a simple research interview turns into an exercise in frustration when the wrong driver shows up: quiet, distant, and entirely unhelpful. but just as you decide he’s a waste of time, oscar finds a way to make things far stranger than they should be.
the first chapter of the series: lights out, fangs out.
genres: rom-com, formula 1, vampire fiction.
warnings: mention of physical discomfort, but otherwise just a very, very strange encounter.
Good morning! How are you? I hope this email finds you well.
I’m not sure if you remember, but a few months ago you reached out to me with a list of constructive feedback after the release of my young adult romance, Beyond the Next Corner. You mentioned that the premise was very compelling and the romance genuinely lovely, but that the setting lacked a bit of realism, and I completely agree.
Despite being a motorsport fan since childhood, I’ve never quite had the instinct for understanding the environment firsthand, the paddock, its dynamics, the ecosystem as a whole. But your feedback really brought that to my attention, and I’m reaching out because I believe you might be able to help me change that.
Which brings me to my question.
Would there be any possibility, however remote, of arranging a paddock or garage visit for research purposes? Ideally, I would love the opportunity to interview Max Verstappen, as the protagonist of my current project is loosely inspired by him. Understanding his perspective, presence in the paddock, and day-to-day environment would be incredibly valuable for the level of authenticity I’m aiming for.
Of course, I fully understand the level of coordination something like this would require, and I would never want to overstep or cause any inconvenience to the teams or their management. Transparency would be a priority, and I’m more than willing to adapt to whatever boundaries are necessary.
I realize this is a rather ambitious request, but I thought it might be worth asking.
Thank you for your time, and regardless, I truly appreciate the insight you’ve already shared.
Oh my God! I can’t believe you actually reached out to me! I don’t know if I should feel embarrassed about everything I said before or genuinely honored to have you in my inbox!
Well, this took me a little longer to reply than you probably expected, but I needed some time to fully understand the scope of your request and find the right people to talk to.
Of course I want to help you develop your story. I truly love the way you write and what you do with the material the media puts out about the drivers. When it comes to mainstream narratives, you do an exceptional job!
Now, about the interview.
I spoke with a few contacts in the paddock, and I was informed this morning that a driver has been made available for you. I can’t guarantee it’s the one you initially mentioned, but it’s the best I could manage, and I really hope it works for you.
I’m sending you a paddock pass for the next race under my name, with full access included. The assigned driver will be expecting you.
Let me know once you receive everything!
"Gordon! You can drop me off here. We’ve arrived!" you exclaimed, leaning your head out of the window of the oversized pink limousine that had taken you all the way to the paddock, your smile bright enough to rival the sun.
Your driver of nearly five years — ever since, at nineteen, you managed to turn yourself into a bestselling young adult author, a story for another time — parked in the designated area without pointing out that, yes, he knew you had arrived. It was hard to miss the massive landmark that was the Circuit of the Americas, especially with miles of parking surrounding it.
He stepped out first and made his way to your door, opening it so you could step out safely. Before turning to leave, however, you used your cutesy voice to talk to Tiffany, the small, elderly chihuahua who went everywhere with you. Gordon didn’t even blink as you picked her up and tucked her into the bag hanging from your arm; he simply extended a hand to help you set your feet on the ground.
"I want you to have fun, Gordon. Seriously! You’re not staying in the car," you said, and he raised an eyebrow as you slipped your hand into the inner pocket of your bag, gently asking Tiffany for some space. When you finally found what you were looking for, you held up the tickets and handed them to him with a smile. "So you can see everything before the race.”
Gordon glanced down at the tickets, then back up at you, one brow still slightly raised.
“I’m working,” he reminded you, in that calm, patient tone he’d perfected over the years.
“And I’m your employer,” you shot back sweetly, tilting your head. “Which means I can order you to have fun.”
He looked at you for a beat longer, as if deciding whether this counted as a real instruction or just one of your many… interpretations of authority. In the end, he took the tickets with a half-smile.
You nodded, patted his shoulder, and finally walked away, waving your fingers in a quick little goodbye as you turned toward that absolute monstrosity of a building that was — no, absolutely not — going to intimidate you.
The sharp click of your heels barely made a dent in the scene: uniformed staff rushed back and forth, pushing shiny metal carts, while mechanics shouted over each other as they organized tires. Here and there, clusters of fans gathered — most of them dressed in cowboy hats and flannel shirts, dancing along to whatever country song blasted through the speakers and craning their necks in hopes of spotting an unsuspecting driver.
This was part of the research too.
You pulled your notebook and pencil from your bag and started jotting things down.
You weren’t sure this would be the circuit you’d choose for the story — it wasn’t your favorite, and definitely not your still-undecided-name protagonist’s either. You planned on letting him choose, after all, he’d be the one racing at 300 km/h to impress the brilliant still-undecided-name female lead.
Still, there was a certain charm to everything around you. And it felt very different from watching it on TV, no matter how big the screen.
You pushed your sunglasses up to the top of your head and narrowed your eyes slightly. Tiffany barked from inside your bag, and you gave a quiet “shh,” pulling her a little closer against you.
A group of Haas staff rushed past without sparing you a second glance. Phones and cameras were already up, all pointed toward the two tall figures at the center, Esteban Ocon and Oliver Bearman,ngiving instructions for whatever they were filming for media.
You had no interest in either of them.
“Maybe we should keep walking, Tiff…” you murmured, without admitting you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do next.
Biting the corner of your lip, you turned slightly, choosing a direction that simply felt right.
That was when you saw her.
A mass of bright, curly red hair rushed toward you, her wide, almost childlike smile forcing you to wave back.
“You made it!” she said, excited, stepping in to pull you into a tight hug. “It’s Cassie.”
With a relieved sigh, you hugged her back just as tightly — right before Tiffany barked in protest at the sudden division of attention. Cassie pulled away, immediately distracted, crouching to fuss over the little dog with a laugh.
“I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to know where I should wait for the interview,” you said, adjusting the hem of your light pink skirt.
Cassie nodded, reluctantly peeling herself away from Tiffany before pointing ahead for you to follow.
“I swear, I thought you were older…” she started, already talking a mile a minute.
She didn’t stop the entire way. You didn’t mind. You actually liked her enthusiasm. It reminded you of one of the interns at your publishing agency.
Amy… Jenny… what was her name again?
You tried to remember, you really did — but you’d just realized the Red Bull building was already shrinking behind you, its bright colors fading into the distance while Cassie kept walking without a second glance.
Your hand curled into a fist at your side. You needed to say something.
“And then you wrote that scene where Carter lifts Sofia by the hips and I almost died right th—”
“Cassie, sorry to interrupt. I have a question,” you said, raising your index finger.
She blinked and finally stopped, looking at you with those wide green eyes. You scratched the back of your neck, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and glanced over your shoulder.
“Red Bull is that way… Where are we going?” you asked gently.
Cassie glanced behind you just to check — and, well, yes. Red Bull was definitely that way.
“I know,” she confirmed with a nod. “But McLaren is this way.”
Her thumb pointing behind her gave you the strange impression that you were no longer speaking the same language. You let out a small laugh and nodded.
“Wait… oh! I think I didn’t explain myself properly,” you said, a hand going to your chest, your voice already halfway into an apology.
Cassie looked at you curiously, openly interested in whatever you were about to say.
“Maybe I forgot to mention it in the email! My main inspiration for the character is Max Verstappen, you know? Red Bull driver.” Your voice, still sweet, gave away your intentions entirely. “I just assumed it had worked out. I mean… why wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, no, I know that! But it wasn’t possible to schedule that meeting with him. Max was unavailable.”
That was new information.
Okay.
What exactly was happening here?
You blinked, your hand lowering from your chest to your waist, your expression settling into mild confusion.
“What do you mean… it wasn’t possible?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.
“Oh, I mentioned in the email that there was no guarantee which driver you’d get! Their schedules are really tight,” she continued. “But Oscar Piastri agreed! And wow, that was a surprise.”
Wait, what?
She must have taken your reaction as the same kind of surprise she’d had, because she nodded enthusiastically.
“He’s usually so difficult about these things. Not difficult! Oh my god, that sounds rude. He’s nice. A nice person. But when it comes to media…”
And just like that, she started walking again, heading toward the McLaren facilities as if she hadn’t just delivered completely unexpected information.
You stayed where you were for a second too long before finally moving to follow her.
Everything was very, very orange.
From your spot inside the McLaren facilities, you watched the movement around you with a subtle expression of disapproval. Your interview would only happen after the end of the first Free Practice session and the drivers’ media duties. Bureaucratic, but fine.
In the meantime, you and your plastic cup full of coffee took notes of whatever you could.
The McLaren staff were nice, always checking in to make sure you were comfortable and letting you know how much time was left before the drivers returned to the garage. But honestly, they did not mess around when it came to being orange…
The walls were orange, the decorations matched, the uniforms didn’t help.
No—wait. You needed to adjust: not orange. Papaya.
The word alone sent a small shiver down your spine.
It was fine.
Just for today.
You found yourself drifting closer when everyone gathered around the TV in the reception area, watching the drivers climb into their cars. Curiosity won.
It wasn’t new to you. You hadn’t lied to Cassie, Formula 1 had been your thing since childhood. That was exactly why, when you decided to write your first story, it had to be about it. But you can’t understand everything from a distance… Apparently.
You walked over to a round table near the cream-colored sofas, surrounded by comfortable chairs, and took a seat. Someone had taken Tiffany to the designated pet area, and Cassie had gone off to handle her duties.
It was officially a solo mission.
The TV began showing the onboard cameras side by side. Lando Norris adjusted himself into the cockpit, while Oscar Piastri was already inside — helmet on, hands on the wheel, listening to something his engineer was saying before heading out.
Honestly, you had never paid much attention to him.
You’d always been a devoted Mercedes fan, and your desire to use Max Verstappen as inspiration was mostly about appearance and the way he carried himself. The McLaren boys had never caught your attention, not for anything. And, honestly, by the end of the session, you weren’t impressed at all.
Even if Oscar had managed a solid P3.
Even if he spoke over the radio with precise detail about every small adjustment needed, as if he were part of the car itself.
You had to stifle a yawn.
That interview was going to be a terrible waste of time.
The movement picked up again, but you didn’t move from your spot. You pulled a piece of gum from the pocket of your button-up and scrolled through your phone, random, meaningless reels flashing by just to keep you occupied.
Then you heard someone clear their throat and looked up.
“Oscar is waiting for you in the other room. I’ll take you there,” the orange-clad staff member said.
You offered a polite smile, despite everything, and stood up.
It was a disaster. A disaster.
Just like you’d predicted.
You had a generous forty minutes to get through that interview, and twenty had already passed.
Oscar sat across from you and, well, he was nothing like you’d expected.
He was worse.
When you walked into the room, you tried to be reasonable. You smiled, held out your hand to greet him and, okay, he had smiled back, but then he’d turned to the staff member — Caleb, apparently — and started talking, not returning your greeting at all, leaving you standing there with your hand awkwardly in the air until you had to pretend there was something wrong with the sleeve of your shirt.
Oscar was supposed to be sociable. That’s what Cassie said, what the staff said, what every video you’d seen on YouTube and Instagram had told you. Funny, engaged, communicative in his own way. You had expected the meeting to be a disaster for several reasons, but… this? This was borderline outrageous.
“So what’s it like to be a Formula 1 driver? Like, the real feeling,” you asked, trying to inject a bit of charisma into the room.
For a moment, he just looked at you. His dark eyes, analytical and a little cold, passed over you before settling on the blue pen in your hands. His arms were crossed, and even from where you sat, you could tell just how pale his skin was. It was… a little hypnotizing. Pale. Very pale.
He looked like he was about to answer.
Worse — he looked like he was about to throw up.
Thump. Oscar stood up abruptly, the force of it making you flinch.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than it should have been. Off. “I’ll be right back. Just a moment.”
You turned in your chair to follow him with your eyes, your eyebrow practically climbing into your hairline.
And then you were simply… alone.
Five minutes passed. Nine… ten… You fidgeted with your pen, uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. Fifteen minutes…
Twenty.
End of the interview.
You let out a slow breath, pulled your bag off the back of the chair, and stood up. Okay. Maybe this was better. You’d tell Cassie it didn’t work out, push a little harder for Max Verstappen, and end up with the next BookTok hit — full of delicious, intense scenes, beautifully crafted and—
The door opened.
You turned back.
“Hi. Do you have a bit more time so we can do the interview?” Oscar asked, composed and impeccably polite.
You blinked.
Who was that?
A classic McLaren cap sat low on his head, the number 81 stitched across it, shadowing his hair and part of his face… The flush on his cheeks wasn’t a trick of the photos, as far as you could tell. And he was looking at you like he actually expected a real answer.
“Well, I… I have a few more minutes,” you said, a little thrown off, still standing in the same spot.
With a small smile that seemed oddly relieved, he nodded and stepped fully into the room.
“Okay,” he said softly, moving back to the same chair he’d been sitting in before.
Still a little suspicious, you turned slowly, placing your bag back on the chair as if it might betray you at any second. You tucked your hair behind your ear and finally sat down again.
“All right,” you said, taking your pen. Your gaze lifted to him and, despite how disconcerting the sight of him still was, you asked, “Are you… are you okay?”
Oscar seemed caught off guard by the question, straightening slightly.
“Hm? Ah, yeah. I am. I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “Low blood pressure. From the strain during practice and the heat.”
Oh. You hadn’t considered that. It made sense… he really had looked unwell, and you hadn’t done anything to help. Wow. Great job.
“And… are you sure you’re okay to continue? If you’re not feeling well, we can reschedule or… or not. Whatever you prefer,” you offered, a hint of uncertainty in your voice.
He shook his head.
“No, it’s fine. Let’s do this,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. “And… I don’t know if I’ve already asked this, but… why are we doing this? I mean, I don’t mind. Cassandra explained a bit, but I didn’t fully get it. She was… very enthusiastic,” he added, a trace of a smile in his voice. “Are you writing a book?”
No—
Hadn’t Cassie explained it properly?
You had asked her to.
God.
Heat crept up your neck, settling at the tips of your ears.
“Y-Yes. I’m writing a book,” you said, with no intention of offering anything beyond that. Your gaze dropped to your notebook, already retreating. “Oscar, you’ve been a Formula 1 driver since 2023, correct?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Is it a biography? Would there— would there be any chance I could… see what you write? Approve it?”
For a second, you just stared at him.
Approve it?
Your fingers tightened slightly around the pen.
“No,” you said, a little too quickly.
A beat.
“I mean— it’s not a biography.”
He paused, watching you. Waiting.
You exhaled softly through your nose, eyes dropping back to your notebook.
“It’s a romance.”
That got a reaction. Quiet, but there.
Oscar’s eyebrow lifted. Just slightly.
You ignored it.
“When you’re in the car, what do you think about?”
“Hm…” He tilted his head a fraction. “It depends. Sometimes I’m counting laps. Thinking about what I’ll do after. I hum sometimes.” A small pause. “It can get a bit boring. Especially when I’m leading.”
You blinked.
“Boring.”
“Yeah.”
“While leading a Formula 1 race.”
He gave a small shrug, like that was the least controversial thing he’d said all day.
“That’s… wildly inconvenient for my narrative.”
That finally pulled something out of him. Not a full smile. But close.
“I can pretend it’s more dramatic, if that helps.”
You shook your head lightly, thinking for another moment before adding a note at the bottom of the page — fully aware of the way Oscar was looking at you.
“Do you think it’s like that for all drivers?” you asked.
He shrugged, lips pressing into a small, uncertain pout that read no idea.
You took a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as you added one last line.
That was enough.
“Oscar, well, I appreciate your time,” you said, closing your notebook with a soft snap that sounded far more final than you intended.
Silence settled. You took a deep breath, stood up, and reached for your bag.
“You’re going to write it wrong.”
Your hand paused mid-air. Slowly, you looked back at him.
But looking back was an understatement. You took a step back — because suddenly, so fucking suddenly, Oscar was right beside you.
You glanced behind him. The chair was still there. Further back than it had any business being.
“I’m sorry?” you asked, startled, blinking more than you meant to.
“The part about it being boring,” he said, almost thoughtfully — with a little more depth than there was any reason for, so much so that you didn’t even process your own confusion and simply pushed it to the back of your mind. “It’s not that.”
“Then… what is it?” you asked, quietly.
His attention shifted just slightly, his eyes flicking toward the door. Seconds later, you heard it:
Oscar Piastri! Fifteen minutes until the start of Free Practice Two.
“I have to go,” he said. “But I’ll tell Sophie to give you my contact. We can schedule another one.”
You wanted to question it. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to, that you already had more than enough for your book research. You were fully intending to dismiss him—
but Oscar had already reached the door handle and was turning it.
“See you at the next interview! Bye,” he said, a polite smile stretching across his lips before it was swallowed by whatever was happening outside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
You stayed where you were for a second longer than necessary, your hand still hovering near your bag like your body hadn’t quite caught up with what had just happened.
you thought i'd let you go? | haN taesan ( 보이넥스트도어 )
PAIRING: Male! Lead! Taesan x NPC! Reader
SYNOPSIS: Rule 1: Don't interfere with the storyline.
Rule 2: Don't attract the male lead's attention.
Rule 3: Survive 3 days as an unnoticeable NPC, and you get to go home. Simple <3
Transmigrating into a cringe-worthy otome game halfway through the plot should’ve been an easy win. All you had to do was blend in with the wall, avoid the unicorn sparkles and hair-flips, and wait out the clock.
Easy enough...
Or so you thought.
WORD COUNT: 2.3k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This idea was gathering dust in my notes so i thought id do something super quick with it. it's very quotev omg >.< since i already have a transmigration sungho fic and now a taesan one, i might turn this into a mini series to cover all members. It is undecided for now, but if ur into the idea, let me know. Enjoy!
perm tag gang: @ivehan @niceguyfreshguyofthenight
divider by @pixopix
Something was wrong.
Like, seriously wrong.
Taesan had always had the privileged curse of having countless eyes around him. So much so that he genuinely became accustomed to the burning admiration of his classmates and what felt like the whole entirety of the school.
It was almost like the world revolved around him.
Almost.
Because for some weird reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that the new transfer student (who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, by the way) hated him.
The disinterested grumbles. The tiny dramatic sighs. The very obvious and strenuous lengths to avoid crossing paths with him at all cost.
He didn't mind it. Or at least, he thought he didn't. Yet, something deep within him argued otherwise.
Somehow, you managed to make him constantly search for you at every opportunity. Not out of interest. Not out of reciprocated dislike.
But out of curiosity.
Would you ignore him again?
Would you send that shivering glare his way again?
And why the heck were you doing so anyway?
It was almost starting to feel like a game to him.
A game with an overly grumpy, human-sized house cat. He wouldn't express it openly, but he was borderline excited to study you.
And then there was you, who felt every lingering stare of his like it were scorching fire.
Gosh, you wished the time would just pass already.
You were dropped here with no true explanation as to why.
You know, cause why not.
The solution you had gotten from whatever entity it was that brought you here was simple.
Last three entire school days without getting noticed.
Essentially: don't interfere with the storyline.
Just be the good little NPC that you were allocated to be.
Easy enough.
Well, it should've been easy, considering you knew the lore to this shitty ass game.
There was practically no lore to it.
No real lore.
Females and males alike would yearn for the male lead. The male lead would toss his hair in slow motion—little sparkles emitting from his locks, sending all the hoes into pleasure-driven squeals. And eventually—around half way through the very first play-through—the player (aka the female lead) would show up and knock him off his feet.
And they'd live happily ever after!—
Is what was fated to happen.
And your mission should've been simple. After all, you got transmigrated half-way through the storyline. In fact, the two main characters should've been getting it on by now. So why the heck was Han Taesan staring at you like you were some sort of new technology.
This was bad. You were on your third and final day.
You had somehow pioneered a way to avoid him during the first day...
By running the opposite way at the mere sight of him—
It worked like a charm.
Aside from in classroom settings where you were forced to blend into the crowd of squawking fans.
You tried your hardest.
Really, you did.
You even attempted to squeal and act bashful at the slightest movement of his. But that act didn't last more than thirty minutes before you felt yourself recoil at your own cringy conduct.
So you opted to silently curse him out in your head and generally avoid all such interactions.
On the second day, you basically did nothing but stare out the window for half the day and manually try to deafen yourself whenever the cheers of his fanbase grew a little too loud.
You had sneaked a glance to see what the commotion was about, but it was nothing but Taesan writing down the date on his notebook.
Because apparently that was something extraordinary enough to squeal about.
“Seriously,” you had scowled lightly, watching with a raised brow. “This is actually canon?”
You had expected the surroundings to resemble the game but you didn't expect the fanbase to react at the most minutiae thing.
It was almost impressive.
Anyway, on the second day too, you had tried to follow the masses (near the back this time) as to not make yourself too suspicious.
That didn't stop the occasional judgmental looks you sent his way, but that was mainly because you weren't exactly...keen on his character's personality type.
It wasn't like you made your dislike obvious. At least, you don't think you did.
Surely the MC of a game where the whole world was practically kneeling at his feet wouldn't take notice of a singular, insignificant NPC...right?
It wasn't like the game had self-aware, sentient characters or something.
Haha!
Yeah, you were getting worried for nothing.
Nothing would happen. The whole thing was rigged in your favour.
It was day three now, too!
So you just had to sit back, relax, and enjoy the sho—
A sad-looking piece of paper came crashing down on your desk. Your heart almost gave out at the sheer force of the action, making you flinch so hard that you nearly stumbled off your seat.
The face that you really didn't want to see right now, was glaring down at you with worrying intensity. A twitching side-smile graced the corner of his lips. His face looked like it was somewhere between mild annoyance and an uncanny, sadistic glee.
Han Taesan, with the largest fan-ocean known to mankind cheering behind him, stood in front of you. Watching you like a hawk.
You gulped.
“You're the only one who hasn't signed the club form yet,”
WHY was he speaking to you?! Didn't he have other things to do? People to please? Female leads to seduce?!
And what happened to hi and hello???
Your eyes robotically avoided his, craning your neck to look out the window like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
NPCs were known to not talk much, right?
You could totally get away with acting clueless.
“Stop acting clueless.”
Okay, that was just uncalled for.
“Erm,” you were sweating buckets.
Should you just comply and register for something random? It's not like you'd be here to see how it played out or anything.
Lightly scratching the side of your face, you reached for the club form, only to freeze in place.
Taesan's eyes followed you like a police officer to a criminal. There was something suspicious about you, and he'd find out what it was even if he had to break the simulation.
“What.” He said flatly, noticing your random stillness.
You nervously chuckled, your shoulders rising as you presented your empty hands before him. A crooked, foolish smile playing at your lips.
“I uh...don't have a pen.”
“...”
Wha?...what kind of reaction was that? Why was he looking at you with such disappointment?!
He mumbled something under his breath, but you swore it sounded something like— “What kind of NPC doesn't carry around a pen with them.”
But how could he have known you were an NPC? That couldn't have been the case.
Right?..
...Nah.
“Taesan-sama, do you need a pen?”
...Beg your pardon?
You had to cover your mouth with your hands to stop yourself from laughing your ass off.
Taesan-sama...
Your eyes started watering from your repressed chortle. A snort escaped you. You shut your eyes tighter, as if that would help.
“Taesan-sama, I have one too!”
“Pfft—”
Oh my gosh.
You were gonna explode.
You totally forgot this game was set in Japan. And you totally forgot how highly respected this dude was amongst his peers. That took you way off-guard.
Taesan took one pensive look at your stifling self and raised his brow.
“I have a pen you can use.” Came a voice as calm as the swirling breeze. A voice so chillingly sweet that it forced you to calm down and open your eyes to look at the source.
There she was, the female lead of the story, standing in all her beautiful glory. With her pink hair and her bubblegum smile. She was glowing. No joke.
One little tilt of the head nearly got you swooning. But you played the game enough times to be mildly desensitised to her angelic effect.
And by enough times you mean once.
A cute, strawberry-head pen was pushed towards you, her dazzling orbs barely looking at you, and instead focused towards Taesan—which is what you expected of an automated MC. You were just an NPC to them after all.
“Ah,” your voice finally spoke, staring at the pen in front of you for a little while longer. “Thank you...” You reached for it, but another hand beat you to it.
Taesan's fingers politely pushed away the strawberry-pink pen, and shoved a basic looking pen your way instead.
“Here. Take it.”
You stayed quiet. Blinked once. Looked at the basic pen for approximately ten seconds.
Then reached for the strawberry pen instead.
Denied.
Again.
You could feel the slight flex of your brow.
What the...
What was with this guy?
Your eyes narrowed at him.
“I need a pen to sign the form.” You quipped passive-aggressively.
His jaw casually cocked forward. “There's one right here.”
Your eyes flit to the pen in his hands, then back to his dark eyes.
An irritatingly obvious twinkle of amusement twirled within them, as if he was gauging your reaction. Waiting for you to show something. To slip-up and shoot yourself in the foot.
Fine.
He wanted to play. Then you'd play.
You weren't about to involve yourself more than this. Having the two main characters in front of you was already enough of a headache, you had to defuse this situation asap.
Clearing your throat, your eyes swam past Taesan's figure—earning a very obvious furrow from him— and went directly to the swarm of students formulated behind him.
With the most uninteresting tone you could possibly muster, you put your hand up.
“Does anyone have a spare pen I can borrow?”
The most dooming silence.
...Okay. Rude.
You thought NPCs were meant to look out for one another.
“See? No one has one. Use mine.”
“I'm sorry, but what difference does it make if I use yours over hers?”
“Mine writes smoother.”
“Well, hers looks cooler.”
“Mine is brand new!”
“Hers is pink!”
“You know what—” he straightened up abruptly, snatching the club form from your desk. “Don't bother signing up.”
Wha—...was he for real right now?
A tick mark formed on your forehead, your teeth ground together, eye twitching in genuine irritation. “I wasn't going to in the first place, but your annoying ass came waltzing in like Cinderella and started bugging me—”
You stopped.
Wait...
This wasn't good. You couldn't lose your cool, it'd make you memorable. You were meant to be as forgettable as the 'p' in raspberry. If you made him interact with you anymore than now, you'd be done for.
Carefully, you lifted your gaze to catch his eyes.
You flinched at what you saw.
Something wasn't right...
They were shining.
Shining with something unspoken and ethereally dangerous.
An awareness that sent chills down your spine.
A consciousness that should have never been there in the first place.
Your eyes slowly fell back to the top of your desk, fingers interlocking in a formal manner on your table-top.
Ah.
You were so cooked.
The main cast was never meant to be this reactive to a side-character, yet alone an NPC.
Moreover, that look in his eyes... it wasn't normal.
It wasn't the usual spark of curiosity that you had learnt to ignore during the past few days.
No, this was something that crossed the line with no intent of returning. This was...
Interest.
And the way he grinned at you...
Something within you shifted.
It was like you already knew.
You weren't going home.
And a small part of you wondered if Taesan knew more than he let on.
The crowd dispersed with blurred conversations after your little scene. The day continued as normal, not including the gnawing feeling in your stomach. That silent dread that you did something very very wrong.
As the evening sun caramelised into something warmer, a cold sweat settled against your skin.
The bell to the end of the day hadn't even rang yet when your math teacher promptly announced the end of the day.
You tried to glance at the clock.
A body blocked your view.
Tall and exceptionally quick-witted, Han Taesan stood before your seated form, looking like he held all the cards. He stared at you for what felt like hours, calculatingly observing the way you bit your lip in anxiety, the way your fingers squeezed your statistics school book tighter.
The way your panicked eyes gazed up at him, as if pleading with him. Begging him not to do what he was about to do.
He smiled.
A smile you wish you had never witnessed.
Crouching down to your level, he brought his head right next to yours, angling his face to study your side profile, silently.
Inching closer to your ear, he spoke.
Airy. Calm. Knowing.
“See you tomorrow, darling.”
The whisper carried softly to your ears in a way that you hated, because in different circumstances, you might have allowed yourself to gush like a little girl.
But as Taesan retreated, sending you one last long look before walking away, and as the clock struck four with the school bell blasting loudly, a suffocating coldness flooded your chest, blood draining from your face as your eyes remained glued to the unmoving second hand.
Your classmates emptied the room within seconds, each giggling and skipping out of the room with the sun-rays dancing across their skin, as if revitalising them.
As if today was a day to be celebrated.
You remained seated, your eyes never leaving the clock.
The longer hand didn't cease to tick, taunting you with the reality that you had long realised to be true despite all your efforts.
On day three, with less than a minute to spare for your freedom, Han Taesan tore the script, trapping you in the game.
so i've been thinking, idk if y'all have read (u don't need to btw) "dont hate me because im beautiful" but looking at the synopsis (which I'll include below), i was wondering if any of u wanted a bnd version?
