lonely and sexually frustrated, but you are lucky to have your best friend and his nice boyfriend by your side to keep you company. However, a weird tension is beginning to grow between you.
A/N: this is my first txt post! xD this is also my first attempt at a series. i have had this sitting in drafts for so long, i've decided to just post it. as with all my writing, i will probably come back and edit it, don't know how I feel about the title and photos either lol ^_^ anyway, enjoy! Warnings under the cut! <3
warnings: dirty talk, sexual depictions, bad attempts at humor, member x member
“I mean, he is a nice guy. He has a good job, he’s a gentleman, he’s funny…”
Beomgyu leaned on the counter and watched you intently, something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place, even after all these years. He hummed in understanding, silent— you could see the gears turning in his head. You took a bite of your ice cream, waiting, thinking he would say something sensible, valuable even.
“Everything a girl could want,” he nodded as if weighing his thoughts.
You tilted your head as a mischievous smile spread across his face.
“Alright,” he stood abruptly, throwing his hands down on the granite. “You have my blessing. Marry him.”
There it was.
“Ha ha,” you deadpanned, your best friend amused as he basked in being annoying.
“Gyu, my point is, he’s great, but there’s not… chemistry. Sparks. Passion.” You motioned with your hands at each word, giving a speech to an invisible crowd of hopeful romantics. A soft smile spreads on your best friend’s face before it drops at your final sentence: “Maybe a few more dates, and I could fall in love eventually.”
His response came out too fast. “Do you think he’d last a few more dates?”
“Hm?” you hummed, confused by his change in demeanor.
Beomgyu straightened as he stood fully, crossing to the cabinet and taking out a box of bagged popcorn kernels.
“Yn, you’ve already been on, what, four dates? He should’ve made it official by now.”
You thought about it, shifting your weight. Beomgyu unfolded a bag and placed it in the microwave. You couldn’t help but agree with him. On four separate occasions, you hung out with this guy, got to know him, not to mention the way he’d text you and facetime almost everyday. He was definitely into you; you could learn to be into him, you’re sure. But what did you really want?
Your eyes drifted up to Beomgyu. His eyes were already on yours.
“By the way, Yeonjun’s coming tonight.”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course.”
“What?” Beomgyu laughed, seeing your reaction, his mischievous aura returning.
It’s not that you didn’t like Yeonjun. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He was kind, funny, never made you feel left out, even when you found yourself as the third-wheel more often than not when Beomgyu dragged his lonely best friend along on their dates. “Don’t be silly,” he’d say when you worried aloud that you’d be imposing. Yeonjun’s love for Beomgyu, and everything that came with him, burned brightly in his eyes when you’d catch him staring lovingly at his boyfriend. When he noticed you watching, he’d flash a quick friendly smile, a light blush on his cheeks. It was the kind of love that made your chest clench and your heart gasp.
What more could you want for your best friend?
He had someone who loved and understood him… but maybe a bit too much. When Yeonjun came over, the couple was inseparable. Neither feared PDA, or maybe they just didn’t think you’d care if they slobbered all over each other in front of you. After all, they were a cute couple. More than cute– they were two of the most attractive men you’ve seen. But in your sexually and romantically frustrated state, you couldn’t help but be envious, especially when you could hear them through the walls at night in Beomgyu’s bedroom.
Frankly, you thought tonight you would commiserate with your best friend– you would both eat ice cream while you complained about your dating life. Beomgyu would tease you just to make you laugh, but then he’d pull you close in a friendly cuddle as you watched a movie. Maybe he’d even look over your shoulder as you swiped on your dating app, make fun of the different guys and profiles with you. He’d throw an arm around your shoulder when he sees a dark cloud over your features, turn the lights down and the volume up on the television as you drift off to sleep, vulnerable and safe with him next to you.
But none of that comfort would materialize. Instead tonight you’d have to put up with quiet giggles, lips smacking, and moans coming from the room down the hall, in bed with a scowl on your face as your horniness overpowers your need to cry.
“I guess I'm just jealous,” you shrugged, pouting as you looked up at him. His eyes flashed, pinching your cheek.
“You’re so cute.”
“Stop teasing me.”
“I mean it,” he paused, his hand patting your head.
“No, you’re just mean.”
“Don’t worry yn, you're still my favorite.” Beomgyu winked as he left the kitchen, grabbing your bowl of ice cream. You glitched a bit, narrowing your eyes as you plotted his demise. You quickly regained your senses, clearing your throat. “Give me that back!”
Beomgyu’s leg and arm were thrown across Yeonjun’s thighs, his cheek resting against his chest. He sunk further into his heart, not paying attention to the movie as he closed his eyes and listened to its rhythm, breathing in the scent of his cologne and warmth. Beomgyu placed a soft kiss on Yeonjun’s chest, his hand tracing circles on his pec. Yeonjun looked down at him, eyes softening at his cute boyfriend, placing a soft kiss on his head as ran his fingertips up and down Beomgyu's spine, gentle and tender—his safe space.
Your spine on the other hand was a different story.
You were slumped on a single arm chair across from the two lovers on the matching green loveseat. In other words, you were absolutely obliterating your back. Usually, Beomgyu would scold you for sitting like this, so obnoxiously with one leg thrown over the arm, but this time he doesn’t say anything, too enamored and comfortable to even look your way.
Just as your leg started to once again sting with numbness from your bad posture, your heavy eyes began to wander from the boring movie that no one seemed to be paying attention to. You look over at your roommate and his human pillow. You catch his hand moving lower, lost somewhere amongst Yeonjun’s hips.
You could hurl. You let out a sigh, adjusting your posture into one that was probably worse but brought some circulation back to your leg and closed your tired eyes.
A few more minutes passed. You were almost falling asleep, when you were jolted back into consciousness by the sound of continuous lip smacking. I hope that’s the movie, you thought.
You peek at the television. Sure enough, a sex scene played, but only cheesy, orchestral music was coming out of the speakers. Then, a muffled whine; one that sounds suspiciously like it is coming from your best friend. Before you could think, your head turned towards the two men.
Yeonjun was leaning over Beomgyu, their lips moving against each other. Yeonjun’s hand rested on the younger man’s hip, teasing its way to his crotch. When he finally reached his destination, Beomgyu whimpered quietly again, his own hand flying to Yeonjun’s to stop him from going any further as he turned his gaze towards you. The heated look in his eyes, lit by the dim warm glow from the table lamp, sent a shiver down your spine straight to your core. Yeonjun pulled away from his neck, a smirk on his face. Beomgyu turned back to his boyfriend, eyes glazed over and half-lidded.
“Get a room!” you threw a pillow at the two, prompting them to both look towards you.
Yeonjun smiled at you bashfully as he straightened up away from Beomgyu, apologizing. You weren’t surprised at his reaction. Yeonjun was very nice to you and treated you like a friend, rather than a person he had to tolerate for his significant other. It was the reason you haven't hung out with your other coupled friends in a while. Their boyfriends sucked.
On the other hand, Beomgyu grinned at you mischievously. His favorite thing seemed to be getting a rise out of you; even now his horniness took a backseat as his dark eyes softened and he let out a laugh. “Thought you’d like the show.”
“You heard her, Junnie. Let’s go.” He stood and grabbed Yeonjun’s hand, pulling him to his room as Yeonjun followed behind like a lovesick puppy.
They shut the door behind them, but the thin walls meant you could still hear everything. You lay in your bed, your best friend’s pretty moans permeating through the walls. You couldn’t help the way your thighs rubbed against each other.
“Be quiet baby, you know we’re not alone~” Yeonjun’s voice was smoother, deeper than usual, another wave of wetness sent to your panties.
“Fuck! Why? She already knows what we’re doing,” Beomgyu gasped. “don’t stop…” a few loud smacks of yeonjun’s hand on gyu’s ass resounding after.
“Talking back, huh? How many times do I have to break you, brat?” Sounds of skin on skin, grunts and whines. Beomgyu let out a loud moan, but it was cut abruptly as Yeonjun spoke again. “Be. Fucking. Quiet!”
Your hand was already down your sleep shorts, rubbing quick circles into your clit. Beomgyu’s moans were quieter, soon turning into frantic whimpers as you guessed he was close to his high. He let out one final strangled whimper,
“good boy” Yeonjun’s gruff voice followed.
You tried to keep the slick sounds of your fingers working your clit quiet as well, as you listened to Beomgyu begin whining again, Yeonjun shushing him.
“Just a little longer, baby. Make hyung cum, yeah?” Several seconds later, Yeonjun let out a low groan as he came, obviously trying to keep his voice down in consideration of you.
Your apartment grew silent, save for the slicking sounds in your room. Before you knew it, your mind was replaying Beomgyu’s whimpers and Yeonjun’s dirty talk. You turned your head, burying your flushed cheeks in your pillow. You wanted to scream. Beomgyu’s pretty, hazy face from the living room played behind your eyelids, imagining that you were the one kissing his neck and making him feel so blissed out.
Your fingers moved quickly on your clit, your orgasm approaching, closer and closer, until–
“You didn’t close the door all the way!” Yeonjun whisper-shouted incredulously at Gyu.
Footsteps approached your door as your orgasm hit. You sighed, but quickly turned over in bed when you heard someone approaching your room. Your door cracked open, Yeonjun peeking his head in the darkness. “y/n?” he called softly.
You acted like you were asleep, mimicking deep breaths. You heard your door close and you waited a few seconds before rolling on your back, staring at the ceiling.
Fuck! Without riding it out, your orgasm was short of satisfying.
Your brain began to clear. The sound of the shower turning on. The uncomfortable wetness on your skin. A car drove past, casting shadows on the wall.
You just orgasmed to your best friend’s face. The one that you’ll never have a chance with. Did you want a chance?
You shook your head. He’s hot. You were horny. Still sexually frustrated. That’s all that was.
You took a deep breath and rolled over again, trying to fall asleep.
The bed creaked as Beomgyu got up, walking past your room on the way to meet Yeonjun in the bathroom. He paused at your door, listening to your breaths. He smirked to himself, licking his dry lips as he continued his way to the shower.
ꕥ summary: she meets him once and thinks he’s… nice. maybe too nice. then life of a broke student catches up, late rent, bills piling high, and he notices. he offers help, but the terms make her blood boil, and she walks away, stubborn and proud. later, she’s a med student, juggling patients and internships, when she ends up caring for the important person in his life she never expected to impress: his grandmother. boundaries are clear, rules carefully followed, yet small gestures, quiet moments, and stolen glances slowly chip away at them both. and somehow, despite everything, something grows that neither of them can ignore.
ꕥ pairing: txt yeonjun x f!reader
ꕥ tags: romance, angst, fluff, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, power imbalance. slow burn, slice of life pg-13 for this chapter
ꕥ wc: 11.2k
ꕥ notes: guys! it's been so long!! so much happened and i am so glad to share that i finished my last law school semester so updates after this will probably go much faster than before :D i am also so excited to become a lawyer hopefully by the end of next year!!
TAGLIST ARE OPEN : @junnielvr @ssdandelion177
The afternoon sun filters in, pale and honeyed, slipping through the blinds of the bedroom in thin, quiet lines. Halmeoni is napping, her chest rising and falling in a fragile, steady rhythm that fills the room with a kind of careful peace.
You sit in the armchair by the window in the living room, buried deep in a massive, dog-eared textbook on neuroanatomy, the pages heavy in your hands. There is a sudden quiz the next morning, so in between checking Halmoni’s meds, you try to cram whatever might appear on that paper. Your highlighter is nearly dried out, the ink fading no matter how many times you drag it across the same sentence, and your neck aches like it’s rusted into place. Across from you, on the small sofa, Choi Yeonjun is taking a call for the nth time today, each time work related. He is supposedly working on his laptop, but the screen has already dimmed to black minutes ago.
He is watching you. You don’t notice, your eyes still locked on the page, your brows pulling together as you try to force meaning out of words that refuse to settle.
“You’ve been on that same page for twenty minutes,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the textbook contents.
You don’t look up, though your heart stumbles anyway. “It’s just a complicated subtopic, Yeonjun.”
“I think you’re exhausted,” he says, and this time there’s no edge to it, no teasing, just something quieter, something that lingers. He stands, putting down his laptop on the table’s surface, the fabric of his trousers shifting softly, and walks toward the small kitchen tucked into the corner. “I’m getting you coffee.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do.” He glances back, a small, almost self-conscious smile tugging at his lips. “And don’t worry. I’m making it myself using whatever’s in the pantry. I’m not hiring any staff this time.”
It lands like a joke, but softer, like he’s still trying to make up for something without saying it outright. He’s got your attention now as you fold down the corner of the page, letting the book shut. You watch him for a moment, the way he fumbles with the machine, movements slightly uncertain, like this is unfamiliar territory for him. Someone who can probably navigate rooms full of executives without blinking, now contemplating his next steps over a French press like it might betray him. You could not help but softly giggle at the way his mouth pouts when he’s focusing, making Yeonjun turn to look at you, and you hurriedly avoid eye contact, holding back the smile.
When he finally walks back over, he sets a steaming mug beside your book, careful, almost deliberate. As he does, his fingers brush against yours. It’s brief, barely there, but it lingers in a way it shouldn’t, like the air shifts around it. Both of you still for a second, the quiet stretching just a little longer than usual. Something unspoken sits between you, soft but noticeable, blurring the edges of everything else.
A loud ring from his phone, and being followed by his Macbook after just one second startled the both of you. His hand moves further as Yeonjun stands up right, a heavy breath escalates from him as he picks up his phone. The conversation seems quite tense, his voice sounding like he’s one second away from scolding the poor caller.
“Right, I’ll call you back once it’s done, and I’m only getting there tomorrow morning the earliest.” The call ends abruptly after, and you awkwardly gutters up the courage to ask. “Why are you still here, Yeonjun?” you ask quietly, finally looking up to him. “The helpers and I can watch her. Your assistant has called you five times.”
His gaze meets yours, steady, stripped of the usual ease he carries around.
“Because the board meetings and my office are uncomfortably loud,” he says, his voice lower now, more honest than you expect. “And the house is quiet. But here… with you and Halmeoni… it feels different. Like I don’t have to be a ‘Choi.’” He pauses, then adds, softer, “I can just be here, take my time doing work. Having you around.”
Something feels tight in your chest hearing that last sentence, something you don’t quite want to name. For a moment, it feels easy to stay like this, to let the silence settle around the two of you without pushing it away. Then your eyes catch the cufflink at his sleeve, gold catching the light, then his watch, carefully crafted, polished, precise, belonging to a world that has never once made space for you.
“Don’t,” you say, your voice even softer now, but unsteady. “Don’t make this into something.”
He glances down briefly at where your hand was, something flickering across his expression before it smooths out again. He nods once, small, controlled.
“Right,” he says, stepping back just enough. “Boundaries.”
---
The heavy oak front door clicks shut behind you with a muted thud that echoes through the cavernous foyer. Every joint in your body throbs with a dull, persistent ache, the residue of an eighteen-hour shift in an overcrowded emergency room where the air smells eternally of rubbing alcohol, old floor wax, and adrenaline. Your feet feel uncomfortable inside your sneakers, knees stiff as you kick off your shoes and lean heavily against the cold drywall, letting out a breath so long and weary it feels as though it pulls the last bit of warmth right out of your lungs. The white coat seems heavier than usual and you quickly remove it from your shoulder, hanging them on the rack by the door. Your stomach churns, empty since an energy bar at mid-day, letting out a sharp, hollow growl that sounds ridiculously loud in the sterile silence of the high-rise penthouse.
You enter into the living room, where you spot Yeonjun sitting on the edge of the deep charcoal sofa, his laptop resting across his knees, illuminating the sharp angles of his cheekbones in the dim, ambient cove lighting. His tie is loosened into a relaxed loop, the top two buttons of his tailored oxford shirt unfastened to reveal the hollow of his collarbone. He’s at his usual after office hours shift at home, not even having an outfit change.
The moment the lock turns, Yeonjun’s dark eyes already snap toward the entryway, instantly absorbing the curve of your slumped shoulders, the faint dark smudges beneath your eyes, and the way you drag your feet across the polished floor.
"Rough shift?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling timbre that seems to vibrate gently through the quiet room.
"I think my stomach has officially begun digesting its own lining," you groan, pressing the flat of your hand against your ribs as you bypass him entirely, heading straight for the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator that dominates the kitchen wall. "Tell me you have something. Anything. Cold rice, leftover soup, a piece of stale bread—I might even eat raw eggs at this point."
You pull open the heavy door. A pristine, blue-white light floods the kitchen, highlighting a scene of immaculate emptiness. Beyond three identical glass bottles of sparkling mineral water stacked in a wire rack, a small jar of artisanal cold brew, and a single lemon sitting in solitary confinement on the middle shelf, the vast interior is entirely barren. You stand frozen for a beat, the frigid air washing over your face, before snapping the door shut and spinning around to throw open the high wooden pantry cabinets. Row after row of minimalist oak shelves greet you, bare, save for a glass canister of loose-leaf jasmine tea and a dark bottle of unnecessary Italy imported olive oil.
"Yeonjun," you say slowly, turning around to face him with your arms resting against the edge of the marble island, staring at him in absolute disbelief. "Where is the food?"
He halts a few feet away, a sheepish, almost boyish flush rising along his neck as his hand comes up to scratch at the back of his scalp. "The housekeeping aunty usually restocks the pantry on Thursdays," he admits, his jaw tightening slightly in self-conscious embarrassment. "I canceled them yesterday morning because you were sleeping off your night shift. I knew how exhausted you were, and I didn't want the noise of her unpacking groceries to wake you up."
