and orange, but it still lingered in with such familiarity in your lungs that you couldn’t help but close your eyes, breathing him in again.

Jake carried you out of the bar and into the warm summer night. The stars hung so low in the sky that you couldn’t really tell if it was too late or too early as he gently placed you in the passenger seat of Beomseok’s pickup and bent down, shrugging his jacket off to drape around your body.

“Baby,” Jake called, but you were already curling yourself on his jacket, closing your eyes to relish the warmth of it. “Babe — please, I need you to look at me — just for a second, okay?” he asked, cupping your face. His fingers spread warmly against your wet cheeks, angling you to him. And when you looked at him, you knew he was seeing exactly what you did in the restroom mirror: your pupils a bit wider, dazed, and a shuddered breath escaped him, concern spreading through all of his features before his jaw tightened once again. “Has anyone tried to touch you?”

“No — it was that girl, Arin,” you said. “I should have known something was wrong, the other girl refused to drink it. Jake, I-”

“Hey. It’s okay. You couldn’t know,” he said. “You couldn’t know, Baby. Let’s just go back home.”

He closed the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side, every movement meticulous and deliberate, as if he was afraid the world might shatter around him if he wasn’t careful enough.

The city slid beyond the pickup’s window as Jake drove away, but you didn’t turn your head — didn’t watch how the moon streamed through the fields of green tea, rather you watched as the street lights caught on Jake’s hair, turning the dark strands into copper — the same strands that you had pushed your fingers through this afternoon. Your heart fluttered inside of your chest with the memory, its rapid heartbeats thumping against your ribs and making you look away when Jake glanced at you, averting your gaze to the city outside, and scrambling for something — anything — to say that could distract both of you. 

“I should message Euntaek,” you whispered then, already reaching for your phone. “I haven’t told him I left—” but your fingers felt clumsy as you tried to unlock the screen, the device slipping in your trembling hands just as it did in the restroom, but this time, Jake reached for you, taking it as he used his free hand to pull over. 

“I will do it,” he said.

You looked at him, lips already parting into the retort you intended to give, but the words slurred as a wave of nausea hit you, the world spinning faster than before, and making your stomach churn violently inside of you.

You fumbled with the door handle, nearly falling out of the car as it swung open, stumbling a few steps away from Beomseok’s pickup and barely making it to the curb before you doubled over, the contents of your stomach emptying onto the pavement.

It would have been the most embarrassing moment of your life if Jake had done anything but reach for your hair as he followed you to the curb, gathering the strands in his hand as he held them back. 

“At the very least — the effect will pass soon,” he said.

Perhaps it had been the remains of the alcohol still in your system, perhaps it had been the toxin still having an effect on you, or perhaps it was simply Jake, and his presence — always making everything easier for you, but you laughed then, so cheerfully — the sound surprised even you.

“I‘m never stepping into a bar again,” you whispered, closing your eyes. The breeze brushed through your face so nicely, you couldn’t help but raise your head to the sky, parting your lips in contentment. 

“Traumatic first time, right?” Jake asked, and you didn’t need to open your eyes to know, he was smiling back at you.

“Yes.”

“I’ll take you another night,” he resolved. “Let’s forget this first time, pretend it didn’t happen. I’ll give you a better memory.”

The breeze seemed to halt with you, the air suddenly too still and allowing you to notice how you ached at his words, a sharp twinge that started at your chest and spread to your throat, tightening there and almost bringing you to tears once again. Jake had done so much for you — more than you had ever asked for or expected. From allowing you to stay in his modest two-bedroom house with its mismatched furniture to sitting beside you underneath the stars and listening to your deepest fears with unwavering patience, and this. The weight of his kindness pressed against you like a physical force and you couldn’t help but feel ashamed.

Your whole life you had been avoiding being a hardship to the people around you, but here you were.

“I’m so sorry,” you said. “I’ve been giving you a lot of trouble.”

“No, you are not — I mean, I don’t mind, not if it’s you,” he replied.

You opened your eyes, all at once encountering his gaze underneath the streetlights, and it was so soft and bright, that one dazzling burst that made everything inside of you loosen, and you couldn’t understand how he was able to do this every time — you couldn’t understand how Jake made everything so fine.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” you said.