In hindsight it would essentially be the story with the chosen member's name switched in from Sunoo's. But for some reason i was going through it again and I thought it'd be fun if it were someone else like idk Jaehyun or anyone else.
Pls lmk if im tripping, but would anyone like to see that? U can suggest another member too if you'd like.
PAIRING: fashionschool!*member* x rival! classmate!reader
SYNOPSIS: When life tastes too sweet and the sun shines too brightly in the sky, that is when you ought to beware and brace yourself for impact. You had to learn this the hard way. Your final year of fashion school was meant to be your glory days— a catapult to your grandiose debut in the fashion industry; your heaven on earth, a free ticket to graduating at the top of the arts institution with flair and an unyielding sense of peace and fulfilment. Perhaps even paired with an obnoxious, villainous laugh. That was your carefully scripted “reality.” Until the one person you hated the most in the whole wide solar system waltzed into the classroom and ruined all potential plans of an early retirement, creative freedom and a stable blood pressure. Now, forced to co-operate alongside the very bane of your existence, you're plunged into an unwanted partnership, cat fights instead of catwalks, and an unavoidable confrontation of a ridiculously long historical rivalry.
would u like to see a bnd version?
yesss gimme 14 of em right noW (comment which member you'd like)
Genre: Romance • Friends to Lovers • Second Chance • Slow Burn • Mutual Pining • Angst • Mature
Sypnosis: The sea gave you your first love. Time took him away. Now, after years apart, one unexpected return will force you to face the life, and the heart, you left behind.
A/N: Hi, lovelies! I have a little surprise for you, another Seokjin story. Before anything else, I just want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for always supporting my stories. Every comment, reblog, like, and message means so much to me, and I’m so grateful you’re here sharing these journeys with me.
I hope Our Last Summer becomes a story you’ll love as much as I loved writing it. It’s a slow-burn romance wrapped in nostalgia, healing, and all the bittersweet feelings that summer leaves behind. Part 2 will be posted tomorrow, if we have electricity. There’s a typhoon expected to pass through our area, so I’m crossing my fingers that the power stays on. If there are any delays, I promise I’ll upload it as soon as everything is back to normal. Until then, I hope you enjoy reading, and thank you for being here. Happy reading! 🤍
The camera never cared about the truth. Only the story it could sell. For three weeks, your face had belonged to everyone except yourself. It stared back from the glowing screens suspended above subway platforms. It smiled stiffly from magazine covers stacked inside convenience stores. It followed you through endless headlines that reduced years of love, sacrifice, and ambition into a handful of carefully chosen words.
ARCHITECT LEFT AT THE ALTAR.
REAL ESTATE DYNASTY’S FAIRYTALE ENGAGEMENT ENDS IN SCANDAL.
WHO REALLY WALKED AWAY?
Everyone seemed desperate to know what had happened. No one asked how it felt.
By the end, you had stopped reading the articles altogether. They were no longer writing about you. They were writing about the woman they’d invented, a polished stranger who wore designer heels and heartbreak equally well.
Somewhere beneath the cameras, the interviews, and the relentless speculation, you had quietly disappeared. So, one rainy evening, without announcing it to anyone, you packed a single leather suitcase. You turned off your phone, and you left.
The bus pulled away from the tiny Haedam terminal with a tired groan, disappearing around the curve of the coastal road until only silence remained.
You stood alone beneath the faded terminal sign, your suitcase beside your feet. The sea breeze greeted you before anything else. It smelled exactly the same.
Salt. Cold morning air. Wet stone.
Drying seaweed tangled against old wooden docks.
The scent reached somewhere impossibly deep inside you, awakening memories you hadn’t realized were still alive.
You hadn’t been back in ten years. Ten summers. Ten birthdays. Ten winters that never smelled like the ocean.
The village hadn’t changed. The old bakery still leaned slightly toward the road. The fish market awnings fluttered lazily in the wind. A pair of elderly women swept their front steps while discussing someone else’s business before sunrise. Time had continued here without asking whether you planned to return.
Your grandfather used to say the sea disliked people who rushed.
“The tide always comes back,” he would tell you whenever you complained about how slowly life moved in Haedam.
“Everything important does.”
You wished he had been right about everything.
The walk to his house felt both familiar and foreign. Wildflowers pushed through cracks in the stone path. Hydrangeas, left untended for years, spilled over the fence in wild shades of blue and lavender. The wooden gate groaned exactly as it always had. You almost expected your grandfather to call from the porch.
“You’re late.”
“Dinner’s getting cold.”
Instead… Only silence.
The house stood exactly where memory had left it.
Smaller. Older. Lonelier.
White paint peeled away from the wooden walls in curling strips. The windows were fogged by years of sea salt. The wind chime hanging beneath the eaves clinked softly against itself, as though greeting an old friend.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you unlocked the front door. The familiar scent met you immediately.
Dust. Old books. Sun-warmed wood.
A faint trace of tobacco lingering stubbornly inside the walls despite three years of absence.
You closed your eyes. For one impossible second, you were sixteen again. Your grandfather was humming in the kitchen. Rice steamed on the stove. Someone laughed outside. Someone...
No. Just memory.
When you opened your eyes again, sunlight fell across empty furniture wrapped beneath white sheets. You carried your suitcase inside. It landed softly on the floor. You didn’t unpack, because you couldn’t bring yourself to decide where anything belonged anymore.
For years, your life had revolved around blueprints.
Measurements. Deadlines. Precision.
Every line drawn with purpose. Every building carefully planned before the first stone ever touched the ground. Yet somewhere along the way, you had forgotten how to build a life.
Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another camera flash exploded behind your eyelids. Questions you never answered. Smiles you had forced. Hands you had finally let go of. By four-thirty, the darkness inside the house had become unbearable. You slipped into an oversized cream sweater, shoved your hands into its sleeves, and quietly stepped outside. The village still slept, only the harbor was awake.
The wooden pier stretched into the East Sea like a path leading nowhere. Mist drifted across the water in slow, ghostly ribbons. The horizon hadn’t yet decided whether it wanted to become morning. You walked without thinking. One foot after another. The planks creaked beneath your sneakers. Water slapped gently against weathered pilings below.
The sea breathed. In. Out. In. Out.
For the first time in weeks, your own breathing matched it. The weight inside your chest loosened. You leaned against the old railing and watched darkness slowly surrender to dawn.
Then, a deep thud echoed across the harbor. Wood striking wood. Curiosity drew your gaze toward the farthest dock. Beyond the curtain of sea mist, a cargo vessel rested quietly against the private berth once owned by the old fishing cooperative.
Someone stood aboard. Lifting enormous cedar beams from the deck one by one. Even from this distance, his movements were unmistakably practiced.
No wasted effort. No unnecessary speed. Each plank settled exactly where it belonged. Strong hands, steady shoulders. The kind of quiet confidence earned only through years of repetition.
You found yourself walking before realizing you’d moved. The mist shifted. Morning light spread gently across the harbor. The figure became clearer. Broad shoulders filled out a faded charcoal work shirt rolled to his forearms. His skin had darkened beneath countless summers beneath the sun. Fine cedar dust clung to powerful arms marked by thin white scars.
He lowered the final timber onto the dock. The sound rolled across the quiet harbor like distant thunder. Straightening slowly, he brushed sawdust from his hands. Then he looked up. His eyes found yours immediately. Your heartbeat stopped. Ten years collapsed into a single breath.
Kim Seokjin.
The cheerful boy who used to race you down these docks no longer existed. In his place stood a man.
Older. Broader.
His features had sharpened with time, softened only by the quiet steadiness resting beneath them. His dark hair was slightly longer than you remembered, falling across his forehead in loose strands dampened by the sea breeze. His hands, once always scraped from climbing rocks and repairing fishing nets, were larger now, stronger, carrying the unmistakable imprint of years spent shaping wood.
He looked… like Haedam itself.
Weathered. Enduring.
Beautiful in a way that only time could create.
Your lips parted instinctively. You waited for the grin that always arrived before his words. For the teasing remark about city girls waking before sunrise. For your name. None of it came. He simply looked at you. Long enough to notice the shadows beneath your eyes. The expensive sweater that belonged to another world. The exhaustion you wore more visibly than any designer label.
And you looked back. Searching for the seventeen-year-old boy who once promised to build impossible boats and impossible futures. All you found was a decade neither of you knew how to cross.
The harbor remained perfectly still. Even the gulls seemed to have forgotten how to sing. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you smiled. Between you stretched ten silent years. Years measured not by calendars, but by missed birthdays, unanswered calls, letters that never arrived, and summers that slipped quietly into memory.
The sea rolled gently against the pier. As though it had been waiting all this time. As though it already knew something neither of you had yet found the courage to believe.
Some tides, no matter how far they wander…
always find their way home.
A gull cried overhead. The sound carried you backward. Not by days or months, but by an entire lifetime. Back to the first summer you ever came to hate the sea.
At fifteen, you were convinced Haedam was the most boring place on earth. Every June, just as Seoul came alive with festivals, cafés crowded with students, and plans stretching endlessly into summer nights, your parents packed you onto a bus heading three hours east without so much as asking whether you wanted to go.
“It’ll only be for a few weeks,” your mother would say while fastening an expensive watch around her wrist, already distracted by another business call. “Your grandfather misses you.”
Your father barely looked up from the stack of blueprints spread across the dining table. His company had just secured another stretch of coastline for its newest luxury resort, and every conversation in the house revolved around investors, permits, and expansion. Haedam was never part of those conversations. It was simply convenient. A quiet place to leave their daughter while they built bigger dreams elsewhere.
You used to imagine they would miss you after you left. That perhaps, on the second or third night, they would realize how empty the house felt without you and drive across the country to bring you home. They never did.
Every summer, the bus returned exactly when it was supposed to. Not a day earlier. Not a day later. By the third year, you stopped waiting for surprises.
Haedam became something to endure. There were no department stores, no cinemas, no cafés where teenagers lingered until sunset. Your phone lost signal more often than it worked, and the internet crawled so slowly that even sending a photograph felt impossible.
The villagers knew one another by name, greeting every passerby as though privacy had never been invented. They woke before sunrise, measured time by the tides instead of clocks, and somehow found endless things to talk about while peeling squid or mending fishing nets.
To fifteen-year-old you, it felt like the entire village had been abandoned by time. Your grandfather loved it. You counted the days until you could leave it.
“You’ll understand someday,” he often said, smiling as he watered the vegetable garden behind the house. “The sea teaches patience.”
You rolled your eyes every single time. You didn’t want patience, you wanted Seoul.
The rain began shortly after lunch. A slow drizzle at first, barely enough to dampen the rooftops, before thick gray clouds swallowed the sky whole. By evening, the village had disappeared beneath sheets of relentless summer rain.
Your grandfather had gone to help repair a neighbor’s leaking roof, leaving you with strict instructions not to wander too far. Naturally, you did exactly that. Pulling the hood of your sweatshirt over your head, you marched toward the harbor with the kind of dramatic indignation only fifteen-year-olds could sustain.
Your sneakers splashed through puddles. The rain soaked your jeans within minutes. “This place is unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath. “Who actually likes living here?”
The sea answered with another wave crashing against the breakwater. You kicked a loose pebble into the water. It disappeared without ceremony. Just like every summer you spent here.
The pier stretched ahead, slick with rainwater and streaks of dark green kelp left behind by the morning tide. You barely noticed your footing, too busy composing imaginary complaints you planned to unleash the moment you returned to Seoul.
You took one more step. Your foot landed squarely on the slick ribbon of seaweed. Everything happened at once. The world lurched sideways. The sky spun. Your balance vanished beneath you. Before you could even scream, the dock disappeared from under your feet. The harbor swallowed you whole. The cold stole your breath first. Then your sense of direction. Saltwater rushed into your nose as panic clawed through every instinct you had. You flailed blindly, unable to tell where the surface was. The heavy rain blurred what little light reached beneath the water, turning everything into shifting shades of gray. You had never realized how terrifying silence could be.
Above the surface, the storm continued. Below it, there was nothing except darkness. Then—
Something grabbed your wrist. A powerful tug pulled you upward. Your head burst through the surface with a violent gasp. Air rushed into your lungs so quickly it hurt, followed immediately by an embarrassing fit of coughing that left your eyes stinging with tears. Strong arms hooked beneath your shoulders and hauled you toward the dock with practiced ease. A moment later, you collapsed onto rain-soaked timber, coughing seawater onto the planks. You lay there shivering, too stunned to move. Then laughter echoed above you, completely unapologetic.
“You should’ve seen your face.”
Your head snapped up. Standing over you was a boy about your age, drenched from head to toe, dark hair plastered across his forehead by the rain. His sleeves were rolled carelessly to his elbows, revealing lean forearms scratched with tiny cuts that looked as though they had healed and reopened a hundred times. A coil of fishing rope rested over one shoulder, and despite having just jumped into the harbor after a complete stranger, he looked far more amused than concerned. “You looked exactly like a flounder.”
You blinked. “What?”
“A flounder,” he repeated, grinning so widely that his eyes nearly disappeared. “You know…” He flailed his arms dramatically. “Splash. Splash.”
“I almost drowned!”
“I noticed.”
“And you’re laughing!”
“I am.”
“You are the rudest person I’ve ever met.”
His grin only widened. “I’m the one who pulled you out.”
“I didn’t ask you to laugh about it.”
“No,” he admitted cheerfully, “but it was really funny.”
You stared at him in complete disbelief. This ridiculous boy had just rescued your life and somehow managed to irritate you within the span of thirty seconds. He crouched beside you and offered a hand. “Can you stand?”
You ignored it. “I can stand by myself.”
You pushed yourself upright. Immediately, your soaked sneaker slipped again. Before you could tumble back into the harbor, he caught your elbow. “There it is again,” he laughed. “The flounder.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
“I don’t need to.”
He finally released your arm before extending his hand once more, this time with surprising sincerity.“I’m Kim Seokjin.”
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. Rain drummed softly against the wooden pier. A fishing boat bell chimed somewhere beyond the mist. You looked at the hand waiting patiently between you before accepting it with reluctant fingers. His palm was warm despite the rain. Rough, too, carrying the faint texture of splintered wood and fishing rope. He smelled of cedar shavings, sea salt, and sunlight lingering beneath fresh rain, a scent that somehow belonged entirely to him.
“I’m Y/N.”
“Seoul?”
You frowned. “How did you know?”
He smiled as though the answer were obvious. “You looked offended the moment you got off the bus.”
Against your better judgment, a laugh escaped. The first one you’d laughed all summer. Seokjin noticed. He didn’t say anything. He simply smiled to himself, as though he’d already decided something. The city girl who hated the sea was going to be far more interesting than the sea itself.
No one could remember exactly when Kim Seokjin and the girl from Seoul stopped being strangers. Perhaps it happened the afternoon he taught you how to bait a fishing hook without flinching. Perhaps it was the evening you finally accepted the steamed sweet potato his mother had wrapped in newspaper because she noticed you had skipped lunch again. Or perhaps it happened so quietly that no one, not even the two of you, noticed until one summer simply flowed into the next, and it became impossible to imagine Haedam without seeing you together.
After that rainy afternoon on the pier, Seokjin seemed to appear everywhere. Waiting outside your grandfather’s gate with two rusted bicycles before breakfast. Calling your name beneath your bedroom window because the tide was low enough to catch crabs. Dragging you across beaches, forests, and hidden coves with the unwavering confidence of someone convinced the world held something beautiful around every corner.
You complained constantly. The rocks were slippery. The sun was too hot. The ocean smelled strange. Your shoes were ruined. Your hands were dirty. Seokjin only laughed. “You’ve got a complaint ready for everything.”
“And you’re annoying.”
“But you still came.”
You hated admitting he had a point.
The sea slowly became less frightening beneath his patient guidance. He showed you where tiny crabs hid beneath smooth rocks exposed during low tide and how to slide your fingers behind their shells before they could pinch you. The first time you managed to catch one without shrieking, he applauded so dramatically that fishermen across the shoreline turned to look, leaving you bright red with embarrassment while he nearly doubled over laughing.
By the following summer, you no longer hesitated to wade into the tide beside him. Your city shoes were replaced with worn rubber boots. Your perfectly manicured nails disappeared beneath stubborn traces of sand. You learned how to untangle fishing nets without tearing them, how to tell tomorrow’s weather by watching the clouds gather above the horizon, and why every boat in the harbor carried a name instead of a number.
“The sea remembers names,” Seokjin explained one evening as the two of you sat at the end of the breakwater, legs dangling above the water.
“You’re making that up.”
You rolled your eyes. Yet somehow, you remembered every word.
The summers settled into a rhythm all their own. Before dawn, the harbor came alive beneath a sky still painted in deep shades of blue. You stood shoulder to shoulder beside Seokjin at the fish market, clumsily weighing baskets of squid while sleepy fishermen teased your hopeless bargaining skills. Elderly grandmothers slipped extra rice cakes into your hands because you looked too thin. By midmorning, the market echoed with laughter, gulls circled overhead, and the smell of grilled mackerel drifted through every narrow alley.
Afternoons belonged to adventure. You raced bicycles along winding coastal roads lined with wild hydrangeas, neither of you willing to admit who had won because both of you insisted the other had cheated. After typhoons, you searched the beaches for shells polished smooth by the waves, filling old glass jars until your grandfather complained there was no room left in the house. On especially clear days, Seokjin led you to the cliffs overlooking the East Sea, where pods of dolphins occasionally surfaced beyond the breakwater, their sleek backs glimmering silver beneath the afternoon sun before vanishing into endless blue.
Every discovery felt enormous because he celebrated the ordinary as though it were miraculous. A perfectly shaped shell. The season’s first squid. A cloud that looked like a whale. You had spent your entire childhood surrounded by people chasing bigger things. Seokjin somehow made smaller things feel infinite.
When August arrived, the nights grew warm enough to linger outside long after the village lights had gone dark. The two of you would sit at the end of the wooden pier sharing a single cup of instant ramen because neither of you wanted to walk home yet. Steam curled into the cool night air as the stars slowly multiplied overhead, reflected so clearly upon the calm sea that it became impossible to tell where the sky ended and the water began.
One summer, the annual Perseid meteor shower painted streaks of white across the heavens. “There,” Seokjin whispered, pointing upward.
“I missed it.”
“You blinked.”
“I didn’t blink.”
“You definitely blinked.”
“I hate watching stars with you.”
“You’ll still come next year.”
You looked at him. “I probably will.”
He smiled without saying another word.
By then, neither of you noticed how naturally your shoulders brushed together whenever you sat side by side. Silence no longer felt awkward. Sometimes hours passed with only the sound of waves filling the space between you, and somehow those became the conversations you remembered most.
Without realizing it, Haedam stopped feeling like exile. The bus ride there became something you anticipated instead of dreaded. Each June, you found yourself packing days before your parents reminded you. The countdown you once kept until returning to Seoul quietly disappeared, replaced by an entirely different one, the number of days until summer began again.
Your grandfather noticed first. “You smile more here.”
“I do not.”
He chuckled over the rim of his teacup. “Then why do you only laugh like that when Seokjin’s around?”
You nearly choked on your rice.
The village noticed too. In Haedam, nothing remained secret for long. Whenever the two of you walked through the morning market together, elderly women exchanged knowing smiles over baskets of anchovies. Fishermen nudged one another as Seokjin instinctively reached for your wrist whenever the docks became too crowded. Children giggled whenever they spotted the two of you riding the same bicycle home after yours inevitably developed another mysterious flat tire.
“So,” Grandma Hyeon would ask while setting bowls of handmade noodles in front of you, “when are you two finally admitting it?”
“Admitting what?” you replied.
“That you like each other.”
The answer always came at exactly the same time.“We’re just friends.”
The entire restaurant burst into laughter. No one believed you. Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, neither did you.
But friendship felt safe. Friendship couldn’t be ruined by distance. Friendship didn’t ask frightening questions about forever. So every summer, you repeated the same lie until it almost sounded true.“We’re just friends.”
The sea, patient as ever, kept its own counsel. It watched the lingering glances, the hands that reached for one another without thinking, the quiet smiles shared across crowded markets and moonlit piers. The tide understood what neither of you was ready to name.
Some stories don’t begin with a confession. Some begin with years of choosing the same person, over and over again, until love becomes so woven into ordinary days that it feels indistinguishable from breathing.
The summer you turned seventeen arrived wrapped in golden afternoons and restless skies. By then, Haedam had become inseparable from Seokjin. You could no longer think of the village without thinking of him first, the boy waiting outside your grandfather’s gate with a bicycle missing one pedal, the boy who knew exactly when the tide would change, the boy who somehow managed to make every ordinary day feel like an adventure worth remembering.
It happened near the end of August. The morning had begun bright enough to convince the entire village that the typhoon forecast was wrong. Fishermen pushed their boats farther out than usual, children chased one another across the beach collecting seashells, and laundry danced lazily beneath the warm sea breeze.
Then the sky changed. Dark clouds gathered over the horizon with startling speed, swallowing the sunlight until the sea turned the color of weathered steel. The wind arrived first, carrying the sharp scent of rain and salt, followed moments later by a crack of thunder that rolled across the coastline.
“Run!” Seokjin laughed, already grabbing your wrist.
You barely had time to protest before the heavens opened. Rain crashed onto the harbor in heavy sheets, drenching both of you within seconds. The narrow streets emptied almost instantly as villagers hurried indoors, laughing while balancing baskets over their heads.
You and Seokjin sprinted toward the nearest shelter. His father’s workshop. The old building stood just beyond the docks, its weathered cedar walls darkened by decades of sea wind. Seokjin shoved open the heavy wooden door, and the two of you stumbled inside, breathless and soaked, just as another roar of thunder shook the windows. The rain continued hammering against the roof. Inside, however, the world felt wonderfully still.
The workshop carried a scent unlike anywhere else in Haedam. Fresh cedar, warm pine resin, machine oil, old varnish. Salt embedded so deeply into the timber that even the walls seemed to breathe the ocean. Half-finished boats rested on wooden cradles throughout the room, their curved hulls resembling sleeping giants waiting patiently for the tide. Hand tools lined the walls in perfect order, planes polished smooth from decades of use, chisels worn by careful hands, coils of thick rope, brass fittings, and neatly stacked planks waiting for their turn to become something beautiful. You wandered slowly between them. “I think this place smells exactly like you.”
Seokjin looked up from wringing rainwater out of his sleeves. “What does that mean?”
“Cedar.” You inhaled dramatically. “And seawater.”
“And?”
“…A little bit like fish.”
He stared at you in mock offense. “I do not smell like fish.”
“You absolutely do.”
“My mother would disagree.”
“Your mother is biased.”
He laughed, the sound echoing warmly through the workshop. “You smell like Seoul.”
You frowned. “What does Seoul smell like?”
He tilted his head as though considering it seriously “Books.”
“Books?”
“And coffee.”
“I don’t even drink coffee.”
“I know.”
“So that doesn’t make sense.”
He smiled. “It doesn’t have to.”
Before you could answer, another rumble of thunder rattled the roof. The lights flickered once before disappearing completely. Only the gray afternoon filtering through the windows remained. “I guess we’re trapped,” you sighed.
“There are worse places.”
He was right. The workshop didn’t feel abandoned, it felt alive. Every scratch across the wooden floor carried the memory of another boat built by loving hands. Every unfinished hull seemed to hold a story waiting for its ending. Your eyes wandered toward an old storage shelf tucked into the corner of the room. Something rested beneath a faded canvas cloth.
Curious, you lifted it. A worn leather sketchbook. The cover was cracked with age, its corners softened by years of careful handling. Dust scattered into the air as you brushed your fingers across it. “What’s this?”
Seokjin glanced over. “Oh.”
He smiled. “My father used to keep all his old designs in there.”
You settled cross-legged on the floor and opened the first page. Instead of neat engineering drawings, you found rough pencil sketches of fishing boats dating back decades. Some pages contained measurements written hastily in faded ink. Others held tiny notes in the margins, changes to make, mistakes to avoid, reminders written by craftsmen whose hands had shaped almost every vessel resting in Haedam Harbor. You turned another page, another, until you reached the first blank sheet. “So…”
You picked up a pencil lying nearby. “What would your dream boat look like?”
Seokjin blinked. “My dream boat?”
“You’ve fixed everyone else’s.”
“So?”
“What about yours?”
He sat beside you, knees brushing lightly against yours. For the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at the empty page. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“Liar.”
“I haven’t.”
“You think about boats all the time.”
“I think about work.”
“That’s different.”
“So tell me.”
You rested the pencil against the paper. “If nobody told you what a boat should look like… what would you build?”
The question lingered between you. Outside, rain continued drumming against the roof. Inside, something quietly shifted. Seokjin reached over and drew the first line. A long sweeping curve. The outline of a hull. “It has to be made from cedar,” he said. “Strong enough to survive storms.”
You nodded thoughtfully before adding your own lines above his. “And enormous windows.”
He looked horrified. “Glass?”
“So you can see the ocean from inside.”
“Glass breaks.”
“Not if I design it.”
He laughed. “Fine.”
He handed the pencil back. You sketched confidently, years before either of you realized architecture would become your future. “A rooftop deck.”
“For what?”
“Watching meteor showers.”
“You can do that from the beach.”
“But this is better.”
He pretended to consider it. “…You’re right.”
The ideas came faster after that. Deep blue canvas sails that would catch even the gentlest wind. A tiny galley kitchen where someone could make ramen at midnight. Built-in bookshelves lining the cabin walls. A table just large enough for two people. Hidden compartments beneath the floor. A hammock stretching across the bow. Lanterns hanging from polished beams. You filled page after page together, laughing whenever one of you suggested something completely impractical. “You know this boat doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“It’ll never fit inside the harbor.”
“We’ll make the harbor bigger.”
He shook his head, smiling. “You really think architects can solve everything.”
“You really think wood can.”
He glanced down at the sketchbook. Neither of you noticed when the rain stopped. The afternoon slipped quietly into evening, yet neither of you moved. By the time the final page was filled, the impossible little boat felt strangely real. “What should we call her?” you asked softly.
Seokjin looked through the workshop window toward the sea, where the setting sun painted ribbons of gold across calm water. Then he smiled. “Summer Tide.”
You wrote the name carefully across the top of the page. Summer Tide. The words somehow completed the drawing. For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply admired the dream resting between you. Finally, Seokjin broke the silence. “When we’re adults…”
His voice was quieter than usual. He turned toward you, his eyes reflecting the last amber light filtering through the workshop windows. “I’ll build her.”
You searched his face, expecting another joke. There wasn’t one. He meant every word. The boat on those pages was impossible. Too ambitious, too expensive, too full of dreams for two teenagers who owned little more than a sketchbook and a summer. Yet somehow… looking into his eyes, you believed him without question. Smiling, you extended your pinky toward him. “It’s a promise.”
Seokjin hooked his finger around yours without hesitation. “It’s a promise.”
The sketchbook was never meant to become a love story. It was supposed to hold measurements, calculations, and impossible ideas drawn by two teenagers who believed dreams could simply be penciled into existence. Instead, somewhere between one summer and the next, it quietly became the place where the two of you left pieces of yourselves behind.
The first changes were almost accidental. A note scribbled in the margin after a long day at sea. A crooked little drawing squeezed into an empty corner of the page. A date circled because neither of you wanted to forget it. By the following summer, neither of you remembered who had started it. Only that the blank spaces never stayed blank for long.
One afternoon, while Seokjin disappeared to help his father unload the morning catch, you stole the sketchbook from the workshop shelf and opened it to the page where the galley kitchen was carefully sketched. Beneath the tiny stove, you wrote in neat handwriting: Jin caught three octopuses today and acted like he’d conquered the entire ocean. He made everyone clap for him. Including me.
You closed the book before he returned, fighting a smile. You forgot about it. Until the next morning. The sketchbook landed in your lap while the two of you sat beneath the lighthouse eating steamed corn. Confused, you opened it. Below your sentence, written in much messier handwriting, was a reply. Correction: Four octopuses. One escaped because somebody screamed so loudly it scared it away. You burst into laughter. “It surprised me.”
“It surprised the octopus too.”
You grabbed the nearest towel and threw it at him. He caught it effortlessly. “You know,” he said, trying very hard not to laugh, “your aim is getting better.”
“My aim has always been good.”
“You missed me.”
“I wasn’t aiming for you.”
“Liar.”
From then on, the sketchbook developed a life of its own. It no longer waited for storms or rainy afternoons inside the workshop. It traveled everywhere. Sometimes tucked beneath Seokjin’s arm. Sometimes forgotten inside your grandfather’s kitchen. Sometimes balanced between the two of you while sitting at the end of the pier long after everyone else had gone home. The blueprints remained. But around them… life quietly bloomed. Beside the panoramic windows, Seokjin once wrote: Y/N says sunsets look prettier through glass. I still think they’re prettier sitting beside her. He crossed out the final three words so aggressively the paper nearly tore. You pretended not to notice.