"Not even instant ramen?" you gasp, dropping to your knees to pull open the bottom drawers of the island, finding only neatly stacked cloth napkins and a set of crystal whiskey glasses. "How does a multi-million-won penthouse in the heart of the city not have a single packet of instant noodles? Isn't that a mandatory emergency supply?"
"I... don't generally eat instant ramen at home," he confesses quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he takes in your desperate search. "I can call my personal assistant right now. Or order from that twenty-four-hour French bistro down on the boulevard—they have a bone marrow risotto that—"
"No," you interrupt, standing up so fast your head swims for a brief second. Your stomach betrays you again, letting out another ferocious rumble that causes his lips to twitch with the barest hint of a suppressed smile. "By the time a delivery driver navigates security and gets up the elevator, I will have passed out on this marble floor. That’s fine. I’m going out."
He blinks, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in your tone. "At midnight?"
"At midnight."
Ten minutes later, the heir to one of the largest conglomerates in the city is walking beside you down a narrow, shadowy alleyway located three blocks behind the gleaming glass towers of the main avenue. He refuses to let you out all alone, and even panics when you said you were walking. He insisted on following, even offering to drive you there, but you say it’s just around the building.
He has swapped his suit jacket for an oversized, midnight-black fleece hoodie and dark denim, his golden-toned hair slightly ruffled from pulling the hood over his head. Despite the low-key clothing, he still looks distinctly out of place, the razor-sharp cut of his jaw, his upright posture, and the subtle, instinctive way he keeps his broad shoulder positioned between you and the narrow street, keeping himself on the curb side as a quiet shield against the occasional passing scooter.
"Where exactly are we heading?" he asks softly, his breath misting into small white plumes in the crisp, autumn night air. His hands are thrust deep into his hoodie pocket, though his elbow stays lightly pressed against yours with every stride.
"To a place that caters to actual human biology," you reply, turning a corner where the damp pavement reflects the warm glow of hanging lights.
Ahead, nestled between a shuttered dry cleaner and an old brick building, sits a traditional stall, a cozy, temporary tent made of thick, bright-red vinyl, illuminated from within by string lights that cast an amber halo into the dark street. Thick plumes of fragrant white steam billow out from beneath the plastic entrance flaps, carrying the irresistible, intoxicating scents of simmered anchovy broth, toasted sesame oil, sweet gochujang, and frying batter into the chilly air.
You lift the heavy, rain-beaded plastic curtain and duck inside. The interior is tiny, intimate, and alive with heat. Three small, low plastic tables surrounded by matching red stools are scattered across the damp concrete floor. Behind a long stainless-steel counter lined with bubbling, deep-bellied vats of soup stands an elderly woman wearing a quilted floral vest over a thick purple sweater, her gray hair tightly permed into neat curls beneath a visor.
"Look who finally decided to crawl out of the nest!" the Ajumma barks the moment her sharp eyes catch sight of you, a heavy wooden ladle poised mid-air over a vat of boiling broth. Deep wrinkles fan-fold around her eyes as a broad, fond smile splits her face. "I was getting ready to call the police! Look at you, pale as a sheet, skin and bones! Did that fancy hospital swallow you whole?"
"Shift ran three hours over, Ajumma," you answer, a genuine, relaxed laugh bubbling up from your chest as the knot of tension in your shoulders loosens for the first time all day. "I haven't eaten since noon. I'm practically hallucinating."
Her keen, dark eyes slide past your shoulder, instantly locking onto Yeonjun as he ducks his head to fit under the low vinyl ceiling. He stands hovering right behind you, his massive frame practically filling the doorway, looking around the small street stall with quiet, wide-eyed curiosity. His shoulder bumps against yours, offering an anchor of warmth in the cool tent.
Ajumma squints at him, her bushy eyebrows shooting toward her visor line. "Aigoo... and what is this? Who brought a runaway model into my shabby stall? Look at those shoulders, did you steal him right off a billboard?"
A faint, charming dust of rose pink creeps across Yeonjun’s cheekbones. He immediately straightens his spine, tucking his hands behind his back, and dips into a deep, remarkably formal ninety-degree bow that looks hilariously aristocratic beneath the low red plastic ceiling. "Good evening, Ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm... a friend of y/n."
"A friend," Ajumma snorts with a loud, theatrical wave of her wooden spoon, her eyes dropping down to the way Yeonjun's hand hovers subtly near the small of your back, barely a millimeter from touching your jacket. "Sure, and I'm the country’s President. Sit down, sit down! Stop towering over my kitchen, big boy. I'll bring out the good stuff before your girlfriend faints."
The word girlfriend hangs in the air like a sudden drop in pressure. The space between you and Yeonjun instantly freezes with a stiff, agonizing awkwardness. You quickly take a half-step sideways, putting deliberate distance between the two of you, your face flushing hot under the amber string lights.
You lead Yeonjun toward one of the tiny red plastic tables. His long, lean legs fold awkwardly under the miniature frame, his knees knocking directly against yours in the tight space, but not a single flicker of annoyance crosses his face. Rather he’s looking around in curiosity. He spots a few customers, and shifts his eyes around the kitchen. His brows raise at the sight of only one person there, the Ajumma.
“She runs this stall by herself?” he’s asking, his upper lips pouting in surprise.
“I think so. Her son started studying in university just last month.”
He simply adjusts himself, his dark eyes fixed entirely on you as you hand him a pair of wooden chopsticks and pour hot, savory fish-cake broth from a battered aluminum kettle into a small paper cup.
"Drink this first," you instruct softly, nudging the cup toward him. "It'll warm you up."
Within five minutes, the small plastic table is entirely covered in steam and color: a wide oval plate heaped with thick, glossy, dark-red tteokbokki swimming in a rich chili sauce; a bamboo basket overflowing with golden, double-fried twigim, kimchi jeon, crispy sweet potato and two massive ceramic bowls of piping-hot udong, the clear amber broth glistening with sesame oil and topped with mountains of fried tofu and chopped green onions.
Without waiting further, you snap your chopsticks apart, snag a thick rice cake, and pop it into your mouth. A sound of absolute, unadulterated satisfaction escapes your throat as the sweet, fiery heat hits your tongue, instantly reviving your tired senses. "Oh, thank God."
Yeonjun watches you, his expression softening into something so tender it rivals the warm steam rising from the bowls between you. He carefully picks up his own wooden chopsticks, mimicking your movements as he takes a piece of golden sweet potato batter, dips it lightly into the crimson tteokbokki sauce, and brings it to his lips.
He chews slowly. His dark eyes widen, a flicker of genuine surprise washing over his features as he swallows. "This is... remarkably complex. The sweetness hits first, but the depth of the broth beneath it…"
"Of course it's good," you say around a bite of chewy udong noodles, shaking your head with a grin. "She’s been simmering that base broth for over thirty years. You can't buy a flavor like that in a five-star dining room with white tablecloths."
"I won't even try to argue with that," he murmurs, his lips curving into a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to the corners of his eyes, erasing every trace of the tense, tired executive who was staring at a laptop an hour ago.
"I ate here three times a week during my first few months of med school," you say, picking up two sets of metal chopsticks and setting one beside his paper cup of barley tea. "When my student loans ran late, she used to slip extra beef slices into my bowl and pretend it was a mistake."
Yeonjun listens, his dark eyes fixed on your face. He watches the way your shoulders finally relax under the yellow light of the hanging bulb.
"I didn't know people actually did that," he says softly.
"What? Gave out extra food?”
"Looked out for strangers like that," he clarifies. He rests his forearms on the small table, leaning in slightly. "In my world, if someone gives you something extra, it means they're preparing an invoice for later."
You stare at him, the casual bitterness in his tone catching in your chest. Before you can answer, the Ajumma slams two tins of sparkling ciders and two cups of ice onto the table, the cubes clink and shift beneath the pour, slowly sinking into the chilled drink as tiny bubbles race toward the surface.
"Eat while it's hot," she orders, slapping a small plate of fresh green peppers between your bowls before bustling off to tend to another pot. The warmth from the soup rises between you, a cloud of steam that softens the sharp lines of his face. You continue to dig in immediately, taking a hot spoon of broth and closing your eyes as the savory heat hits your stomach.
Yeonjun watches you for a second before picking up his spoon. He takes a cautious sip of the white broth now. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, the rich, deep flavor catching him off guard.
"It's very good," he admits, taking a second, larger bite.
"I told you," you say, a tiny smile touching your lips.
For a few minutes, the only sound between you is the rain tapping against the vinyl tent and the clinking of spoons against stoneware. The hunger recedes, leaving behind a heavy, cozy quiet.
"My family used to have dinner together every Sunday," Yeonjun says out of nowhere, his voice low enough that it doesn't carry to the other dining in. He keeps his eyes on his bowl, stirring the soup. "It was held at the main house. Twelve courses. Different wine pairings for each plate."
You stop your spoon halfway to your mouth, listening. He almost never talks about his family without that clinical, detached corporate tone.
"Sounds fancy," you respond, carefully.
"No. It was miserable," he says, a faint, humorless smile touching the corner of his lips. "If you held your fork at the wrong angle, my father's secretary would make a note of it. If you talked too much, you were interrupted. Meals weren't for eating. They were performance reviews."
He looks up from his bowl, his dark eyes catching yours. The vulnerability in them is sharp, raw, and completely unarmored.
"I was ten before I realized people were supposed to enjoy eating," he continues. "I thought dinner was just something you endured so you didn't get written out of the trust."
Your heart twists. You look at him, this man who can buy the building you work in, sitting on a cracked red plastic stool in a dark alley, admitting to a childhood spent walking on eggshells. You feel a sudden, overwhelming impulse to reach across the small table and place your hand over his. To tell him that he doesn't have to perform here. But you don't.
You catch yourself, your fingers tightening around your paper cup instead. The reality of his world—the boardrooms, the cold family dinners, the mountain of wealth that separates your daily life from his stares right back at you. You are a med student drowning in shifts; he is an heir with a legacy hanging over his head. You aren't dating. You can't cross that line.
Yeonjun notices the hesitation in your posture. He sees the way your hand pulls back, the subtle wall rising back up between you. A flicker of quiet hurt crosses his features, but he quickly covers it, leaning back against the cold plastic of his stool.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice reverting to that carefully controlled tenor. "You're exhausted. You don't need to listen to me complain about my childhood."
"No," you say quickly, looking directly into his eyes so he knows you mean it. "I want to hear it. It's just... it's a lot different from my world."
"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to the space between your hands on the table. "Our worlds don't exactly have much overlap."
The air grows heavy again, filled with the unsaid weight of what you both feel, the intense, magnetic pull that has been building for weeks, crushed under the terrifying reality of how vastly different your lives are. Neither of you knows how to bridge the gap without getting hurt, so neither of you moves.
"Finish your soup," you say softly, offering a quiet, truce-like smile. "Ajumma gets offended if you leave broth behind."
Yeonjun looks at you for a long moment, the tension in his jaw slowly releasing.
"Alright," he murmurs, picking up his spoon again. "I wouldn't want to get on her bad side."
Yeonjun uses his chopsticks to break off a small piece of the yaktu-jeon, dipping it carefully into the small plastic saucer of soy sauce and pickled onions. He moves with an innate, quiet restraint. He chews slowly, his dark eyes fixed on the condensation dripping down the clear plastic flap of the tent.
"I used to think people only sat together like this in dramas," he says quietly, his voice carrying a raspy edge that is barely audible over the hiss of the rain. He doesn't look at you immediately; he keeps his focus on his cup sparkling cider, his thumb tracing the rough, ridge-patterned plastic. "Where everyone is cramped into a tiny space and the air smells like kerosene and grease. In my house, if you could hear the person sitting across from you chewing, or if the room was warmer than twenty-one degrees, someone was reprimanded."
You rest your chin in the palm of your hand, your own chopsticks resting across the rim of your now empty bowl of udong. The bone-deep fatigue from your fourteen-hour shift still aches in your lower back, but the sharp, empty gnawing in your stomach has finally settled into a dull, comforting warmth. "It sounds like living in a museum," you murmur softly, watching the way the dim light catches the sharp angle of his jawline.
"It was," he replies, finally turning his head to meet your gaze. His dark pupils are wide, reflecting the ambient red glow of the tent. "Everything was kept behind glass. Everything had a specific protocol. Even when my grandfather passed away, we didn't cry in the living room. We were given five minutes in a private study, and then we had to put on our jackets and face the reporters." He lets out a short, breathy exhale that isn't quite a laugh. "So when I see you... working until your hands shake, coming back here, eating at a place where the owner yells at you to eat more... it feels real. But it also feels like a world I'm not supposed to touch."
The honesty of his words hangs in the humid air between you, raw and unpolished. You feel a sudden, tight ache in your chest, the urge to tell him that he doesn't have to stay behind the glass when he's with you.
Your mouth twitches at the thought. But then your eyes catch the subtle, immaculate detail of his clothing, the hand-stitched hem of his shirt sleeve peeking out from under his dark hoodie, the quiet, undeniable weight of a world built on old money, corporate influence, and expectations that would tear a hospital intern like you to pieces. You remember the mountain of student loans waiting in your email inbox, the cramped, drafty apartment you still pay rent on just to keep your pride intact, and the stark reality that you are living in his penthouse on borrowed time.
Slowly, deliberately, you bite your word back, wrapping both palms around the warm, flimsy paper cup of tea instead.
Yeonjun catches the movement. His eyes track your hand anxiousy moving, and a faint, imperceptible tension returns to his posture. He doesn't press. He doesn't reach across the gap. He simply picks up his chopsticks again, leaning back slightly to restore the invisible, protective boundary you both keep erecting.
"You should eat the rest of the pancake," he says, his voice shifting back into that carefully measured, gentle tone as he uses his chopsticks to nudge the crisp edge of the chive pancake toward your side of the plate. "You're the one who worked fourteen hours on her feet. I just sat in air-conditioned boardrooms all day."
"A mental shift can be just as exhausting," you say softly, taking the piece he offered.
"Maybe," he murmurs, watching you chew with an intensity that makes the back of your neck warm despite the chill creeping under the vinyl flap. "But at least your work actually saves people. Mine just moves numbers from one column to another."
"It's not that simple, Yeonjun, and you know it."
"Isn't it?" He tilts his head, a small, somber smile touching the corner of his lips. "If I vanished tomorrow, the company would appoint a new board member by Monday. If you don't show up for your shift, a patient doesn't get their medication. That's the difference between our worlds. Yours matters. Mine is just... noise."
You look at him, really look at him—seeing past the expensive clothes and the polished demeanor to the quiet, isolated man sitting under a yellow lightbulb in a back alley. "It matters to Halmeoni," you say quietly. "And it matters to the people who actually know you."
He stills at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, heavy gravity that makes your breath hitch in your throat. For a long, fragile moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound is the rhythmic bubbling of the broth pots behind the counter and the steady fall of the rain outside, keeping two people from two entirely different lives suspended in the same quiet space.
“My childhood wasn't exactly…” You pause, rolling the paper cup slowly between your palms. “I wouldn't say it was bad. We just didn't have much.” You keep your eyes on the condensation gathering around the bottom of the cup, watching one tiny droplet make its way down the plastic before disappearing into the table. “I think I learned pretty early that if I wanted something, I probably had to figure out how to get it myself.” Your voice stays casual, almost conversational, but the words carry more weight than you intend. “My parents were always working. Sometimes I'd wake up before they did, make my own breakfast, go to school, come home and wait until someone got back. There were days when I thought the sound of our front door opening was the best sound in the world.”
Yeonjun doesn't interrupt. He has stopped eating altogether, his chopsticks resting loosely between his fingers as he listens. You glance up once and find him watching you with the same quiet attention he had earlier, except there is no pity in his expression. You are grateful for that. Pity has always made you uncomfortable, especially the kind that comes with lowered voices and sympathetic smiles, as though poverty is something that needs to be whispered about.
“We weren't miserable,” you add quickly, almost out of habit. “We laughed a lot. My mum used to sing when she cooked, even though she was terrible at it. My dad would complain about the noise from the living room, then start singing along when he thought she couldn't hear him.” A small smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it. “We didn't have a lot of things, but somehow the house never felt empty when they were both there.”
The smile fades gradually as another memory surfaces, one you haven't thought about in a long time. “But money was always there. Not in the way people talk about it now, like investments or property or whatever.” You give a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “It was more like checking the electricity bill before turning the lights on. It was knowing which supermarket had cheaper eggs. It was my mum standing in front of the washing machine, counting the coins in her purse because she wasn't sure if she had enough for the laundromat.” You swallow, looking down at your hands. “I remember being about eleven and asking her if we were poor. She got really quiet. Then she told me, ‘We're okay.’” You smile faintly at the memory. “She never actually answered the question.”
Yeonjun's expression changes, barely. His brows draw together, and he lowers his gaze to the table as though he's trying to picture it. “Did you understand what she meant?”
“Not then.” You shake your head. “I thought being okay meant having enough money. Later I realised she meant we had each other.” Your fingers tighten around the cup. “But I also realised that only love doesn't make bills disappear.” The words come out softer this time. “It doesn't make tuition cheaper. It doesn't stop the landlord from calling when you're late with rent. It doesn't make your parents less tired when they've been working all day.” You let out a breath through your nose, almost embarrassed by how much you've said already. “So I guess I became very practical.”
“That explains a lot,” he says.
You look up immediately. “What does that mean?”
A tiny smile appears on his face. “You always have a plan.”
“I have to.”
“You carry three pens.”
You blink at that. “What?”