“I told you I would, Baby,” Jake replied.

˖ 𖤓  ݁˖

You couldn’t remember when you had fallen asleep. Between sitting back in the passenger seat of Beomseok’s pickup, curling yourself on Jake’s jacket, and the drive, you couldn’t remember when you had fallen asleep. But by the time you had recovered a bit of your senses, Jake was gently laying you on the bed, a faint light filtering through the curtains of his grandparents’ old bedroom and giving you just enough to see him bending to one knee by your side. 

“Jake?”

“Yes, Baby?”

“When did you buy the motorcycle?” you asked.

“What a sudden question.”

“I have been wanting to ask you the whole night.”

“The whole night?” he echoed. You weren’t surprised by his reaction — you had seen it coming. What surprised you was how tightened his voice sounded, how serious. And maybe that had been what made you hum in reply, immediately and all at once not caring about the implications — the subtle sense that you had been thinking about him the whole night.

“Back when I passed the entrance exam,” he admitted then.

“A little rebellious act?”

“Well, some people run away to islands, some people buy fancy motorcycles with their father’s money to irritate him.” You couldn’t help but laugh at his callout, the small sound escaping despite your exhaustion. And Jake smiled in response, perhaps too proudly as he reached for you, his hand hovering over your face for a brief second, before he took a strand of your hair and brushed it away from your cheek.

“Jake?”

“Hm?”

“Stay here.” It took him a long time to make sense of your request, and when he did, the surprise kept him from moving for another moment before finally, he nodded at you. 

You watched Jake glance around the room, his eyes searching for what the crochet blanket at the foot of your bed seemed to provide as he reached for it, carefully unfolding the fabric and spreading it on the floor. He lay down on it, one arm tucked beneath his head, as the other kept extending in your direction.

Neither of you moved for what felt like an eternity — not even a twitch. But then you reached for his hand, and Jake inhaled sharply, his breath so close to getting lodged in his chest that once again, you caught yourself wondering if you had gone too far — your body reacting to Jake before your own mind did, but before you could retreat, his fingers curled around yours and he shifted onto the blanket, maneuvering closer to you. 

“Have some sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll be here.”

You weren’t sure how long you both stayed like this, but you had fallen asleep before he did — his light and watchful breaths lulling and stealing you from the moment he brought your hand closer to him, pressing it against his lips as his gaze never failed to linger on you.

The world had turned darker with the passing hours, and whatever remained of the light seemed to now race towards you — the rose and gold of the stars and streetlights filtering through the curtains, and softly painting your form. It had been years, but Jake finally understood what a professor had once said: beauty was rarely soft or consolatory, it was quite alarming. He could feel his pulse jumping in his neck, the bare image of you stirring and awakening something inside of him.

“Baby?” Jake called. “Is it okay if I fall in love with you? You don’t see me as a brother, do you?”

PART TWO｜STORY MASTERLIST

[en-ternity]

Falling in love with your older brother’s best friend certainly wasn’t one of your summer resolutions. Actually, meeting him wasn’t even part of your plans. But someday, you happened to have no other option than to appear unannounced at his little pottery shop in Seogwipo. A stray kitten in a pet carrier, and asking for a place to stay. And well, you couldn’t help but do (both things).

a summer romance divided into two parts｜46.7K

PAIRING: older brother’s best friend!Jaeyun x fem!reader

TAGLIST IS CLOSED! with the release of the last part, i am officially closing the taglist! thank you so much for your support through this small journey ♡

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PART ONE｜18.5K｜WARNINGS (for this part): slow-burnish, mentions of alcohol, reader gets wasted once and Jaeyun has to take care of her, a lot of art references as he majored in fine arts, and usage of the petname baby quite a lot

PART TWO｜28.2K｜WARNINGS (for this part): mentions of alcohol, even more art references, smut, virginity loss, unprotected sex multiple times, fingering and oral (f. receiving), handjob (m. receiving), reader overreacts once and Jaeyun yearns, but yes, they are in their lovers era, and i am not saying that there’s a scene where he paints the reader naked, but i am