Near the rooftop deck, you drew an embarrassingly terrible sketch of Seokjin asleep beneath the stars, mouth slightly open. The caption read: Captain Summer Tide snores louder than seagulls.
When he found it, he spent nearly twenty minutes insisting he did no such thing.
Some pages became records of victories only the two of you understood. Y/N finally touched a crab without screaming. Beside it, you added: For exactly three seconds. Then I screamed. Progress.
Another page read: Lost bicycle race. Seokjin insists he won fairly. I suspect cheating. Investigation ongoing.
His response appeared underneath the next day. Architects should stop making excuses and pedal faster.
You spent the rest of the afternoon refusing to speak to him. He lasted eighteen minutes before apologizing with strawberry ice cream. Neither of you ever admitted that he had actually won.
The sketchbook slowly stopped documenting the boat. Instead, it documented everything the boat represented. The first dolphin you saw together beyond the breakwater. The old fisherman who claimed whales brought good luck. The day your grandfather accidentally burned lunch because he had fallen asleep listening to baseball on the radio. The night Haedam lost power during a summer storm, leaving the entire village illuminated only by candles while Seokjin played his father’s old guitar outside the workshop until nearly midnight.
Even ordinary afternoons became worth preserving. A shell glued carefully into one corner. A pressed hydrangea tucked between two pages. Movie ticket stubs from the tiny cinema two towns away. Receipts from convenience store ramen shared at two in the morning. Tiny pieces of an ordinary life that somehow felt extraordinary simply because you had lived it together.
By eighteen, the two of you had become so inseparable that people rarely said one name without immediately mentioning the other. “If Seokjin’s here, Y/N can’t be far.”
The village simply accepted it as fact. So did your grandfather.
One evening, he found the two of you asleep on the porch swing, the sketchbook balanced across your laps. He smiled quietly, lifted a blanket over your shoulders, and whispered to himself, “Some people spend their whole lives looking for home.”
Neither of you heard him. You slept through the entire sunset.
As the years passed, something subtle began to change. The space between your shoulders disappeared whenever you walked together. Conversations grew quieter, no longer needing jokes to fill every silence. When you laughed, Seokjin found himself watching your smile longer than whatever had caused it. When he smiled, you often forgot what you had been about to say. Without thinking, he reached for your hand whenever the harbor became crowded. Without thinking, you let him. His fingers lingered a heartbeat longer before letting go. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither wanted to.
There were moments that almost became confessions. Watching meteor showers stretched across the rooftop of the workshop while your shoulders rested comfortably against one another. Standing ankle-deep in seawater at sunset as the tide curled around your feet. Sharing a single umbrella that somehow left both of you equally soaked. Looking up at him after laughing too hard to breathe, only to discover he had already been looking at you. Time seemed to pause during moments like those. The world shrank until only the two of you remained. Then someone would clear their throat. A fisherman would call Seokjin’s name. Your grandfather would announce dinner. Reality always returned before courage could arrive.
Because friendship was easy. Friendship didn’t ask impossible questions. It didn’t wonder what would happen when summer ended. It didn’t force either of you to imagine life after graduation.
Love did, and love carried the terrifying possibility of losing the one person who had quietly become the center of every season. So neither of you crossed the invisible line waiting patiently between you. Instead, you pretended not to notice it.
You hid inside familiar routines. Morning markets. Late-night ramen. Bike rides. Meteor showers. Another page. Another memory. Another summer.
Near the back of the sketchbook, tucked beside the final blueprint of Summer Tide, someone eventually wrote a single sentence in careful pencil. Neither of you could remember who wrote it first. Perhaps it didn’t matter. We’ll build this someday.
Years later, you would discover that those four words had never been about the boat. They had always been about the life you were too young, too frightened, and too hopeful to name.
The last summer before adulthood arrived far too quickly. One moment, the two of you were still racing bicycles down the coastal road, arguing over who had cheated during the latest race. The next, university acceptance letters lay folded inside your backpacks, quietly reminding you that the life you had always known was nearing its end.
You had been accepted into one of Seoul’s most prestigious architecture programs. Seokjin had earned admission to a maritime engineering college several hours south of Haedam, where he planned to study traditional shipbuilding before returning home to modernize his father’s workshop.
For the first time since you were fifteen, the future no longer pointed in the same direction. Neither of you talked about it very much. Instead, you spent that final summer pretending nothing had changed. You still woke before sunrise to help unload fishing boats at the harbor. You still argued over instant ramen flavors at the convenience store. You still filled the sketchbook with ridiculous notes and impossible ideas, as though another summer would always arrive waiting for the two of you. Perhaps that was easier than admitting the truth. You had never learned how to say goodbye.
The annual Haedam Squid Festival arrived on the final weekend before both of you were scheduled to leave for university. It was the biggest celebration of the year. By late afternoon, the sleepy fishing village had transformed into something almost magical. Strings of warm lanterns stretched across narrow streets, glowing softly as twilight settled over the coastline. Food stalls lined the harbor, their grills hissing with fresh squid brushed in sweet soy glaze while clouds of fragrant smoke drifted lazily through the evening air. Children darted between laughing families carrying glowing toys, elderly couples danced to old trot songs playing from weathered speakers, and fishermen who spent most days battling rough seas suddenly looked years younger beneath the festival lights. The entire village seemed wrapped in happiness.
Your grandfather insisted on introducing you to every vendor, despite the fact that you had known them for years. “Our architect is leaving for Seoul,” he announced proudly to anyone willing to listen.
“And our Seokjin’s going to build the finest boats in Korea,” Grandma Hyeon added before stuffing another rice cake into his hand.
Seokjin rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Halmeoni…”
“What?” she teased. “I’m only telling the truth.”
You smiled. The warmth in your grandfather’s eyes made your heart ache in ways you couldn’t explain. He looked at both of you as though the future had already arrived. As though he could see something neither of you dared to imagine.
As the evening deepened, the festival grew louder. Music echoed across the harbor. The Ferris wheel turned slowly against the darkening sky. Somewhere near the pier, children counted down excitedly, waiting for the fireworks to begin.
“Come on,” Seokjin said quietly, appearing beside you with two cups of iced lemonade. “I know somewhere better.”
“Better than the festival?”
He grinned. “Much.”
Without waiting for an answer, he gently took your wrist and led you away from the crowd. You followed him through familiar alleyways, past the old market and the weathered breakwater, until the sounds of music softened behind you. The path curved upward toward the old lighthouse standing watch over Haedam’s rocky cliffs, just as it had for generations.
The grass swayed gently beneath the evening breeze. Below, waves folded endlessly against the shoreline. Above, the first stars began to appear.
“You always disappear before the fireworks,” you said.
“They’re prettier from here.”
The two of you settled beneath the lighthouse where wildflowers grew between weathered stones. From there, the entire village stretched below like a painting alive with flickering lanterns reflected across the sea. Neither of you spoke for a while. You simply watched people moving through streets that had witnessed every summer of your childhood.
“I don’t want to leave,” you admitted at last.
The words surprised even you. Seokjin looked toward the horizon. “I know.”
“I used to count the days until I could go back to Seoul.”
“I remember.”
“I don’t anymore.”
His smile was small. “I know that too.”
Silence settled comfortably between you. The kind of silence shared only by people who no longer needed words to understand one another. Far below, someone began counting. Ten. Nine. Eight.
The crowd’s voices floated upward on the sea breeze. Seven. Six. Five.
Your fingers brushed accidentally against his where they rested on the grass. Neither of you moved away. Four. Three. Two. One.
The first firework exploded high above the harbor. Gold burst across the sky like sunlight breaking apart, followed by crimson blooms that scattered over the dark sea in shimmering reflections. Another followed. Then another. Within moments, the heavens were alive with color, each explosion painting the coastline in fleeting shades of sapphire, emerald, silver, and scarlet. The light danced across Seokjin’s face. You turned to tell him how beautiful it was. He was already looking at you.
For a heartbeat, the entire world seemed to disappear. Only the quiet recognition that had been growing between you for years. Every summer morning. Every shared bowl of ramen. Every page inside the sketchbook. Every lingering glance neither of you had dared to acknowledge. It had always been leading here.
“I think…” Seokjin began softly, then stopped. You waited. He smiled nervously, looking almost younger for the first time in months. “I had this whole speech planned.”
“You did?”
“Mhmm.”
“What happened to it?”
“You looked at me.”
You laughed. “And?”
“I forgot every word.”
Another firework bloomed overhead, washing the lighthouse in brilliant blue light before fading back into darkness. Your smile lingered. “You don’t have to give a speech.”
“I don’t?”
You shook your head. “I already know.”
His eyes searched yours carefully. “You do?”
You nodded.
The realization settled gently between you. Not shocking, simply… true. As though the sea itself had known long before either of you did.
Seokjin reached up slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with fingers that trembled almost imperceptibly. “Can I kiss you?”
The question was barely louder than the wind. You answered the only way your heart knew how, by closing the distance yourself. His lips met yours with breathtaking tenderness, tentative at first, as though he feared even this might disappear if he moved too quickly. It was clumsy in the way every first kiss is, interrupted by nervous laughter and shy smiles neither of you could hide. Yet beneath that uncertainty lived years of quiet affection, patient friendship, and unspoken longing finally finding a place to rest.
When you pulled away, neither of you spoke immediately. Your foreheads remained touching. The fireworks continued blooming above the lighthouse, but neither of you noticed them anymore. The only thing either of you could hear was the shared rhythm of your breathing.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Seokjin confessed.
“How long?”
He pretended to think. “Since you stopped screaming every time you caught a crab.”
You laughed so hard you had to hide your face against his shoulder. “So… two years?”
“Maybe three.”
“I knew you liked me.”
“You were completely oblivious.”
“I was waiting for you.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “You were?”
You smiled. “I’ve been waiting since the meteor shower.”
He blinked. “The one when you pretended to fall asleep because you didn’t know what to say?”
Your silence answered for you. Seokjin groaned dramatically. “We wasted an entire year.”
“You wasted an entire year.”
“I thought you only saw me as your best friend.”
“I thought the exact same thing.”
He shook his head, laughing helplessly. “We’re both idiots.”
“The biggest.”
He reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours so naturally it felt as though they had always belonged there. Neither of you let go. The final fireworks blossomed overhead in a shower of brilliant white, illuminating the harbor one last time before the sky returned to darkness. Below, applause echoed through the village. Above, the stars quietly reclaimed the night.
“I’ll visit every chance I get,” you whispered.
“I’ll come to Seoul.”
“We’ll call.”
“Every day.”
“We’ll write.”
“I’ll send too many letters.”
“I’ll read every single one.”
You looked toward the sea stretching endlessly beyond the lighthouse. Distance suddenly felt enormous. Then Seokjin gently squeezed your hand.“It won’t matter.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do.”
He smiled with the same certainty he had worn the day he promised to build Summer Tide. “This isn’t the end of our story.”
“No?”
He looked at you with complete conviction. “It’s only the beginning.”
Standing beneath a sky still carrying the fading scent of fireworks, surrounded by the waves that had watched them grow from children into something far more fragile and beautiful, the two of you believed him. Because at eighteen, forever never feels impossible. It feels as natural as the tide returning to shore. Neither of you could have imagined that life, unlike the sea, does not always keep its promises.
Morning arrived with a quietness that felt almost cruel. The world should have looked different after last night. The sky should have been heavier. The sea should have been restless. Something, anything, should have reflected the ache blooming beneath your ribs. Instead, dawn unfolded exactly as it always had.
Soft blue light spilled across the wooden floorboards of your bedroom. The curtains swayed gently in the salt breeze drifting through the half-open window. Somewhere beyond the hill, gulls called to one another as fishing boats prepared to leave the harbor before sunrise. Haedam was waking. It had no idea your heart was breaking.
You stood beside the bed for a long time, staring at the suitcase lying open on the quilt your grandfather had sewn years ago. Yesterday it had been nothing more than luggage. Today it looked like proof that leaving was real. One sweater. Two pairs of jeans. Architecture textbooks. Your acceptance letter. A camera filled with photographs of another summer. Finally, your fingers settled on the old leather sketchbook. Its cracked cover was warm beneath your hand from where the morning sun had reached it.
You smiled despite yourself. Every page carried traces of the two of you. Blueprints. Pressed flowers. Ridiculous sketches. Tiny arguments scribbled into the margins. Fragments of ordinary days that somehow became unforgettable simply because they had been lived together. You carefully wrapped the sketchbook inside one of your sweaters before placing it on top of everything else. A knock interrupted the silence.
“Breakfast’s ready.”
Your grandfather’s voice was warm as always. You answered, but it came out quieter than you intended. “I’m coming.”
The kitchen smelled of grilled fish, rice, and soybean soup. Normally the familiar scents wrapped around you like home. This morning they only reminded you that home was about to become hundreds of kilometers away. Your grandfather kept talking while serving breakfast. He reminded you not to skip meals in Seoul. To call whenever you had time. To wear warm clothes when autumn arrived. The sort of advice he had given every summer since you were a child. You listened carefully. Because suddenly you wanted to remember every word.
When breakfast ended, he carried your suitcase to the front door before you could protest. Then he looked toward the gate and smiled knowingly. “He’s been waiting for almost an hour.”
You blinked. “What?”
“He said he didn’t want you carrying your suitcase alone.”
Your grandfather chuckled softly. “I don’t think the suitcase was the reason.”
He was sitting on the low stone wall outside the gate, elbows resting on his knees, watching the sea below the hill. The moment he heard the gate open, he looked back. Your eyes met. Neither of you smiled immediately. There was simply relief. The quiet relief of seeing someone one more time before the world asked too much of both of you. Then he stood. “I thought you might still be asleep.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Me neither.”
He picked up your suitcase before you could reach for it. Your eyes stung already.
The walk toward the terminal felt strangely unfamiliar despite being a road you had traveled countless times. Every step carried the awareness that this would be your last walk together for a long while. Neither of you hurried. You stopped to watch fishermen untangle their nets. Paused outside the bakery where warm bread cooled on wooden racks. Waited while an elderly woman slowly crossed the street carrying flowers from her garden. You stretched ordinary moments because neither of you was ready for the extraordinary one waiting at the end. Halfway there, he reached into his backpack. “I made something.”
You unfolded the cloth he handed you. Resting inside was a tiny wooden boat carved from cedar. The details stole your breath. Tiny windows. Little sails. Even the curved railing you had once drawn absentmindedly in the corner of the sketchbook. “Summer Tide.”
He nodded. “I thought maybe…”
He hesitated. “…if you missed Haedam…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. You closed your fingers carefully around the little boat. It smelled exactly like his father’s workshop, like cedar, like salt, like summer, like him. “It’s beautiful.”
“It isn’t finished.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
He smiled. “I’ll finish the real one someday.”
You believed him without question.
The terminal appeared around the next bend. The bus was already waiting. Its engine hummed quietly. Passengers loaded luggage beneath the driver’s watchful eye. Reality had arrived without asking, without mercy, neither of you moved. Instead, he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.
“I was up late.”
You unfolded it. Across the top he had written in crooked block letters:
Operation: Stay Close Even Far Away
Below it was a list.
Call every night. Write letters even when we have nothing important to say. Visit whenever we can. Never pretend we’re okay if we’re not. Don’t let silence become misunderstanding.
The last line was written much smaller than the others. Please don’t forget me.
The tears came before you reached the end. You tried laughing through them. “It was going so well.”
“What was?”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
He stepped closer. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, catching a tear before it fell.
“You don’t have to be brave all the time.”
“I’m not trying to be brave.”
“No?”
“I’m trying to remember your face.”
His expression softened. “As if you could forget.”
“I’m scared I will.”
“You won’t.”
“What if I do?”
“Then I’ll remind you.”
“How?”
“I’ll keep calling until you recognize my voice.”
Another tear escaped. He smiled sadly. “I’ll write until you remember my handwriting.”
“And if that isn’t enough?”
“I’ll come home.”
You looked at him. “So you can find me again.”
The boarding announcement echoed through the station. People began climbing aboard. The driver glanced toward the two of you, then politely looked away. You wished time would simply stop.
“I don’t know how to leave.”
“What if university changes us?”
“It probably will.”
“What if we become different people?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I hope we do.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“I don’t want either of us to stay exactly the same.”
“But…”
“I just hope…”
His voice grew softer. “…that whoever we become still chooses each other.”
That was somehow harder to hear than any promise. Because it was honest. Because growing up wasn’t about staying the same. It was about choosing each other again after changing.
He reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I love you.”
The words settled between you with extraordinary simplicity.
“I love you too.”
He leaned forward. The kiss that followed carried none of last night’s nervous excitement. This one was slower, longer, as though both of you were trying to memorize something that memory alone might never preserve.
The warmth of his hands. The salt carried by the morning breeze. The quiet sound of waves somewhere below the hill. The way first love feels when it suddenly understands that love alone cannot stop time.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you spoke. Your foreheads rested together. Eyes closed. Breathing the same air for as long as the morning would allow. The driver’s voice broke the silence gently. “We have to leave.”
You nodded, but your fingers held on for one heartbeat longer. Then another. Only when there was no more time left did they slowly slip apart.
You climbed onto the bus. Halfway up the steps, you turned back. He was still there. One hand lifted in a small wave, smiling. Trying very hard not to let you remember him crying.
The bus pulled away. He walked beside it until the road curved beyond the harbor. You watched through the window until he disappeared into the blue haze of morning. Even then, you kept looking. As though love could somehow bring someone back into view if you refused to blink. In your coat pocket, the little cedar boat rested against your palm. Outside, the sea stretched endlessly beside the road.
For the first time in your life, Haedam wasn’t simply the place you were leaving. It had become the place where your heart had chosen to stay.
The city welcomed you home without ever noticing you had been gone. By the time the taxi rolled through the wrought-iron gates of your parents’ estate, Seoul had already disappeared beneath its own glittering reflection. Towers of steel and glass shimmered against the night, traffic streamed endlessly below elevated roads, and office windows still burned with cold white light long after sunset, as though the city had forgotten how to rest.
Home had never looked so unfamiliar. The house stood exactly as you remembered it—grand, immaculate, and impossibly quiet. Marble floors reflected the crystal chandelier overhead. Fresh lilies perfumed the entrance hall. Every cushion sat perfectly arranged, every painting perfectly centered, every surface polished until it caught the light. It was beautiful. It had never felt lived in.
Your suitcase wheels echoed loudly across the floor as the housekeeper greeted you with a gentle smile.“Welcome home, Miss Y/N.”
“Thank you.”
“Your parents are still at the office.”
You weren’t surprised. “They asked me to prepare dinner.”
You nodded. “I’ll eat later.”
She disappeared toward the kitchen. The silence returned almost immediately. You climbed the staircase one slow step at a time until you reached the bedroom you had occupied since childhood.
Nothing had changed. The books remained arranged by color on the shelves. Your piano stood beside the window, untouched. Awards from school competitions still lined the cabinet beneath framed family photographs that seemed strangely formal now. The room had been preserved so carefully it no longer felt like yours.
You set your suitcase beside the bed. Instead of unpacking, you reached inside and removed the old leather sketchbook. Its worn cover looked wonderfully out of place among the spotless furniture. You smiled. At least one thing still belonged to the person you had become.
Downstairs, the front door opened. Your parents had finally returned. Their voices floated faintly through the hallway. “…the Jeju acquisition…”
“…construction permits…”
“…investors arrive Thursday…”
“…the Singapore project…”
Your mother laughed softly. Your father answered with numbers. The conversation drifted farther away. No one came upstairs. No one knocked on your door. You sat quietly at the edge of the bed, listening until their voices disappeared into another part of the house. For the first time, you realized loneliness could exist even inside a home.
Then your phone lit up. 10:00 PM.
A smile arrived before you even answered. “Hello?”
Wind rushed loudly through the speaker. “Can you hear me?”
Seokjin's voice broke through the static, warm and breathless.
“Barely.”
“If you can barely hear me, it means I found the right spot.”
“Where are you?”
“The lighthouse.”
“You climbed all the way up there?”
“It’s the only place in town that gets decent reception.”
“You walked thirty minutes uphill…”
“…for a phone call.”
“I’d walk three hours.”
The answer came so naturally it stole every reply you had prepared. Outside his lighthouse, waves crashed against black cliffs, their echoes rolling through the speaker between his words.
You closed your eyes. For a moment, the marble walls disappeared. You could smell salt. You could almost feel the cold wind lifting your hair.
“So…” Jin asked gently. “Did you eat?”
You smiled. Not once had he asked about the mansion, or the expensive furniture, or the famous university, only whether you had eaten.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You should eat anyway.”
“You sound like my grandfather.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
He laughed quietly.
You spent nearly an hour talking about almost nothing. The bakery had changed owners. Mrs. Han’s dog had finally stopped chasing bicycles. Someone accidentally dropped an entire basket of squid into the harbor that morning. Nothing important. Everything important. Neither of them admitted how desperately they needed the conversation.
When your phone warned that the battery was running low, neither of you moved to end the call. “I should let you sleep.”
“I know.”
“You have orientation tomorrow.”
Silence settled comfortably between you. “I miss you already.” Jin's voice was almost lost beneath the wind.
“I miss you too.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“You’d better.”
He smiled, you could hear it. “What time?”
You answered together. “Ten o’clock.”
The following morning arrived too quickly. Seoul National University felt less like a campus and more like a city built entirely for ambition. Students hurried across courtyards carrying enormous portfolios. Conversations about internships, competitions, and international firms floated through the air before classes had even begun. Glass studios overlooked concrete plazas where architecture students sketched buildings instead of people.
Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, except you. You wandered through corridors filled with drafting tables and scale models until you finally located your classroom. The professor entered without introducing himself. He simply looked around the room before saying,
“Architecture is not about buildings.”
The room fell silent. “It is about people.”
He paused. “The day you forget that…”
“…your buildings will remain standing long after your humanity collapses.”
You wrote the sentence down. You didn’t know it then. Years later, those words would haunt you.
Several hundred kilometers away, Seokjin stepped through the gates of Busan Maritime University carrying a worn backpack and a notebook already filled with sketches of wooden hulls. Around him, conversations revolved around naval engineering, cargo logistics, and international shipping. When classmates asked what kind of vessels he wanted to build, answers came quickly.
“Tankers.”
“Container ships.”
“Luxury yachts.”
Finally someone looked at him. “And you?”
Seokjin smiled. “Fishing boats.”
The others exchanged amused glances. “Seriously?”
“They’re disappearing.”
“So?”
The conversation ended there. He didn’t mind. Some dreams required fewer explanations.
That evening, you moved into your university dormitory. Compared to your parents’ estate, it felt impossibly small. Three beds. Three desks. Three strangers trying politely not to invade one another’s lives.
One roommate talked constantly. Another had already decorated her side with fairy lights and photographs from home. Someone down the hall was singing loudly and terribly.
A door slammed, someone laughed, someone cried, someone burned instant noodles. The building buzzed with hundreds of young people beginning new lives all at once. You sat quietly on your narrow bed. Nothing smelled like cedar, nothing sounded like waves.
At exactly ten o’clock… Your phone vibrated. You hurried into the hallway before answering. “I survived.”
“So did I.”
Jin laughed.
“You should’ve seen our cafeteria.”
“Worse than mine?”
“I think the soup was legally classified as concrete.”
You burst into laughter. “My salad tasted like wet paper.”
“We’re both thriving.”
“Clearly.”
For nearly an hour, the distance disappeared. You compared professors, roommates, homework. Embarrassing orientation stories.
By the time the call ended, neither dormitory felt quite so lonely anymore. Without discussing it again, ten o’clock became sacred. No matter how exhausting the day had been…
The phone rang, every night. And every night, the distance became just a little easier to bear.
By October, they had become experts at missing each other. The first few weeks had felt almost adventurous. Everything had been new enough to share. Every lecture became a story. Every embarrassing mistake was another reason to laugh. Every phone call stretched past midnight because there was still so much they wanted the other to know. Then life found its rhythm, and its rhythm was unforgiving.
Architecture was nothing like you had imagined. The professors spoke with the certainty of people who believed buildings could outlive the people who designed them. Every project demanded another revision. Every revision revealed another flaw you had never noticed. Entire nights disappeared beneath rolls of tracing paper, sharpened pencils, foam board models, and cups of vending machine coffee that had long stopped tasting like coffee at all.
The studio became your second home. Sometimes your classmates never left. You would look up from your drafting table at three in the morning only to realize the same people were still awake, quietly sketching beneath fluorescent lights while soft instrumental music played through someone’s speakers. Nobody complained. Everyone simply kept working.
Your fingers were permanently marked with graphite. Tiny cuts from precision knives decorated your knuckles. You stopped noticing them. The architecture building smelled faintly of cardboard dust, printer ink, and exhaustion.
One afternoon your professor stopped behind your desk. He studied your design for nearly a minute before speaking. “It is beautiful.”
Relief washed over you. Then he continued. “It has no soul.”
He walked away. You stared at the model long after class ended. That evening, you rebuilt almost everything.
Meanwhile, mornings began before sunrise in Haedam. Seokjin's alarm rang at four thirty. By five, he was already helping his father push their aging fishing boat away from the pier while darkness still covered the sea.
The village was quieter now. Several boats no longer left the harbor. Fuel prices had climbed again. The catches had become smaller. Older fishermen stood on the docks discussing weather forecasts with growing concern, their conversations drifting toward debts instead of tides. Seokjin listened more than he spoke.
After returning to shore, he barely had enough time to shower before catching the bus to Busan for university. Most students complained about long lectures. Seokjin often struggled simply to stay awake through them.
His notebook slowly filled with sketches. Not luxury yachts, not cruise ships. Traditional fishing vessels. Hull reinforcements. Improved weight distribution. Environmentally safer designs.
His professors occasionally encouraged him to think bigger. He always smiled politely. To him, there was nothing small about protecting the people who had raised him.
Ten o’clock remained sacred. Until life began stealing pieces of it. One rainy evening your phone rang twenty-three minutes late.
“I’m sorry.” Seokjin's voice sounded tired.
“We had to repair one of the nets.”
“It’s okay.”
“You’ve been waiting.”
“I was studying.”
“You don’t have to pretend.”
You smiled into the darkness.
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“You always lie the same way.”
“Oh?”
“You become too cheerful.”
You laughed quietly. “So you know me that well?”
“I know everything.”
“You definitely don’t.”
“I know your left eyebrow moves first whenever you’re annoyed.”
“My what?”
“And you tap your pencil three times before erasing a drawing.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I’ve never noticed.”
“I have.”
Silence settled between them. Comfortable. Familiar.
“I miss you.” His voice had become softer lately.
“I miss you too.”
“How much?”
You looked toward the dormitory window where rain blurred the city lights into watercolor.
“Enough to wish Seoul had an ocean.”
He smiled. “I’d settle for a river.”
Letters continued arriving every week. Some were only two pages. Others stretched to ten. Seokjin wrote exactly the way he spoke. Simple. Honest.
He described the old fisherman who insisted every storm could be predicted by the smell of the wind. He complained about the university cafeteria’s impossible kimchi stew. He proudly included rough sketches of boats he hoped to build someday, apologizing in the margins for crooked lines because the bus kept hitting potholes.
You answered differently. Your letters wandered. They were filled with observations. The old woman who watered flowers outside the architecture building every morning. The maple tree outside your studio window. The professor who compared cathedrals to prayers built from stone.
Sometimes you tucked little pieces of your days inside the envelopes. A museum ticket. A pressed gingko leaf. A coffee receipt with a handwritten note.
This café overlooks the Han River. I kept thinking how much you’d complain about paying six thousand won for coffee.
His reply arrived five days later.
You’re right. I absolutely would. I could buy squid with that money.
You laughed so hard your roommate asked what was funny. You only shook your head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Some nights one of you fell asleep before the conversation truly began. Sometimes Seokjin answered while sanding wooden practice models in the workshop. The rhythmic scrape of sandpaper became the soundtrack to your conversations. Other nights you stayed on speaker while measuring drawings across enormous drafting tables.
Neither minded. You no longer needed constant conversation. Simply knowing the other was there somehow made the work easier.
One evening he stopped speaking altogether.
“Jin?”
“Hm?”
“You’ve been quiet.”
“I like listening.”
“To what?”
“You.”
“I’m literally calculating roof loads.”
“I know.”
“…I missed your voice.”
Your pencil stopped moving. “You really are hopeless.”
“I’ve accepted that.”
November arrived carrying colder winds. The sea grew rougher. Your projects grew larger. One weekend your classmates organized a group dinner after finishing a major submission. Everyone celebrated, laughed, took photographs together.