“I've noticed.” His smile grows a little. “You always have three pens in your pocket. Sometimes four. One black, one blue, one red. You check your phone battery constantly. You keep snacks in your bag even though you complain about being broke. You have a backup charger for your backup charger.” He leans back slightly, looking almost amused now. “You prepare for everything.”
You stare at him for a moment, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. “Why are you paying so much attention to me?”
The question slips out before you can take it back.
His smile disappears, though not completely. He looks down at his hands for a second, turning one of the chopsticks between his fingers. “I don't know.”
The answer is so simple that it leaves you with nothing to argue against. You look away first, suddenly fascinated by the rain outside. Your cheeks feel warmer than they should, and you blame it on the cramped tent, the spicy food, anything except the fact that he has been noticing things about you that you didn't realise anyone noticed.
“When I was younger,” you continue after a moment, quieter now, “I used to think becoming a doctor would fix everything.”
Yeonjun looks back at you. “Everything?”
“Not literally everything.” You laugh genuinely. “I wasn't that dramatic at twelve.” You pause, then smile softly. “I just thought if I became successful enough, my parents wouldn't have to worry anymore. I could buy them a proper house. Pay off whatever they owed. Tell my mum she didn't have to count coins before going grocery shopping.” Your voice catches slightly, but you smooth it over with another sip of tea. “I thought medicine was the answer because doctors were the people everyone listened to. They walked into a room and suddenly everyone knew what to do.”
“And now?”
You look at him across the small table.
“Now I know doctors are mostly just tired people who Google things when no one's looking.”
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is quiet but genuine, his head dipping as he shakes it. “That's reassuring.”
“You're welcome.”
The laughter settles between you, making the space feel lighter. You pick up another piece of pancake even though you're already full, mostly because you need something to do with your hands. “But I still want it,” you admit. “Medicine, I mean. Even after everything. Even after the nights where I wonder why I willingly chose this.” You look toward the opening of the tent, where the city lights blur behind the rain. “There are moments at the hospital when someone gets better, even a little, and you see their family breathe again. You realise you're part of that moment. I don't think I could give that up.”
Yeonjun watches you quietly. “So you really would do it all again?”
You think about the long shifts, the cheap meals, the textbooks with broken spines, the shoes that have nearly fallen apart from being worn too many times. You think about your parents and the promises you made to yourself when you were young enough to believe every problem had a solution if you worked hard enough.
“Yes,” you say eventually. “I'd complain the entire time, but yes.”
His mouth curves into a small smile. “Your parents must be so proud of you.”
The words make your fingers stop.
For a second, you don't answer. You stare at the cup in your hands, watching a tiny drop of condensation roll down the side and disappear beneath your thumb. When you finally speak, your voice is quieter than before. “They were.” You swallow. “At least, I think they were.”
His smile fades.
“They passed away before I could finish.” You say it simply, without dressing it up, because there is no easy way to say something like that. “My mum never got to see me start medical school. My dad didn't even get to see me finish my first year.” You give a small laugh that doesn't quite sound like one. “I used to joke that they were going to be the annoying parents who told everyone their daughter was a doctor. My mum would probably have carried my graduation picture around in her wallet.”
Yeonjun doesn't say anything. You are grateful for that.
You look down at your hands again, remembering the little things instead. Your mother's fingers fixing your collar before school. Your father's habit of waiting by the door when you came home late. The cheap dinners that somehow tasted better when all three of you were sitting around the same table. “Sometimes I still catch myself thinking about telling them something,” you admit. “Like when I passed an exam, or when I got a good placement, or when something happens at the hospital that makes me think, ‘Mum would have loved this.’ Then I remember.”
Your voice trails off.
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. Yeonjun doesn't try to fill it with one of those meaningless things people say when they don't know how to respond. He just sits there, listening, his eyes lowered to the table. For once, there is no solution in front of him. No problem he can throw money at, no person he can call, no favour he can ask. There is only you, sitting across from him with a life that continued even after the two people who had once been at the centre of it were gone.
“I think that's part of why I can't give up,” you say eventually. “I know they're not here to see it, but I still want to finish. Sometimes it feels stupid because the person I was trying to become a doctor for isn't even around anymore.” You rub your thumb against the side of your cup. “But then I think about how excited my dad was when I got into medical school. He called everyone he knew. My mum cried for almost an hour.” A smile finally appears, small and tired but real. “So I guess I have to finish. Someone has to prove they weren't crying for nothing.”
Yeonjun lets out a quiet breath, and when you look at him, his eyes are fixed on you. “They wouldn't think you failed because they're not here,” he says.
You give him a look. “I know.” You look away again, a little embarrassed by how easily you blurted out about your childhood and family to him. “Maybe I just miss them.”
“I think that's allowed.”
The simplicity of it catches you off guard. No grand speech. No attempt to make the grief sound beautiful. Just that. You're allowed to miss them. You nod slowly, blinking once before reaching for your drink again. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think so too.”
For a while, neither of you speaks. The rain continues outside, steady against the windows, and somewhere beyond the room, a car passes through the wet street. Yeonjun doesn't reach across the table or try to comfort you in a way you might pull away from. He simply stays where he is, giving you enough space to breathe while making it clear that he isn't going anywhere.
You glance at him after a while. “You know, if they were still here, my mum would probably hate you.”
His eyebrows lift. “Why?”
“She'd think you were too handsome.”
He stares at you for a second before laughing, completely caught off guard. “That's why she'd hate me?”
“No.” You finally laugh too, the heaviness in your chest easing just a little. “Then she'd probably figure out you're rich and then she'd hate you for a completely different reason.”
“That sounds fair.”
“She'd interrogate you.”
“I can handle an interrogation.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “You have very little faith in me.”
“I've known you long enough.” The words leave your mouth before you realise what they imply. Long enough. Not forever. Not enough to erase the differences between you. But long enough to know how he takes his coffee, how he gets quiet when he's worried, how he checks his grandmother's room before leaving even when the nurses have already assured him she's fine. Long enough to know the person behind the tailored clothes and the family name.
And perhaps, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, long enough for him to start becoming someone you no longer want to keep at a distance.
You glance at him, attempting to distract the conversation now. “What about you?”
He seems caught off guard by the question. “What about me?”
“Would you do it all again?”
His fingers still around the chopsticks. For once, he doesn't answer immediately. His eyes drift toward the rain, toward the tiny street outside that probably looks completely different from every place he usually spends his evenings. “I don't know,” he says eventually. “I don't think I've ever asked myself that.”
You study his face, the way his expression has gone distant. “Why not?”
“Because nobody ever really asked what I wanted.” His voice is quiet. “They asked what I was going to do. Who I was going to become. What position I would take. Which company I would inherit.” He gives a small shrug. “Those are different questions.”
Something about that makes you pause.
For all the differences between you, there is something strangely familiar in what he has just said. You both grew up learning what was expected of you. The difference is that his expectations came wrapped in wealth and polished silver, while yours came in overdue bills and tired parents. Neither of you had been particularly good at asking what you wanted outside of what was necessary.
“You should try answering it sometime,” you say. “What you want.” You shrug, trying to make it sound insignificant. “Not what your family wants. Not what the company wants. You.”
His gaze stays on you for a few seconds longer than it should. “I think,” he says slowly, his eyes focusing on you, “I'm starting to figure that out.”
You know better than to ask what he means. Instead, you reach for the last piece of pancake and push it toward him.
“Eat.”
He looks down at it, then back at you. “That's your big advice?”
“For tonight, yes.”
A quiet smile appears on his face as he picks it up with his chopsticks.
“Okay,” he says. “I'll eat.”
For the next forty minutes, the distant roar of Gangnam's midnight traffic fades into a background hum. The world narrows down to the yellow glow of the string lights, the smell of toasted sesame, and the quiet rhythm of shared food. Yeonjun sheds his guarded, perfectly manicured posture entirely. He learns how to blow on the steaming udong broth before taking a sip straight from the heavy ceramic rim, and when a stray drop of dark red chili sauce lands just near the left corner of your lower lip, he doesn't grab a paper napkin or point it out.
He simply reaches across the tiny red table, his thumb brushing over your skin with feather-light precision, wiping the speck away. Instead of pulling back immediately, his fingers linger against your jaw for a fraction of a second, his calloused thumb tracing a gentle circle against your cheekbone while his dark, steady gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes the air in your lungs freeze.
"What?" you whisper, your cheeks suddenly burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the spicy gochujang. You pick up a tissue, wiping the spot he just touched, trying to fix it yourself even when there’s nothing anymore.
"Nothing," he says quietly, his voice dropping into that soft, velvet tone as he finally pulls his hand back, dabbing his thumb with a paper towel. "Just... I've lived in this city my whole life, surrounded by the best restaurants money can buy, and I don't think I've ever felt this full."
"It's just street food, Yeonjun."
"It's not the food," he corrects softly, his eyes meeting yours in the warm, amber light of the vinyl tent. "It's who I'm eating it with."
Before the weight of his words can settle too heavily around your shoulders, Ajumma marches over and slams a small metal dish of steaming, sliced kimbap right onto the center of the table with a loud clatter.
"Service for the handsome ‘friend’," she declares, winking broadly at you as she wipes her hands on her purple apron. "Eat up, young man. You're going to need your strength if you want to keep up with this one. She’s stubborn, she works too hard, and she doesn't know when to ask for help."
Yeonjun lets out a rich, deep laugh, a clear, ringing sound so full of genuine amusement that you realize with a sudden pang how rarely he ever laughs like that inside the pristine walls of his penthouse. He bows his head respectfully to the old woman. "Thank you, Ma'am. I'll be sure to keep that in mind."
The walk back to the high-rise is conducted in slow, deliberate steps, neither of you eager to return to the clinical silence of the apartment. The midnight air is crisp, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and ozone, biting at your cheeks as you navigate the narrow sidewalks. Yeonjun matches his stride to yours, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dark hoodie. He walks on the street side of the curb, a silent, instinctual habit of protection that he doesn't draw attention to, his tall frame acting as a windbreak against the gusting breeze sweeping down the concrete canyon.
When you finally step into the private elevator of his building, the shift in atmosphere is instantaneous and suffocating. The doors glide shut with a silent, gold-leafed click, sealing you both inside a small box of polished brass, mirrors, and soft amber lighting. The mirror reflects the stark contrast between you: you, in your oversized, rumpled coat with faint hospital-soap scent clinging to your sleeves, and him, standing tall beside you with the sharp silhouette of a man built for boardrooms, despite his casual clothes.
As the digital display silently ticks up through the floors—40, 41, 42—the air grows thick with the unsaid. He stands so close you can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of rain and dark wood cologne wafting off his skin. His hand hangs at his side, just inches from yours. You see his knuckles tense, his fingers twitching slightly as if pulling against a physical weight, debating whether to close the small gap between your palms. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat, your own mind racing through a dozen reasons why you shouldn't let him, the student loan bills waiting on your desk, the brutal hospital shifts, the cold reality of his family's expectations.
Before the hesitation can resolve itself, the elevator chimes softly, declaring your arrival at the penthouse. The doors slide open to reveal the vast, shadowy living room overlooking the sprawling, glowing grid of the city below. The moment breaks like glass. Yeonjun steps out first, holding the sensor with his hand to keep the doors wide, his eyes sweeping over you with a quiet, lingering intensity that makes your pulse race faster than the three flights of stairs ever could.
"Get some rest," he says softly, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seems to vibrate right through the hardwood floor. He stays by the door of his wing of the apartment, hands remaining firmly in his pockets, keeping the boundary intact even as his eyes betray the magnetic pull drawing him toward you. "I'll make sure the kitchen has actual food before you wake up tomorrow. No assistant required."
You offer a small, weary smile, taking a step back toward your room, your fingers tightening around the strap of your tote bag. "Goodnight, Yeonjun." He watches you until your bedroom door clicks shut, the soft sound echoing like a finality through the vast, quiet space, two people sleeping under the same roof, separated by a distance that has nothing to do with physical space.
The promise of making the kitchen has actual food is fulfilled. You wake up to the sound of some thumping from the kitchen. After getting ready for your shifts, you are greeted by the silhouette of the familiar tall figure, he’s all suited up in navy today, with an apron with flowery pattern wrapped around them. You huff at the unbelievable sight. His lips are puckered in focus, and as you get closer you finally sniff the smell of scrambled eggs on the pan. He doesn’t notice your presence yet, as he struggles with the salt bottle cap for a moment, twisting it the wrong way before finally getting the shaker open. Some of it goes flying next to the pan, as he curses softly at the mess.
“What are you doing?” you interrupt, his shoulder jumping at that, his foxy eyes glaring when he turns his back towards you before finally softening at your sight.
“Hey, go sit there, I’m making breakfast,” he assures, your eyes following his at two plates waiting on the kitchen counter, two pieces of pancakes on each, edges burnt, with slightly undercooked beef bacon and uneven banana slices.
“So unlike you,” you respond, finally sitting at the seat, your eyes still on his movement. Yeonjun glares at you before pouting, “Excuse me, I am being nice. I realise I am being a bad landlord, and my tenant is already starving enough so I have to make her food and make sure she eats enough.”
The sarcastic remark only left a bittersweet feeling to you. He carefully plates the scrambled eggs into the plate, the presentation awkward but it still gives off genuineness. “Thanks. You really don’t have to. I could survive by snacking on a protein bar, really.”
He shakes his head at that, disagreeing. “No. You live under my roof, and you don’t have time to eat proper meals before coming to attend my grandmother. This is the least I could do.”
For the next few mornings, the kitchen slowly becomes a place you find yourself lingering in, even when you tell yourself you are only there because the food is already made. Yeonjun never says anything about it, and neither do you, but somehow there is always something waiting for you before you leave for your shift. Some mornings it is toast with eggs, other mornings it is whatever he has managed to convince himself counts as breakfast. The food is never perfect. The eggs are sometimes too dry, the toast occasionally comes out suspiciously dark, and once, you find a pancake that is still cold in the middle. You tease him about it every time, and he pretends to be offended every time, but he keeps making them anyway.
You start noticing the little things too. He has learned that you don't like your eggs too runny, that you prefer your coffee without too much sugar, and that you will always eat the fruit first when you are in a hurry. He learns these things without asking, the same way you have slowly learned that he leaves his watch on the counter when he gets home, that he hates when people leave cabinet doors open, and that he gets unusually quiet whenever Halmeoni has a difficult night. Neither of you call it a routine, because giving it a name would make it feel like something more than it is supposed to be. Still, there are mornings when you walk into the kitchen half-awake and find him already there, sleeves rolled up and hair slightly messy, and the sight feels strangely familiar.
It is not that you have stopped being careful around him. You still keep track of the distance between you, still remind yourself that this is his house and you are here because of Halmeoni, not because the two of you are slowly becoming comfortable with each other. But the sharpness that used to sit between you has softened around the edges. Sometimes you catch yourself laughing at something he says before remembering that you are supposed to be annoyed with him. Sometimes he says something ridiculous just to hear you complain, and you have begun to suspect that he enjoys your irritation far more than he should. It is easier now, somehow, to forget the dinner that started all of this when he is standing in front of the stove arguing with a pancake that refuses to flip properly.
One morning, though, you leave the kitchen with a strange feeling you cannot quite place. You thank him before heading out, and he tells you to eat the food he packed for later instead of surviving on coffee again. You roll your eyes at him, but you take the container anyway. Neither of you knows that by the end of the day, you will be sitting beside his grandmother for four hours, listening to her breathing become shallower with every passing hour.
Halmeoni is having a bad day, her breathing is shallow, her spirit fragile as she had to be hospitalised again. The room grows darker as evening settles outside the windows, the machines beside her bed filling the silence with their quiet beeps. By the time she finally falls asleep, your throat is dry and your back aches from sitting in the same position for too long. You only notice that you had spent four hours holding her hand, reading her poetry in a voice that hides your own exhaustion as your eye catches a glimpse of the time when your phone lights up shortly from a notification.
You wait another few minutes just to make sure she is properly asleep before carefully slipping your hand from hers. You straighten the blanket around her shoulders, check the monitor one last time, and step quietly out of the room.
The door closes behind you with a soft click, and only then do you let your shoulders drop. The exhaustion you had been holding back all afternoon settles over you at once. You take a slow breath and look down the empty hallway, expecting nothing more than another long walk to the nurses' station. Instead, you find Yeonjun standing several metres away, staring at the white walls.
"She's finally asleep," you say, gaze fixated on his tense back. You remain two steps away from him, hesitant to be wanting to step into his personal space.
He doesn't turn around. "I heard you reading. My mother never did that. She just hired someone to do it. I used to listen from the hallway, wondering if the words sounded different when someone was paid to say them."
The vulnerability in his voice is a physical weight. You step closer, the air cools against your face. "Yeonjun..."
"I'm sorry about the dinner," he says suddenly, his voice cracking as he turns towards you. "I know it’s been so long, and this is an overdue apology. The offer. I thought... I thought that's how the world worked. You have something you want to protect, you secure it by any means. I didn't realize that by trying to help you and Halmeoni, I was insulting you."
As you glance up, the bright light catches the moisture in his eyes. He isn't the Choi heir at this moment. He’s the lonely boy Halmeoni described.
"I don't want to buy you," he whispers. "I just don't know how to keep you here any other way."
The silence on the private hallway shifts from heavy to hollow as his words settle. You take that final step, closing the two-step gap until you are standing beside him. You don't touch him yet, but you let your shoulder lightly brush his arm, a small anchor in the dark.
"The words do sound different when someone is paid to say them," you explain softly, your gaze following his to the distant corridor. "They sometimes sound like a script. Or they sound like a shift ending at five o'clock."