Halfway through the meal you excused yourself. Outside, beneath strings of restaurant lights, you called Seokjin. He answered on the second ring.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You sound strange.”
“I just wanted five minutes.”
He understood immediately. Without another question, he stayed on the line while you watched strangers walk along the river. Neither of you spoke much. Sometimes love wasn’t conversation. Sometimes it was simply refusing to let the other feel alone.
The differences between your worlds became impossible to ignore. You spent afternoons discussing sustainable skyscrapers, urban density, and international competitions. Seokjin spent his evenings repairing cracked hulls with his father beneath a single hanging workshop lamp.
Your classmates dreamed about designing city skylines in New York, London, and Dubai. Seokjin dreamed about building one fishing boat that could survive another generation.
When you described your newest design software, he listened with genuine fascination despite understanding very little. When he explained how cedar expanded after weeks at sea, you listened just as carefully. Neither pretended to understand everything. They only wanted to understand each other. Still… The spaces between those conversations slowly widened. Not enough to frighten either of you, just enough to notice.
One night the connection crackled so badly you could barely hear each other.
“Can you hear me?”
“Barely.”
“What?”
“I said barely.”
Static swallowed half the sentence. You both laughed.
“I think…”
The signal disappeared. “…you’re a robot.”
“What?”
“…said…”
“…love…”
“…hello?”
The line finally went dead. You stared at the silent screen. A minute later it rang again.
“I forgot to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“You called back just for that?”
“I didn’t want static saying it for me.”
You smiled until your cheeks hurt. Outside your dormitory window, the first snow of the year began drifting quietly over Seoul. Far away in Haedam, waves continued breaking against the old harbor. The sea still connected them. It simply took longer now for its voice to arrive.
December arrived quietly. Seoul glittered beneath strings of white lights draped across department stores and crowded shopping streets, where couples wandered beneath decorated trees carrying paper cups of hot chocolate and bags tied with satin ribbon. Christmas songs drifted from cafés, laughter spilled onto sidewalks, and snow softened the edges of the restless city until everything seemed touched by gentleness. Yet no matter how beautiful it looked, every sparkling window reminded you of somewhere else. You found yourself searching every winter sunset for the sea that wasn’t there.
University emptied almost overnight. Students packed their belongings, hugged one another goodbye, and disappeared toward train stations and bus terminals, eager for home. You stood outside your dormitory with your suitcase at your feet, watching the first snowflakes melt against your coat sleeve.
Home.
The word had become strangely complicated. Your parents expected you back in Seoul for the holidays. Family dinners, charity galas, business receptions, and carefully arranged appearances filled your mother’s calendar weeks in advance. Returning to Haedam was never mentioned. It was understood that your grandfather would visit after New Year instead.
You boarded the train carrying a quiet disappointment you never spoke aloud. Seokjin would remain in Haedam. The fishing boats never stopped because the calendar said December. Winter demanded even more from the sea.
The morning after you arrived home, the doorbell rang just after breakfast. The housekeeper carried a medium-sized parcel into the dining room.
“It arrived from Haedam.”
Your heart recognized the handwriting before your eyes fully focused on it. The box wasn’t wrapped elegantly. Brown paper had been folded carefully around it and secured with more tape than necessary, the corners slightly uneven as though someone had redone them several times before deciding they were finally good enough.
Inside, every item had been packed with impossible care. A thick hand-knitted navy scarf. A glass jar filled with homemade citron tea prepared by Seokjin's grandmother. A tiny carved wooden lighthouse no bigger than your palm. At the bottom rested an envelope. You smiled before unfolding the letter.
Merry Christmas.
I asked Grandma to teach me how to knit. She laughed for almost ten minutes before agreeing. If the scarf looks crooked, pretend it doesn’t. The lighthouse took me three tries because I kept breaking the roof. The tea isn’t from me. Mine tasted terrible. I hope your room smells a little more like home now.
I miss you every day. I love you. Merry Christmas, city girl.
Love,
Jin
You laughed through tears. The scarf really was uneven. One side was noticeably longer than the other. It was perfect.
That afternoon you wandered through Myeongdong searching for something worthy of sending back. Luxury boutiques surrounded you with polished displays and glittering jewelry, but nothing felt right. None of it belonged to the life the two of you had built together.
Instead, you found yourself inside a quiet stationery shop. You bought thick cream-colored paper, fountain pen ink the color of the sea just before sunrise, and a leather journal embossed with a tiny compass. On the first page, you wrote only one sentence.
Fill this with every boat you’ll build someday.
You tucked inside a silver mechanical pencil engraved with his initials. Architects believed every great building began with a sketch. You wanted him to remember that boats did too.
That evening, your phone rang.
“I got your package.”
“So…?”
“You should never become a professional knitter.”
He laughed so loudly you had to pull the phone away from your ear. “I knew it.”
“The lighthouse is beautiful.”
“The roof stayed on this time.”
“The tea is delicious.”
“My grandmother made it.”
“I figured.”
“You could’ve pretended.”
“I love you too much to lie.”
Silence settled warmly between you.
“So…”
Seokjin asked. “Did it snow?”
“All day.”
“We only had rain.”
“I wish you could’ve seen it.”
“I wish I could’ve seen you seeing it.”
You rested your forehead against the bedroom window. Outside, snow continued drifting beneath the streetlights.
“I miss you.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Your voice softened. “I really miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“I keep turning around because I think you’re standing beside me.”
“I still make enough ramen for two.”
You laughed quietly.
“I still talk to you even before I remember you aren’t here.”
Neither of you rushed to fill the silence that followed. Sometimes missing someone sounded exactly like this. After a while Seokjin spoke again.
“Next summer.”
“What about it?”
“No matter how busy university gets…”
He paused. “…come home.”
Home.
He said the word so naturally. As though there had never been any doubt where home was.
You smiled. “I’ll come.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“We’ll watch the meteor shower again.”
“And eat burnt mackerel from the market.”
“You still hate burnt mackerel.”
“I hate watching you laugh at me more.”
“I’ll teach you how to bait fishing hooks properly.”
“I’ve been hearing that for four years.”
“This time you’ll actually learn.”
“I doubt it.”
“I believe in miracles.”
You laughed until tears gathered again.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Impossible.”
“I’ve done the math.”
“You’ve never been good at math.”
“I’ve become better.”
“Still impossible.”
“You can test me next summer.”
“I will.”
“I’ll win.”
“We’ll see.”
The conversation drifted long after midnight, wandering through memories, dreams, impossible plans, and ordinary stories that somehow became extraordinary simply because they belonged to both of you. Neither noticed the bedroom door had opened slightly.
Your mother stood quietly in the hallway. She hadn’t intended to listen at first. Then she heard your laughter. Then she heard his name. Finally, she heard the words that made her stop walking altogether.
“I love you.”
Your voice carried such quiet certainty that it startled even her. She remained still until the conversation ended. When you finally stepped into the hallway carrying your empty teacup, she was waiting.
“You’ve been talking to that boy.”
You blinked. “You were listening?”
“I heard enough.”
“He has a name.”
“I know exactly who he is.”
Her expression remained composed, almost pleasant. That somehow made it worse.
“You’re young.”
“So?”
“So feelings like this rarely survive adulthood.”
You smiled faintly. “Ours will.”
She looked at you for a long moment. Then she glanced toward the handmade wooden lighthouse sitting on your desk.
“He seems…kind.”
“He is.”
“But kindness doesn’t build the future you’ve worked so hard for.”
“My future isn’t a company merger.”
“It also isn’t a fishing village.”
“It isn’t only a fishing village.”
She sighed softly. “You’ll understand one day.”
Late that night, while the house slept beneath a blanket of fresh snow, you stood by the window wearing the uneven navy scarf Seokjin had knitted with clumsy determination. Outside, Seoul glittered like a city that never needed anyone. Far away, beyond mountains, highways, and frozen rivers, the lighthouse overlooking Haedam continued sweeping its beam across the dark sea.
Somewhere beneath that same winter sky, Seokjin was almost certainly looking toward it too. The distance between you remained impossibly wide. Yet hope, like the lighthouse itself, continued finding its way across the water.
Spring arrived so quietly that neither of you noticed winter had already slipped away. The snow disappeared from Seoul first, leaving behind rows of budding trees that lined the university campus in pale shades of green. Students returned from break carrying fresh notebooks, new ambitions, and stories from holidays spent with people they loved. The architecture building came alive once again with the familiar rhythm of hurried footsteps, printers humming through the night, professors dismantling carefully prepared presentations with unnerving precision, and exhausted students laughing simply because they had forgotten what it felt like not to be tired.
Life resumed before either of you had finished catching your breath. Your second semester demanded more than the first. Design studios grew longer. Expectations grew sharper. Every critique felt less like an assignment and more like an audition for the future everyone insisted you should already be building. Entire afternoons disappeared beneath layers of tracing paper and carefully measured lines, only for a professor to pause beside your desk and quietly ask, “Is this the best story your building can tell?”
You carried those words home every evening. You began wondering whether the spaces you designed reflected the life you wanted or simply the life everyone expected you to want.
One Friday evening, your mother asked if you would accompany her to a charity gala hosted by one of your father’s business partners.
“It’s important,” she said while adjusting the sleeve of her tailored jacket. “There will be people you should know.”
“I already have studio work.”
“It can wait.”
“My review is on Monday.”
“So is your future.”
You looked at her across the breakfast table. “My future is at university.”
She offered a patient smile, the kind reserved for conversations she believed she had already won.
“University opens doors. Relationships decide which ones stay open.”
You wanted to disagree. Instead, you quietly finished your tea.
The ballroom glittered beneath crystal chandeliers that scattered warm light across polished marble floors. Conversations drifted effortlessly between investment portfolios, hotel developments, international partnerships, and expansion projects. Waiters moved silently through the crowd carrying silver trays that never seemed to empty. Every smile appeared practiced. Every handshake lasted exactly long enough. You stood beside your mother feeling strangely invisible despite everyone knowing your family name.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Before you could answer, she guided you toward a distinguished couple accompanied by their son, a recent graduate preparing to join his family’s construction company. He was polite. Well educated. Confident without arrogance. He spoke thoughtfully about sustainable cities and urban renewal, genuinely interested in architecture rather than merely making conversation.
Under different circumstances, you might have enjoyed speaking with him. Instead, every few minutes your thoughts wandered somewhere hundreds of kilometers away. You wondered whether Jin had finished repairing the old fishing nets before sunset. You wondered whether the sea had been calm. You wondered whether he had remembered to eat dinner before falling asleep from exhaustion.
“You seem distracted.”
The young man smiled kindly.
“I’m sorry.”
“You have someone waiting for your attention?”
You hesitated only briefly. “Yes.”
His expression softened with immediate understanding. “I hope they’re worth keeping.”
“They are.”
He nodded once. “Then don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”
The conversation ended there, leaving you unexpectedly grateful for a stranger’s quiet kindness. When you returned home that night, your mother was waiting in the sitting room.
“He comes from an excellent family.”
“I wasn’t looking.”
“You don’t have to look.”
“I already found someone.”
She folded her hands together. You looked at her without speaking. She continued.
“Life becomes more complicated than feelings.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“No.”
She sighed almost sadly. “It usually does.”
While Seoul measured success in opportunities, Haedam measured it in survival. Seokjin noticed the changes long before anyone spoke about them aloud. The boats returned carrying smaller catches. Fuel receipts grew thicker while fish crates grew lighter. Repairs that would once have been completed immediately were postponed another week, then another month.
The engine coughed longer before starting each morning. His father stopped replacing worn equipment unless it was absolutely necessary. One evening they sat together inside the workshop after finishing repairs on an aging wooden trawler. The scent of cedar lingered in the cool evening air as sunlight faded through the open doors.
His father carefully closed the ledger that rested on the workbench. For a long moment he simply stared at its worn cover. “Some years the sea gives.”
He smiled quietly. “Some years it asks.”
Seokjin knew what the numbers inside that book looked like without opening it. He had begun helping with the accounts. He knew exactly how much fuel cost. How much timber cost. How much they still owed. He also knew his father had quietly stopped paying himself whenever business slowed.
“You should rest.”
His father laughed softly. “I’ll rest when the boats do.”
“They never do.”
“Exactly.”
Neither mentioned the growing debt. Neither wanted to give it more power by saying it aloud.
Ten o’clock still arrived every evening. The phones still rang. The familiar voices still carried warmth across the distance. Only now the conversations had begun changing in ways so subtle neither of you recognized them.
“How was today?”
“Busy.”
“You?”
“Busy too.”
“What did you eat?”
“Whatever the cafeteria served.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m okay.”
“So are you?”
“I’m fine.”
The words came easily. You both believed you were protecting each other. You didn’t tell him your architecture professor had suggested your portfolio wasn’t competitive enough for the internship you desperately wanted. You didn’t mention crying quietly inside an empty studio after everyone else had gone home.
Seokjin never mentioned that another fishing crew had sold its boat because they could no longer afford repairs. He didn’t tell you he had started working weekends at the harbor loading freight after classes to help his father cover fuel costs.
Neither wanted the other carrying another burden. So each night you exchanged the same comforting lie. “I’m fine.”
The silence that followed those words grew a little longer each week.
One evening your roommate looked up from her textbook while you smiled at your phone. “You always talk to him at ten.”
You nodded. “Every night.”
“Doesn’t long distance get exhausting?”
You thought about it carefully. “The distance does.”
“The relationship?”
You smiled. “Never.”
She returned to her notes. “I hope someone loves me like that someday.”
You looked at the photograph tucked inside your notebook. It showed the two of you sitting on the Haedam breakwater years earlier, laughing at something neither of you could remember now.
Near the end of April, the call lasted only twelve minutes. Seokjin had an early tide. You had an all-night studio review.
“I should let you work.”
“You too.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Good night.”
The call ended. Neither of you noticed that for the first time in months, neither had asked how the other was really doing. Outside your dormitory window, spring rain tapped gently against the glass. Far away, waves rolled quietly onto the shores of Haedam beneath a sky slowly filling with heavier clouds. Neither the rain nor the sea seemed unusual. Some storms announce themselves with thunder. Others begin with two people who love each other enough to hide their pain.
The first morning you returned to Haedam, the sea greeted you as though it had been waiting. The bus rounded the final bend overlooking the coastline just after sunrise, revealing the familiar stretch of blue water shimmering beneath the early summer light. Fishing boats drifted beyond the breakwater, gulls circled lazily overhead, and the harbor breathed with the same steady rhythm that had shaped every childhood summer you could remember. Some places changed with time. Haedam seemed only to grow deeper into itself, as though every passing season settled gently into its wooden docks, weathered rooftops, and salt worn stone.
Before the bus had even come to a complete stop, you spotted him. Seokjin stood beside his aging pickup truck wearing faded jeans, work boots dusted with sawdust, and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. The years had broadened him, not only in build but in quiet confidence. The restless teenage boy had become someone steadier, someone the village instinctively turned toward whenever heavy work needed doing.
The moment your eyes met, neither of you moved. Then he smiled. Everything else disappeared. You crossed the terminal in seconds before throwing your arms around him. He caught you effortlessly, lifting you from the ground as though months apart weighed nothing at all. The familiar scent of cedar wood, salt air, sunshine, and the faint trace of varnish clinging to his clothes wrapped around you like a memory returning to life.
“You came home,” he whispered.
“I told you I would.”
He rested his forehead against yours, smiling with the quiet disbelief of someone who had imagined this moment a thousand different ways.
“I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I’ve been counting the days.”
“So have I.”
Neither hurried to let go. The entire village carried on around you as though reunions like this happened every day. Perhaps they did. Only this one felt large enough to hold the entire summer.
The afternoon light stretched across the empty workshop as the world outside slowly faded into evening. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
“For the better?”
You reached for his hand. “I didn’t know it was possible.”
The kiss you had waited months to share began with remarkable tenderness, as though neither of you wanted to rush the miracle of finding each other again. His lips moved against yours slowly, reverently, relearning every familiar curve they had carried in memory through the long months apart. It felt less like a beginning than a homecoming.
His hands found you with unwavering certainty as he eased you back onto the old couch tucked inside the workshop. The worn fabric scratched faintly beneath your skin, and kissed you deeper, parting your mouth with his tongue to taste every inch inside you. Grounding you in the moment even as everything else seemed to disappear, the scent of salt lingering on his clothes, the distant hush of waves beyond the open doors, the afternoon light spilling through the windows in thin ribbons of gold.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, as though he could make up for every day he hadn’t been able to. Every lingering brush of his mouth spoke the words neither of you could ever seem to say enough: I missed you. I chose you. I never stopped loving you.
You answered him without hesitation, your fingers slipping into his hair, drawing him impossibly closer until the rest of the world melted away, leaving only the steady rhythm of two hearts finally finding each other again.
His lips wandered from the corner of your mouth to the curve of your jaw, each lingering kiss as gentle as a whispered confession. Between them, he breathed quiet words of admiration, telling you how beautiful you were until the praise itself felt like another kind of caress.
His mouth drifted lower, leaving feather-light kisses along your neck that lingered just long enough to send a shiver through you. The warmth of his breath followed each touch, raising goosebumps across your skin as though your body recognized him before your mind could catch up. A quiet sound escaped your lips.
He paused only long enough to smile against your skin, the corners of his mouth lifting with unmistakable affection. Looking up at you, he brushed a finger lightly over your lips in a playful plea for silence.
“Shh,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the breeze slipping through the workshop windows. “The neighbors.”
Beyond the open doors, the fishing village rested in its familiar closeness, where weathered homes stood shoulder to shoulder and every laugh, every conversation, every creaking floorboard seemed to belong to everyone. The thought drew a breathless smile from you, making the moment feel somehow even more intimate, two hearts tucked away in the little workshop, surrounded by the quiet rhythm of the sea and a world that had no idea how long you’d both been waiting to find your way back to each other.
His hand slid lower by careful, unhurried inches, his darkened gaze lifting to yours in silent question as his fingers gently caught the hem of your top. At your quiet nod, he drew it over your head with exquisite slowness, as though savoring every passing second. His eyes lingered on the sight of you before him, drinking you in with undisguised wonder. With the same deliberate care, he reached behind you to unhook your bra, his movements unhurried, pausing after each small revelation as though every newly bared inch was something worthy of admiration, something he wanted to remember forever.
His tongue circled one nipple in slow, lazy sweeps, lavishing it with patient attention before gradually deepening the pressure, while his fingers found the other, pinching and rolling it with equal care. The contrast of wet warmth and gentle touch sent a shiver through you, your back arching in slow, helpless waves.
When another moan threatened to escape, he smiled against your skin and covered your mouth with his palm, muffling the sound as he continued kissing his way lower. Without ever rushing, he stripped away the rest of your clothes one piece at a time until you lay bare beneath him, every movement drawn out, every lingering pause savoring the quiet beauty of each new revelation.
He paused again, asking with his eyes before his mouth found your navel, then lower, tongue flicking over your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear in feather-light strokes that built over long minutes. You were soaked, the dampness obvious as he rubbed slow circles there, pressing just enough to make your thighs tremble with accumulating tension.
You bit back every sound, your body taut with the overwhelming newness of it all. Still untouched, every sensation felt impossibly heightened, and he lingered with infinite patience, refusing to rush what was already unraveling you. He alternated between slow, tender caresses through the delicate fabric, drawing out each moment until anticipation itself became almost unbearable. Little by little, your restraint began to falter, your hips lifting instinctively in a silent, searching plea for more.
He peeled away the last scrap of fabric with painstaking care, spreading your legs wider inch by inch. Then he lowered his head, his tongue tracing a long, unhurried stripe up your cunt, savoring the taste of your wetness before drawing your clit between his lips in slow, rhythmic pulls that gradually stole the breath from your lungs.
His fingers lingered at your entrance with patience, easing just inside as though learning the language of your body one careful touch at a time. He paused only to feel the way you instinctively tightened around him, drawing a quiet, unsteady breath that spoke of restrained longing. The warmth of your arousal clung to his hand as a low groan escaped him against your skin. Rather than hurrying, he remained there, exploring every subtle reaction with quiet reverence, letting the tension rise and swell through long, lingering waves, savoring each moment instead of rushing toward release.
He stripped off his own clothes with slow, unhurried movements, his arousal already unmistakable, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Looking into your eyes, he offered a quiet, reassuring smile.
“I’ll be gentle,” he murmured.
He reached for the condom tucked inside his wallet and rolled it carefully down his thick length with deliberate precision. Only then did he settle himself between your thighs, pausing once more to meet your gaze, giving you every opportunity to stop him before closing the distance between you.
“Breathe for me,” he said, his voice strained with restraint as he slowly rubbed the head against your slick warmth in long, teasing glides, drawing out each unhurried pass until the anticipation coiled tighter and tighter between you.
He pushed into you slowly, inch by careful inch, pausing often to ask if you were okay while his thumb worked your clit in steady, reassuring strokes. The entry was unhurried, giving your body time to adjust gradually to the unfamiliar stretch, every measured pause guided by your comfort rather than his impatience.
The initial burn gradually softened into a deep, overwhelming fullness as he finally settled inside you, remaining completely still to give your body all the time it needed to adjust. He lingered there for a long, quiet moment, never rushing, his lips finding yours again to gently swallow the small, breathless sounds you couldn’t hold back as the new intimacy between you slowly settled into something tender and profound.
He began with shallow, careful thrusts, moving slowly at first before gradually settling into a steady, measured rhythm. Each stroke drew him along every sensitive place inside you, unhurried and patient as he let your body grow accustomed to the sensation. His mouth returned to your breast, his tongue lingering there as his pace increased with quiet restraint, his hips driving deeper only after the rhythm had been gently established. Around you, the workshop filled little by little with the soft, unmistakable sounds of your bodies moving together.
Sweat beaded across his forehead, a few droplets falling onto your chest as he thrust deeper, subtly shifting the angle of his hips until each stroke ground against your clit, building the pleasure with slow, measured intent.
The pressure coiling low in your stomach tightened with each sustained wave until it finally broke, your cunt pulsing and flooding around him in a hot rush of cum that left you shaking through the prolonged release.
He groaned as his pace finally unraveled, the careful rhythm giving way to urgent, desperate thrusts. He drove into you with mounting intensity, every movement carrying the weight of restrained longing until his body finally tensed. Burying himself deep, he shuddered through thick, pulsing waves of release into the condom before collapsing over you with a ragged breath, catching himself on his forearms so his full weight never settled onto your body.
He kissed you again, softly and with quiet gratitude, his lips brushing yours in lingering, tender presses while he held you close, reluctant to let the moment end.
The workshop remained wrapped in golden silence while summer wind drifted through the open windows carrying the scent of the sea. Outside, waves continued rolling against the shore. Inside, time quietly stepped aside for two people who had spent too long loving each other from opposite ends of the country.
Much later, as twilight settled over the harbor, you remained together in the peaceful stillness of the workshop, saying little, simply grateful that distance had finally surrendered, if only for a season.
That evening, you opened the old leather sketchbook once more. Its pages had grown worn from years of turning. New memories settled beside old ones. Seokjin carefully sharpened a pencil before handing it to you. “What should we add this year?”
You smiled thoughtfully before drawing another window along the side of Summer Tide.
“Morning light.”
“What?”
“I want the kitchen windows bigger.”
“So you can watch the sunrise while making coffee?”
“So we never miss it.”
He nodded seriously before sketching beside your drawing. “I’ve always wanted another bench here.”
“For what?”
“So our children can sit beside us.”
The pencil stopped moving. You looked at him. “Our children?”
His ears turned slightly pink. “I mean…”
“You mean?”
He smiled shyly. “If someday.”
You closed the notebook before leaning over to kiss him again. “I like someday.”
Days passed gently. The villagers smiled every time they saw the two of you walking through the market. Grandma Hyeon quietly served larger portions because “young people in love forget to eat.” Children waved whenever Seokjin rode past on his bicycle. Everything felt astonishingly ordinary. Which made it feel everlasting.
On your final weekend before returning to Seoul, the two of you stood together outside the workshop watching the sun disappear into the sea. Seokjin wrapped his arms around you from behind. “I hate goodbye.”
“So do I.”
“Only one more year.”
“Then another.”
“We’ll survive them.”
“We always do.”
You nodded. “We always will.”
The evening settled softly over Haedam, painting the sea in ribbons of amber as the last fishing boats drifted toward the harbor. You and Seokjin walked hand in hand up the familiar stone path leading to your grandfather’s house, laughing quietly about whose turn it was to cook dinner. The old wooden gate stood open, the porch light already glowing against the gathering dusk. Your grandfather sat on his favorite chair beneath the persimmon tree, shelling peanuts into a small woven basket. He looked up the moment he heard your footsteps, smiling the same warm smile that had greeted you every summer since you were a little girl.
“There you are,” he said, pretending to scold you. “I was beginning to think the sea had adopted both of you.”
You laughed and crossed the yard to hug him. Seokjin bowed respectfully before taking the basket from your grandfather’s lap and sitting beside him to help finish shelling the peanuts.
“You spoil him more than you spoil me, Grandpa.”
“Because he actually helps an old man.”
“I help.”
“You complain while helping.”
Seokjin chuckled quietly. “She’s right.”
Your grandfather pointed an accusing finger at him. “Don’t encourage her.”
The three of you laughed together, the sound blending with the evening chorus of cicadas and distant waves. It was an ordinary summer evening. The kind that felt as though it could stretch on forever.
Then headlights swept across the yard. One black sedan, then another. The laughter disappeared. Your grandfather slowly stood from his chair, his smile fading before the cars had even stopped.
Your heart sank. The driver’s door opened. Your father stepped out first. Your mother followed. She looked directly at you. Then at your hand still intertwined with Seokjin. For a brief moment, silence covered the yard more completely than the night itself. Your mother turned slowly toward your father.
“I told you.”
Your father looked from you to Seokjin, then toward your grandfather. “You knew.”
Your grandfather met his son’s gaze without hesitation. “Yes.”
“You knew our daughter was involved with him…”
“I did.”
“…and you said nothing.”
“I had nothing to confess.”
Your mother’s composure finally cracked. “Father, we’ve trusted you for years. Every summer we left her here because we believed she was safe.”
“She was.”
“Safe?”
She gestured toward you and Seokjin.
“You allowed this to happen.”
“No.”
Your grandfather’s voice was quiet but unwavering. “I allowed two good children to grow into two good people.”
Your father took a slow breath. “He’s a fisherman.”
“He’s Seokjin.”
“He comes from a family that barely survives each season.”
“He comes from a family that has never compromised their dignity.”
“He has no future with her.”
“You don’t know his future.”
“I know enough.”
Your grandfather stepped closer. “No.”
His weathered eyes remained steady. “You know his family’s income. You know where he was born. You know what work his hands do.”
He looked toward Seokjin with unmistakable pride. “But you don’t know the kind of man standing in front of you.”
Seokjin lowered his eyes respectfully. “Sir…”
Your grandfather gently raised a hand, asking him not to interrupt. “I’ve watched this boy since he was smaller than the fishing nets he carried. I’ve watched him wake before sunrise to help his father without complaint. I’ve watched him carry groceries for every widow in this village before carrying his own. When storms came, he checked every elderly neighbor’s roof before checking his own.”
He turned back toward your parents. “If my granddaughter chose someone selfish or dishonest, I would have been the first to send him away.”
His voice softened. “But she chose the finest young man I’ve ever known.”
Your mother’s eyes shimmered with frustration. “You always romanticize this village.”
“No.”
“I remember what matters.”
“What matters is her future.”
“What matters is her happiness.”
“They’re not the same thing.”
“They should be.”
You stepped forward. “Mom…”
She looked at you. “You’ve been lying to us.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“You said you spent every day with Grandpa.”
“I did.”
“And him.”
Your fingers found Seokjin again. “I love him.”
The words settled over the yard with astonishing calm. Your father’s expression hardened. “You think love is enough.”
“I know it is.”
“You don’t.”
Your mother shook her head. “You’re nineteen.”
“I’m old enough to know who I love.”
“You’ll forget him.”
“I won’t.”
Your grandfather placed himself quietly between you “Listen to her.”
Neither of your parents answered. Instead, your mother looked at your grandpa with tears gathering in her eyes. “I trusted you.”
He smiled sadly. “I know.”
“And you still let this happen.”
“I didn’t let anything happen.”
He looked toward you and John standing side by side. “I simply refused to stand between two people who have loved each other with honesty.”
The old man’s voice grew softer. “I’ve had more summers than all of you.”
He glanced toward the sea. “I know how rarely love arrives without asking for anything in return.”
No one spoke. The evening breeze carried the scent of cedar from the workshop and salt from the harbor. Everything you loved about Haedam seemed to hold its breath. Your father finally broke the silence.
“Pack your things.”
You stared at him. “I’m not leaving.”
“You are.”
“No.”
Your answer came immediately. “I’m staying.”
“You’ll come with us.”
“I won’t.”
Your mother reached for your hand. You stepped back. Tears blurred the harbor into streaks of light. “I love him.”
Your voice trembled. “I’ve loved him for years.”
Your grandfather rested one hand gently against your shoulder. “Listen to her.”
“Please.”
“Just once.”
Neither of your parents answered. Instead, your father looked at Seokjin. “If you truly care about her…”
His voice remained calm. “…you won’t ask her to throw away her future.”
Seokjin was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his eyes never left yours. “I’ve never wanted to take her future.”
He swallowed quietly. “I only wanted to be part of it.”
Those words broke something inside everyone who heard them. Even your mother’s eyes filled for the briefest moment before she looked away. She could not deny the sincerity. She simply believed sincerity would never be enough.
The waves continued washing against the shore as daylight slipped beneath the horizon. The sea remained unchanged. The people standing beside it never would be again.
Your mother walks into your bedroom. You refuse to follow. She opens the wardrobe herself. One by one, she folds your summer clothes into the suitcase. Each item feels like another memory being taken away. The oversized navy sweater that still carries the faint scent of cedar because John wore it while fixing your bicycle. The small tin filled with shells the two of you collected after last year’s typhoon. A bundle of pressed wildflowers tucked inside your favorite novel from the afternoon you skipped lunch to lie together on the cliffs. You sit on the edge of the bed watching your life disappear behind a closing zipper.
Outside, your grandfather waits beneath the persimmon tree. Seokjin remains standing near the gate. When your suitcase finally appears in the hallway, your grandfather’s shoulders sink.
“So soon…”
Your mother lowers her eyes. “It has to be.”
He walks toward you. For a long moment he simply looks at your face. The little girl who arrived every summer with city shoes and a permanent frown has disappeared. Standing before him is the young woman who learned to love this village.
He cups your face gently. “I’m sorry.”
The words almost break him. “I thought I had more time.”
You shake your head through tears. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I should have protected you.”
“You did.”
You wrap your arms around him. “You gave me the happiest summers of my life.”
His embrace trembles. Slowly he reaches into his pocket and presses something cold into your palm. A small brass key. The key to the front door. You stare at it.
“Keep it.”
“But…”
“This house is yours too.”
His voice is barely louder than the waves. “No matter where life takes you…”
He closes your fingers around the key. “…Haedam will always wait for you.”
Your father clears his throat quietly. “We have to go.”
You look toward Seokjin. He is already looking at you. Your father follows your gaze. After a long silence, he nods once. “One minute.”
Your mother looks at him in surprise. He repeats himself. “One minute.”
You don’t walk. You run. Seokjin catches you before you can say a single word. Neither of you speaks. There is nothing left to explain. You simply hold each other, trying desperately to memorize the warmth that distance cannot preserve.
His heartbeat. The smell of cedar clinging to his shirt. The roughness of his hands. The quiet rhythm of his breathing. You bury your face against his shoulder. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know.”
“They’re taking me.”
“I know.”
“I’ll come back.”
He smiles, though his eyes glisten in the fading light.“I’ll be here.”
You lift your head. “I love you.”
The words leave your lips as naturally as breathing. “I love you too.”
He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “No matter how long it takes.”
You nod. “No matter how long.”
Your father’s voice carries gently across the yard “Time.”
Seokjin lets go first. Because if he doesn’t, neither of you ever will.
The drive begins in complete silence. You twist around in your seat before the car has even reached the end of the road. Seokjin still stands in front of your grandfather’s house. He grows smaller with every turn. The workshop disappears. The lighthouse disappears. The fishing boats disappear. Still you keep looking back. The sea remains visible longer than anything else.
Moonlight stretches across its surface like silver silk. Eventually the road bends inland. Mountains rise between you and the coast. The ocean vanishes. Something inside you quietly breaks.
When you arrive in Seoul well past midnight, your father unlocks the front door without speaking. Before you can step inside, he extends his hand. “Your phone.”
You stare at him. “What?”
“Your phone.”
“No.”
Your mother gently reaches for your shoulder. “We’re trying to help you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“We understand more than you think.”
Your father waits patiently. Eventually your trembling hand places the phone into his. Then your wallet. Your bank card. Even your car keys. Each item disappears into his study. Each one feels like another door quietly closing.
Far away in Haedam, the lighthouse beam sweeps slowly across the dark sea. Ten o’clock arrives. Seokjin climbs the familiar stone steps and presses your name. The phone rings once. Then disconnects.
He tries again. And again. And again.
The same recorded message answers every time. He remains there until the battery icon turns red. Until the screen finally goes black. Only then does he lower the phone. The wind off the sea feels colder than it did yesterday.
That night neither of you sleeps. You lie awake in the room that suddenly feels too large, staring at a ceiling you no longer recognize as home.
Hundreds of kilometers away, Seokjin lies fully dressed on top of his bed, listening to waves breaking against the shore outside his open window.
At nearly the same moment, without knowing the other is awake, both of you whisper into the darkness. “I love you.”
The words disappear into two different nights. Neither reaches the person they were meant for.
[2/2]
A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow, if we have electricity. There’s a typhoon expected to pass through our area, so I’m crossing my fingers that the power stays on. If there are any delays, I promise I’ll upload it as soon as everything is back to normal.
a story based off this one ✿ It’s the late 2000s, and your stupid boyfriend has officially messed up one too many times. After dumping him (again), you’re determined not to take him back, unless… he begs?
💭vaeh’s note: I love their dynamic so much omg and mind you I’m not even into all that begging but this may have awakened something in me
⊹
Sunday 5:00 p.m. The worst possible time to be writing an essay worth forty percent of your grade.
Your paper is due tomorrow at exactly 12:00 p.m., and after staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, you've managed to write three sentences. One of them isn't even good.
Your desk is covered in loose papers, highlighters a half-finished bag of chips. The late afternoon sun shines through your pink curtains window.
Bzzzt.
Your flip phone vibrates against the wooden desk, again. For the seventh time in one hour. You let out a long sigh, rubbing your forehead before forcing yourself to keep typing.
—
Exactly twenty-six hours and forty minutes ago, you broke up with Riki. And apparently Riki is taking it like the world has ended.
Not that this is anything new.
Yesterday had started out perfectly normal. You, Riki and the rest of the friend group had spent the afternoon hanging around downtown like always. Sunghoon brought drinks, Sunoo had a cheap disposable camera, everyone was sharing fries from the same cheap diner.
Riki, however...
He woke up and chose to be the biggest pain in your ass imaginable.
Every five minutes he'd place his foot slightly in front of yours while you were walking, making you stumble off the sidewalk before laughing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen.
He stole your lip gloss. He stole your sunglasses. He stole your flip phone and held it above his head because he knew you couldn't reach it, grinning while you jumped and threatened to kick him in the nuts.
He kept making the dumbest jokes known to mankind, laughing so hard at his own jokes that he nearly fell off his skateboard, while the rest of the group just stared at him in silence.
At one point he even yanked your precious Juicy Couture handbag off your shoulder and skated away with it, forcing you to chase him for nearly two blocks.
You had warned him, lots of times.
"Riki, I'm dead serious."
"Okay, okay."
Five minutes later he was flicking the back of your ear.
Eventually you'd had enough. You stopped walking, folded your arms and looked him dead in the face.
"That’s it. We’re done. I'm breaking up with you."
His grin disappeared for maybe... two seconds. Then he laughed. "You say that every month."
"I'm serious this time. I’m so done with you."
"You don't even mean it."
"I do."
He squints his eyes. "You'll call me tonight."
"I will not."
"You definitely will."
You stared at him for another second before snatching your bag back from his shoulder.
"Watch me." Then you walked away.
Your relationship has always been ridiculous. One week you're inseparable, the next you're "done forever." Then somehow you're holding hands again three days later like nothing happened. And it always happens over the dumbest things imaginable.
—
Twenty-six hours later...
Bzzzt.
"Oh my god, shut up!"
When you hear that stupid custom ringtone you installed for him again, you grab the flip phone off your desk and toss it backwards onto your bed without even looking. It’s impossible to break anyway. It lands somewhere in the pile of blankets, still buzzing.
You're not answering that.
This is... the fifth time you've broken up? Maybe the sixth? Honestly, you've lost count.
Then finally, your fingers move across the keyboard without stopping. One paragraph turns into two, then somehow you're already halfway through the next one. You don't even realize you've been writing for almost twenty minutes.
Then—
Riiing. Riiing.
Not Riki's ringtone, the default one. You stop typing and stare at your screen for another second before sighing. You push your chair back with a groan and walk over to your bed, digging through the blankets until your fingers find your flip phone.
Jake. You frown and flip it open. "...Jake? Hello?"
"Yooo." Jake sounds irritatingly cheerful. "How's the essay going?"
You narrow your eyes immediately. "...Bad."
"Damn. Uh... How's your mom?"
You blink. "She's.. fine?"
"Cool."
"Okay..."
You slowly pull the phone away from your ear to look at it. "...Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"...Nothing."
Then you hear muffled voices. "No, give it—"
"Dude—" A little scuffle and then "...Hello?"
You immediately close your eyes. "Oh my God. Seriously?"
It's Riki. "Hi."
"You are unbelievable. You're calling me from Jake's phone now?"
"My phone isn't working."
"It is working."
"...Yeah."
"So why are you using Jake's?"
"'Cause you won't answer mine."
You let out the biggest sigh imaginable. "You're ridiculous. What do you want?"
"...Did you mean it yesterday?" He asks, you don't answer. "When you said that we're over."
You stare out your bedroom window. "Yup."
He sighs. “…Can I come over?"
Your head snaps up. "Don't you dare."
"What if we just—"
"Riki."
"Five minutes."
"No." Riki sighs. "Three?"
"No."
"I'll stand outside."
"No."
"I won't even come in. I just wanna ta—"
You suddenly start making static noises into the phone. "Krrshhh—"
"...What?"
"Kghhh— sorry— can't— hear—"
"Y/n?"
"Connection's— really— ba—"
"Are you kidding m—"
"KRRSHHHH—"
"Y/n. Hello? Hello?"
Click. You snap the flip phone shut. "Idiot."
—
Across town, Riki slowly lowers Jake's phone from his ear. "She hung up on me."
Then, with a dramatic groan, he lets himself fall backwards onto Jake's bed and throws and arm over his face. "I'm gonna die."
Jake doesn't even look up from the game controller in his hands.
"Yeah man, I think she's serious this time. You fucked up."
Riki drags both hands down his face. "I can't lose her, Jake."
Jake pauses his game and looks at Riki. "You know what your problem is?" Riki stares at the ceiling. "What."
"You act like she's your best friend when you’re around everyone else."
"What?"
"You never act like she's actually your girlfriend." Riki frowns. "I do."
"No." Jake points at him with the controller. "You annoy her all the time and you never listen to her.”
"I flirt."
"You steal her stuff Riki, that’s real mature."
"I give it back. I make her laugh."
"You make yourself laugh." Jake sighs. "Dude… you gotta stop acting like she's just someone you keep around to mess with."
"She's not." Riki turns his head toward him. "She's what I love most in the world."
Jake nods once. "Then tell her that. And maybe stop acting like a toddler every time she's around." Riki groans into his hands again.
--
Twenty-five minutes later Riki rolls to a stop in front of your house.
The wheels of his skateboard scrape against the pavement before he flicks it up with his foot, catching it without even looking. He leans it against the brick wall beside your front door and exhales.
The small window beside the door reflects his face and he takes a look at himself. His beanie comes off and he runs a hand through his black hair a few times, trying to make it look at least a little less messy before pulling the beanie back on.
Then his eyes drop to his jeans that are hanging halfway down his ass. He grabs the waistband and pulls them up a little.
He can practically hear your voice already.
"Riki, pull your damn pants up. Your whole butt is out."
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
He straightens his jacket, takes one last breath and presses the doorbell.
...
Nothing. He waits. Still nothing, so he presses it longer.
...
Silence. He presses it one more time.
"Y/n?"
His patience lasts about ten more seconds before he starts knocking.
"Y/n."
Knock. Knock. Knock. "I know you're home."
He bangs his fist on the door now. "Come on."
Still nothing.
"For fuck's sake..." With a sigh, he takes a few steps backwards and looks up toward your bedroom window. Maybe he can see if you're in there. When he steps back, he accidentally bumps shoulders with a woman walking her dog.
"Oh— sorry."
"It's alright."
She follows his eyes to the upstairs window, then looks back at him with a knowing smile.
"Hm. Maybe try climbing it again."
Riki lets out an awkward laugh. "I guess..."
She continues walking without another word. Riki watches her for a second, completely confused.
It’s just your neighbour and she definitely saw him sneaking through your bedroom window the last time the two of you "broke up." But Riki doesn’t know that.
Meanwhile, you're completely oblivious.
Your essay is finally coming together. Britney Spears is blasting through your iPod earbuds while your foot taps against the floor beneath your desk. You're actually getting somewhere.
Then—
Tick.
Something taps against your bedroom window. You pause for a second, taking one earbud out.
"Y/N!"
Your eyebrows knit together. "...No."
"Y/N!"
You slowly close your eyes. "You've got to be kidding me..."
You push your chair back and walk over to the window. The second you slide it open and stick your head outside, there he is standing in your front yard, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, looking way too pleased with himself.
"Uhh.. what did I say," you yell down at him, "about coming near my house?!"
He cups his hands around his mouth. "Baby, I just wanna talk!"
"We already talked!"
"No we didn't!"
"Yes we did!"
"You broke up with me!"
"Yeah, and?!"
"I didn't get to say anything!"
You throw your hands up. "What is there to say?"
"I'll make it up to you!"
"You say that every time!"
"This time I mean it!"
"You also say that every time!"
He groans loudly enough for the whole street to hear. "Y/n, come on!"
"No!"
"Five minutes!"
"Go away!"
He looks around dramatically before pointing toward the rainpipe running up the side of your house. "...Don't make me climb."
Your eyes immediately widen. "Don't."
"Then let me in."
"No."
He starts walking toward the rainpipe. "Riki."
He keeps walking. "I'm doing it."
"Riki."
"I'm climbing."
"You are not."
He grabs the pipe with both hands. "Watch me."
"Riki!"
One foot comes off the ground, he starts pulling himself up.
"Oh my God..."
"Last chance, y/n!"
"Stop it!"
He climbs another few inches.
"Riki!" You pinch the bridge of your nose. "...Fine!"
He immediately stops climbing. "Really?"
"Yes!"
A huge grin spreads across his face.
"But—" You point downstairs. "Front door."
"...Aw."
"Front. Door."
He sighs dramatically. You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.
Then you slide the window shut, the second it clicks closed, you let your forehead fall against the glass. You groan loud enough for yourself to hear through the window. "Why... why."
Taking one long, reluctant breath, you push yourself away from the window. Then you leave your room to go let your ex-boyfriend into your house.
You swing the front door open and look at him with your Arms crossed and one eyebrow already raised. He stands there with his, beanie pulled low over his forehead, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his hoodie.
The second he sees you, he smiles. You don't.
"What do you want?"
"Hi." He scratches the back of his neck. "...Can I come in?"
You stare at him for another second before stepping aside with a dramatic sigh. You don't answer, you're already halfway to the stairs and he follows after you.
"So... I wanna talk."
"I figured." You reach the top of the stairs. "Then talk."
"I mean... properly."
You push your bedroom door open. "You better be fast." He looks around. "Why?"
"'Cause I'm busy."
"Busy doing what?"
You walk over to your desk. "My essay."
He snorts, like he doesn’t believe you’re serious. You slowly turn around completely silent. One eyebrow lifts and you just stare at him.
His smile disappears. "Oh." He straightens up immediately. "...Right."
You nod toward the middle of the room. "So? What did you wanna talk about?"
Riki hesitates for a second before rubbing the back of his neck again.
"...I want you to take me back."
You close your eyes. Then let out the longest sigh he's ever heard.
"If that's all you're here for..." You point toward the hallway. "you can leave."
"No, wait." He takes a step forward. "Please."
You don't look impressed.
"I don't even know why you broke up with me."
That makes you stop. Slowly you turn around and you look at him like he's the dumbest person you've ever met.
"...Seriously?"
He blinks. "...Yeah?"
You let out one short laugh. "You might wanna sit down for this."
You didn’t mea it literally. But Riki, somehow convinced he's about to receive the lecture of a lifetime, obediently walks over to your bed and slowly sits down on the edge.
You have to stop yourself from laughing. Instead, you fold your arms.
"Yesterday."
He nods.
"You held my phone above your head. You stole my lip gloss. You took my bag and skated away with it. You tackled me while we were walking, you almost made me eat concrete."
He frowns. "I caught you."
"Barely." You say, and you continue. "You made fun of me."
"I teased you." Riki comments.
"You flicked my ear, it hurt. And every single joke you made yesterday was also painfully unfunny."
"I thought they were funny."
"Just you, yeah."
Then he frowns.
"So..." He gestures vaguely with both hands. "You broke up with me because I was messing around with you for one day?"
You scoff so loudly he almost flinches.
"One day?" You let out a dry laugh. "One day?"
You sigh and continue your list of thins you dislike about him.
"You never listen. I tell you to stop doing something and you keep doing it because you think it's funny. And you don't know what the word 'no' means."
He sighs. "Y/n—"
"No. You interrupt me constantly."
"..."
"You never take anything seriously. Your pants always hang halfway down your ass."
He instinctively looks down at them. "They're supposed to."
"They're falling off."
He opens his mouth again. You don't even let him start.
"You smoke. Cigarettes, weed. You constantly smell like smoke."
He looks down at his hoodie and sniffs it. "I smell alright."
You raise an eyebrow. "You smell like an ashtray." He quietly stops sniffing himself.
"And you spend more time on that stupid skateboard than you do with me."
"I don't—"
"You do."
"I literally—"
"You. Do."
Every single time he tries to defend himself, you cut him off before he gets more than two words out.
Normally, by now, he'd have completely checked out. He'd be picking at the ruffles on your pillows, spinning one of the little charms hanging from your lamp, messing with your lip gloss collection. Doing literally anything except listening.
But not today, today he just sits there looking at you. Actually letting every word sink in.
Until you finally run out of things to say. Then Riki rubs both hands together.
"Okay." He nods once. "…I have complaints too."
You fold your arms. "Oh?" One eyebrow lifts. "Let's hear them."
"Uh..." His confidence immediately disappears. "Well... you..." He scratches his cheek. "You wear... too much perfume."
You frown. "...What?"
He points at you awkwardly. "Your perfume."
"...Yeah?"
"It's..." He shrugs. "Strong."
You stare at him. "So your complaint... is that I smell too good?"
"No. I just mean—"
"You don't like my perfume?"
"It's just... a lot."
You blink twice, then slowly shake your head. "Whatever." You turn back toward your desk. "I'm not even entertaining that."
You start sorting through the pile of papers scattered beside your keyboard.
"I don't know. I just..." His voice sounds softer. "...I just want you back, Y/n."
Your hands keep moving around your desk. "It's not gonna happen."
"I'll do anything." Riki says. That makes you snort. Without even looking at him, you shake your head.
"Yeah?" You shuffle another stack of papers into place.
"What are you gonna do..." You laugh to yourself. "...get on your knees and beg?"
You turn around, ready to see him still sitting on your bed. Instead… he's already lowering himself onto both knees, looking up at you. A laugh escapes before you can stop it, shaking your head as you look down at him.
"You're such a loser."
He doesn't even argue, he just starts begging.
"I'll change y/n."
The smile on your face falters just a little when you realize he’s serious.
"I'll stop acting like a kid. I'll stop smoking if you want me to."
His eyes don't leave yours.
"I know we've had our ups and downs... but I don't want that anymore. I don't wanna break up with you every month."
His voice gets quieter and the room suddenly feels slightly hotter.. "I just... I wanna love you every day, baby. Every time we're not together… I might act like I don't care. But I do, I miss you every single time."
His shoulders sink. "And I don't wanna lose you."
You haven't said a single word. You're just looking at him, your face completely blank. Then the tiniest grin starts pulling at the corner of your mouth. You are enjoying this far more than you should.
He notices. "...Don't smile."
"I'm not."
"You are. You think this is funny."
You shrug. He sighs before reaching forward and gently taking both of your hands in his. His thumbs rubs gently over your knuckles.
"Please, baby... I know I act stupid sometimes—"
"And childish," you interrupt.
He nods immediately. "Yeah."
"And irresponsible. And annoying."
"Yeah," he nods desperately. "Yeah, all of that. But I promise I'll stop, i'll be better."
He squeezes your hands gently.
"I love you more than anything in the world." He looks down for a second, almost embarrassed by what he's about to admit. "I just...I don't really know how to act around you sometimes."
"So I start joking." He continues. "I mess around, I try to make you laugh. And then I get carried away."
His eyes find yours again. "But I can do better. I want to do better, for you."
"So..." His voice softens. "just give me one more chance. Please, Y/n. I'll spend the rest of our relationship proving you right for taking me back."
For a moment neither of you says anything. He stays on his knees. You keep holding both of his hands and look down at him, the corners of your mouth slowly lifting into a smile you try very hard to hide.
His own smile starts creeping back too, hopeful this time. He studies your face for another second before slowly standing up, his hands sliding from yours to your sides as he stands.
The height difference returns instantly, now you're the one looking up at him. You sigh dramatically and roll your eyes.
"Fine, Riki." His eyebrows lift. "I'll give you another chance."
"But—" Before you can finish, his arms wrap around your waist and he effortlessly lifts you off the floor. You let out a surprised squeal that turns into laughter.
He grins so hard his cheeks hurt. "I knew it."
He leans in and kisses you, the kind of kiss that makes both of you smile halfway through it. The second your feet touch the ground, though, your expression changes. You poke a finger firmly against the middle of his chest.
"Listen." He nods immediately.
"This is your last chance." You poke his chest again. "You mess this up... we're done."
He nods again.
"Forever. I don't care if you get on your knees, don't care if you cry, don't care how much you beg. I'm not taking you back again."
He doesn't even hesitate. "Okay."
"So don't mess it up."
"I won't."
"You promise?"
"I promise." He smiles softly.
"I won't mess up, baby." Then he leans down and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead. "I swear."
Before you can answer—
The front door downstairs slams shut. Both of you freeze.
"Y/n, honey?" your mom calls from downstairs. "We're home!"
Your eyes go wide. "Oh shit."
You immediately raise your voice. "Okay, Mom!"
You look at riki. "You have to go."
His smile disappears. "What?"
"You have to leave."
"I literally just got here."
"My parents can't know you're here."
"Why?"
You give him a look. "Because they'll spend the next hour asking me why I took you back."
He looks genuinely offended. "...What's wrong with taking me back?"
You snort. "Nothing. They just think we're exhausting. But I'll talk to them, just... not today."
He sighs. "I finally get my girl back and I'm immediately getting kicked out."
"Go."
Riki lets out the most dramatic sigh you've ever heard and slowly turns toward your bedroom door. "I can't believe this."
He reaches for the doorknob and you stop him immediately. "Riki. Window."
He looks over his shoulder. "My skateboard's at the front door."
"So?"
"My skateboard being there means they probably saw it."
You place both hands against his back and start shoving him toward the window.
"If they see you they’re gonna ask questions.” You slide the window open with a loud squeak. "So go through the window."
He looks down at the drop but e turns back to you instead of climbing out. Then he grabs your waist and pulls you against him before he kisses you.
His hand settles between your shoulder blades as he keeps pulling you closer until you're practically bending backwards over his arm. A surprised giggle escapes into the kiss. Your hands come up instinctively, cupping both sides of his face as you smile against his lips.
Footsteps creak on the stairs outside. Then your mom's voice echoes through the hallway.
"Y/n? What are you doing up there?"
Your eyes snap open and you pull back immediately.
"Still working on my essay!" you yell.
You shove Riki toward the open window and whisper-yell. "Quick, quick!"
"I'm going!" Still laughing, he awkwardly squeezes himself through the window frame, one leg dangling outside while his hoodie catches on the latch. "Oh, for fuck's sake..."
"Riki!"
"I'm stuck!"
You grab his hoodie and hook it off the latch. "There."
He pulls himself up and steals one last kiss. "See you tomorrow?"
You smile despite yourself. "Yeah, now go."
He drops onto the little ledge beneath your window, then carefully climbs down the drainpipe the rest of the way before jumping the last few feet onto the grass.
You lean on the windowsill, watching him land.
He dusts off his baggy jeans like nothing happened. Then walks over to the front of the house, grabs his skateboard from where he'd leaned it against the wall, and starts walking backwards down the path again instead of turning around. His eyes never leave yours.
Right then, the same woman walks past with her little dog. She slows for a moment, looking from Riki... to you leaning out of your bedroom window.
"Told you."
Riki lets out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
The woman looks up at you and you smile brightly. "Hi, Miss!"
She chuckles and continues walking. Riki looks back up at you with a confused frown. You mouth one word. "Neighbor."
His eyes widen. "Oh."
You immediately start shooing him away with little hand motions. "Go!"
He grins, he presses both hands to his lips and blows you the most exaggerated kiss you've ever seen.
"Bye, Riki."
You roll your eyes, and wave until he finally turns around, drops his skateboard onto the pavement with a loud clack, hops on, and disappears down the street.
SYNOPSIS: You and Mingi have been friends since the time your brain first learned to hold on to memories. An inseparable pair born from a bitter feud over a mango flavoured juice box. You shared everything. Did everything together. You even got matching haircuts once. Proper bros through and through. It’s been eight years since Mingi last saw you. He expected you’d be taller. Maybe a little broader. Or maybe you’d finally stop dressing like you lost a bet to Winnie the Pooh. Change was only natural, after all. But what he didn't expect was this...were you always this pretty of a guy?
WORD COUNT: 3.4k
TAGS: @decaffeinatedmom01 @bluberrymuffinn
At age four, you swore Mingi would be your lifelong nemesis.
Mainly because he stole the only pack of Mango juice left on the round table during kindergarten.
Everyone else got the flavours they wanted.
Except you.
He deprived you of that.
How dare he.
And you even remember him shoving it in your face, slowly sipping his mango juice-box whilst you were stuck with orange.
Plain, old, boring orange.
You remember tackling him to the ground not long after, but that was the extent of your memory for that day.
Then, at age eleven, you realised that Mingi was a helpless idiot.
This was after you had already somehow managed to build a strong enough friendship where the both of you would refrain from killing each other purely based on stolen juice-boxes and instincts.
“Hey! Go away! LEAVE HIM ALONEEEE!”
Little feet hurried over with manic flailing arms. A tiny you jumped to the rescue at the piglet squeal of your best friend.
“Ugh! Great. It's this weirdo, again. Let's get out of here before—”
It all happened so fast.
You taking flight.
The main bully's eyes widening in fear.
Your smoothly connected shoe against his stupidly dumbfounded face.
With a pained grunt, the bully tumbled on the ground, hand clasping his jaw as streaks of tears began to trail down his cheeks.
“You better stay away from him! OR I'LL—”
Your small fingers signalled a knife to your throat before pointing towards them menacingly.
With a dirty glare, the bullies gathered themselves before making their stumbling escape.
“That's right! Run away you COWARDS!”
You stood tall and proud in your little dungarees and brightly spotted Iron-Man shirt, hands resting comfortably on your hip like some off-brand superhero.
Soft sniffles broke your concentration.
A curled-up Mingi was left cuddling himself on the ground. His clothes tattered, skin dirtied, and a growing bruise on his forehead.
Finally taking in his sight, you gasped, running towards him like a dramatic heroine.
“Mingi! Can you hear me? MINGI DON'T LEAVE ME! DON'T Do tHiS TO mE! NOOO—”
“SHUT UP YOU IDIOT! YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME GO DEAF!”
You immediately shut your mouth.
“Ha...” A frustrated sigh. “Those cheaters ambushed me. I was totally going to win if it was one on one like we originally agreed.”
You blinked.
“You agreed to fight those bums?”
He stayed silent. Nothing but a stupidly proud smirk to his lips.
Well. Turns out he proposed the fight.
Huh.
“But you're weak as hell—OW!”
He threw a punch to your shoulder and shot you a soft glare.
“Sheesh...” you pouted, massaging your arm. “I didn't even lie though.”
“I wanted to prove myself without you butting in!” He stood up, his height just about the same size as you.
“Yeah, well...well you should've won then!”
“I was going to do that before you came flying in like Columbus!”
“Columbus doesn't fly! He was an architect or something, so you got that wrong!”
“WHATEVER! My point is—”
You watched his chest rise and fall as he threw his hands up in the air, his pent up frustration spilling out all at once.
“I wanted to win that fight. I wanted to be strong...like you. I wanted to be able to jump in and help you, one day.”