Yeonjun’s grip tightens on the phone on his hand, his knuckles turning white.
"But I’m not here because of a contract, Yeonjun," you continue, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. "I stayed tonight because she’s your grandmother, and she was scared. She told me that she needed to hear my voice because if she tried to be asleep with no one around, or just silence, she’d be terrified that there would be no one else around if something would go wrong."
He lets out a shaky, jagged breath, his posture finally breaking as he bows his head. The Choi Heir facade doesn't just crack, it dissolves. "You're the only thing in this entire building that doesn't feel like an arrangement," he admits, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the hospital's ventilation. "I don't know how to handle something that isn't... transactional."
You turn your face upward toward him, finally meeting those brown eyes. You offer a small, tired smile, the first real one he’s seen from you in months.
"Then stop trying to arrange me," you reply gently, your hand lands on his sleeve to offer comfort. "You don't need a contract to keep someone around, Yeonjun. You just need to be here. Honestly, without the checkbook. That’s the only way anyone ever stays genuinely."
He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, the caution between you melts into something aching and real. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near your hand, hesitant to invade your space after everything he's messed up.
"Can I start over?" he asks. "No offers. Just... me."
The softness of the moment suddenly feels like a trap. As his hand hovers near yours, warm against your own cold, pale, unmanicured, a cold wave of reality crashes over you, so you pull your hand back from his sleeve, the friction of your cheap, polyester scrub sleeve rubbing against his tailored, clean cut fabric. It’s a harsh reminder of the double shifts, the ramen dinners, and the looming debt that he once tried to fix with a casual contract offer. You didn’t notice the way his face drops, as you pull away your hands before he even gets to touch them.
"I can't," you whisper, the word catching in your throat.
Yeonjun’s taken aback, his hand freezes in mid-air. The longing in his eyes is replaced by a flash of confusion. "Y/N? I just said I’m sorry. I’m trying to—"
"That’s the problem, Yeonjun," you interrupt, stepping back until your heels almost betray you. The gap between you feels like a whole sea again. "You’re 'trying.' To you, this is a beautiful, tragic moment on a balcony. To me, this is a temporary break before I go back to a life you can’t even imagine."
You look around the floor, each expensive furniture picked with care, private rooms for extraordinary patients, before your mind drifts vaguely at the glittering skyline view their mansion has, and the penthouse and cars that he owns and the slums he’s never seen.
"We’re not even on the same page. When you look at me, it feels like you see someone you need to take care of or fix. When I look at you, I just see why I’m working three jobs to get by. People like you don’t really start over with people like me. You just… drop in for a while, then leave when it stops being interesting."
"Y/n,” he warns, “don’t say that," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning sharp with a different kind of pain. "I've never felt that way."
"Easy for you to say," you counter, your voice trembling. "You can afford to be vulnerable. If I let you in and this fails, if I lose my focus or my job because I'm distracted by you—I lose everything. You just go back to being a Choi. I go back to nothing."
The hospital lighting that made him look like a lonely boy now makes him look like a statue, cold, expensive, and unreachable. You realize with a sinking heart that even his apology feels like a luxury you can’t afford to accept.
"Halmeoni needs her vitals checked in an hour," you say, your voice regaining its clinical, distant edge. "I should go prepare the charts." You turn to leave, but his voice stops you at the fifth step.
"Is that all I am to you now? Just a hazard to your career?"
The air on the hospital’s private level turns from cold to electric. Your shoes click sharply against the concrete floor as you whip around, the exhaustion of the four-hour company for his grandmother finally boiling over into a raw, jagged anger.
"A hazard?" you snap, the word echoing off the glass doors. "You think you’re a hazard? Yeonjun, you're out of reach."
He flinches, but then his eyes narrow, his own frustration rising to meet yours. "I’m standing right here! I’m apologizing. I’m admitting I was a fool at that dinner. What else do you want from me? Blood?"
"I want you to realize that I don’t stand a chance to be with you!" you fire back, stepping toward him, all caution gone. "You stand there in a suit that costs more than my medical school tuition and tell me you didn't realize you were insulting me? How sheltered do you have to be to think the only way to bridge the gap between us is to buy me?"
Yeonjun’s jaw tightens, his knuckles turning white. "I wasn't trying to—"
"You were!" you cut him off, your voice cracking with a mix of fury and grief. "Because in your world, everything has a place and a price. But look at me! I’m a student doctor living on caffeine and prayer. If I let myself care about you, if I actually try to be with you, your world will tear me apart. Your parents will see a gold-digger, your friends will see a charity project, and eventually... eventually,” you pause, your voice breaking, “you’ll just see someone who doesn't fit into your life."
The overhead lights catch the sheen in your eyes as you take another step, closing the space between you until you’re standing right in front of him, close enough to feel it in your breathing.
"I don't stand a chance, Yeonjun. Because the second this gets hard, the second your board of directors or your mother whispers that I'm a distraction, you’ll go back to being a Choi. And I'll be the one left in the hallway, ruined, with nothing but a medical license I can't afford to lose. I can't risk my heart on a maybe from a guy who thinks love is a transaction."
Yeonjun looks at you like you’ve physically struck him. The anger in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a desperate, wild intensity. He moves suddenly, his hands coming up to grip your arm.
"You think I'm that weak?" he whispers, his face inches from yours, his breath hitching. "You think I’ve spent every night in that hospital room watching you help my grandmother fight for her life just to let you walk away because of a life I'm born into?"
He leans in, stopping just short, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without him ever touching you. "Y/n, I don't care about the chance you think you don't have. Give me the chance to prove you're the only thing in this life I actually want to keep."
"I think you don't have a choice," you say, your voice lowers. "Your world will eat me alive, and my world will just make you resentful."
You turn to walk away from the scene, letting his hold around your arms loosening, feeling tears almost escaping, but his hand shoots out, grabbing at your arm as you lean on the wall. He’s breathing hard, looking down at you with a desperate, wild look in his eyes.
"You’re not leaving until you admit one thing," he says, his face inches from yours. The air between you is thick, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the sterile, sharp smell of medical antiseptic. His hand braces against the wall beside you, close enough to block your way without actually touching, leaving you caught in the narrow space between him and the quiet stretch of hallway. You can feel the warmth of him even without contact, a quiet contrast to the cool, sterile air of the hospital.
“Admit what?” you say, a little out of breath, still trying to steady yourself. “That you’re annoying? A bit too used to getting your way? I think you already know that, Yeonjun.”
“Admit you’re scared,” he replies, quieter now, but more certain. His face inches a little closer, not enough to overwhelm you, just enough that you notice. “Not because of money, or my family, or any of that. You’re avoiding this because you don’t want to deal with how you feel.”
Your chest tightens, and you look away for a second. “I don’t have the time to think about feelings, Yeonjun. I have other things to worry about.”
“You’re handling everything on your own,” he says, a hint of frustration slipping through, but it softens just as quickly. “I see how hard you’re trying. I’m not here to fix it or throw money at it. I just… I don't want you to do it alone.”
His hand lifts for a moment, hesitates, then gently brushes against your jaw. It’s such a small touch, but it lingers longer than it should. You don’t move away, even though you know you probably should.
“You’ll leave,” you whisper quietly, the words coming out more honest than you intended. “When it gets complicated, or when someone tells you I’m not worth the trouble. You’ll go. And I’ll just have to deal with it.”
He exhales, resting his forehead lightly against yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?” he murmurs. “I’ve been left behind plenty of times too. That’s why I’m still here. I’m asking for you to give me a chance.”
You don’t say anything after that, and that is exactly how Choi Yeonjun knows he has lost this round. Not because you argued back, not because you raised your voice, but because you didn’t. He watches the way your expression shifts, subtle but enough, like something inside you quietly closes off, like a door being pushed shut without a sound. When you push him by his shoulder slowly, it gives him a horror reminder like the distance between you has suddenly been redrawn into something he is no longer allowed to cross so easily.
“I should go,” you say, your voice steady in a way that doesn’t match the way your hands briefly tighten at your sides.
He almost interrupts you. The instinct is there, immediate and unfiltered, sitting right at the edge of his tongue. Stay. Wait. Don’t go like this. But he doesn’t say any of it, because there’s something about the way you’re already turning away that tells him it wouldn’t matter. You’ve already decided. And pushing you now would only make you retreat further.
So he lets you walk past him.
He notices everything in that moment, annoyingly so. The way you don’t look back. The way your steps are just a little faster than usual, like you’re trying to get out before something pulls you back in. The faint sound of your steps against the floor, steady and controlled, even when everything else about this moment feels anything but that. He stays where he is, rooted to the same spot, listening to the sound of you leaving until it fades into nothing, swallowed by the hallway like you were never there to begin with.
Only then does he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
He drags a hand through his hair, gaze fixed on the empty space you left behind, jaw tightening slightly as the quiet settles in. He knows what just happened. He pushed too far, said too much, forced you to look at something you weren’t ready to name. He has always had a bad habit of doing that, stepping past lines because he refuses to pretend not to see what’s right in front of him. And with you, it’s worse, because every time you pull away, it only makes him more certain there’s something there worth staying for.
Still, certainty doesn’t make this any less frustrating.
«that roommate situation» c.beomgyu | once upon a thought
part of the collection of ideas i had but not enough time to write (yet). if you feel inspired by this and want to write it, please tag me, it'd be a pleasure to see your interpretation. if you know any fic similar, feel free to recommend them to me 🧡
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pairing: university student!reader x university student!beomgyu
plot: your relationship ended because your ex cheated on you. you still live with him until you find a new apartment. he brings his new girlfriend over often and you hear them laugh and even have sex sometimes.
you get partnered with beomgyu for a project, you two end up studying at your place one time and he learns about your situation. he helps you get back at your ex by faking having sex with you, moaning and jumping on the bed to make it bump into your shared bedroom wall. this masquerade keeps going whenever beomgyu comes by your place to study. lines start to blur when the skinship increases to taunt your ex in the shared spaces, like the living room or kitchen as he has been doing with his new girlfriend.
your ex starts showing his dislikes towards beomgyu and your 'relationship'. you're torn when your ex begins to show his affection towards you. you know you shouldn't waver after everything he did to you but the stubborn little voice in your head doesn't want to let go just yet. but beomgyu may be even more stubborn.
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notes: got inspired by a reddit story and easy a for the fake sex in the bedroom lol
guilts and admissions. glitter chapter fourteen. ☆ : ･ﾟ✧ *
prev. masterlist. next.
synopsis: as you find yourself stuck on a deserted island, you meet five boys who happened to be living there. you begin to notice something different about the boys as you attempt to find a way back home. with no sense of boundaries and strange glitter all over their bodies, your curiosity of who or what these boys are peaks. you begin getting close to the strangers, them helping you on your journey, but it leads you into a spiral of your own thoughts and emotions. now feeling some sort of connection to the five boys, the question begs: will you even end up leaving? if not, which boy makes you stay?
pairing(s): txt individually x gn!reader
chapter warning(s): profanity, angst, trauma mentions, mentions of murder, death, injuries, panic attacks, talks of child neglect, nightmares, being alone, drowning scene, let me know if i missed anything, ~3.7k words
several hours passed before you deemed it safe enough to return to the home. unfortunately, the first sight you see was beomgyu and his intensively red eyes staring right at you as you entered inside.
his body still trembles from the trauma he had to relive, and you immediately curse yeonjun at the confirmation that he was indeed lying. but still, your eyes don’t move from the mind fairy curled up in the corner of the room and his tears threaten to fall once more upon seeing you.
you were filled with guilt and regret for making beomgyu relive certain memories he was not ready for, and frankly, did not consent to. and despite this mission giving you an extensive amount of information you needed to get back home, you never intended for something like this to happen.
you never intended for one of your friends to get hurt in the process of getting you home.
even though his posture was lacking stability, beomgyu was the first one to speak. after a small moment passed after you walked in, his tone is nervous and filled with sorrow, “there was a notebook. one with a lot of information about portals.”
you lock eyes with the fairy once more before approaching him for an embrace, but instead of happily obliging like he usually would, he only winces and turns away.
“what information did it give us?” taehyun speaks from the kitchen, walking closer with a cup of water and some snacks to help ground beomgyu a bit more.
but he doesn’t reply. he couldn’t make another word without experiencing the moment once more. not doing so quietly encouraged you to continue on his behalf.
“portals can be man-made or natural, depending if destiny deems it worthy,” you recall, voice gentle as not to provoke anything painful for the mind fairy. “it’s a wild concept honestly. portals being created by destiny and all.”
“but that’s something that happened with us, is it not?” yeonjun butts in from the sofa. “none of our portals were made by us, and we just so happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“correct,” you add, nodding slowly. “from what we saw, man-made ones are intentional portals that are made by some organizations called the fairy hunters and fairy keepers.”
“interesting… but what does this really tell us? we can’t make them by hand so we need the ones being made by destiny, right? how can we work with those in getting you back home?” yeonjun continues pressing on for more information, a slight confusion being written on his face.
all they have done for you is help you find your way home. but as you look toward beomgyu again, you feel as though all you have brought to them is stress and agony.
you’re filled with dread that anything more painful might occur. these five fairies mean a lot to you, and you’re constantly reminded about how much they care about you in return.
it makes the pain in your heart linger much harder.
“we could potentially recreate the same conditions as when they got here,” taehyun adds, handing beomgyu a basket of strawberries to eat. “same temperature, weather, etcetera. it would take a long while to recall and get it right, though. i’m sure that even if we do get the conditions right, if destiny does not allow, it has the possibility of not working.”
“me and yn came to the same conclusion.. about recreating the conditions. they said it was raining outside when they got transported through, didn’t you yn?” soobin sits down on the sofa next to the eldest. “so if we were to give it a chance, on the slightest possibility it could work, then we would have to wait until the rain comes.”
“now why would we do all of this in the rain? it could be dangerous, you know! the tides get higher when there’s a storm,” kai exclaims in slight fear from the door. “weather like that could harm us more than anything, soobin-hyung.”
soobin presses his lips together, “but what if it works, hyuka? we could get them home.”
“and what if it doesn’t?! what if this is all just some stupid mess that could lead to another one of us being traumatized or even worse, dead!”
the reality of kai’s statement brings everyone to a pause. it was a slight overreaction, but nonetheless a possible outcome with the conditions at hand.
sensing the tense atmosphere, the youngest breathes in through his nose and out from his mouth while gripping his star necklace tightly, “i like our little family of six, okay? i admit i am comfortable with where things are at now. i also know how much you want to get home, yn… i understand. but i just can’t shake the feeling of things going wrong, you know?”
“…i agree,” beomgyu speaks for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. “besides we don’t have much information about the water surrounding the island and of the conditions that brought you here in their entirety, yn.”
“but what if it does work?” you ask meekly, tears filling your own eyes as you struggle to decide on what to do. “i don’t care if i get hurt. i’m okay with that, as long as we try something… anything at this point.”
and despite most of the boys telling you how difficult the situation will be, how next to little everyone knows about how to get you home, a nagging feeling in your chest begins to arise. one that gives you a sense of urgency to leave.
not everyone can say that family is of most importance. a loyal, love-filled, and trustworthy relationship with those most close to you. but to huening kai, family is everything.
“i brought some flowers!” he beamed, dozens of beautiful flowers and foliage in his arm as he rushes to his sister’s side. “some of them i picked, and others were given to me by this lovely old lady nearby.”
bahiyyih beams in delight. her eyes growing wide at the color and size variety given by the messy bouquet, “did you give her your thanks?”
“of course i did,” the brother laughs gently, placing the flowers on the ground nearby his sister. “i told her how much you enjoy making those flower crowns and she just so happened to have a lot of them stockpiled from her gardening session. said something about the flowers blooming too fast for an old lady like her to handle.”
the sister giggles and reaches to look at some of the offerings, “i will definitely be making a wreath or something for her. does she live far?”
“definitely not. nearby the lake where we like to bathe.”
“perfect.”
love languages are those different forms of loving those around you, whether they be family or not. they consist of being in close proximity to the other like physical affection, or even giving and receiving affirming words from someone.
huening kai’s love language was gift giving. and he showed this with his sister more often than not. this came in the form of giving her flowers he picked during his stroll, sweet treats he bought from the market that morning, and books he’s borrowed from neighbors. anything that bahiyyih liked, she got.
family is built on love, is it not?
“so you know that merchant down by the hillside?” kai smiles goofily, clearly hiding something behind his back as he rocks on his heels waiting for his sister to respond.
“yes… what’s his name again?” bahiyyih doesn’t look up from the woven structure she is currently working on. “oh! jungwon, isn’t it?”
“yes, anyway. he finally had some books in stock this week! and i was able to snatch up a book on herbal med—”
“no way!” she screams as she rushes to grab the book from behind her brother’s back, not letting him even finish his sentence. “no way no way no way!”
kai laughs as he easily gives in and lets bahiyyih see the book he’s purchased for her, “i know how much you’ve been wanting to learn about medicine.”
“of all the things you have ever gotten me, kai. this one beats them all! thank you so so so much!” if her voice did not showcase how elated she was about receiving this book, the tears in her eyes definitely did.
and that is how kai nurtured his family. exploring the area nearby while looking for resources and always finding gifts to bring home to his sister. no matter the situation or circumstances they were in, the older brother always found a reason to see his sister smile.
it was a strong, loving familial bond between the two siblings. something so strong, nothing could ever break it down.