Your breaths slowed at his words.
“And you ruined that.”
“What, you wanted me to leave you there and watch you get beat up like a loser?”
“Maybe!”
“I hate you!”
“I HATE YOU MORE!”
You both shared an ice cream after that. Completely forgetting the harsh words you spewed towards each other.
At age fourteen, you noticed that Mingi was starting to grow a smidge taller than you.
You also noticed that he was far too up-his-own-ass to notice the bare minimum.
Like, the bare minimum.
“And then Betsy, you know, the pretty one, called me over and said she likes my highlights. I think she's totally into me."
You snorted.
He raised a brow. “Woah, what's with the reaction? Just because you're Mr. Popular with the girls doesn't mean I don't get my fair share of attention!”
Your footsteps halted. Pursing your lips in thought, you replayed his comment, bathing further in your ego.
“Wait... I'm popular with the girls?” You questioned, loosening the grip of your collar whilst sending a lazy smile to one of your passing female classmates.
She blushed within seconds and took off running after a shy wave of the hand.
“Wipe that stupid smirk off your face before I do it for you.”
You obliged.
“Anyway, I'm not interested in the girls.” You nudged him gently, making sure to keep eye contact as you said so.
“You aren't? Well then tell them to come my way. I think it'd be the world's greatest man with just a fraction of your—”
“You're hopeless.”
“Hey! Where did that come from? What did I do?!”
You pulled him off to the side, his back hitting the wall. Your hands held his shoulders in place as you inched your face closer to his.
You gazed deep into his eyes.
“Mingi. Look at me. Really look at me. Don't you get it? Haven't you noticed?”
An owlish blink.
Then his lips started.
“Do you...”
His ears began to redden at the intensity of your stare. Mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Up close you were more...soft-looking(?) than he thought. No wonder you were popular with the girls. Heck, he'd probably have fallen for you too, in different circumstances.
He cleared his throat, trying again.
“Are you—”
Your eyes shamelessly followed his lips.
...Yes.
“Maybe...”
Your eyes widened with hope.
...Yes!
“Did you get a new haircut or something?”
...
What.
Closing your eyes, you patted his arm twice, before walking off wordlessly, leaving a clueless Mingi behind.
“Wait! I'm sorry, come back! If it's not your hair then...did you forget to shower or something? You wore your boxers inside out? WHAT IS IT?!”
Just a few years later, around age sixteen, you realised your feelings for Mingi were probably one-sided.
It was also the year your family decided to move away.
You had told him during your routinely hang out session after school.
The park was too crowded, so you both opted to visit your home instead.
He was hanging upside-down on your bed, scrolling through his phone when your voice spoke up.
“What would you do if I had to move away?”
He nearly fell off the bed.
“What do you mean, what would I do, obviously I'd move with you.” He struggled to reposition himself and after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he lay flat on your bed instead and looked at you.
“What's with the sudden question, anyway?”
Your silence suddenly felt off.
“No reason. Just curious—”
“Liar.”
You flinched at how fast he caught you out.
He was always good at that. Knowing when you were lying. For such an idiot, he was surprisingly perceptive, at times.
“Why did you really ask?”
You mindlessly looked around your plain room.
You wanted to avoid answering that question so bad.
“You're leaving. Aren't you.” He said it like a definite statement. Like he could see through you.
The silence in the room grew suffocating.
“I mean...define 'leaving'” you tried to joke, but neither of you laughed.
Mingi stayed quiet for a long time. Something you weren't used to from him.
Then, he slowly got up from your bed, and walked out of your room.
That was the last time you physically saw him.
He had called you up, a few days later. Spurred by your absence from school and the guilt gnawing at his stomach from his immature behaviour that day.
He asked whether it'd be okay to see you again.
You know. To apologise. Face to face.
But it was too late.
You were already gone.
You didn't know, but he already knew that.
His phone hung loosely in his arm as he stood in front of your family home. Your voice on the other end.
“I'm sorry.” You had said. And for a split second Mingi's frustrated resentment from the other day came bubbling up all over again.
He was mad at you.
For leaving him in such a short notice. For getting his hopes up for years, thinking you'd always be together.
His eyes stared past the glass windows of the house, blankly looking into the empty property.
He was mad at himself.
For never growing strong enough to be honest with you. For never fully appreciating the time he had with you. For feeling mad at you even though he knew it wasn't your fault.
His fingers rose to ring the bell.
The bell he had been pointlessly ringing for the past two hours.
Even if he knew no one would answer.
Just because.
Maybe. Just maybe... you'd magically appear behind the door and say that it was all a stupid joke.
But you never showed up.
The silence dragged on for another minute.
“It's okay.” He said.
Calmly.
Accepting.
Broken.
His best friend. The only person that truly knew him through and through.
The person he had started to unmistakably grow feelings for despite trying so hard to ignore them for so long.
“It's okay.” He repeated, more so to himself.
His head hung low as he rested it against the wooden door to your past home. Tiny droplets slowly decorated the top of his school shoes.
His shoulders shook silently.
And that was the last time Mingi had spoken to you.
And then came the day where he heard your name being mentioned.
Eight years later.
At a random paint-balling event where he was trying his hardest to live his 'best life' because Wooyoung wouldn't stop pestering him about making his twenties “worth it.”
Whatever that meant.
At first he thought he was hearing things. But then it got repeated again and he was convinced it might've just been another person with the same name.
“Are you even listening to me?” Yunho raised a questioning brow his way.
“Huh?”
“I said, we need to move in close, otherwise we'll never eliminate them.”
“Oh.” Was all Mingi could say.
He didn't even want to be here in the first place, so his lack of enthusiasm wasn't too surprising.
“Right. At my count, you move to the left, and I'll move to the right.”
The tall male just shrugged.
“Sure.”
Holding his gun in a way that was too serious for paint-ball, Yunho signalled his count, quickly crouching and making his run to his designated direction.
Mingi followed at half his speed, splitting off to the left, as discussed. Sighing, he checked the magazine of his gun, getting ready to aim at the person that hid behind the bush, around twenty metres away from him.
“I could be playing on my pc right now.”
A swift movement caught his eye.
The person behind the bush had changed cover.
Great. Now he actually had to play the game seriously.
Keeping his gun close, he quietly neared his target.
He was now just on the other side of the bush.
He got his gun ready.
Aimed.
And—
“OW! Mother fu—”
“Nyahahaha! I win!” The stranger continued shooting a tremendous waterfall of bullets, completely ignoring Mingi's pained laments.
“Hey! Cut it out, you psycho!”
The shooting only ceased due to the person's magazine running empty.
And as the freshly labelled "psycho" that they were, they continued to pull the trigger regardless. The constant subtle clicks of the gun filling in the silence.
“Gosh, this is why I didn't want to come in the first place.” A grumpy Mingi rose from his position, standing tall in front of the other stranger.
Without much thought, he removed his helmet and shades, carelessly tossing them on the ground as he tousled his hair in mild irritation.
For once, the clicking to the gun stopped.
At the uncharacteristic silence, Mingi lifted his gaze to meet the stranger's. Their helmet was clearly too big for them, shades hiding the majority of their face.
He lazily took one long look up and down, then started walking back towards where he knew Yunho would be.
“Woah, hey. Wait!”
“No.” Mingi said without even turning back.
A confused sound left the stranger.
“Huh?”
“Whatever you want to ask, I refuse it.”
A beat of silence. Then the stranger spoke up.
“Ayo, what a fricking weirdo.”
Mingi felt one of his veins pop.
“Come again?” He growled under his breath, turning to stand face to face with the person.
He was already annoyed at the way his day was going. He didn't need another catalyst riling him up right now.
“I said,” the stranger started, beginning to remove their own gear. First the helmet, then the shades.
You ruffled your sweaty hair, then stared straight at him with no particular emotion.
“You've become a weirdo.”
Stupefied.
That's what Mingi looked like.
With wide eyes and a hanging jaw, he stared at you endlessly.
Meanwhile, you stared back, the smallest spec of surprise behind your casual gaze.
“Dang. You don't look happy to see m—”
You were engulfed in a hug before you could even finish your sentence.
Warm arms squished you tightly, reluctant to let go.
“Actually, wait.” You were pulled back. “Why do you look like that?”
You deadpanned.
“Like what, Mingi.”
His heart did a flip.
Woah.
Did you always say his name so smoothly?
Mingi cleared his throat, nudging his jaw towards you like some sort of secret code.
“You know.”
You wordlessly blinked at him.
“...Like that.”
Pretty.
Were you always this pretty of a guy?
And why were you so...normal sized?
Soft, even.
He half expected you to resemble Dwayne Johnson by now. Especially with the way you were down to fight just about anyone, when you were younger.
And your hair.
He gasped.
Your face!
“Dude...”
A quiet pause.
“You look like a girl.”
You genuinely hit the hardest facepalm you've ever hit in your entire life.
Lord have mercy.
For a moment, you stood there, hand still on your face whilst Mingi watched you with conflicting emotions.
“I—” You started in disbelief. “I genuinely don't even know what to say.”
“Yeah, no. Me neither.”
You refrained from punching him in the mouth.
“Mingi. It's been eight years...”
“Yeah,” he nodded.
“And that's the first thing you say to me? ...Are you dumb?”
“Oh! I didn't mean it in a bad way. I just meant you look...” he appeared troubled, searching for the right word to say until—
“Pretty.”
You froze.
“Like, really pretty. I'm not even sure if that's the way I should be saying it but... that's how I feel so.” His dark orbs followed the way your expression buffered.
“Oh! Funny thing, actually—I mean, we have a lot of catching up to do—but before that, I wanted to tell you real quick—”
You came back to your senses at his yapping.
“Spit it out, Mings.”
His face sprouted in a bright blush at the familiar nickname.
“I like you.”
Silence.
Oh.
Oh?!
You opened your mouth to say something but he urgently interrupted you.
“I mean, I liked you. Back then, you know. I know you might not be into that kinda thing— I don't even know if I am, but I just wanted to let you know because I mean—oh, actually now that I think about it, that was dumb of me, forget what I sa—”
“MINGI! Shut the hell UP for a second, DAMN!”
His lips quickly straightened into a thin line.
Well, at least you knew he was still a yapper. That didn't change despite it nearly being a decade later.
“First of all. I am NOT a guy. I have no idea how this much time has passed and you genuinely didn't notice that.”
His brain stopped working.
“You didn't think it was weird that I wouldn't go to the toilet with you? Or that I'd have to use separate changing rooms to you?”
His eyes were practically hazed over at your revelation.
You sighed.
“And second, yeah, I liked you too. But you never even made it seem like you liked me back, and now I'm mad because you deprived me of my cliché teenage romance era.”
Your face grew red the more you spoke.
Both out of disbelief at the audacity of this guy truly going this long without realising the obvious, and at the fact that you were embarrassed to admit you liked him back then. Especially since it had been so long ago.
Mingi, the poor guy, was still stuck on the brand new information that you were, in fact, not just a suspiciously female-looking male.
“Wait...so I'm not gay?”
“Is that seriously all you took away from this?”
He didn't answer you.
“And considering you liked me despite thinking I was a guy, I'd double-check that claim.”
“Wait...” he continued, his selective hearing once again being triggered.
“You liked me back?”
You stood there quietly, watching this big, six foot, broad-shouldered dumbass try to get his thoughts into a coherent timeline.
After a while, you simply said.
“You make me want to cry.”
And started to walk off to where you hoped your game partner was likely waiting for you.
Of course, much like old times, Mingi tailed you like a lost puppy, assaulting you with a barrage of unanswered questions he'd been marinating for eight years.
Why did you leave so suddenly?
Where did you go?
Why did your contact change?
And most importantly: Did you still like him now?
Because he liked you.
He never stopped liking you.
Never stopped thinking about you.
He practically went through life on auto-pilot after you left.
But now you were back.
Would you leave like last time?
Would you tear him apart and isolate his feelings again?
Would you like him back?
“I can hear your yearning thoughts. Stop that.”
“Oh.” He gave a very slow blink. “My bad.”
You were both back at the main centre.
Someway, somehow, both your partners were still having probably the most intense battle of paint-ball known to man.
“So,” he started, repeatedly stealing glances your way. “Hypothetically speaking...”
You cocked your head towards him, watching him struggle to form a sentence. Your eyes naturally flitted to his lips.
He swallowed down harshly.
“Do you—no. Would you be open to explore our past feelings?”
Repeated blinking. Sweat pooling at his temples. A nervous smile.
You watched on without a word for what felt like minutes, to Mingi.
Then, finally.
“That depends on you.”
His arms languidly flew in the air, shrugging in false nonchalance.
“If you're that eager, who am I to refus—”
You pulled his collar towards you, swiftly connecting his lips to yours.
It didn't matter how many years passed, Song Mingi could never, and would never be able to sustain his cool demeanour around you.
He melted into the kiss like he had been starving for it. Lips moving in perfect sync to yours whilst following your lead.
As always.
His hand went to gently tilt your face. He deepened the kiss, softly melding against your touch. He was so ready to give you anything and everything. You just had to name it.
His joints grew weak as you put some distance between you, breaking the intimate moment after the shortest seconds Mingi has ever felt.
A brittle whimper slipped past his lips.
You raised an egotistical brow.
He furiously coughed, trying to play it off like nothing happened.
“Does that answer your question?” You spoke in a calm tone, eyes boring into his.
Sheepish, yet all the more shameless, Mingi gave you one of his signature smirks. His pearly white teeth matching perfectly with his goofy smile.
“I think I might need to revisit your answer. For research purposes—”
“—Oh. There you are.”
The two of you separated like you were contagious to one another.
A confused Yunho stood before you both. His eyes roamed to you, then slowly made their way to lock with Mingi's. He took one look at the state of both your faces, took a step back, and faced another direction.
“Erm...was I...interrupting something or?”
Another head popped up from behind Mingi's partner.
Your friend waved at you, looking like an Art Attack presentation.
“We lost.”
You awkwardly sent a thumbs up, trying to hide your plumped lip.
“Well... if you're done here, we can go?”
Angling his face to the both of you, Yunho's eyes waited on Mingi, who was furiously crossing his legs and nodding like an automated Christmas toy.
He hurried over to you, stole your phone from your back pocket, punched in his details and promptly bolted out the door in search for a safeplace.
Well then.
Your eyes fell to your phone screen.
'Mings >:3 ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️'
You had to hold back your laugh, because what the hell was that? Who needs that many hearts in a contact name?
“What's with the grin?” your friend materialised next to you, shoulder-bumping you gently.
You immediately straightened your face.
“What grin?”
“...You're joking.”
“No, seriously. What grin?” Having paid for your experience, you walked back to your car with your friend in tow, still playfully arguing.
A stupid grin on your face.
And a new stupid contact that you were sure to never let go of again.
At today years old, you finally realised that you'd long forgiven Song Mingi for stealing your mango juice box.
yall this is so fucking cute im in tears this is such a goooooooooooood awesome great amazing (spiderman) read for me who has been in reading drought recently im just yearning for some adorable romcoms like this please nerdy awkward silly cutie mingi is everythiiiinnngggg 😫 im gonna cry brb i need more of these two omfg
you thought i'd let you go? | haN taesan ( 보이넥스트도어 )
PAIRING: Male! Lead! Taesan x NPC! Reader
SYNOPSIS: Rule 1: Don't interfere with the storyline.
Rule 2: Don't attract the male lead's attention.
Rule 3: Survive 3 days as an unnoticeable NPC, and you get to go home. Simple <3
Transmigrating into a cringe-worthy otome game halfway through the plot should’ve been an easy win. All you had to do was blend in with the wall, avoid the unicorn sparkles and hair-flips, and wait out the clock.
Easy enough...
Or so you thought.
WORD COUNT: 2.3k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This idea was gathering dust in my notes so i thought id do something super quick with it. it's very quotev omg >.< since i already have a transmigration sungho fic and now a taesan one, i might turn this into a mini series to cover all members. It is undecided for now, but if ur into the idea, let me know. Enjoy!
perm tag gang: @ivehan @niceguyfreshguyofthenight
divider by @pixopix
Something was wrong.
Like, seriously wrong.
Taesan had always had the privileged curse of having countless eyes around him. So much so that he genuinely became accustomed to the burning admiration of his classmates and what felt like the whole entirety of the school.
It was almost like the world revolved around him.
Almost.
Because for some weird reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that the new transfer student (who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, by the way) hated him.
The disinterested grumbles. The tiny dramatic sighs. The very obvious and strenuous lengths to avoid crossing paths with him at all cost.
He didn't mind it. Or at least, he thought he didn't. Yet, something deep within him argued otherwise.
Somehow, you managed to make him constantly search for you at every opportunity. Not out of interest. Not out of reciprocated dislike.
But out of curiosity.
Would you ignore him again?
Would you send that shivering glare his way again?
And why the heck were you doing so anyway?
It was almost starting to feel like a game to him.
A game with an overly grumpy, human-sized house cat. He wouldn't express it openly, but he was borderline excited to study you.
And then there was you, who felt every lingering stare of his like it were scorching fire.
Gosh, you wished the time would just pass already.
You were dropped here with no true explanation as to why.
You know, cause why not.
The solution you had gotten from whatever entity it was that brought you here was simple.
Last three entire school days without getting noticed.
Essentially: don't interfere with the storyline.
Just be the good little NPC that you were allocated to be.
Easy enough.
Well, it should've been easy, considering you knew the lore to this shitty ass game.
There was practically no lore to it.
No real lore.
Females and males alike would yearn for the male lead. The male lead would toss his hair in slow motion—little sparkles emitting from his locks, sending all the hoes into pleasure-driven squeals. And eventually—around half way through the very first play-through—the player (aka the female lead) would show up and knock him off his feet.
And they'd live happily ever after!—
Is what was fated to happen.
And your mission should've been simple. After all, you got transmigrated half-way through the storyline. In fact, the two main characters should've been getting it on by now. So why the heck was Han Taesan staring at you like you were some sort of new technology.
This was bad. You were on your third and final day.
You had somehow pioneered a way to avoid him during the first day...
By running the opposite way at the mere sight of him—
It worked like a charm.
Aside from in classroom settings where you were forced to blend into the crowd of squawking fans.
You tried your hardest.
Really, you did.
You even attempted to squeal and act bashful at the slightest movement of his. But that act didn't last more than thirty minutes before you felt yourself recoil at your own cringy conduct.
So you opted to silently curse him out in your head and generally avoid all such interactions.
On the second day, you basically did nothing but stare out the window for half the day and manually try to deafen yourself whenever the cheers of his fanbase grew a little too loud.
You had sneaked a glance to see what the commotion was about, but it was nothing but Taesan writing down the date on his notebook.
Because apparently that was something extraordinary enough to squeal about.
“Seriously,” you had scowled lightly, watching with a raised brow. “This is actually canon?”
You had expected the surroundings to resemble the game but you didn't expect the fanbase to react at the most minutiae thing.
It was almost impressive.
Anyway, on the second day too, you had tried to follow the masses (near the back this time) as to not make yourself too suspicious.
That didn't stop the occasional judgmental looks you sent his way, but that was mainly because you weren't exactly...keen on his character's personality type.
It wasn't like you made your dislike obvious. At least, you don't think you did.
Surely the MC of a game where the whole world was practically kneeling at his feet wouldn't take notice of a singular, insignificant NPC...right?
It wasn't like the game had self-aware, sentient characters or something.
Haha!
Yeah, you were getting worried for nothing.
Nothing would happen. The whole thing was rigged in your favour.
It was day three now, too!
So you just had to sit back, relax, and enjoy the sho—
A sad-looking piece of paper came crashing down on your desk. Your heart almost gave out at the sheer force of the action, making you flinch so hard that you nearly stumbled off your seat.
The face that you really didn't want to see right now, was glaring down at you with worrying intensity. A twitching side-smile graced the corner of his lips. His face looked like it was somewhere between mild annoyance and an uncanny, sadistic glee.
Han Taesan, with the largest fan-ocean known to mankind cheering behind him, stood in front of you. Watching you like a hawk.
You gulped.
“You're the only one who hasn't signed the club form yet,”
WHY was he speaking to you?! Didn't he have other things to do? People to please? Female leads to seduce?!
And what happened to hi and hello???
Your eyes robotically avoided his, craning your neck to look out the window like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
NPCs were known to not talk much, right?
You could totally get away with acting clueless.
“Stop acting clueless.”
Okay, that was just uncalled for.
“Erm,” you were sweating buckets.
Should you just comply and register for something random? It's not like you'd be here to see how it played out or anything.
Lightly scratching the side of your face, you reached for the club form, only to freeze in place.
Taesan's eyes followed you like a police officer to a criminal. There was something suspicious about you, and he'd find out what it was even if he had to break the simulation.
“What.” He said flatly, noticing your random stillness.
You nervously chuckled, your shoulders rising as you presented your empty hands before him. A crooked, foolish smile playing at your lips.
“I uh...don't have a pen.”
“...”
Wha?...what kind of reaction was that? Why was he looking at you with such disappointment?!
He mumbled something under his breath, but you swore it sounded something like— “What kind of NPC doesn't carry around a pen with them.”
But how could he have known you were an NPC? That couldn't have been the case.
Right?..
...Nah.
“Taesan-sama, do you need a pen?”
...Beg your pardon?
You had to cover your mouth with your hands to stop yourself from laughing your ass off.
Taesan-sama...
Your eyes started watering from your repressed chortle. A snort escaped you. You shut your eyes tighter, as if that would help.
“Taesan-sama, I have one too!”
“Pfft—”
Oh my gosh.
You were gonna explode.
You totally forgot this game was set in Japan. And you totally forgot how highly respected this dude was amongst his peers. That took you way off-guard.
Taesan took one pensive look at your stifling self and raised his brow.
“I have a pen you can use.” Came a voice as calm as the swirling breeze. A voice so chillingly sweet that it forced you to calm down and open your eyes to look at the source.
There she was, the female lead of the story, standing in all her beautiful glory. With her pink hair and her bubblegum smile. She was glowing. No joke.
One little tilt of the head nearly got you swooning. But you played the game enough times to be mildly desensitised to her angelic effect.
And by enough times you mean once.
A cute, strawberry-head pen was pushed towards you, her dazzling orbs barely looking at you, and instead focused towards Taesan—which is what you expected of an automated MC. You were just an NPC to them after all.
“Ah,” your voice finally spoke, staring at the pen in front of you for a little while longer. “Thank you...” You reached for it, but another hand beat you to it.
Taesan's fingers politely pushed away the strawberry-pink pen, and shoved a basic looking pen your way instead.
“Here. Take it.”
You stayed quiet. Blinked once. Looked at the basic pen for approximately ten seconds.
Then reached for the strawberry pen instead.
Denied.
Again.
You could feel the slight flex of your brow.
What the...
What was with this guy?
Your eyes narrowed at him.
“I need a pen to sign the form.” You quipped passive-aggressively.
His jaw casually cocked forward. “There's one right here.”
Your eyes flit to the pen in his hands, then back to his dark eyes.
An irritatingly obvious twinkle of amusement twirled within them, as if he was gauging your reaction. Waiting for you to show something. To slip-up and shoot yourself in the foot.
Fine.
He wanted to play. Then you'd play.
You weren't about to involve yourself more than this. Having the two main characters in front of you was already enough of a headache, you had to defuse this situation asap.
Clearing your throat, your eyes swam past Taesan's figure—earning a very obvious furrow from him— and went directly to the swarm of students formulated behind him.
With the most uninteresting tone you could possibly muster, you put your hand up.
“Does anyone have a spare pen I can borrow?”
The most dooming silence.
...Okay. Rude.
You thought NPCs were meant to look out for one another.
“See? No one has one. Use mine.”
“I'm sorry, but what difference does it make if I use yours over hers?”
“Mine writes smoother.”
“Well, hers looks cooler.”
“Mine is brand new!”
“Hers is pink!”
“You know what—” he straightened up abruptly, snatching the club form from your desk. “Don't bother signing up.”
Wha—...was he for real right now?
A tick mark formed on your forehead, your teeth ground together, eye twitching in genuine irritation. “I wasn't going to in the first place, but your annoying ass came waltzing in like Cinderella and started bugging me—”
You stopped.
Wait...
This wasn't good. You couldn't lose your cool, it'd make you memorable. You were meant to be as forgettable as the 'p' in raspberry. If you made him interact with you anymore than now, you'd be done for.
Carefully, you lifted your gaze to catch his eyes.
You flinched at what you saw.
Something wasn't right...
They were shining.
Shining with something unspoken and ethereally dangerous.
An awareness that sent chills down your spine.
A consciousness that should have never been there in the first place.
Your eyes slowly fell back to the top of your desk, fingers interlocking in a formal manner on your table-top.
Ah.
You were so cooked.
The main cast was never meant to be this reactive to a side-character, yet alone an NPC.
Moreover, that look in his eyes... it wasn't normal.
It wasn't the usual spark of curiosity that you had learnt to ignore during the past few days.
No, this was something that crossed the line with no intent of returning. This was...
Interest.
And the way he grinned at you...
Something within you shifted.
It was like you already knew.
You weren't going home.
And a small part of you wondered if Taesan knew more than he let on.
The crowd dispersed with blurred conversations after your little scene. The day continued as normal, not including the gnawing feeling in your stomach. That silent dread that you did something very very wrong.
As the evening sun caramelised into something warmer, a cold sweat settled against your skin.
The bell to the end of the day hadn't even rang yet when your math teacher promptly announced the end of the day.
You tried to glance at the clock.
A body blocked your view.
Tall and exceptionally quick-witted, Han Taesan stood before your seated form, looking like he held all the cards. He stared at you for what felt like hours, calculatingly observing the way you bit your lip in anxiety, the way your fingers squeezed your statistics school book tighter.
The way your panicked eyes gazed up at him, as if pleading with him. Begging him not to do what he was about to do.
He smiled.
A smile you wish you had never witnessed.
Crouching down to your level, he brought his head right next to yours, angling his face to study your side profile, silently.
Inching closer to your ear, he spoke.
Airy. Calm. Knowing.
“See you tomorrow, darling.”
The whisper carried softly to your ears in a way that you hated, because in different circumstances, you might have allowed yourself to gush like a little girl.
But as Taesan retreated, sending you one last long look before walking away, and as the clock struck four with the school bell blasting loudly, a suffocating coldness flooded your chest, blood draining from your face as your eyes remained glued to the unmoving second hand.
Your classmates emptied the room within seconds, each giggling and skipping out of the room with the sun-rays dancing across their skin, as if revitalising them.
As if today was a day to be celebrated.
You remained seated, your eyes never leaving the clock.
The longer hand didn't cease to tick, taunting you with the reality that you had long realised to be true despite all your efforts.
On day three, with less than a minute to spare for your freedom, Han Taesan tore the script, trapping you in the game.
GENRE: slice of life, comedy, slow burn, fluff, enemies to…
WARNINGS: bickering, forced promity, sunoo is a bit of a sassquatch and low-key rude but you are too so touché.
SYNOPSIS: When life tastes too sweet and the sun shines too brightly in the sky, that is when you ought to beware and brace yourself for impact. You had to learn this the hard way. Your final year of fashion school was meant to be your glory days— a catapult to your grandiose debut in the fashion industry; your heaven on earth, a free ticket to graduating at the top of the arts institution with flair and an unyielding sense of peace and fulfilment. Perhaps even paired with an obnoxious, villainous laugh. That was your carefully scripted “reality.” Until the one person you hate the most in the whole solar system waltzed into the classroom and ruined all potential plans of an early retirement, creative freedom and a stable blood pressure. Now, forced to co-operate alongside the very bane of your existence, you're plunged into an unwanted partnership, cat fights instead of catwalks, and an unavoidable confrontation of a ridiculously long historical rivalry.
WORD COUNT: 12k (got a lil carried away)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: can you believe it’s finally here? my first full enhypen fic! I could cry. I hope u enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. expect more enha fics in the future! i appreciate all feedback so don’t be afraid to comment ur thoughts <3
You’ve been at war since you were six.
"Are you friCkiNg stupid?"
"No. But I know you are."
"Why yOU—"
A tiny sea of arms secured you a split second before you could leap into battle. Your classmates had already anticipated your moves, creating a makeshift barricade with their limbs for the both of you before matters could get any worse.
It had been the third time this week that a brawl broke out between the two of you, and it was only a Tuesday.
On Monday, it was a fight to the death on the playground over who got the correct scientific name of the animal that scurried on the big oak tree.
It was a squirrel.
"—I said let me GO!"
And now, your patience was being tested inside the classroom.
The teacher had briefly nipped away to fetch more gluesticks for the arts and crafts spaceship your class was building for the upcoming school funfair. She absentmindedly put the brightest, most responsible child, who was obviously you, in charge.
All was going splendidly, till a certain foxy, poopoo faced looking, annoying, short, bratty and stinky-bum boy decided to open his mouth and move it like a typewriter.
He insulted your drawing skills. Berating you and saying your doodle was "gross" and that you "couldn't even colour in right." You had drawn an outstandingly detailed flower at the bottom of the cardboard spaceship.
He called it a deformed elephant with wings.
And elephants don't live on the moon.
They don’t have wings either…
So, you took that personally.
The group of little children were now trying their best to push the both of you to opposite corners of the classroom, but your thrashing only grew fiercer.
You accidentally kneed one of them in the shin and elbowed another in the face. The two fallen soldiers dropped to the floor like wilted petals, each holding on to their brand new injuries gifted by yours truly.
By this point, hot tears of anger started to form as you fought to rush the dark haired boy who still had the audacity to stick his tongue out.
You ground your teeth.
From behind you, a kind girl with pig tails landed a few soft head pats to soothe your vexation.
But there was no calm before the storm when it came to you. You were all fire and crackle and if anyone ever tried to put you out, you'd set them ablaze too.
"Quick! Help me hold her arm—"
You slipped out of their grasp like water from a faucet, ignoring the squeals of terror that gurgled out of your classmates.
As if time itself gave way to marvel at your closing act, you propelled your small body forward, jumping with all your might, arm drawn back with professional ease, fist loaded for impact.
The dark haired boy’s eyes flew wide open, legs attempting to scamper off to safety, but he couldn’t make it on time. It was already too late, and he knew it.
And like the famous painting of Apollo descending from the skies akin to an angelic dove, your mini sized fist connected raw and clean, right on his soft, chubby cheek.
His body fell in slow motion, your classmates watched in morbid horror, and you guffawed at the face of mockery, hands resting on your small hips like an infamous dictator.
And that’s how a new bruise was born.
You and Sunoo never got along.
Not when you were both in 3rd grade grabbing each other’s hair because one called the other’s shoes ugly.
Not in 7th grade, when you called Sunoo’s gifted and brand new £200 perfume vomit-inducing.
And certainly not in the very last year of high school, where Sunoo had painfully ridiculed and sabotaged your collaborative, end of year arts & science project.
In front of your whole entire school, your precious piece blew up on your face, the entirety of your hand made solar system had catastrophically erupted all over you, covering you from the crown of your head to the very soles of your shoe with a concerning amount of hot pink lip gloss.
It was supposed to spit out a sensitive amount of glitter to mirror the shining of the stars in space.
You’re not even sure how he managed to get such an ungodly amount of lip gloss in one go. And you’d rather not know.
So, basically, no.
You and Kim Sunoo never got along.
Never did.
Never have.
And likely, never will do.
The funny thing is, it wasn’t your fault, because somewhere in your mind, at the ripe age of 11, you convinced yourself that from that point on, nothing was your fault. Maybe it was the inner workings of an upcoming narcissistic phase, or perhaps it was truth coated in a ridiculously thick layer of lies.
Whatever it was, you decided to stand by it from then on.
In your viewpoint, you tried your very best to be nice. You attempted to make friends at any given opportunity (that’s a lie), you were stunning (truth), smart (correct) AND incredibly inviting (debatable).
Day by day, you managed to give Mary Sue a run for her money, if you do say so yourself. And the most significantly impressive thing of all is that you strained yourself daily to not downright rip Kim Sunoo apart, piece by piece.
You were a saint.
Nothing could convince you otherwise.
Which left the equation as obviously self explanatory as it could possibly be.
You weren’t the problem.
He was.
So, naturally, when you came back to your last semester of fashion school after being severely sick for two weeks straight, the last thing you expected to see was a sadly familiar set of dark hair before you.
No, surely not…
This couldn’t be—
You rebuke it!
You shut your eyes momentarily, an intense scowl imprinted on your previously serene face.
Maybe if you didn’t see him, he wouldn’t see you. In fact, what if he was just a figment of your imagination?
You peeked your eye open to check.
Nope, still there.
He just hadn’t seen you yet.
Making a strangled noise of defeat, you growled lowly, eyes narrowing into murderous slits.
What the heck was he doing here?
Perfectly styled strands of ebony frilled around rhythmically, the wind blew like it was his partner in an end of year tango dance. His lips shone in pride, always moisturised and glistening as if ridiculing everyone else’s chapped ones.
It pissed you off.
Sunoo sat at the very back of the room, his attention completely absorbed in his own reflection as he monitored his appearance using the back of his phone.
You scoffed unbelievably, a mirror phone case, why of course.
His aura practically screamed “I’m better than every single one of you roaches” and your eye retorted with a twitch.
The clearing of someone’s throat pinched you out of your annoyed brain fog.
Your lecturer, also recognised as your fashion tutor, Ms. Dubois, smiled down at you with a sophisticated, rouge grin. She wore her signature 7 inch red bottoms, tight pencil skirt that trickled down to stop just above her knees and a cropped, asymmetrical blazer covered her slender shoulders.
You scowled deeper.
“Oh, come on. Don’t give me that look, young lady! You haven’t stepped foot in here for two weeks and you’re already greeting me with such ugly energy.” Her heavy, francophone accent swam into your ears, a voice as strong as a diamond and as sharp as a dagger. She waved her hands in front of you as if attempting to “shoo” away your bad energy.
Your expression refused to change.
“What is this I’m hearing about? Some kind of paired work,” you spoke up, ignoring her hands still fanning the air around you.
“Oh! Yes, yes!” She finally stopped trying to exorcise you and bit down on the bait you offered her; the project.
“The final project will be a collaborative assignment. Pick a concept, a theme, and show the world what you got!”
You sighed, your shoulders sinking to the ground in despair.
It was too early in the morning for this.
“What’s the length of the project?” You inquired, already planning various mental mood boards and formulating prototypes of pieces in your head.
“3 months, darling.” Her towering figure stood with elegance, a professional smile beaming down at you.
You could already feel the weight of the project on your frontal lobe. You fought the urge to succumb to your intrusive thoughts of jumping out the window.
You were on the 7th floor.
That certainly wouldn’t end well.
“Have the rest already picked their partners?” You barely got your sentence out before Ms. Dubois guffawed in hysteria. You aimlessly blinked with mild astonishment.
Erm.
Okay?
“Darling, the pairs are assigned. Your partners were announced last week. Let me see,” she waltzed over to her overly large desk. Grabbing a folder as big as a Yellow Pages book, she licked her finger and started turning through the papers.
“Ah! Here we go. Your partner is, uh…” she looked up from her folder, squinted her eyes and skimmed the crowd of students with laboured difficulty.
“Umm, Kim Sunoo?” She carefully gestured towards the male that was STILL checking himself out before his name got mentioned. Her voice gave a slight rise near the end of her sentence, uncertain about her pronunciation.
Time zeroed in on itself.
The classroom completely blacked out and your head twisted to meet a dreaded face that looked just as awfully put off as yours.
You’d think it was an AI generated video at how unrealistically slow you moved.
You swallowed harshly, your eyes meeting his wide, amber ones.
His hands had frozen in mid air, one somewhere between fixing his hair and the other on its way to lowering his phone. His gaze faltered all the more once your tired eyes turned completely stone cold.
…Hmm…
Maybe it was a different Kim Sunoo?
Your brain tried to coerce you into delusion as you walked up the steps towards the self-centred ass— you mean, man.
Dropping your items on the table with exaggerated force, you tossed your head backwards, sighing the world’s biggest sigh.
You know what made it all worse?
You hated sitting at the back.
You purposefully aimed to sit at the front on a regular basis, unfailingly, because even one single missed information would gnaw at your skin like the bubonic plague.
Even the past two weeks, you were working yourself like a dog on the lecture slides and studying overtime on the current fashion trends.
You were aiming to be a serious prodigy, an outstanding fashion designer. One of a kind. Once in a century.
You wanted to gag the current brand leaders and respected personnel in the industry. You couldn’t possibly do all that from the back. That’s for unserious people, that’s like shooting yourself in the foot at the finish line.
With your head still tilted, your eyes slid to look at Sunoo with murderous intent.
Your lids were heavy, mouth rested in an expressionless straight line, but the look in your eyes was enough to transpose all you wanted to do to this man.
Wrangling his neck would only be the start.
The dark haired male gagged in disgust as soon as he saw you standing near the table. His bundled fist flew to cover the opening of his mouth, eyes tightly wrinkled in pain.
“Could you kindly stop looking at me? Your face is making me feel physically sick.”
You nearly threw a table at him.
Silently staring at him for a moment, you turned on the balls of your feet, and wordlessly speedwalked back down the steps and straight for Ms. Dubois.
Her unsuspecting form was going through another student’s portfolio, assessing their recent contributions.
Your hands slammed against her desk with such force that Ms. Dubois was sure you disengaged gravity for a good minute.
“Ms. Dubois.” Your voice was low and eerily calm. You weren’t facing her, your head was lowered and glaring daggers into the wooden table below, your hunched back creating a dark, shadowy cast over your face.
Ms. Dubois gulped.
“I need a new partner.”
Ms. Dubois gave a quick prayer, preparing to utter her next words as sensitively as she could. She took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry to inform you that I can’t do that,”
Silence.
Blinking in very real alarm, Ms. Dubois attempted to get a good look at your face, calling out to you in genuine fear.
You didn’t move.
You couldn’t.
You were rooted to the ground of the classroom, a prop to the school building.
Why you?…
You seethed.
Why now?!
A poke stammered you back into focus. Ms. Dubois cautiously rushed to retreat, her finger now safely to her side.
“I really can’t, darling. It’s the rules! And I sent out an email with a deadline for discussions about changing partners last week.” She spoke as if her justifications could ever alleviate the raw suffering and sorrow you were condemned to.
Taking in a worryingly deep breath, you closed your eyes, rising up from your position with poise.
“I understand.”
Ms.Dubois blinked in surprise.
Did she hear you correctly?
“Wait. Y-you do?!”
“Yes.”
You turned around like a puppet on strings and made your way back to where your lovely partner was sitting, elbow on the table, hand upholding his jaw as he looked at your sorry attempt at changing partners with the most primal level of schadenfreude.
You balled your fists.
“Good morning to you too.”
You snapped your neck to the side making direct eye contact with him. The air physically grew cold.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Sunoo let out a dry whistle. “Gosh, aren’t you just a joy to be around.”
“Can’t say the same about you.”
He bit his lip, fighting the urge to throw an insult back.
Sighing, whilst whispering a hollow “Whatever,” he opened his sketchbook to the page he was already working on.
A variety of brainstormed ideas scattered the paper. Small sketches, colour schemes and fabric lists adorned each page like a purposefully orchestrated spectacle.
You took your seat, methodically choosing the one that was a chair away from him.
Sunoo was fully immersed in the planning of the project.
“I already thought of some concepts and prototypes for the pieces, whilst you were lazying about in the comfort of your own home,”
Sunoo glanced up to test your reaction, a sadistic smirk mildly glazed his lips before momentarily faltering.
He raised a brow.
“Why are you so far away?”
You stopped your writing to look at him.
“I work better in a controlled setting.”
Jabbing your pen at him, you added.
“You are not a controlled setting.”
Was he genuinely not as appalled, by the idea of the two of you being forced to work together, as you were?
He has been awfully on board with the whole thing. Usually, he’d already be trying to stab you with a ruler.
Scoffing, Sunoo directed his attention to you. His hand forcibly moved the chair between the both of you out of the way.
What happened next had you completely and utterly stupefied into pure silence.
He leaned over the now empty space, grabbing a hold of the bottom of your chair, and promptly pulled you over in silence.
Your chair migrated very slowly with a chorus of squeaks and mind altering screeches, eventually coming to a stop decently close to the pretty male.
You paled in your seat.
“There,” he said, hands wiping away at false sweat. His eyes never found yours.
“That’s better.”
You nearly threw up.
Attempting to move your chair back to its original position, Sunoo blocked any further movement by sucking in a short breath.
“Do you want to get a good grade or not?” His caramel eyes raked over you, briefly.
“I’m not exactly ecstatic working with you either, but unlike you, I’m actually serious about my work. So stop being a pain and pick up your pen. We have some planning to do.”
You were left speechless.
And unfortunately, he was right, although you would never admit that, not even over your dead body.
So you kissed your teeth, silently picked up your pen in mandatory obedience and started doodling fashion ideas.
Sunoo cleared his throat, hastily glancing at your quiet form.
You sighed. “What now?”
“I was thinking we could do a wedding concept—”
“No.”
Sunoo’s eye twitched.
“No? What do you mean, no? I didn’t even finish talking!”
The volume of your bickering managed to catch the attention of a few classmates. In particular, a short girl’s eyes lingered just a bit longer than others.
You continued drawing, shaking your head slightly. “That’s a weak concept. It’s not eye-catching, it’s predictable, safe, and it has limited themes. Sure, you could twist its traditional colour schemes but you can’t make a widely, unrepeatable fashion statement with a wedding dress.”
“Who says it needs to be a dress?”
“Your point remains invalid.”
He glared at you, clearly displeased.
“Well then have you got any ideas, since you’re the self proclaimed genius in this relationship—OW!” Sunoo rubbed his stinging upper arm.
“What the hell is actually wrong with you!”
“Oh, stop being a diva. I barely touched you. And we aren’t in a relationship.”
“You must be an imbecile, because a relationship is just a connection between two people, stupid. We’re literally partners.” He gave you a flat look.
“Anyway,” you resumed, ignoring him.
“My glorious idea is to go with the concept of extraterrestrial life—”
“Like that’s any better.”
You continued.
“It’s widely interpretable, allows experimentation with shapes, colours and sizes, and most of all,” you leaned close to his face just to spite him with your next line.
“It’s interesting.” You finished, smugly.
He seemed unfazed at the proximity.
Nevertheless, you raised your brows in victory, throwing your arms to the side as if saying, ‘I told you so.’
Sunoo pinched his nose shut, making a disgusted face. “Gosh, your breath reeks. Did you even brush your teeth this morning?”
“Say one more word and this is going right up your ass.” You were being so deadass, hand twirling your ‘Hello Kitty’ ball point pen in your fingers like you were playing poker.
“Please, I insist.” You urged him.
He just scrunched his face and wrote down your suggestion with no further comments.
You smiled.
Good.
“—How does an extraterrestrial bride sound to you?”
“Sounds like utter bullshi—”
“I like your plan, except it sucks, so let me do the plan and that way, it might be really good.” He interrupted you with no care whatsoever.
You see, that’s the thing.
The both of you couldn’t be more different.
One reason why you were both constantly at each other’s throats growing up was because you were always at the polar opposite end of every possible spectrum.
When Sunoo liked pink, you liked blue.
When he wanted sparkles, you reached for mattes.
And when you wanted sequin, Sunoo would go through heaven and hell to opt for satin.
“Since we can’t agree on a concept we both like, let’s do one we can’t care less about.”
“But liking something makes you work harder.”
Sunoo glanced at you with little to no interest.
“That’s not how professionalism works. A professional puts their all in every project and can work with any criteria.”
You chewed your lip, hating how he was technically correct.
“What are you, Detective Conan?”
He snickered smugly.
Huffing air out of your cheeks like a cartoon character, you slumped in your seat dramatically.
“Fine, let’s go with nature.”
“That’s basic.”
“Shut up.” You retorted.
He wrote down some words whilst you sulked next to him.
“Specifically, let’s do animals. I think that’s eccentric enough to keep your attention span running.”
You sat up a little higher on your seat.
“Hey, that’s not a bad shout, actually.”
“Cool.”
He gave a satisfied smile and your brain farted.
“Ew.” You said on instinct.
“Don’t smile like that, it’s making me feel nauseous.”
He replied with a dramatised eye roll.
Returning to finally making some progress on your work, the reason as to why Sunoo was here had nearly escaped your mind.
“Why are you—no, how are you here, anyway? I haven’t seen you in years. Didn’t know you studied here.” You wrote as you conversed casually.
“Ooo, is that interest I’m smelling?”
Sunoo had shifted to give a small turn of his head to look at you, his jaw propped up by his palm, elbow on the table, a relaxed smirk.
You wrinkled your nose, eyes still focused on your book as you replied with little to no effort.
“Hardly.”
He hummed, turning back to his own sketchbook.
“I’ve always attended this institute, in case you were wondering. I’ve seen you around, actually. I just wasn’t enrolled in this specific program.”
You continued to listen.
The room filled itself with the sounds of pen strokes hitting watercolour paper and the blurred out conversations of other groups. A layer of comforting white noise.
“I was originally doing the Fashion, Beauty and Cosmetics course, but I found that too easy. I mean, I practically know beauty inside and out.” He pridefully raised his chin to show his sculpted face.
“So, I changed to something closely related but slightly more stimulating.”
You raised your head to steal a look at him.
“How did they even allow you to do that on the last year during the last term?”
Sunoo simply shrugged.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
Fashion Design & Textiles was far from easy, so you concluded that if he was allowed to join this late so openly, he ought to have been more than qualified.
Or maybe the institute’s course director had lost their marbles.
Essentially, the outcome was the same; they ruined your comfort.
Sighing, you placed your pen down.
“I’m going to need your phone number. We need to arrange for fabric, styling, make up— though I’m sure with your prior knowledge that will be a breeze, and we need models.”
Luckily, the main showcase was to execute one primary piece with two other complimentary garments. This meant that you didn’t need to scramble about like a headless chicken, looking for 5 tall enough campus victims, like last year.
Three looks should be a piece of cake.
“With my prior knowledge… are you finally admitting I’m good at something?”
Your lips twisted.
“No.”
And you left it at that.
The two of you exchanged numbers, despite Sunoo initially gate keeping his phone like his life depended on it.
It’s not like you wanted to do this either, but you weren’t about to bank your future success on your hatred levels.
Even for you, that’d be low.
The rest of the day went by like a filler episode, and because your team had the likes of you in it, you got the majority of the planning done in no time.
Some suggestions had to be beat into agreement, Sunoo was hard headed after all, but you cracked the code of how to get what you want from the male.
Just annoy him until his ears bleed.
“I said we’re doing an Arctic fox, what the hell is this?” Sunoo lifted a design sketch of a garment that fully resembled the nature of a snow owl flapping its wings.
“Well, I said I liked the snow owl. So we’re doing the snow owl.” You snatched the paper out of his hands and straightened out the crumpled bits.
You were at the famous campus Café.
You hadn’t ordered anything because you were simply here for business, not to dilly dally. Sunoo ordered a mint chocolate and salted caramel frappé.
Your mind was already steeled to not let his opinions pass so easily.
You almost hesitated when you first walked into the building, seeing the sight of Sunoo’s heavy eye bags and what looked to be a gazilion loose sketches laid out on the table. For once he looked less like Ass Sunoo and more like a student running on delusion and spite, but you had a surprisingly strong resolve. So you kept it pushing.
Also, a whole week had gone by and all your texts regarding the project had been dutifully aired by the dark haired male, so you were in no mood to compromise, especially when your assigned partner wouldn’t listen or put in the work. No matter how heartbreakingly shattered your partner may look.
Taking a bottle of water out of your bag, you took a sip and swiftly twisted the cap back on. “An arctic fox is so painfully predictable.”
Sunoo scoffed.
“Oh, and an arctic owl isn’t?”
You nodded as a matter of principle.
“Gosh, why do I even try?” He mumbled to himself whilst throwing his hands in the air.
“That’s what I’m saying, why bother?”
He nearly jumped you, but decided to be the bigger person.
“You know what, fine. We can do the stupid owl.” Sunoo frowned like a pre-schooler. His bottom lip jutted out in utter displeasure and his eyes brimmed with dissatisfaction.
You watched him quietly for a moment, then sighed ever so dramatically.
“Well, since we are doing animals as the main prompt, how about we pick arctic life as the theme?”
He looked up at you and you nearly flinched at the way his honey coloured orbs focused solely on you like there was no other presence in the room.
You cleared your throat.
“In other words,” you started, averting your gaze to the barista with the name tag reading “Niki” who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but behind the counter. “We can do your cursed arctic fox idea.”
A solid silence lingered after your words and for a second you wondered if you said something wrong. But then you remembered that you don’t have the ability to be wrong, so you smiled to yourself with an odd look of serenity.
Your vivid eyes shifted to catch Sunoo’s reaction.
He was still looking at you, but the straw between his lips froze mid sip. His eyes widened a fraction, and he was looking at you as if you grew 6 extra pair of eyes.
“Okay then. Maybe not—” you rushed.
“—No! No… I like that idea,” he blinked slowly. “I think it’s cool.”
You looked at him with a plain stare.
“You don’t look like you think it’s cool.”
At your pointed expression, his senses seemed to have re-awakened.
With the corner of his lips lifting, he gently leaned back on his chair, eyes holding prolonged contact with yours.
“What? Do you want me to jump up like a frilled lizard and start applauding?”
“I hate you.”
He made a kissy face back and you’re sure that if you ended up ordering anything you would’ve spat it right onto his face from the sheer disgust you were feeling.
But since you didn’t have a drink to communicate your distaste with, you settled with lightly kicking him under the table.
“Ah!”
His painful moan garnered a few judgemental glances from the tables nearby.
You pursed your lips in an attempt to stop yourself from laughing. As you reached for another sip of your water, your hand stopped.
“Oh—” You slowly got up from your chair, eyes drifting toward the restroom sign.
“I’ll be right back.” You started off, then turned back menacingly.
“Don’t touch anything.”
And disappeared behind the toilet door.
Sunoo was left sitting silently at the table, occasionally sipping his drink.
A tap made him glance over his shoulder.
A classmate. The short girl from last time.
“Hey Sunoo!” She smiled bubbly. Sunoo returned a cheery beam of his own.
“I couldn’t help but overhear a bit of your conversation. I’m sorry you got paired with her. She’s insane, isn’t she?” she asked, tone light, almost expecting agreement.
He looked at her for a moment. Then briefly glanced past her to where her partner sat, completely absorbed in his phone.
“I requested to work with her.” he said simply, smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I wouldn’t worry about us though.”
He nodded toward her partner.
“Good luck.”
The girl forced a small laugh and turned away with a confused frown.
He did the same.
Sunoo’s fingers twitched around his drink. He raised his straw to his lips, his hold lingering a moment too long. He took a small sip.
His honey eyes scouted the vicinity just in time to see you returning, a small bounce in your step after feeling refreshed.
You dropped back into your seat.
“Okay, where were we?”
“Sketches.”
“Right, sketches.”
The sound of pen on paper resumed.
“Hmm, we could have both our ideas and then make a main piece that brings everything together. How about an arctic hare?” You started jotting into your sketchbook, unknowingly smiling as you got carried away.
“Wait, shut up for a second, I need to think…” Sunoo mimicked a thoughtful pose, eyes lifting toward the ceiling in false immersion, fingers stroking his chin.
You threateningly tapped your pen against your open page at the carelessness of his words.
“Let’s do an Orca.”
You raised a brow.
“A what?”
“An Orca.” He repeated, unimpressed.
“An Orca…” you echoed. “Why though?”
“Because we’ve done a land animal and a fowl.” He looked at you as if you were dumb.
“Oh, elements…water!”
“Yeah, water.” He said with false excitement as he went right back to sipping his extremely loaded frappé.
“Water, land and air. Huh, that’s actually—” you choked on your own words, physically unable to compliment him further.
“A brilliant idea. Yeah, I know. You’re welcome. Don’t mention it, not like you ever would.”
The two of you got to sketching each final piece by the end of the life span of Sunoo’s frappé.
It hadn’t been as difficult as you thought. Oddly enough, the process had been easier than with your previous partners.
Your fingers moved swiftly as you drew line after line.
“You’re quick.” You recall Sunoo commenting.
You pridefully smirked as a reply.
At a certain point, the task stopped feeling like a punishment and melded into more of a side quest accompanied by an annoying NPC.
“You’re blocking the sun.”
Sunoo raised an eyebrow.
“What? Does it give you some sorta super power or something?”
You opted to reply, but naturally fell back into the pull of your sketchbook.
You both worked silently for another hour.
You hard carried the drawing part, as you were accustomed to the course more than he was. You were also a heavy perfectionist and insisted on sketching most of the art foundations yourself. You didn’t fail to include Sunoo’s ideas though, and he didn’t fail to draw his own version.
“These look great.” You beamed, hand holding out the three sheets of paper like they were your babies.
“Agreed. You did good.” You heard the man across from you say, suspiciously softly.
What?
Shuddering, you clasped your chest in a hurry. Your heart literally stopped beating for half a second.
Was it the plague?
“Please don’t ever say that again, I nearly perished.” You hushed.
A short silence landed before Sunoo caught on to what you meant.
He blinked once. Then just stared at you strangely. He never encountered anyone that reacted that way to praise before.
“Weirdo..” he huffed a gentle smile. A smile that went very unnoticed by the likes of you.
Apart from the constant bickering, the next few weeks went swell.
You got your Snow Owl inspired two-piece done, just in time for you to work on Sunoo’s outfit; the Arctic Fox.
And yes, Sunoo got to have his darn androgynous dress.
In fact, the design was primarily his doing. You remember starting the sketch only for him to stop you mid stroke, his hands pulling out a revised drawing of his idea. This time, it had the inclusion of the comments you had made in the Café. “Not too feminine. Not too masculine.” You had said. Wanting to appropriately represent nature’s original beauty.
Your eyes squinted, getting a good look at the paper. He even added things you don’t remember mentioning. He perfected your collaborative vision.
Oh. You didn’t know he could do that.
Despite the fact that the dress almost uncannily reminded you of your teammate with its foxy nature, it was turning out to be outright stunning. Dare you say, it was almost too perfect.
Yeah, everything was going too well.
The both of you had now gotten the main trail of the garment done. Its nature resembling the mischievous movements of a fox’s tail.
The fabric adorned the most beautiful layer of shimmering beads and rhinestone, a line of faux fur coating the bottom line.
A harmonious cacophony of whites, splinters of black and the collaboration of silk, wool, tulle. You name it.
It looked like it was personally touched by an angel.
Ugh! You were so going to get that future you planned out.
Not to brag, but a good 60% of the whole thing was your idea, so you deserved to toot your own horn.
It was half way through the given time, and you were confident that you would be able to get the project done early. Granted, you still had the rendition of the Orca inspired dress to get to. But at the pace you were going, that’d be done with at least a day to spare.
Side by side, you worked through the garments in silence, needles pulling through fabric in a steady rhythm. Dare you say, you made a pretty decent team.
You managed to snag 3 out of 5 of the same models you borrowed last year, and, better yet, you barely had to talk to Sunoo when you met up to work on the clothes.
Surprisingly, he didn’t talk much when he was working. Not that you noticed.
Anyway, your life was looking up.
Until it wasn’t.
Gasping like someone stole your mom, you pointed an accusing finger at the figure near the foot of the dress.
What could only be described as a nearly done dress, now had the most devastatingly enormous tear known to man.
Your heart plummeted straight to your ass cheeks.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?!” You spat venomously, legs rushing into the scene, a bleak attempt to save what was already lost.
Before you crouched Kim Sunoo, face as guilty as can be, scissors in hand, jaw on the floor, legs shaking.
“No, no, NO! What have you DONE?!” You held parts of what used to be part of the dress, eyes shocked open in pure disbelief.
“I-I just wanted to trim the loose thread near the—”
“—You’re so useless! Do I have to do everything myself? Can’t I just leave you alone for one second?”
Sunoo’s mouth fell shut.
“I can’t believe you, you’d seriously go as far as sabotaging your own piece?”
“I-wait, wHAT?”
“You heard me!” You snarled, snatching the scissors out of the male’s hands.
“How many times have you ruined my work in the past, huh?! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you,” you heaved as your lips continue to throw venom. Sunoo could only look on in silence, his arms glued to his side in defeat.
“Do you… hate me that much? So much so that you genuinely believe I did this on purpose?” His voice came out weak and small, holding a hurting that you missed due to your fervent anger.
He looked at you, waiting for a response.
You breathed heavily, eyes glossed over with betrayal. Your face was hot, voice gruff from frustration.
Marching straight to his face with your bodies barely a centimetre away, you looked him dead in the eyes, purposefully ignoring the way your heart clenched in shame and how your orbs hesitated at your next words.
“I hate you.” Your voice was hoarse and your throat dry.
“I hate you so so much, Kim Sunoo. More than humanly possible. If it were only the two of us left on Earth, I’d find a way to end you. Now get the hell out of my sight, I need to fix the mess you made.”
You shoved him out of the way aggressively, arms scrambling to gather up the destroyed material. Your eyes began to water as you continued to pick up part of your work.
Piece by piece.
Tear by tear.
It was like a small part of you crumbled into nothing. You spent three weeks on this, hard earned sweat, stab wounds from needles, blisters from hot glue burning your skin. For him. For his piece.