“sometimes when i lay at night, i think about that night… about how lucky i am still have you, oppa,” bahiyyih whispers under the moonlight with her brother next to her as they stare into the stars.
kai manages a small, knowing smile, “it’s not easy when memories flood your nightmares. i know, hiyyih.”
she only nods and leans her head against his shoulder, “i got you something. it’s nothing.. too extravagant or anything. and definitely nothing as meaningful as the gifts you’ve brought me.”
“a gift..? for me?” the brother whispers into her hair before pressing a gentle kiss onto her skull.
“mmm,” bahiyyih nods. “a friend of mine wanted to get a crown and didn’t have any coins as payment, so i agreed to a trade.”
as she finishes her sentence, the moonlight flickers onto a piece of jewelry in her hand. jewelry was definitely a rare find in their small village, and one look at the necklace with a star pendant, kai deemed it uniquely beautiful.
he reaches for the necklace gently, as if scared to ruin it to pieces with his unruly strength, “it’s so beautiful, hiyyih.”
she helps him put it on and smiles, “now when you’re out late at night exploring for resources for us, you can look at the necklace and still feel at home.”
“what do you mean you don’t care if you get hurt?” taehyun rises from his spot next to beomgyu, a hint of confusion and anger lingering on his face and tone of voice. “how can you say something like that, yn? we’re trying our best to get you home safely, you can’t disregard that no matter how you feel.”
you hesitate for a moment before replying, “i am not trying to disregard the care you have for me. i understand you want me safe. but i need to get home. i can’t wait any longer if it means bringing all of you pain.”
the heaviness in your heart becomes stronger despite your emotions being let out into the open, “i don’t like how much stress i’ve caused here. i want to get home.”
“okay, i understand what you mean, yn. but the point isn’t about getting you there safely or not,” yeonjun stands up from the sofa this time, eyebrows furrowed. “it is about getting you there to begin with. we are not even sure if our theories are correct. they are just speculation. what if you do get injured and it was all for nothing?”
“then at least we tried something!” you yell, nearly interrupting the fairy in front of you.
that brings another silence into the room.
your sudden desperation to leave was alarming to everyone. you seemed happy here and despite what occurred with beomgyu, none of the boys really understood why you needed to leave so urgently.
“this isn’t just about getting home so we don’t get hurt, isn’t it?” beomgyu speaks up and softly at that, finally getting on his feet to approach you. “talk to us, yn. tell us the real reason you feel so desperate to return to your home in these uncertain conditions.”
you swallow thickly in attempt to down the lump that is stuck in your throat, your eyes avoiding the five pairs staring straight at you awaiting a response. but nothing comes from your mouth. that sense of urgency is so clear within the room, but no one senses your next actions.
instead of leaning onto the boys who have shown you nothing but kindness and admiration, you run out the door.
“yn!”
you don’t turn back to see who reacts first. you can’t stomach the pain this impulse decision could cause and you try to convince yourself that you don’t care who follows after you.
“no... as i have iterated several times, getting this file submitted is an urgent matter and no time should be wasted on it any longer.”
phone call after phone call after phone call. that’s all preschool-aged you would see your father doing for most of every day you lived. phone calls you didn’t quite understand. phone calls you associated with your father ignoring you for a very long while.
all you wanted to do was see if your father was free to play, but with any phone call of his, you were met with a raised finger and a close of a door.
“yes, i indeed have the book in my hands. i thought there were several copies of it, why does the association need mine in particular?”
even behind closed doors you could still hear the phone calls at hand. these conversations were never quiet, as if your father did not care of what you could hear, especially with you at that age.
of course, as your grew older, he was more discreet about his job and less open about his phone calls.
“look, i do not mind giving access to my knowledge or to any of the classified information i have acquired. but i would really appreciate if i was told what for.”
preschool-aged you didn’t understand some of the words during these phone calls— words like ‘classified’ or ‘association’. all you really wanted to do was to play with your father.
so you sat right next to the door like you always do, in hopes that the phone call would end and the door would open up before the pretend tea got too cold for everyone to enjoy.
“you want access to my child’s dna? did i hear that correctly? i apologize, sir, but my child is not even of age yet. i understand that it is standard protocol for all children of fairy hunters, but they are not even 5 years of age. what could possibly be needed for someone so young?”
you smile happily as the warm teddy bear sits on your lap, you singing songs to it to drown out any of the anger and stress that blossomed from your father’s phone calls.
singing songs to your toys was your second favorite play activity, just behind the tea party you couldn’t wait to enjoy.
“…alright. i suppose the tracking situation has helped me in the past and could help yn eventually. it is also useful for me in case something goes awry. i’ll accept these circumstances as long as you don’t make it painful for them, you hear me?”
yeonjun with those stupidly kind eyes and a cute mole underneath one. the changling who saw you at your worst and held you when you needed it most. the man who stayed up for hours on end to find even a sliver of evidence that could help you get home. with his stupid words of encouragement and stupid touches of admiration.
soobin with his stupidly cute smile and beautifully toned skin. with his amazing way with the animals on the island. the man has been nothing but home to you since you arrived. with his stupidest soft lips that make you crave more of his attention. and his easy conversations that makes you want to dive into deeper ones.
beomgyu with his stupid dependence on you that you can’t help but feel so utterly loving towards. the man who has seen through all your emotions and worked so hard to ground you in times that you needed it most. the one who sacrificed so much just to get one inch of information.
taehyun with his knowledgeable mind and stupid, but honest way with words. the fairy who has shown you forgiveness despite you being so stubborn against. the man with such protectiveness over you, that you can’t help but just want to be with him until eternity. with his stupid love for journals and diaries that make you want to scream in awe.
and kai. sweet sweet kai with his faith in family and love. with his stupid words that make you feel like you finally belong somewhere when all you’ve known was being an outsider. the man who has silently kept you at bay this entire time and quietly watched you under the moonlight as a protector.
it’s so stupid. so very stupid how much you love them.
you love them and you admit it to yourself as rain pools into the mud your feet has been trudging against since you left the fairies’ home. your eyes sting from the mix of tears and rainwater, but you push on.
the cards dealt to your hands was nothing you had ever dreamed about. never would you have imagined yourself on a remote island with no where to go and no way home. never would you have imagined yourself near any sort of magical creature. and never would you have imagined yourself in love with five different men who’ve shown you how much it means to care for someone.
you couldn’t bear to confess this to them and the sense of urgency to leave only increases as you get closer and closer to the sanded beach.
it was true that you didn’t care about getting hurt. you did not care if it was too soon to set sail to a destination you had no idea of. and with everything wrong that has ever happened in your life, the sense of urgency was just you wanting to run away from the truth yet again.
you wanted to leave this stupid life on this island with the five beautiful and amazing men that you’ve grown to love.
step. step. step.
the squelching sound of the mud dies down and is replaced with soft steps in wet sand. whether or not the boat is ready is no matter to you as you grab the paddles laying next to where the forest meets the sand.
“yn!”
they continue to call for you, continue to reach for you when you so desperately need them to stop.
you can’t love them. you just can’t.
everything always seems to go wrong, which is why you increase the rate of your steps towards the boat.
they were a perfect family before you stepped in and began to induce stress and trauma. how could you want to stay in a place you did not clearly belong?
you weren’t a gentle fairy like them. you were human.
a fairy hunter’s child.
a monster.
an outsider.
a murderer.
these adjectives to describe you loom over your head and pound into your brain as you finally reach the boat. your breath is heavy and the combination of tears and rain only begin to fill your eyes even more.
the weather seems to increase in intensity as what was just a mere raincloud is now a thunderstorm. you took this as a sign to work even more quicker. despite knowing you leaving would hurt the boys, staying here any longer that could cause them more hurt was something you can’t handle the thought of.
you wanted to take your chances on this theory working.
“yn!” they call for you again, but you don’t listen.
the rate of your heart increases and you begin to lose feeling in your limbs with the coldness of the rain and wind. despite this, you manage to lock the paddles in place.
it was perfect. how everything was working out so well for you to finally leave this place. the boat seemed ready, the boys too far to stop you, and the rain not ceasing. but as you turn around to face the ocean, you see it receding into itself, a telltale sign of high tides to come.
“high tides, yn! high tides! get out of there!” yeonjun screams, but it’s no use.
by the time you have processed what was happening, the tide rushes in faster than you’re able to make it off the boat. it floods the entirety of it and more, causing the boat to shatter against its strength.
the sudden presence of the wave gives you no time to prepare for breathing, and your lungs feel pain as water fills them with each watery breath you accidentally take.
it was like destiny was keeping you here on the island. for what reason, you didn’t know and you didn’t care as you weakly cough out any water still left in your lungs. your vision blurred and you attempted to crawl to safety where the boys lingered, reaching your hand out to one of them.
any of them.
you cough out more water and the blurred figures in front of you still as you try to breathe in more oxygen. unable to make out all five of them, you solely focus on the one closest to you.
beomgyu is it? you can’t tell.
your breathing continues to heave, the thunderstorm above all of you making it difficult to supply your lungs with precious oxygen.
“b-beomie!” you call out and as you do so, you see his eyes widen large and his body stops moving closer to you.
it is then when a sharp pain fills your temple and all you see is black.
note: i have finished school so prepare for more consistent updates :3 i hope you love this chapter. i am so happy to be writing glitter again :( my heart is so full right now you dont even know.
an idea i had but no time to write yet. if you feel inspired by this and want to write it, please tag me, it'd be a pleasure to see your interpretation. if you know any fic similar, feel free to recommend them to me 🧡
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pairing: social media manager!reader x baker!taehyun
plot: whenever your heart is broken, you always seem to end up at a certain bakery. like when you're sad, you're walking without any thought and boom, you're standing in front of the same bakery every single time.
this bakery is owned by soobin who employs his friends, kai and taehyun to help him. their business has been up and down, barely able to pay the bills. they don't really have many regulars and with how many times your heart had been broken this year, you've been one of them. the three noticed how you always looked upset when you came by but this time, you break down in the bakery, quietly, in your corner. there's an ache in taehyun's heart growing every time he sees you. he wonders what made you so sad. when the bakery closes, and you're still there, he offers you a free cake since "they're going to waste anyway" with the lack of customer.
you discover their financial difficulties and how they don't know how long they'll be able to keep going. they try to joke about it but you can clearly see that they're really worried. you want to help them like their bakery has been helping you through hard times. you decide to use your skill as a social media manager to make the bakery go viral and save the three men from bankruptcy.
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notes: i can see this being a cute smau with a sprinkle of crack
i could drown myself in someone like you, i could dive so deep i never come out
/// nothing but thieves, impossible
pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader
summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.
genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au
warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, strong language, LOTS of flirting and teasing and quiet yearning, little shit!jjun is back, fluff (!), some lotr spoilers
words: 11.7k
[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium
masterlist / read from the beginning
✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 7, 2026. 4 PM
The next week returned to normal, and you were forced to admit that, these days, normal meant finding Yeonjun loitering in the lobby every time you came home from university.
His excuse on Monday was a delivery. He claimed to be waiting for a very important parcel, and the courier, the bloody idiot, was running late.
Nodding sympathetically, you dropped your bag onto the small table beneath the noticeboard. The surface was carved through with initials and obscene drawings that did not look particularly anatomically correct.
“Well, in that case,” you said, “I’ll wait with you.”
Yeonjun pressed his lips together the moment he felt the corners trying to betray him.
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I appreciate your support in my time of need.”
“You’re welcome. What’d you order?”
He launched into a wholly incomprehensible explanation about online shopping: the misleading product photos, the contradictory reviews, the fictional delivery windows. He spoke with such determination and at such speed that there wasn’t a gap wide enough to interrupt. By the time he began a passionate indictment of courier companies on the whole, you’d almost forgotten what you’d asked.
Several of your neighbours passed through in the time you’d been standing there, checked their letterboxes, and headed upstairs—notably, all of them avoided the lift. A few older ladies shot the two of you curious glances as they went. You smiled politely while Yeonjun continued to state his case.
Half an hour later, the courier still hadn’t come.
“Think he’s just lost track of time,” Yeonjun insisted, glancing at his phone. “I say we wait another half an hour, just to be on the safe side.”
Sighing, you jerked your head towards the stairs. “Come on.”
“But what about my parcel?”
“You’ll get another call.” You gathered your backpack. “We’ve got a film to watch.”
His expression finally surrendered to a smile as he pushed himself off the wall.
The lobby had been perfectly nice—although there had, of course, never been any parcel to begin with—but Yeonjun was far more thrilled by the prospect of a few more hours with you upstairs.
Today was the day of your Lord of the Rings marathon.
As it turned out, building the pillow fort exactly as described in his childhood bucket list wasn’t difficult. Yeonjun didn’t own a single table or much furniture at all, but, for some reason, he had enough mattresses to furnish a small hotel. He brought them in from the storage room, his wardrobe, from behind doors, and even from the balcony.
The pizzas arrived somewhere in the middle of this operation, and all you could do was hold the boxes and stare at him. “Yeonjun.”
He glanced up. “Hm?”
“How—how many of those have you got?”
Grinning, he dropped another mattress onto the growing pile. “Well, a few.”
“Mhmm.”
You left the boxes on the kitchen island and grabbed one end of the nearest mattress, pulling it upright to form a wall.
An odd scent lingered in the flat under the tomato sauce and melting mozzarella—buttery and sweet, faintly caramel-like. It wafted through the room whenever the breeze stirred the curtains hanging over the cracked balcony door.
You sniffed the air distractedly.
Yeonjun paused on his way back to the storage room.
“Baked earlier,” he explained. “Strawberry tart.”
You looked up from the mattresses.
It still made your brain stall a little, hearing him mention baking. It seemed like a hobby for patient people. Slow-living people. People who, perhaps, did not hoard mattresses.
“How’d you start baking, then?” you asked, stepping carefully over Violet, who had arranged herself in the middle of the floor as the Head Supervisor. No one crossed the room without obtaining a permit first.
Yeonjun lugged another mattress inside, blowing a loose strand of hair out of his eyes.
“Just happened, sort of,” he said. “Usually haven’t got time to cook, but baking is—s’ten minutes of chucking everything together, and then you just wait forty-five minutes for it to finish. S’easy. And soothing, I guess. Bit like meditation.”
He caught the mattress against his knee when it slipped. His arms were beginning to complain.
You crouched beside him, catching the opposite corner.
“Thanks,” he huffed.
Together, you manoeuvred the mattress into place in front of the projector, which was balanced on an upturned cardboard box, its lens aimed at the blank white wall of his living room.
“Must’ve had a lot of practice,” you said, “if you can get everything measured and mixed in ten minutes.”
A grin spread across his face. “Natural talent.”
Then he disappeared onto the balcony again and returned with yet another mattress.
You were becoming increasingly reluctant to ask why he owned so many. The last time you’d been here to find a place for his fern—which was still alive, against all odds—you hadn’t paid enough attention to notice any of them. Now you were worried they were breeding somewhere just out of sight.
Yeonjun adjusted the mattress against his shoulder.
“I used to do my homework in the kitchen,” he said, letting the latest addition fall with a soft thump against the floor. Then he heaved it upright to shape the opposite wall. “Nina, our chef back then, always baked desserts in the afternoons. I watched her a lot. Didn’t think much about it again until about a year ago, when I couldn’t shut my brain off.”
Your gaze drifted to the floor, where Violet was inspecting the mattresses.
You were thinking about all the rituals you had built over the past year: losing yourself in books, in research, in work. You supposed you’d come close to picking up baking, too.
“Alcohol didn’t help anymore,” Yeonjun went on, “and I still had that plan not to become an alcoholic before m’thirty.”
The corners of your lips twitched. “Right.”
You squatted beside Violet and nudged the mattress at the back a few inches to the left until the walls resting against it stopped wobbling.
“So I tried baking instead,” Yeonjun said. “Started with a pound cake, I remember. Tasted like sandpaper because I’d left it in too long. Kept sticking toothpicks in it, and they kept coming out damp. I don’t know.”
You smiled, bringing a hand over Violet’s chin before you stood again. “That happens. The edges get burnt, but the middle stays soft.”
“Exactly, yeah.” He dragged the mattress upright to brace the back wall, then stepped away to assess the angle. “But—anyway. I kept going and got the hang of it eventually. Turns out my old oven was rubbish. Then I moved here and the oven’s brilliant. Turns out it’s my whisking that’s shit now.”
You looked up at him. “You’re doing alright, though. The cobbler was great last time. And the biscuits.”
Yeonjun looked at you over the top of the mattress. Something softened almost imperceptibly in his gaze—you’d have missed it if you hadn’t been looking.
You’d been looking.
“Yeah?” A small smile tugged at his mouth before he glanced away. “I’m glad. Let’s put a roof on this.”
The two of you threw the largest blanket—thick and grey with faded white stripes—over the standing mattresses. It billowed for a moment, caught in the draft, then settled across the top, dipping slightly in the middle and casting the inside of the fort into shade.
The arrangement looked very respectable.
Yeonjun thought that thirteen-year-old him would’ve been very proud.
He switched on the projector. The fan whirred softly before a pale rectangle appeared across the opposite wall, filling the flat with flickering light. Dust drifted lazily through the beam.
Tilting your head, you surveyed the fort. “Have you got any pillows? Or did they not make it into the mattress budget?”
Snorting, Yeonjun raised a finger and disappeared down the corridor. You heard cupboard doors banging open in his bedroom, then something heavy dropping, followed shortly by a muffled ow, shit.
“Y’alright?” you called out.
“Perfect, love! The rolling pin—forgot I’d left it here.”
He reappeared a second later with his face barely visible behind an armful of pillows. One slipped free. He made an attempt to catch it with his foot and nearly demolished the western wall of the fort in the process.
“Shit.” He straightened. You reached out to grab the top few pillows from him. “Thanks.”
“Right, then.” You tossed them onto the mattresses on the floor. “Reckon you’ve got enough stuff to furnish three bedrooms with all this. Opening up a B&B in the future, or what?”
He laughed and, impressively, still didn’t explain. Instead, he dumped the remaining pillows into the fort and leaned down to arrange them.
Violet, understandably, climbed aboard to test it out first. After several thorough sniffs, she declared the fort structurally sound and returned to the kitchen to investigate the pizza boxes as well, hopeful that one might open up if she was just persistent enough.
Yeonjun intercepted before she succeeded, carrying the boxes and the cans of cola over to the fort. You followed with two slices of strawberry tart. The crust was still warm when you pressed a fingertip against it to stop the slice from sliding across the plate.
The living room looked ridiculous now with the mattresses covering most of the floor. The blanket on the roof nearly grazed the ceiling. It smelled of something distinctly comforting, though: fresh laundry, warm pizza, strawberries, and beneath it all—faint enough that you only noticed when Yeonjun leaned past you to set the boxes down—apricot, for some reason.
It felt lived in now, the flat. Cosy.
Without quite realising it, you smiled as you settled beside him under the blankets.
The first film started quietly.
The two of you talked in low voices, instinctively leaning closer as though there was someone else in the fort you might disturb.
Violet was the only other occupant of the fort, and she was not disturbed. She stretched luxuriously across the pillow between you, indifferent to the hobbits but inexplicably riveted by Gollum’s brief appearances. Her whiskers were faintly pink from the strawberry she’d stolen off Yeonjun’s plate.
She looked very satisfied with her evening.
You propped yourself up on your elbows and reached for your second slice of pizza. It came out painted green by the projector light.
“Have you got a favourite character?” Yeonjun asked about half an hour into the film.
“Aragorn.”
That made him look over. “Wow—just off the top of your head, then?”
Shrugging, you took a bite. Cheese stretched between the slice and your teeth before finally snapping. It tasted spectacular, just acidic enough from the tomato sauce.
“Didn’t like The Fellowship the first time I saw it,” you admitted once you’d swallowed. “My cousins made me watch it. Aragorn was the only reason I stuck with it.”
Yeonjun hummed in understanding. He’d fallen asleep during his own first attempt at the trilogy, too.
“Not Legolas, then?” he asked, picking up another slice while gently steering Violet’s investigating nose away from the box with his wrist.
You brushed a few crumbs onto your joggers.
“No,” you said. “Always thought something’s off about hair that pretty. Never trusted him.”
Yeonjun snorted into his pizza.
Then he straightened.
“Hang on.” He lowered the slice. “Is my hair not pretty?”
Your gaze drifted to his neatly parted fringe—save for the single rebellious strand that tumbled over his forehead every few minutes, testing your self-control each time.
You turned back to the film. “I’ve always found you suspicious too, to be fair.”
His laughter bounced off the blanket roof, bright enough to fill the fort. Your own smile spread despite Frodo’s increasingly worried face on the wall ahead.
“Have you got a favourite, then?” you asked.
Yeonjun watched the screen for several thoughtful seconds.
“Pippin, I think,” he decided.
“Yeah? Not Merry?”
“Merry’s too serious.” He smiled when you snorted. “Always preferred Pippin’s whimsy.”
“Alright, yeah.” You nodded, reaching for another slice. “Pippin’s great.”
As the Fellowship set off from Rivendell on the screen, Yeonjun launched into an explanation of the complete evolution of his favourite characters – from Gandalf when he’d been six, because his nanny, Leigh, always put on fantasy films and had a soft spot for the wizard, to Sam briefly in secondary school, and finally to Pippin around his mid-twenties.
“I did briefly dabble in Aragorn,” he admitted. “But he’s too cool for me, I feel. Too collected.”
“Gandalf isn’t?”
“No, he’s got crazy eyes.”
You laughed and, somewhere during the conversation, stopped paying attention to the film altogether. It didn’t feel like much of a loss.
The first pizza box emptied not long afterwards.
“Have you got a favourite film in the series?” you asked, lifting your can of cola while distant mountains lingered on the screen, throwing dark, faintly indigo shadows over Yeonjun’s face.
He drained the last mouthful from his own can and clicked his lips thoughtfully.
“The first one, I think.” He folded the empty can into his palm. “Mostly because I’ve seen it most times.”
“Hmm.”
“What about you?”
“Definitely not the first one.”
His eyebrows rose. “Why not?”
“Boromir dies.”
His eyebrows fell again. “Ah, shit. Yeah.”
“I was eleven the first time I watched it,” you recalled, “and I refused to watch the other two films for months.”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah, s’fair. That one hurt.”
You took a sip from the can. The cola prickled lightly against your tongue, sharper than you were used to. You’d been too responsible lately—too much water, not enough joy. You’d missed fizzy drinks.
“Think Return of the King’s my favourite,” you decided finally. “I like happy endings.”
Yeonjun looked at you for a second longer than he’d planned to before speaking.
“Aragorn gets married, though,” he said.
You nodded, smiling again.
“That used to be my favourite part,” you said. “Always rooted for him and Arwen.”
He considered that for a moment before returning his attention to the screen. Aragorn, as though summoned, strode across the projection.
“Really?” he said. “I figured, with him as your favourite, you’d have wanted to be the one to marry him.”
You shook your head. “I was a very self-aware child. Knew I couldn’t marry a fictional character.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. So I planned to marry Zayn from One Direction instead.”
Yeonjun laughed so suddenly that his elbow slipped on the mattress. He caught himself by throwing a leg over the edge.
“Yeah, that—” The mattress dipped beneath him anyway, and he rolled down into the pile of pillows and blankets with a muffled yelp.
Your burst of laughter prompted Violet to lift her head.
As Yeonjun fought his way back to the surface, he felt her cold paws pressing into his ankles, not quite helpful, possibly even vindictive. He suspected she wanted him to suffer a while longer for denying her the pleasure of a second strawberry.
“You need help?” you asked, leaning closer.
Something unintelligible emerged from beneath the blankets. A moment later, he made his way back onto the mattress, shoving a pillow off his face. Bored, Violet abandoned him to sniff at your ankles instead.
“M’great.” He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and returned to roughly his original position. “S’a very nice fort we’ve got. Very nice.”
You devoted your best efforts to not laughing again.
“Anyway.” He pointed at you. “Yes. One Direction’s obviously a lot more realistic.”
“Yes. I thought so, too.”
He breathed out a wistful sigh and eased his head back onto the pillows. Above him, the blanket roof rippled whenever the breeze drifted in through the balcony door. The projector painted forests and distant mountains across the fabric. It felt a bit like a portal into Middle-earth.
“I wasn’t that self-aware as a kid,” he said.
“No?”
He shook his head.
“Which character did you want to marry?” you asked.
“The female robber from the third Home Alone film.”
It took you a few moments to place the film: the remote-controlled toy, the hopeless 911 calls.
Watching your eyebrows climb in recognition, Yeonjun grinned.
“Why her?” you asked.
“Well,” he scratched thoughtfully at his jaw, “first of all, eight-year-old me thought she was really fit.” He glanced over to watch you snicker. “And she actually knew what she was doing. I’m convinced if it hadn’t been for the idiots with her, she’d have pulled the whole thing off.”
You pressed your lips together and nodded a few times, trying to keep your expression neutral.
“Mhmm. Right.” You took a long breath. “I can see the appeal.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Wasn’t she a bit mean, though?”
Yeonjun clicked his tongue. “Have I not made it clear by now that that’s very much my type?”
You turned back to the film before you could laugh again.
“My bad,” you said. “Definitely makes sense.”
Smiling to himself, he folded one arm beneath his head.
“Why Lord of the Rings, then?” you asked, nodding towards the projection. “And not Home Alone? You could’ve updated your list.”
Yeonjun shrugged. “Watching films just because I’ve got a crush on one of the characters isn’t very cool.”
You tsked. “Clearly, you’ve never known what’s cool.”
He looked across to you. “Yeah? So, did you agree to watch Lord of the Rings just for Aragorn, then?”
“No.” You met his eyes. “I did it for you.”
He opened his mouth automatically, then discovered he’d lost his voice. Warmth climbed his neck before he had any chance of stopping it.
He turned back to the film with sudden, renewed interest, watching the raging blizzard while he tried to school his expression back into something dignified.
“I see,” he managed. “That’s gr—good.”
One corner of your lips lifted into a smirk. Yeonjun watched it through his peripheral vision and thought that he was having, by all means, the best night of his entire year.
Soon, the first film blurred into the second one. With Yeonjun’s blackout curtains drawn across the windows, it was difficult to tell the time. You had no idea where you’d left your phone; it didn’t even occur to you to look for it.
By then, the two of you were talking too much to pay attention to the screen.
“Are you sick of being back at uni yet?” Yeonjun asked, brushing tart crumbs from his palms.
You watched the changing landscape wash across the blanket roof.
“Honestly, a bit.” You exhaled. “The other doctoral students are all about ten years older than me, and surprisingly conceited, too. I wasn’t expecting that, after our lot.”
His lips stretched into a soft smile. “Yeah. We got lucky with our year.”
You hummed in agreement.
It was lonely, sitting through seminars without someone beside you to exchange glances with whenever the professors drifted into a topic they’d already covered half a dozen times that month. No Beomgyu nudging your shoulder to borrow chewing gum. No Soobin coughing politely whenever you and Reina started giggling too loudly. No Yeonjun, either.
Taehyun and Kai were your only reprieve whenever you happened to cross paths in the corridors nowadays.
“Speaking of our year, though.” You shifted slightly against the pillows to face him. “Have you decided what you’re doing for your birthday?”
Yeonjun sighed so deeply that the blanket overhead stirred with the force of it.
“Suppose I’ll round everyone up over the weekend and pass drinks around as always.” He picked absentmindedly at the edge of his cola can label until it peeled away in thin silver strips. “Some music on. You know.”
“The usual, then.”
He shifted on the mattress. The back of his hand brushed yours where it rested between you on the pillow. Neither of you moved.
“Probably.” His eyes flicked to your fingers before he settled back and returned his attention to the projection, careful not to move too far away from you. “Definitely not organising a dinner, that’s more Nara’s thing. We’ll go to a bar, I guess. Or a club. There’s this place not too far from here, said they rent private rooms.”
You nodded, watching Aragorn and Legolas cross the plains of Rohan, shades of green and grey flickering across the room.
It was almost comfortable how easily his birthday party had become part of your schedule, too.
“Oh.” Yeonjun glanced over again. “Amy’ll probably come as well.”
You looked back at him. You hadn’t heard anything about Amy in so long that, for a moment, you weren’t sure what to make of that at all.
“Yeah?” you said. “You’re still in touch?”
“Sort of.” He ran his fingers over the seam on the pillowcase between you. His left hand remained pressed against the side of yours. “Less now that I don’t really speak to my parents. She’s engaged now, by the way—don’t think I told you.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“Yeah, to the bloke she’d been seeing in grad school.”
“I thought they’d split up.”
“They had, yeah.” He nodded. “Got back together last summer. Engaged this June.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Wow.”
It brought a strange sort of familiarity, this news. Amy almost felt like a distant acquaintance at this point; a small part of your life without ever directly being in your life.
“Yeah,” Yeonjun said, a crooked smile on his lips. “My parents were devastated. Amy said they’d even stopped by her parents’ place to ask if they were certain their daughter’s making the right choice.”
Humming, you nudged your empty plate farther from Violet. She lingered between you and Yeonjun, waiting for just one lapse in concentration. The smell of pizza was testing the limits of her polite restraint.
“Right,” you said, stroking Violet’s back as she brushed past you. “Some things never change, I guess.”
“Hmm. Hopefully some others do, though.”
The projector washed Yeonjun’s face in shifting bands of blue when you glanced at him. His eyes lingered somewhere beyond the film. He combed his fingers through his hair, only for the same strand to fall back across his forehead again.
You turned away.
“You don’t sound very excited about your birthday,” you pointed out.
He sighed again. “Yeah. I don’t know. Been thinking there are better ways to spend it.”
“The mead again?”
He snorted.
“Yeah. Maybe. But also—” He lifted his hands to gesture at the pillows, the projector. Violet, sitting at the edge of your mattress. You. “This.”
You followed the direction of his hands. “Watching Lord of the Rings?”
His hands dropped back into his lap. “Just talking to you.”
You looked at him for a second, just long enough to feel each beat of your heart echo around your ribcage, as though it had briefly lost its way home.
Yeonjun looked back at you, feeling as though the lost beats of your heart were responsible for the extra ones crowding into his own.
Then your gaze drifted to the pizza boxes scattered between the mattresses and the crumbs littering the floor.
“We can talk at your birthday, too,” you said, tucking your feet under the blanket. “Doesn’t have to be constant drinking.”
“Yeah.”
The word came out quieter. He didn’t quite know what else to add after it.
Perhaps it was the novelty of this—spending time with you in this easy, unhurried way—that had made him start having these thoughts.
Then again, he suspected that even years ago—especially years ago—if given the choice between a crowded room where he could drink until his thoughts dissolved into static, and a dimly lit flat where the two of you discussed Legolas’ hair, he’d have picked you every time.
That wasn’t very friendly of him, he realised.
He cleared his throat and straightened, one shoulder nudging the mattress at the back.
“D’you remember Professor Javez’s class in undergrad?” he asked eventually.
You tore your attention away from the projection and glanced down at Violet, now sprawled on her side with one paw stretched imperiously across the mattress.
“Which one?” you asked. Then realised. “Oh, watching films every class?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “This kind of reminds me of it. Still my favourite elective I’ve ever taken.”
You smiled, turning back ahead.
“I thought it was a waste of time,” you admitted. “Waking up at seven just to watch films for an hour and a half.”
He laughed. That was fair, admittedly; he’d wanted to drop the class every time he heard his alarm. But he’d still loved every minute of it. He could even remember exactly where you’d sat: right by the door, so you could always be the first to leave (and you usually were).
“I remember you slept on your desk most of the time,” he said, his grin widening. “I sat right behind you. It was the best part of my week.”
You gave him a look. “Was your life that boring?”
He smirked.
“It was actually very stressful.” He sank deeper into the pillow. “That class was the only time I could relax and just watch the films. And the way you were drooling onto your desk.”
You scoffed with enough indignation to startle Violet again. “I did not drool.”
Laughing again, Yeonjun brought his hand over the cat’s back until she settled again.
“M’not accusing you of anything, love,” he said. “Merely recalling historical events.”
“Slander isn’t a historical event.”
He snickered. “You were asleep, how would you know if you’d drooled or not?”
“I’d feel drool on my face.”
“It was on your desk.”
You snorted despite yourself, but shook your head anyway. Truthfully, you hardly remembered the class anymore. Perhaps you really had slept through most of it.
Unexpectedly, you found yourself remembering the look on Yeonjun’s face, back in his car, after your first night at his house, when you’d told him he snored. He’d protested with exactly the same wounded determination you imagined you were using now.
Come to think of it, lying across these mattresses felt strangely similar to his old guest bedroom, too.
It’d been cold in his house, you remembered; you’d set the thermostat in the room to a temperature that finally let you stop shivering. Then you’d woken up with his arm slung over your waist.
Yeonjun’s current flat, by contrast, was very warm.
“I can open another balcony door,” he said.
Only then did you realise you’d lifted a hand to fan yourself.
You dropped it a touch too quickly. “No, it’s alright.”
His smile softened. He wondered if he’d been any part of whatever thought had put that faraway look in your eyes.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yeah.” You cleared your throat and shifted upright, pressing your palm into the pillow beside you. “Tell me something instead.”
“What?”
“What’s with all the mattresses? Honestly.”
Yeonjun laughed.
“Well.” He pushed himself up a little straighter, too. “When Bin and I moved out, someone had to take them. We’d bought all the furniture ourselves, and we ended up leaving most of it there. But Soobin insisted on saving the mattresses. Said new owners usually throw them out anyway, and mattresses are expensive.”
He picked a loose thread on the blanket draped over his knees.
“Fair enough, I figured. But the house had five bedrooms.” He shook his head, a smile already spreading on his lips. “Some of them had single mattresses on the beds, stacked on top of each other.”
You frowned. “Four per bed?”
He nodded.
“Soobin took two,” he said. “That already tested Reina’s patience, considering their flat has one bed with one mattress right now. So I had to take all the rest.”
Your gaze travelled slowly around the fort: the mattresses reinforcing the walls, the ones lining the floor. It looked like a proper padded cell.
So much for joking about psychiatric wards.
“Mhmm.” You gave a contemplative nod. “So, now you’ve got one bed and about fifteen mattresses.”
He laughed, gathering a loose pillow onto his lap.
“Yeah, give or take.” He glanced towards his bedroom, forgetting momentarily that he couldn’t see through the mattress wall. “I keep most in the corridor outside my room, but bring them all out whenever Soobin comes over. Just—” He gestured around with both hands. “—spread them out. He’s the one who insisted we keep them, so he should be pleased to see them thriving here.”
Soobin had mentioned once that he couldn’t stand spending too much time at Yeonjun’s flat. You’d sympathised back then; you hadn’t had much patience for Yeonjun, either.
Really, he must’ve meant the mattresses.
“And is he pleased, then?” you asked, lips twitching.
“No, never.”
You both laughed. The projector fan seemed to hum louder, as though joining in.
“He said my flat looks like a wealthy pig furnished its own pigsty,” Yeonjun said, pausing while you laughed harder. “Said it gives him the creeps. S’why I make sure the mattresses are out every single time he’s here.”
You covered your mouth, still snickering, and Yeonjun found himself absurdly fond of the mattresses all of a sudden. For the first time, he was grateful Soobin had been so stubborn.
“But, hey.” You nodded towards the blanket roof above you. “They’ve found a purpose, after all.”
Yeonjun looked up, too. “Yeah. Happy for them.”
When he looked back down, you were already watching him. It sent you both straight into a fresh fit of laughter.
It made sense, you realised, to think about his old house, then. These were the same mattresses.
The soundtrack filled the flat, strings swelling beneath the occasional crackle of the projector, while Yeonjun searched for the right words to bring up something he’d been thinking about all morning.
He’d got distracted by the imaginary parcel back in the lobby. Had to do it now.
“By the way, um…” He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip, his gaze lingering on the screen even after you’d looked over. “Remember the race I mentioned the other day? S’this Thursday.”
You nodded. “Okay. In the evening?”
“Yes,” he said and looked at you with enough hope in his eyes to make you pause.
You thought you’d already agreed to come with him the last time he’d mentioned it. But looking at him now, you wondered whether this invitation meant something more than just watching cars drive around in circles.
Your eyes drifted briefly to the suit jacket he’d left hanging from the balcony door handle. The edges of the sleeves were painted blue from the projector.
You wanted to go regardless of what the invitation meant.
“Alright, then,” you said. “I’d like to see this alleged work you do.”
He scoffed, though excitement robbed him of any proper comeback.
“Right, mhmm.” He fought a grin that refused to stay hidden. “I’ll text you the details later after I’ve checked.”
“Okay.”
The plan lingered quietly between you, almost tangible now. Oddly, it didn’t pull either of you out of the moment. It was remarkably easy to stay in the present when the present already felt like something you’d been looking forward to.
The film went on.
Somewhere near the beginning of The Return of the King, Yeonjun shifted in search of a more comfortable position. His left ankle had gone completely numb. His arm brushed yours and, after only the briefest hesitation, he let his head drop to your shoulder.
You didn’t move, aware, suddenly, of every breath. Aware, too, of the comforting weight of him beside you.
For once, the two of you watched the film in silence.
By the middle of the film, he’d gradually slid lower until his head rested across your thighs instead, one arm folded loosely over his stomach.
This time, you couldn’t resist smiling.
“Comfortable?” you asked.
He only grinned.
You adjusted your legs slightly beneath him so he wasn’t lying against the sharp edge of your knee. The projector painted midnight blue forests across his face; he was almost part of the film now.
Before you’d consciously decided on it, your fingers drifted to his hair, sliding the strand off his forehead, away from his eyes. Your other hand came to rest lightly over his collarbone.
Already half asleep, Yeonjun registered only the warmth. His hand lifted slowly until it covered yours, heavy enough for you to feel the steady rhythm in his chest.
Sleep had been avoiding him for months. He wished it’d been slower now that he found it.
“Thank you,” he murmured, squeezing your hand gently, “for this.”
Your throat tightened. For several seconds, you sat without moving, feeling your pulse respond to the steady rhythm beneath your palm.
Then you swallowed. “Happy to.”
He squeezed your hand one more time, making sure it was still there.
✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 8, 2026. 4 PM
Yeonjun’s excuse for waiting in the lobby on Tuesday was that he was stretching his legs.
“Been sitting in front of my screen too long,” he explained, rubbing the small of his back. “I’m moulding into the shape of my chair.”
You looked him up and down. “Hm. Perhaps a quick jog would help?”
“I tried. Didn’t work. I’m already too chair-shaped.”
You snorted. He grinned.
“Walking around in circles down here seems to do the trick, though,” he said.
“Interesting.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes, quite.”
“Can you manage the climb upstairs, then?” you asked. “Or would you rather walk some more?”
He glanced around the lobby, pondering. You watched the pale pink of his T-shirt catch the feeble light from the lobby windows.
“Would you walk with me?” he replied. “Just in case I have a back-related emergency and need help?”
“I would not.”
“I can manage the climb upstairs.”
Snickering, you made your way to the stairwell.
By now, this had become part of your routine as well. Even on days when university left you so exhausted that every step felt twice as steep, you realised you were almost looking forward to the pointless arguments. Today, it was about the exact number of steps in each flight of stairs (Yeonjun counted out loud, determined to prove you wrong—he didn’t; he’d been off by two steps).
Violet was waiting on the doorstep when you unlocked your stubborn door. She twined her tail around your ankles before moving to Yeonjun.
She’d been exploring your wardrobe again, you noticed; there was a trail of blue-and-white socks leading all the way from your bedroom to the front door.
“Have you been up to no good again, love?” Yeonjun asked, bending to scoop her into his arms.
Violet meowed in response.
Yeonjun gasped. “You have? What’d you do?”
Another meow.
“Violet,” he said sternly, “you’ll have to apologise.”
He turned her in his arms until she faced you. You were already smiling.
Looking mildly perplexed by the proceedings—she’d have liked a lawyer—Violet meowed once more.
“You’re good, sweets,” you said, reaching out to scratch under her chin.
Purring softly, Violet arched into your touch.
“That’s better.” Yeonjun leaned down to press a kiss between her ears before looking up at you. “See you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah.” Your smile lingered. “Tomorrow.”
Left alone as the two of them headed down the stairs, you slipped into your flat, closed the door, and dropped your backpack beside the sofa.
It was quiet here. Calm. Your original plan to spend the rest of the afternoon mindlessly scrolling through your phone seemed considerably less appealing all of a sudden.
You wanted to sleep. You haven’t had a chance to get much of it lately; Professor Lee needed you in at eight every morning.
Exhaling, you slipped out of your shoes, gathered the scattered socks, and stretched out across the sofa for a quick nap before dinner.
About an hour later, you woke to music.
For several sleepy seconds, you couldn’t work out where it was coming from. The living room had grown noticeably darker, the setting sun striping the floor tiles with long bands of golden light. Your phone didn’t seem to be vibrating, yet the melody kept drifting through the flat.
You sat up.
It was a piano.
The notes blurred into each other, softened by the building before they reached you. They were coming, undeniably, from downstairs.
You remembered the piano in Yeonjun’s flat and remembered, too, him saying that these days he could only bear playing when he was in a good mood. Pissed him off otherwise, he’d said.
You wondered what made him play today.
Digging your phone from between the sofa cushions, you unlocked it and opened your messages. Then paused. Asking him, or even mentioning the music at all, you suspected, might make him stop playing.
The melody wandered on around you, unfamiliar; it faltered in places, then found itself again like he was remembering it in real time.
You didn’t want him to stop.
Yawning, you climbed off the sofa. The kitchen stool scraped softly across the floor as you pulled it away from the island and sat down. The music sounded clearer here, somehow, the floor carrying the vibrations more cleanly than the sofa had.
Your laptop still sat abandoned on the worktop; you’d been too tired to carry it back to your desk after finishing your reading the night before.
The cursor blinked patiently on the Google search bar.
You’d been meaning to find something for Yeonjun’s birthday. You suspected that the chewing gum he’d mentioned, with the tattoo stickers, would make an objectively funny present. Meaningful, too, in a ridiculous way.
As the search results began filling the screen, you remembered something else.
Once, back in grad school, on the morning he’d insisted you wear his scarf before walking you home to pick it up, Yeonjun had joked that he’d happily wear one of yours in return. You’d rummaged through your drawer for the most embarrassing scarf you owned and realised that none were nearly terrible enough.
You’d promised, you remembered, to get him one for his birthday.
Perhaps this was the birthday.
By the time the piano fell silent nearly half an hour later, you’d found a white-and-pink Hello Kitty scarf that ought to do nicely.
The chewing gum, on the other hand, proved much harder to track down. Most of the websites that still stocked it either didn’t deliver to your area or charged so much for postage that you almost expected the Prime Minister to hand-deliver it himself.
You’d reached the third page of Google, a hopeless place by any measure. None of the results had anything to do with what you were looking for.
You were just about ready to surrender when a familiar shop name caught your eye among the stockists listed on another website.
You sat up straighter.
It was the little sweet shop on the ground floor of Reina’s office building. You and Reina sometimes stopped there after your Friday lunches for some chocolate; you remembered the bright pink logo with cheerful yellow lettering.
They had the chewing gum; they just didn’t deliver.
Suddenly hopeful, you copied the link, sent it to Reina, and added a message underneath.
YOU [6:20 PM]
could you get this for me please? venmoing the money rn
The transaction had barely gone through before your phone buzzed.
REINA [6:22 PM]
sure
ran out of orbit?
Biting gently into the tip of your tongue, you texted her back and quickly set your phone beside the laptop again—as though the mention of Yeonjun would start burning your fingers if you held onto your phone longer.
YOU [6:23 PM]
it’s for yeonjun
birthday gift
Without the piano, the flat suddenly felt much quieter. You hadn’t realised how comfortably the music had settled into the background before.
You filled the kettle and switched it on, letting its hiss fill the room instead, then reached into the cupboard for a saucepan and a dark blue packet of penne.
Your phone vibrated against the worktop behind you.
REINA [6:27 PM]
should i ask why gum
You picked up the phone to answer.
YOU [6:27 PM]
no
thank you!!
Her reply came a minute later.
REINA [6:28 PM]
right
be careful you little freaks
You paused with the packet of pasta half open.
The defensive part of your brain began generating explanations of the ‘it’s really not what you think’ kind, but the increasingly troublesome part—the one that had been laughing far more easily than usual lately—interrupted before it got very far.
It’d genuinely been entertaining, finding the present for him. You didn’t want to defend it.
You set your phone back down and poured the penne into the saucepan.
✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 9, 2026. 4 PM
On Wednesday, Yeonjun claimed he was in the lobby because he was just returning home from the shops. To his credit, he really did look the part: black cap, dark blue denim jacket, matching jeans, and a faint flush across his cheeks.
Before you had the chance to ask what he’d bought (he wasn’t carrying any bags, nor did his pockets look remotely full—details he’d hoped you’d miss), he held up his phone. “Have you seen this?”
You stepped closer. On the screen was Reina’s mother’s Facebook profile, opened to a newly uploaded photo album from Reina and Soobin’s engagement party.
“I haven’t.”
You lowered your backpack beside the noticeboard and fished your own phone from your jacket pocket. Yeonjun stepped a little closer until your shoulders were almost touching as the two of you looked down at the screen.
The photographs loaded one by one.
You smiled at the very first one. In it, Reina was laughing so hard she’d folded almost in half, one hand pressed to her stomach. The pink dress she’d worn looked just as stunning as it had beneath the changing-room lights earlier, perhaps even more so. Beside her, Soobin already had tears in his eyes.
Then there were several shots of Nara waving her champagne flute, her eyes bright. Taehyun dancing with Reina’s mother, looking flustered, yet oddly proud. Beomgyu smiling solemnly in the background while Reina and Soobin drank champagne from each other’s glasses.
Soon, you reached a photo of yourself. You were standing in front of Kai, clearly mid-conversation, lips parted, hands raised in a quiet gesture. Yeonjun stood beside you, his head tipped slightly back, his gaze focused on you.
The lobby faded for a second.
Yeonjun realised he’d forgotten how striking your blue dress had been. Seeing it again made him briefly wonder whether he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. He took a careful breath, just in case.
“You looked nice in that suit,” you said. “Shame you’d been wasted all night.”
Remembering very well some of the other things that had happened that night, he turned to look at you.
“Yeah?” he said. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been?”
You looked up from your phone, unamused. “I would’ve told you you looked nice earlier.”
“Mm.” Still smirking, he glanced back down. The blue of your dress still filled the screen. “Shame.”
You scrolled on.
The final photos in the album were Reina’s mother’s attempts at group selfies—all of them came out blurry, but you could still make out Soobin’s parents in the background, glasses raised, looking progressively more relaxed from one picture to the next.
You were there, too, Yeonjun saw. A blur of blue.
He found himself thinking about all the salmon facts he’d kept in his mind that night, in case he needed help prolonging conversations with you.
“Nice night,” you said eventually, unable to help the smile on your face.
“It was,” he said, unable to help his wandering gaze. “Very.”
You slipped your phone back into your pocket. The silver charms on your bracelet caught briefly on the zipper.
“We still on for today, then?” you asked.
Yeonjun took a polite step away from you. He was a little dizzy.
“Yeah.” He glanced towards the stairs. “Let me just get Violet home first, or she’ll forget where she lives.”
Together, you started upstairs.
As usual, your door resisted. Yeonjun had already slowed, expecting the familiar battle. You leaned your shoulder into it and rattled the handle until the lock finally surrendered with its usual begrudging click.
The noise summoned Violet. She peered around the edge of the door with patient, blue eyes.
“Sorry, little one.” You crouched to scratch behind her ears. “Dreadful noise, wasn’t it?”
She answered with a single meow and padded over to Yeonjun. He gathered her into his arms, still distracted by the winds in his thoughts. He was going to go home, he knew, and look through the Facebook photo album another dozen times.
In the meantime, the two of you exchanged nods and agreed to meet back in the lobby in a couple of hours.
The plan for the evening was the arcade.
Strictly speaking, the item on Yeonjun’s Coolest List specified winning the biggest toy at a fair. Unfortunately, there weren’t any fairs nearby. You decided the claw machines at the retro arcade downtown were close enough.
Before leaving your flat, you’d raided every drawer and jacket pocket for loose change. By the time you reached the lobby, you were jingling like an overly enthusiastic elf at Christmas.
Yeonjun laughed before patting his own jacket. Coins clinked in reply, equally as unserious.
The arcade was only ten minutes away, standing beside a café that had already closed for the evening, its neon blue coffee cup still glowing softly in the window.
The noise, once you stepped inside, took a few minutes to get used to.
Electronic music blasted from every direction. Buttons clicked. Victory fanfares erupted every few seconds, interrupted by the high-pitched jingles of other machines and even higher-pitched screams of children. One machine blasted a horrid nightcore version of I-I-I, I’m Your Little Butterfly. It was stuck in your head for the rest of the night.
To your surprise, you and Yeonjun weren’t the oldest people there. A grey-haired couple were locked in a ferocious game of air hockey nearby (the woman in a gorgeous bright pink dress was demolishing her husband). A little further along, a middle-aged man threw both fists into the air after winning a racing simulator, then high-fived his colleagues.
You liked it here immediately.
You saw Yeonjun glance at the racing simulators once, twice, as you walked past, an almost palpable longing in his eyes. Before you could mention it, he gently nudged your shoulder and pointed ahead.
The claw machines lined the back wall, glowing pink and blue from afar. Not one of them was taken.
The two of you headed there.
The machines charged more per attempt than either of you had expected. Still, after the trash-talk you’d exchanged on the drive over, Yeonjun thought that a handful of extra coins felt like a reasonable price for the privilege of beating you and claiming the biggest toy—at first glance, that appeared to be the enormous pink bears wedged into the bottom corner of every machine.
“I’m beginning to think we were very optimistic,” you said, rolling your sleeves to your elbows before taking up position at the claw machine opposite his. “We’re assuming we’ll actually win enough toys to compare sizes.”
“Aw.” He slipped a coin into the slot. The machine swallowed it with an enthusiastic beep. “Losing faith in your skills already?”
You scoffed, one hand settling around the joystick. “No. Just questioning how long we’re about to imprison ourselves here.”
You nudged the controls. The claw drifted over the mountain of plush animals with no sense of urgency whatsoever.
“Should we set a time limit?” you asked. Neon blue flashed rhythmically across your face as you lined the claw up above an upside-down pig with tiny legs. “I’ve got a lecture tomorrow morning.”
“Right.” Yeonjun leaned closer to his own machine. “And then we’ve got my race in the evening. Hope you didn’t forget.”
“I didn’t.”
You pressed the button. The claw descended, closed around nothing, and floated back up again.
The machine let out an electronic neigh loud enough to make you jump.
“Oh, for fuck’s—” You blinked at it. “This thing’s obnoxious.”
Yeonjun snorted, veering his joystick forward. “Off to a great start, yeah?”
“Hmm.” You checked the time on your phone. “Let’s say 11 PM is the deadline, alright? Gives us about three hours.”
Beside you, he completely missed the thirty-second timer. His claw barely brushed the toy he’d been aiming for before it leapt up again.
Another triumphant neigh echoed around the arcade.
Yeonjun recoiled. “Jesus.”
You looked over, grinning. “Nice, wasn’t it? It vibrates when you lose, too.”
“Right, yeah.” He glanced back at you. “Wait—so you want to do this for three hours? I love being here with you, love, but m’afraid we’ll both go deaf by then.”
“I’m saying three hours is the limit.” You pointed at him with another coin. “If you still haven’t beaten me by then, there’s no hope for you. We’ll go home.”
A grin spread across his face. “Confident.”
“Of course.”
“Alright.” He fed another coin into the slot and cracked his knuckles. “11 PM it is. Doubt I’ll need that long, but sure.”
You glanced sideways without letting go of the joystick. “Confident.”
“Mhmm.” He nudged his joystick into position. “Birthday week and all. Has to be my lucky streak.”
Your machine screamed again.
With a frown, you reached for another coin. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because your birthday’s coming up.”
He leaned around the side of his machine, cheeks stretching. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because of your concerning skills.”
Ignoring that, you guided the claw towards the giraffe waiting in the opposite corner, its sides painted blue from the lights.
Yeonjun, in the meantime, overshot. He realised too late that he’d been watching your machine instead of his own. It shuddered, rewarding his failure with another neigh.
Cursing, he inserted another coin, pointedly ignoring your laughter as he wrapped his hand around the joystick. The claw seemed to be living its own independent life. He’d have to learn its moods.
The first half an hour passed surprisingly quickly.
All the two of you had managed was concluding that the claw machines were financial scams, likely someone’s preferred method of laundering money.
Your pockets were growing noticeably lighter.
You stepped back after the fifteenth attempt—or sixteenth; you’d lost count shortly after Yeonjun gasped so dramatically that you briefly thought he might need an ambulance.
“Right, then,” you said. “Going to the loo. Have to reconsider my financial choices.”
“Come back soon.” Yeonjun kept his eyes fixed on the claw. “Let’s see if I don’t break this while you’re gone.”
“Let’s see if it doesn’t break you while I’m gone.”
“Love—” The machine screeched. He groaned. “Please. I need you to be on my side a little bit. This thing’s cursed.”
“It is.” You patted his shoulder as you walked past. “Stay strong. Don’t win.”
Snickering at the wounded sigh behind you, you cast one last longing glance at the pink bear before turning the corner towards the restroom.
When you returned, Yeonjun was leaning casually against his machine. There was a grin on his face that immediately made you suspicious.
You slowed. “What?”
Without a word, he reached behind his back and produced a small grey rabbit.
Your face fell. You stepped closer and grabbed it from him, turning it over in your hands. It was ridiculously soft; nothing like the cheap toys you remembered winning in your childhood.
“How’d—” You looked up. “You didn’t bring this from home, did you?”
Yeonjun frowned. “Of course not. Who do you take me for?”
“A cheater.”
He scoffed. “I won it fair and square.”
You handed it back to him, not entirely convinced.
“It’s tiny,” you said.
“Yes.” He carefully placed the toy on top of his control panel—for luck. “But it’s still one more than you’ve got, so I’m winning.”
Huffing, you returned to your own machine. The neon lights seemed brighter as you approached, almost threatening.
“Leave you alone,” you muttered, dropping another coin into the slot, “and apparently you discover how this thing works.”
Yeonjun’s grin returned. “S’what happens when you abandon me.”
“I was gone for two minutes.”
“And if you leave me again,” he said, “I might actually win the pink bear.”
Your grip tightened around the joystick. The bear continued smiling smugly from the corner of the machine.
“Not a chance.” The familiar jingle began again. “Never leaving you alone again.”
Yeonjun’s hand stalled. He hoped that you wouldn’t notice what you’d just said and immediately take it back.
You didn’t. Your gaze was already locked on the claw.
Satisfied, Yeonjun proceeded to lose another dozen times in a row.
Beside him, you came very close to winning, and he swore he felt his heart fall through his stomach as he watched the giraffe’s head thud against the edge of the prize chute. Then it dropped back into the pile of toys.
For a second, your groan—and his subsequent laughter—drowned out the arcade noise.
Another half an hour later, the two of you called a temporary truce. Your wrists ached, and the toys were starting to cost far more than they were worth. Neither of you had won anything worth boasting too much about anyway (you said as much to Yeonjun after he dramatically stuffed the rabbit into his jacket pocket).
There was a café in the corner of the arcade, beside the racing simulators and the entrance to the neighbouring PC gaming room. It seemed as good a place to recover as any.
You ordered brownies (with extra chocolate) and milkshakes (with extra ice cream), and carried your trays to a small table beside the low partition separating the two spaces.
It wasn’t much quieter here. The machines continued to chime every few seconds, people laughed, basketballs kept bouncing somewhere nearby. A girl walked right past your table with something in her bag that looked like a golden Chihuahua; its eyes blue from the neon lights.
It felt a little magical.
The brownies were still warm enough for the chocolate filling inside to stretch in glossy ribbons each time you lifted your fork.
“This is better than a fair, m’thinking,” Yeonjun said, glancing around. “My list might’ve been wrong.”
You smiled. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm.” He took another bite from his plate. “Glad I’ve waited this long to complete it.”
Your heart lifted at that, guileless.
“I’ve been thinking about that, actually,” you said, gathering the crumbs on your plate into a little pile.
He leaned forward instinctively. “You have?”
“Yeah. I’m planning to go home soon,” you said. “To see my grandparents.”
He paused. “Right.”
“Next week, probably.” Your fingers wrapped around the milkshake glass. The straw tapped against the side. “And I thought—uh, would you like to come with me?”
“I—” Yeonjun sat upright so quickly that his chair edged backwards on the carpet. “With you?”
You nodded. “Yeah. We’ve still got the lawnmowers and the picnic on your list. Got enough grass for both back at the farm, I reckon.”
His mind had suddenly forgotten the list altogether. It had caught, instead, on come with me.
“Right, yes,” he said. “Tw—two birds, one stone.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes stayed on you, bright yet strangely unfocused.
You shifted in your chair.
Perhaps it had been a strange thing to ask. Going to the arcade was fine, but your village might’ve been too much.
You almost explained that you’d bought every one of your friends home at some point—even Taehyun had sneezed his way through a weekend there, allergic to half of your grandparents’ garden. But the explanation caught somewhere in your throat.
If he didn’t want to come, he shouldn’t have to.
Yeonjun, meanwhile, was dealing with the sudden suspicion that he’d gone deaf. He couldn’t hear the music or the machines, the basketballs or the chatter.
After a few bewildered seconds, he realised that the dull rushing in his ears was only his own heartbeat.
“I would—I’d really like that,” he said, and then repeated it, for no reason other than his inability to stop himself, “I’d really like that.”
Your shoulders loosened.
Yeonjun noticed and frowned.
Surely, he thought, you weren’t worried about him refusing. Surely, you knew that if you’d asked him to follow you across the country—or straight into hell, for that matter—he’d have already been looking for his car keys.
Where were his car keys, actually?
Discreetly, he patted his pockets.
“Yeah?” you said. “That sounds alright?”
“Of course, yeah.” He leaned back into the table, cut off another piece of his brownie, then forgot to eat it. “As long as your grandparents don’t mind me.”
You dismissed the concern with a wave of your hand so immediate that Yeonjun finally felt himself smile again.
“Not at all,” you said. “My gran will talk your ear off if you let her, though. Be mindful of how many follow-up questions you ask.”
“Okay,” he said, knowing very well that he was going to sit and listen to everything your grandmother had to say, and perhaps take notes.
“You sure you’d like to come, though?” you asked. “You looked—a bit doubtful, I guess.”
“Oh—I—no.” With an embarrassed laugh, he slapped both palms lightly against his thighs. “Guess I’m just realising I’ll meet your Violet. S’a big deal.”
“Oh, yeah!” You laughed. “And Britney! She’s been limping this past week because she’d stepped on a bee. But Grandad says she’s getting better now.”
Yeonjun remembered Britney, the cat, supposedly Violet’s best friend. The lightness inside him expanded.
“Britney, too, then,” he said. “Quite a lot of pressure.”
You smiled.
“Don’t worry.” You took another sip of your milkshake. It was cold enough to make your temples announce themselves. “They’ll love you.”
Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You sound awfully sure, considering the first impression I’d made on you.”
You leaned back in the chair.
“Well,” you said, “don’t try to prove my cows will fall in love with you in two weeks, and you’ll be alright.”
He pursed his lips. “Right, right. You don’t think I’d succeed?”
“Think you’d struggle finding the time to date all of them while you’ve still got to complete the list with me.”
“Ah.” He grinned again. “Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about, then. You’ll always be my first priority, love.”
You scoffed, turning back to your plate.
“Mhmm.” Your lips were determined to curve; you poked your tongue into your cheek to keep them straight. “Thank you ever so much. Big honour.”
“You’re very welcome.”
You returned to your brownie. Finally, Yeonjun remembered his own.
“So, then.” You nodded back towards the arcade. “What would you do with the big toy if you won it?”
“The pink bear?”
“Yeah.”
“Sell it,” he said, still chewing. “And use the money to go on holiday. To the sea, m’thinking.”
“Nice, nice.” Your smile finally won against your restraint. “The bear’s obviously worth a fortune.”
“Obviously, yeah.” He took another bite. “I’d take you with me. To the sea.”
You raised your eyes from your plate. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, a fresh grin spreading across his face. “Out of pity that you lost.”
An affronted noise escaped you. Yeonjun laughed hard enough to inhale a brownie crumb and had to cough into his fist, still laughing through it.
“We’ll see about that.” You pushed your empty plate aside and wrapped both hands around your milkshake. “Still got another few hours left.”
“What would you do with the pink bear, then?” he asked.
You considered it as you sipped from the straw. The paper was already soft around the edges; you could taste cardboard more than strawberry.
“Hm.” You pushed the glass back. “I’d keep it on my doorstep. To remind you I’d won every time you came over.”
Yeonjun nodded with enthusiastic approval. He very much enjoyed the thought of becoming part of your doorstep.
“Reckon Violet would love it,” he said.
“Yeah, I think she would.” You could already picture Violet abandoning the monstera pot in favour of the bear. “One of us has to win it for her.”
“Well.” Yeonjun stirred the melting ice cream in his glass with his straw before taking another sip. “Not me, then, ‘cause I’m selling it.”
“Got to be me, then. To show Violet who actually loves her.”
“Hey—no.” He pulled back from the table, his lips shifting into an impressive pout. “S’not fair. Don’t bring love into this now.”
You scoffed, leaning forwards in your seat—the two of you looked absurdly like two ends of a seesaw now.
“You’re the one who brought it into it,” you said. “Said she’d love the bear.”
“I meant she’d love having it on your doorstep.”
“Which means I’ve got to win it,” you countered, “to get it on said doorstep.”
“It doesn’t mean I love her less if there’s no bear at all.”
“Yes, it does, actually.”
“No, it—”
A deafening pop cut him off.
You both jumped. For one second, you were convinced one of the machines had exploded. Instead, a shower of balloons burst across the ceiling. Triumphant music erupted from somewhere near the racing simulators. A cluster of teenagers shrieked in delight.
Apparently, someone had just broken the arcade’s high score.
Balloons drifted lazily through the room. Children abandoned their games halfway through, and even the adults joined in—one man sprinted after a balloon skimming across the floor as though it was a lucky lottery ticket.
Smiling, you turned back and finished the last of your milkshake.
Across from you, Yeonjun bent under the table.
You leaned sideways to glance down. “What’re you doing?”
“Hang on.” His voice came muffled. “Just—”
A second later, he resurfaced holding a bright red, heart-shaped balloon by its ribbon. He examined it for a second. Then pressed it to his chest.
You watched him, your eyebrows rising. His expression remained perfectly solemn. A second later, he bumped the balloon softly against his chest, then once more.
“Think I’ve got tachycardia,” he said.
Your lips twitched. He thumped the balloon against his chest until you finally snorted, shaking your head.
He grinned, extending it towards you. “For you, love.”
You leaned closer to inspect the balloon. “You’re giving me your tachycardia?”
“Yes. I’ll cope without it.”
“Keep it.”
“No.” He pushed the balloon towards you again. “Take it, or I’ll pop it.”
Snorting again, you accepted it. The rubber creaked softly beneath your fingers.
“Popping your own heart would probably hurt,” you said, turning it over in your hands. It smelled of latex.
“Probably.” He grinned. “So I’m trusting it to you.”
The words were ridiculous. Your own heart, somehow, even more so. You thought he really had given you tachycardia.
Determined not to look at him, you busied yourself with winding the ribbon once around your wrist. The balloon bobbed against your jacket sleeve.
“Alright.” You gave it an experimental tug. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to it.”
“Good.”
You finally glanced up. Yeonjun was still smiling. The corners of his eyes had relaxed, his lashes appearing darker in the dim light of the arcade.
Your composure lasted for two seconds. Snickering quietly, you dropped your gaze again.
Yeonjun leaned back in his chair. He felt so light that he might as well have drifted away with the rest of the balloons.
When the two of you returned to your designated claw machines another ten minutes later, the arcade had mostly been cleaned. Tiny flecks of red, blue and silver rubber still glittered across the dark carpet whenever the neon lights caught them.
You and Yeonjun started the second round.
The machine reminded you why you hated it at once: every time you pushed the joystick left, the claw lurched slightly right first. You pushed it forwards; it seemed to contemplate the suggestion, wasting precious seconds before it crept half an inch forward and stopped.
The machine neighed.
You groaned.
Competing here had been an appalling idea. Unfortunately, you’d already invested too much money, too many hours, and far too much pride to admit defeat now.
You fed in another coin.
Another attempt, another failure. And another, and another.
Your concentration was beginning to fray under the monotony. Only once did you manage to lift the leg of a frog plushie; it slipped free almost instantly.
Soon, your attention wandered to the balloon tied loosely around your wrist, the red heart bobbing gently against the machine whenever you moved. Then you looked up at Yeonjun beside you.
The neon from your machine washed him blue, his own painted the other side of his face pink. Every so often, another cabinet flashed gold behind him, briefly outlining his jaw.
It was terribly distracting. You almost wanted to—
A dreadful miracle occurred.
Yeonjun’s claw machine broke. He moved the joystick, and for the first time all evening, it actually obeyed.
“What—” He hardly managed the word.
The timer expired, but the claw kept moving regardless.
You looked at him just as his mouth slowly spread into a grin. He guided the claw over the pink bear.
“Yeonjun,” you warned.
“Think I’ve frightened it,” he said.
“It just glitched, use a diff—”
“Oh, wait, wait—” He inhaled in theatrical anticipation while the claw descended.
It missed the bear.
Yeonjun squinted; he’d been off the bear’s ear by half an inch.
You cleared your throat and turned back to your own machine.
“Can’t even win with a broken claw,” you murmured. “Sounds about right—”
Yeonjun’s claw jumped to the top. The machine continued jingling in support. He nudged the joystick without inserting a new coin; the claw moved again.
You turned back to him, eyes narrowing. His claw finally managed to catch the bear by the ear and, most horribly, lift it. You held your breath.
The bear wobbled. It dropped before Yeonjun was ready to let go.
He cursed. You exhaled.
The bear caught against the edge. Bounced off another toy. Then, with one final clunk, it dropped straight into the prize chute.
You weren’t breathing.
The machine erupted into a triumphant tune that made you momentarily consider smashing it to pieces. The fucking Little Butterfly played even louder somewhere behind you.
You stared in complete silence while Yeonjun bent and lifted the enormous bear from the compartment. It barely fit past the little doors.
“This—that doesn’t count,” you said. “The machine broke.”
He looked from the bear to you.
“I’ve won the bear,” he said.
“The machine—”
“I’ve won the bear.”
His delight echoed loudly enough for a couple by the Pac-Man machines to glance over.
You lowered your voice. “It doesn’t count.”
“The bear,” he announced, lifting it triumphantly above his head, “belongs to me.”
“It wasn’t supposed to—”
“Listen, love, I’ll make you a deal.” His grin turned positively threatening as he stuffed the toy under his arm. “I’ll give you the bear. You can put it on your doorstep or give it to Violet—but on one condition.”
You didn’t trust this for a second.
“What condition?”
“You admit defeat.”
You stared at him. “But you didn’t even—”
“You admit defeat,” he spoke over you, hoisting the bear again, “and you admit that I’m much better at claw machines than you will ever be—”
“No.”
“—and that it has been the greatest honour of your life to compete against me.”
“No.”
“You may also compliment my technique, though, of course, that’s voluntary.”
You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest.
“You had no technique,” you said. “The machine broke. And even then, you couldn’t get it on your first—”
“Don’t be a sore loser, love.” He wiggled the bear in his arms; it nearly slipped in his excitement. Laughing, he caught it again. “Come on.”
You turned away to gather your coins from the control panel. As annoyed as you were, it was good not to have to waste more money.
“I don’t care about the bear,” you said.
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
Yeonjun laughed again.
You heard his footsteps before you felt him. One of his arms settled lightly across your shoulders as he wedged the bear between your arms and your chest.
He caught the familiar roses of your perfume and realised he couldn’t reasonably force himself to pull back. His chin hovered beside your shoulder, his cheek brushing yours for the briefest moment—warm enough to send your pulse stumbling out of rhythm.
“You didn’t even want the bear,” you mumbled, relaxing your arms to take hold of the toy.
“I know.” He made no move to step away, his chest solid against your back. “I’m excellent at getting things out of spite. What else do you want while I’m on a winning streak? The frog looks—”
You turned around and pressed the bear back into his arms.
“Alright,” you said. “Keep your stupid, illegal bear. M’perfectly content knowing that you’d never win a toy in a fair fight.”
He snorted.
“All due respect, love…” He balanced the bear under one arm and reached into his jacket pocket for the grey rabbit. “I got two stupid toys today. How many have you got?”
You clicked your tongue, then deliberately raised your balloon. It dipped under your wrist.
“Well, I’ve got this,” you said before nodding towards him, “and I’ve got you. So that brings us to the same number of stupid things we’ve got.”
He was glowing. Being included in your list of possessions delighted him far more than the bear had.
Trying to suppress the twitching at the corners of your mouth as Yeonjun laughed beside you, you zipped your pockets and turned towards the exit.
He caught up within a few strides, still chuckling, and draped an arm across your shoulders. You leaned into him automatically so the two of you—and the absurd bear between you—could squeeze through the doors.
It was dark outside, but the air felt cleaner away from the stale warmth of the arcade. It was lovely not to have your ears assaulted by the noise, too.
All you could smell now was Yeonjun’s cologne. All you could hear was his attempts to stop laughing.
The bear, yours, really, just like every other stupid thing he owned, was entirely beside the point now.
Omg hi! I’m so sorry i ghosted y'all! but I just finshed writing part tow of ‘SWCF’ and I’m about half way through editing. Excted to share the next part with y’all! Much love 💟