You specifically took it upon yourself to manage the majority of the practical work due to Sunoo’s inexperience with varying materials, and the one time you start to think he’s grown into a sort of decent human being, he ruins everything and shoves it down your throat.
Bet he was happy.
A single drop rolled down your cheek.
You sniffled weakly.
Bet he was laughing his ass off in another room, rejoicing at your downfall.
A sad sob escaped your lips, you wiped your hot tears with your sleeve as they increased.
You were so blinded by your own rage that you couldn’t even see the slumped figure just a few feet away from you.
Sunoo never left the room.
He stayed. A distraught look on his face, just watching you cry to yourself.
He was sorry.
He was so sorry.
He didn’t mean to ruin your hard work at all, but there was no way you’d believe any of the words coming out of his mouth.
His shoulders slumped, his face falling to the ground.
He couldn’t bear to look on any longer.
With a reluctance as heavy as the weight of his mistakes, he turned on his heel and left without another word. The choked up cries still lingering past the soft thud of the door.
And then there was nothing.
Just you and the dress.
You stared at it for a long time. The tear bared its teeth at you— an ugly reminder of the irreparable. It was mocking you. Telling you don’t have enough time to fix it and get the last piece done. It was calling you names. Incompetent. Useless. Failure. Yet your eyes refused to show any disdain towards it. Instead, you felt the most angry at yourself. At the way you lost your grip on your emotions, at the way you failed to avoid, or at the very least, control the situation, at the way you threw blame like a dart to a target.
Softly, the tip of your fingers found the edges of the damaged fabric. As if on autopilot, you caressed the sheets, smoothing and assessing them with the similar emptiness of a doctor when checking for a pulse they already know isn’t present.
You stayed there for a while, sprawled on the floor. Silent. The crook of your neck ached and your head began to thump aggressively.
You got up and made for the needle.
You could fix this—no. You had to fix this. There was no time to dwell on failure.
Swallowing the thickness in your throat, you reached for the dress.
The first attempt took approximately 57 minutes. You couldn’t make it to an hour.
It was too humiliating.
You had plucked at the severed seams, unpicking the string with surgical precision, rethreaded, started again. Your hands were steady. Your face was blank. You partially held up the piece and you could feel your stomach churning.
It was wrong.
It was all wrong.
The precision was off, the seam slightly puckered where your fingers had pressed too hard and the thread veered the smallest bit to the side. If you squinted with enough intention, you were sure you could likely make out exactly where the tear began and ended.
Barely noticeable to anyone else.
Absolutely unforgivable to you.
You started again.
Second attempt. Your fingers moved fast. Sewing machine whizzing with no real destination. New threads. More fabric. New needles. More sweat.
It was worse.
You knew it. You didn’t have to look to know. The fabric sat dead on your fingers, almost like the previous magic it held managed to seep its way out through the cracks. A flatline on an ECG monitor. Unsalvageable.
You stayed on the floor, the trail of the dress on your lap, just staring at it. A hostage to time.
Eventually, you set it down. Carefully, the exact same way you place something down when all you really want to do is throw it out the window.
You took a 30 second break.
The third attempt you didn’t even finish.
You were so used to people parading about the third time being the charm.
Well they were wrong.
They lied.
You still believed it though. Why else would you have had so much hope?
The process was the same. A sickening cycle. You got halfway through and stopped. Simply…stopped. Needle suspended mid weave, long thread pulled taut between your teeth, the dress hugging tightly against the mannequin, waiting for you to do something. Anything.
Silence filled the workroom. Everyone else had packed up and gone home hours ago. The faint smell of new fabric, dye and glue. The exact kind of quiet only found in studios such as these. The quiet that you used to love.
Now it made you sick.
You abandoned the needle in your hand on the table next to you, eyes unfocused as you mentally digested just how long you devoted yourself to this project.
It was hopeless from the start.
Like a puppet without a mind of its own, you stood up, refusing to acknowledge the dress.
Your legs walked without your consent, fingers lazily reached for the light switch.
Without sparing a glance backwards, you turned off the studio lights.
And walked away.
The room sat hollow after that. Nothing but the dull corridor lights bleeding past the crack of the door. It stayed still. No one in. No one out. Until a little past 10pm.
The door clicked open with a considerable amount of hesitation.
Sunoo stood in the frame for a while, hand still on the handle. His eyes peered into the darkness, slowly adjusting to the mess in the room.
The dress, in the middle, shining with mercy for attention.
He exhaled through his nose.
Without another word, he switched on the lights.
Every step closer to the piece unveiled a new layer of damage. Somehow, the dress looked worse than when he left it, and the sprawled scissors, torn scraps of material and stray needles served as hard evidence in knowing exactly whose hands had been on it.
Desperation didn’t always amount to success.
He knew that more than anyone.
He plainly stared at the joint work of chaos.
It was a mess, but sometimes messes made for the most surprising results.
He picked one of the loose needles on the table, and started moving.
Empty corridors, chilly workrooms.
Hours passed with the ease of the night.
The building retained that particular kind of quiet atmosphere that was exclusively reserved for 2am only.
Then, approximately a minute after 2, the door gently propped open.
A classmate, bag half on, clearly on their way home, stopped short when they saw the lights still on.
They leaned in the doorway drinking in the scene with that slow comprehension of someone whose brain is already at home and tucked away in bed.
They blinked very slowly.
“Dude. It’s 2am. Ain’t you going home?”
“In a minute.” Sunoo replied soullessly. He didn’t even know who he was talking to. His whole attention being pulled to the crystalline faux fur in his hands.
The other student didn’t move, they stayed standing, quietly taking a sweep of Sunoo’s condition. Beads of sweat gathered on his temple, his hair resembled defeat, the cream fabric of his shirt decorated with small rust coloured splotches that definitely weren’t there last time. And the bandaids—fingers, palms, and one on his cheekbone. How did that even get there?
The classmate gently shook his head, speaking more so to himself than Sunoo. A low whisper, “…Y’all sure you hate each other?”
Sunoo’s fingers faltered for a fraction of a second, then kept moving like the moment never came.
“Goodnight man.” The classmate called out. The door clicked behind him softly, leaving Sunoo to his isolated concentration once again.
The night rolled on in silence, a comforting sheet of company.
Morning came and students followed along with it. The corridor slowly filled with the shuffling sounds of early risers and the chirpy voices of classmates who were likely having a better day than most people.
Footsteps approached the door to the workroom. A click.
The conversation of a small group of female students, morning coffee in hand, stopped dead upon seeing him.
“What the… Sunoo?”
He didn’t look up.
“Morning.”
A timid beat of silence stretched on much longer than needed.
“Wha—have you been here all night?”
“Morning,” He repeated lightly, a polite smile etched on his lips. His eyes still refused to separate from the part of the dress that he was working on. The needle in his hand poked through flesh, drawing another bead of red. He didn’t so much as blink, continuing on with a scary level of focus.
The others shared a puzzled look before scattering off to their own stations to work on their own projects.
The rest of the day went on as normal, apart from your absence. It was almost like the place felt more amicable without your dictatorial energy buzzing with competitiveness. It was nice, yet a little uncomfortable. Or perhaps your classmates had just become a little too used to your terrorising presence.
How sweet.
It was the official end of the day. Around hour 19 for Sunoo. The workrooms had thinned out by then. The afternoon crowd slowly surrendering to the temptation of the evening, bags packed, stations cleared, the familiar end-of-day sounds of zips and goodnights.
One student remained longer than the rest.
They’d been a quiet comrade for a few hours, tucked away at the far end of the room with their own project. When Sunoo felt drops of red trickling down his nose, the student silently excused themselves to the toilet. The next thing you know, a small bundle of toilet paper was placed near Sunoo’s work station.
They were smart enough to say nothing. Decent enough to stay.
Eventually, they pushed back on their stool, the sound making Sunoo’s shoulders flinch the smallest bit.
Crossing the room, they stopped beside him. They looked at the dress, then at him. At the constellation of plasters and wounds. At the evidence of his hard work and determination.
Without a word, they set something down on the table beside his hand.
A singular strand of gum.
“It helps.”
Sunoo glanced at it for a second. Then picked it up and tucked it away in his pocket, giving a small nod as a thank you.
The other student, Heeseung, pulled up a stool beside him and worked quietly for another hour, no conversation, just the shared sound of two people making something remarkable. Then he packed up, slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.
Before leaving, he glanced behind him. A relaxed expression on his features.
“Goodnight Sunoo.”
This time, Sunoo actually looked up. Tired citrus orbs, dark circles, and that small smile of his that could make anyone’s day just a little more bearable.
The vision of humility, something that he had been avoiding deep inside for far too long.
“Night.”
Heeseung nodded, opening the door and walking out.
The door shut behind him.
And then it was just Sunoo again.
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
Your grumpy face met the surface of your pillow.
You skipped out on lectures, something you’ve never done willingly. The crawls of guilt crippled up your skin.
You made a face.
Sitting up on your bed, you glanced at the clock. It was probably dark outside.
You sighed dramatically.
What were you even doing? Moping around like an absolute loser.
You had to admit, you were appalled at your own behaviour. Wallowing in your room over a dress like a sad sack of potatoes. How laughable!
Kicking yourself off your bed with the momentum of your legs, you quickly stood up, an intimidating aura surrounding your form.
“What a crybaby,” you slapped yourself over the chest. “Acting like the world just ended and everything, psh!” You bit the fat on your forearm.
“How are you meant to survive the industry if you cry over the World’s most minuscule mishap, hUH?!”
Sudden banging from the wall beside you made you jump five feet in the air.
It was late. You were being too loud. And your neighbour was 2 minutes away from calling security on you.
You kicked the wall in retaliation.
Anyway, like you were saying. What kind of professional faints at the sight of a challenge? Embarrassing!
With a new found speed, you grabbed at your sewing kit, shoved it into your bag, and kicked the wall you shared with your neighbour once more (just for good measure) before dashing out of your apartment with crocs on.
Commando. No socks.
What an absolute fashion statement.
You scampered over to your campus looking like that gremlin from the Lord of the Rings.
Desperate times called for desperate get ups.
The Fashion department always remained open for longer periods of time because the average fashion student didn’t know the concept of sleep. It seemed like you fell snugly under that category.
Unlocking the door to the large building, you ran to the elevator, cursed at it for being out of service, and made for the stairs.
By the time you reached the 7th floor you regretted your life decisions. Why was it that adrenaline lasted the equivalent of a YouTube ad.
Screw physical activity!
“Urgh,” you swallowed a load of air, burping in the process. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” You leaned against the door to the workroom, your previous motivation fizzling out in real time.
Pushing your body weight on the door handle, you heard the soft click of the door. Your body came tumbling down on the other side with a sad splat.
“Oof, my rib!” You gripped at the edge of the door from the ground, ready to pull it off its hinges with your frustration.
But before you could do that, the gleam of something inside the dark room sent you blind first.
You squinted, hand going to shield your face.“What the actual fu—”
Wow…
You stopped mid complaint, entirely enchanted by what you were seeing.
The dress. Finished. Breathing in all its glory, as if the recent instances never occurred.
You gulped, unable to hold the gasp that left your lips. Getting up from the ground, you made tentative steps towards the garment. Slow and steady, like a zoo keeper approaching a wild animal.
It was on full display, moonlight highlighting its curves like the shimmers from winter sunlight hitting ice water.
“She’s beautiful…”
Absolutely, jawdroppingly stunning.
Enviably majestic.
The tip of your fingers landed on the surface of the table. You stood face to face with the mannequin, the wonders of the material shining even better at closer range.
Glancing to the side, you caught countless stray papers being sprawled on the surface.
Drawings.
Some crossed out, others ripped in half, but none left unfinished.
Messy and sloppy. Highlights on every word, defeating the entire purpose of a highlighter. But he didn’t give up until he got it right.
The standout sketch was updated to match the dress’ current design.
Clumsy and clearly inexperienced.
Wonky by your standards but undeniably genuine and real.
You felt a small lilt in your chest.
He did this?…. Alone… This quick?
It was hard enough as an experienced fashion student let alone a rookie. This guy. Kim Sunoo… he had the potential of becoming a true fashion designer. You couldn’t believe you were admitting it but, he may have actually been…better than you.
You were still marvelling at the moon beams swimming through the materials of the dress when the door popped open.
The yellow industrial lights of the corridor broke into the darkness.
You turned around.
Sunoo.
Box filled with spewing fabrics in hand. A makeshift scarf of light sequin around his neck. And an alarmed gaze that bore into your surprisingly calm orbs.
He was scared.
Even you could tell this much.
You weren’t new to people being scared of you, but usually it was due to your fiery and unorthodox nature.
But this was different. You felt it. Saw it. The guilt that still lingered, strangling his throat into a suppressed silence.
He was the culprit in this crime, and the jury stood before him unannounced.
He swallowed a thick lump.
“Erm,” you awkwardly started, gaze bouncing around everything in the room but him.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be here…”
“Yeah, no. Me neither.”
“So…uh,”
Sunoo stood remarkably frozen, you on the other hand, were shifting your weight from one leg to the other: a dog needing the potty.
Without further thought, you spouted out the first thing on your mind.
“I’m sorry—”
“—I’m sorry—oH!”
A beat of silence.
“I didn’t know you knew those words.”
“Again, me neither.”
You pressed your lips together.
“Can I go first?” You inquired, putting your hand up like a child in class.
With eyes slightly wider than usual, Sunoo nodded once, his whole attention on you.
“Listen, I’m really sorry,” you paused, not entirely used to the phrase on your tongue. “I overreacted. I was supposed to be your confidant. Your helper. The teammate that you rely on.”
You ducked your head in shame. “I was supposed to be your partner…” you silently added, barely above a whisper.
“Mistakes happen all the time in this line of work, and yet, I conducted myself like an absolute rookie who’s unable to handle a singular unexpected event.” You sighed, frustratingly totalling your hair at the mere memory of your breakdown.
“I put all the blame on you when I was meant to reassure you. I was meant to guide you, but I was so blinded by my own selfishness. You trusted me, yet I shunned you and treated you like crap. So, once again,”
Your eyes rose to finally meet his. They stayed on you the whole time. You gulped.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me. I would understand fully.”
A dead quiet overtook the air and you couldn’t help but immediately lose the confidence that you conjured up. Your eyes found the floor again.
Sunoo took a breath, carefully searching for the right thing to say. You flinched at the sound, ready to receive a load of hateful slashes and an unaccepted apology served stone cold.
Instead, you heard a short, playful scoff.
“Wow. Character development.”
You gaped at him, eyes blinking in offence, yet you couldn’t even begin to defend yourself.
“Now, if I may. I would also like to have heartfelt speech.”
Your left eye twitched.
Was he being serious right now?
“I’m sorry about the dress. It was truly my doing. I was too ambitious and eagerly tried to do something without discussing my decision with my teammate. So for that, I apologise.” He gave a small bow, an unfamiliar sense of humility latching at his words.
You licked your lips.
This wasn’t the time nor place, but the way he appeared so meek and vulnerable under the moonlight’s beam almost made him look… attractive—
WoAH, who said that?!
You cleared your throat.
His lips parted to add.
“Granted, your reaction was admittedly overdramatic.”
You looked around for something to throw at him and he immediately ducked behind a nearby empty mannequin.
Not finding anything remotely adequate, you quickly grabbed at the spare mannequin near you as well, lifting off the ground just a smidge.
“Sorry, what was that again? I think I misheard you?” You smiled at him, tone venomous.
“I said I accept your apology!”
You placed the heavy weapon back down.
“Great! I don’t accept yours.”
“What?!”
Pointedly ignoring his complaints, you nudged your chin to the items he was carrying earlier which were now left on the floor near the door.
“What are those for?”
Sunoo’s eyes flitted to find yours and you had to clench your ass cheeks to not flee his eye contact like a weakling.
Were his eyes always so…
“The dress,” his voice interrupted.
You raised a brow.
The dress?
“Wait…it’s not finished?” A disbelieved blink.
There was no way that absolute masterpiece of a dress wasn’t finished. No, seriously. You couldn’t possibly think of any necessary additions. It was practically perfect!
Your eyes raked over him in suspicion.
“What more could you possibly want to add?”
He just watched you like you said the most unhinged thing ever.
“Did that phrase really just come from you right now? I thought you loved the extreme?”
“There can never be too much. But sometimes too much is too much.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Just show me what you’re planning to do.” You sighed out, gravitating towards the box on the ground.
Sunoo picked it up before you could reach it, the sash still around his neck. Switching the lights on, he made his way to your shared station. You cluelessly followed close, a duckling to their mama bird.
Setting the stuff down, he took a seat behind the piece, crossed his legs on the floor and waved you over.
You quietly did the same.
Before he did anything else, he turned to you, a gentle confidence behind his eyes.
“Do you trust me?”
No.
“Yes.”
Fake it till you make it proved to work on most occasions. Then again, you really did hold a certain amount of trust towards him. Not astonishingly enormous, but it was there. And it had never been there before, or perhaps you never noticed it. So this time, you were going to latch onto it and see if it was worth keeping.
Your stare was intense, being filled with a sense of reliance that felt foreign to him. He’s known you for over half his life and he never saw you look at him that way until now.
The ghost of a smile adorned his lips and he had to quickly avert his gaze to avoid losing control of his expression.
A satisfied hum left him.
“Good. Then let’s get started.”
You were about to crap your pants.
Show day. The runway was ready. The audience was already seated, curiously following the various model’s paths as they posed and twirled in each team’s garments.
Your model was MIA.
Why was your model MIA?!
You furiously bit your lip, pacing around backstage. Sunoo and the two other models that showed up watched you in silence, too scared to tick you off even more.
“Where is he?!” You whisper-yelled in distress. A cold sweat bead licking the corner of your temple.
Sunoo tried to put on a wobbly smile but it ended up looking lopsided.
“I’m sure he’s on his way—”
“Your team is going up in 10.” A staff member called from the back before disappearing behind the curtain, and you could feel the life drain out of you. Sunoo had to hold the small of your back to keep you standing, the hand placement making your skin buzz in an unexplainable conflict of emotion.
The sound of a ping caught your attention.
You pounced at your phone, unlocking in record speed.
A text from Johnny.
‘sorry, can’t make it in today something came up’
‘I’ll make it up to you though…’
‘eventually lol.’
The last text echoed in your head. His boyish voice circling your mind like an unending joke.
You chuckled lowly.
“We’re doomed.”
Your laugh only increased. Complete hysteria.
“We’re so doomed.”
A frozen smile plastered your face and the rest of the models were left to look at each other in worry.
Your eyes drearily shifted to Sunoo’s.
Your mouth opening to add more fuel to your misery, but no words left your lips.
You stared at him for a long time.
Wait…
His eyes. His nose. His lips.
Your gaze dropped to his skin-tight shirt, the material hugging his waistline.
A spark crossed your eyes.
Suddenly, you sprung to life, grabbing Sunoo’s upper arms with the force of a thousand men.
His face was perfect.
No, he was perfect.
The whole piece looked like it was designed around him.
Sunoo blinked back at you. A completely innocent expression on his unsuspecting face.
He gave a short laugh, quietly asking. “…What?”
You pulled him to the side immediately, your eyes casting a brief glance at the clock.
8 minutes.
You could do this.
Taking his hand in yours (to his surprise), you quickly guided him towards the fox-inspired piece.
You let go of his hand, staring at him with straight eyes.
“Strip.”
He nearly choked on his spit.
Then, sputtering, he responded. “W-WHaT?”
“7 minutes till you’re up!”
You grabbed the hem of his shirt, already starting to pull it upwards.
“Hey!”
“No time.” You were calm. Your voice completely relaxed, eyes focused.
No one would have ever been able to guess you were losing your mind a minute ago.
Sunoo saw the look in your eyes, his own honey orbs finding the dress not too far away.
He finally caught on.
With dread written all over his face, he started to squirm under your hold.
“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“Sunoo,”
“I didn’t even rehearse, I don’t think I even know how to walk straight—”
“Sunoo.”
“I’m not cut out for this—”
“KIM SUNOO!”
He stopped.
Wide eyes found yours, the embodiment of insecurity.
His breaths slowed down. Gulping, he finally spoke.
“What if I ruin everything?”
Your breath caught in your throat.
Because he was right. There was no telling what would happen. No guarantee that all would go smooth sailing, and he had a pre-existent record of short-comings.
But.
Your eyes searched his.
“You won’t. I trust you,” you said smoothly. And this time, not one lie was told.
Your peaceful tone acted as an anchor to his nerves. You continued.
“Do you trust me?”
Somewhere in the distance, the staff member called out again, the sound becoming muffled behind the intensity of your stare.
There was something behind your eyes. Something more than trust. Something that left Sunoo entranced and breathless.
Without a second thought, the words came spilling out of his mouth like water.
“I trust you.”
You nodded once.
Good, because there was no time.
The two of you moved in sync, somehow managing to shuffle Sunoo into the dress.
The models helped with the jewellery and shoes. You got to tailoring the size with inconspicuous clips, and Sunoo’s fingers swam across his face with ease whilst doing his make up.
“1 minute! Let’s go everyone, let’s go!”
A crowd of arms rushed you towards the front. You hopped after Sunoo’s figure which was moving further away from you quicker than you anticipated.
Stretching forth your hands to fix the trail, you ended up tripping over something, completely face planting the floor.
Sunoo turned around instantly, concern written all over his face.
You sent him a firm thumbs up, body sprawled on the floor like a starfish, a tiny trickle of red to one of your nostrils.
You smiled.
“You got this!”
And that was all he needed.
One by one, the models (and Sunoo) went up.
Each piece flowing like a carefully orchestrated storyline, one after another. You watched, crouched from behind the curtain. You gave a little prayer when it was Sunoo’s turn. Just in case.
Step after step. Sway after sway. It was like he was born to do this. Evidence of his nerves pooled lightly on the crease of his brows but it was hardly visible to the naked eye. Only someone accustomed to his expression would be able to tell.
You bit back a snort.
It was almost like you knew him like the back of your hand now. Perhaps you’ve known each other for too long.
The show ended with the expertise pose performed by yours truly; Sunoo. All the models coming out to walk the finale.
The crowd cheered. People clapped. And you soaked in the sounds of what ‘could be’ in the future.
It was finally over.
“You did so good!” You mused at the model that wore your owl inspired outfit, her joyous smile radiating off her features, making her look even more surreal.
“Thank you!”
You high-fived the second model. The orca inspired outfit was endorsed in black and white, a striking combination with his darker complexion.
He gave you a charming grin, nodding over at you before going in for a quick hug.
Then came Sunoo.
His steps were small and almost hesitant. Eyes not meeting yours.
You halted, taking him in slowly.
Taking a step closer, you manoeuvred your face, forcing his eyes to meet yours.
A small panic ensued, the male taking a small step backward. You held his arm, preventing him from escaping further.
Slowly, a small genuine smile softly overtook your lips.
“You were perfect.”
Silence.
Nothing but the overly loud beating of Sunoo’s heart. Something he hoped you couldn’t hear.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blinked, releasing a breath.
“T-thank you.”
You simply nodded back, turning away from him and starting to get your stuff ready.
“You were perfect too…by the way.”
You froze at the comment.
Your chest suddenly feeling light.
Clearing your throat, you straightened your back.
This wasn’t something you were used to. Not between the two of you, anyway. This whole cordial atmosphere was so… unfamiliar. Or maybe it wasn’t? Maybe it had just been presented as something else this whole time.
Unsure of what to say, you just threw another thumbs up.
At your unexpected gesture, he broke into a light fit of laughter. The sound carrying gently into your ears.
Your cheeks felt warm.
“You’re so… awkward.” He giggled again and you felt a small lament bubble up inside you.
“Oh yeah? Well you’re so…sO,”
Your voice broke.
His laugh increased.
Your eye twitched.
“Well, whatever.” Was the weak response you decided on.
This was unlike you. Usually you’d be able to counter with ease. Usually his chuckles would be like nails to a chalkboard.
Usually… you wouldn’t be feeling this way.
Grabbing the rest of your stuff in a hurry, you mumbled under your voice, a false bite to your tone. “I’m going home.”
Sunoo’s soft chuckles were still present despite them fizzling out. He called out with a certain comfort that only the two of you had. “Wait for me!”
And you did. Oddly enough. It was like your body wasn’t responding to your brain anymore.
Maybe it was broken.
“Whatcha thinking about?”
“How ugly you looked in that dress.”
Sunoo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure you were.”
“I really was. Reminded me of the pig we used to look after in 5th grade.”
“Pint the pig?”
You raised an inquiring brow. “His name was Pint? Well, that’s very on brand. He was the most energetic pig I’ve ever seen in my life. Second only to you—”
You dodged the punch that was about to land on your arm, sticking your tongue out like a child.
“I’m surprised you even remember that.” Sunoo finally said after some quiet strides beside you.
You were nearing the intersection where you’d both go your separate ways.
Humming lightly, you cocked your head to the side. “I have a great memory.”
“I’d beg to differ.” Sunoo deadpanned.
“You always beg to differ when it comes to me,” you sniffled, crossing your arms over your chest. Your steps had slowed down to a tranquil strolling pace. “It’s like you’ve had it out for me ever since we were little.”
At your light tone, he softly chuckled.
Then, after a few seconds, you added. “Why did you hate me anyway?”
Your voice lacked the sarcasm it carried earlier. A tiny entrance of honesty being opened for Sunoo to explore. Small enough to keep your face, big enough for you to feel a tinge of vulnerability gnawing at your skin. And this time, neither of you backed away from the pressure of confrontation.
You reached the intersection, both your footsteps stopping, allowing the question to hang in the air between you.
Sunoo’s head tilted backwards. A small sigh left him, his eyes staring up at the sky.
“I never hated you.”
At this, you turned towards him. You stood very still, a small expression of confusion on your features.
“I’m pretty sure you did, buddy.”
Sunoo snorted at the random nickname.
Covering his face with his hands to hide his smile, he shook his head, sparkling crescents blooming in his eyes. “I really didn’t!”
“Then why’d you always pick on me?!”
“Because…” Sunoo thought for a moment.
“…wait, you were the one who hated me!”
You looked at him incredulously, scoffing.
“I’ll have you know my mum told me never to start fights, but to end them. So that means it was definitely you who hated me.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yeh-uh!”
Sunoo flicked your forehead lightly, causing you to rub at the spot with both your hands. You glared up at him.
“I’m telling you, you were probably just jealous of my pretty privile—”
You sputtered out a boisterous laughter, wiping at a tear.
“Oh, please! You? Pretty privilege?”
Ignoring your unprecedented bullying, Sunoo tossed his hair, frilling up his fringe.
“6 year old you just hated seeing beautiful people succeed.” Patting your shoulder, he gave a mocking pout. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, darling.”
“Wha…”
You couldn’t believe your ears. Blinking repeatedly, you shook your head in disbelief, shoving towards his side of the intersection.
“You better go home then, Cinderella, before the clock strikes midnight and you become ugly again.”
Walking backwards to keep his conversation with you going, Sunoo raised a pointed finger. “Um, that’s technically not how the story goes—”
“Just go home! Jeez!” You huffed, shooing him away before turning around and making for your house.
Without even realising his actions, Sunoo tenderly watched you walk away with a tiny smile. Your form becoming smaller and smaller as he stayed.
What you’d never know, is that he never hated you.
Not one bit.
So long as you were annoyingly stuck to his side, and talking his ears off, he didn’t mind living with the constant migraine. Because when the migraine was as irritatingly addictive as you, it also had the strange ability of feeling like home.
But that was something that Sunoo knew you weren’t ready to hear yet.
synopsis: you’re a ghost who’s been wandering around with no purpose. you don’t remember your past life or anything for that matter. you’re always bored and find ways to entertain yourself—observing humans, flickering lights, sending objects tumbling off shelves, and the occasional toe grab through the blanket. so imagine your surprise when you phase through the walls of a random building, ready to terrorise a group of teen dudes, only for them to end up pointing at you and screaming their heads off before you could even do anything.
your eyes widen at the realisation.
they can see you.
genre: crack (comedy…not the other stuff), lil bit of fluff if u squint—i promise
“Hyung. Punch me right now. I need to check if I’ve lost my mind or not.”
A rapid punch connects to Keonho’s arm.
“Ow! What the—not that hard!”
“Okay, so, are we just going to ignore the phantom floating in our dorm right now, or…?” comes a strangely calm voice. Juhoon is standing safely behind his bedroom door, half his body peeking through. An audience within the commotion.
“Should we call manager-nim?”
James sucks in a breath. “I don’t know, man. I think this is something even he can’t handle.”
“Yeah. He’d probably pass away just by looking at it.” Seonghyeon adds, eyes never leaving the floating figure in the middle of the room.
You awkwardly blink back at the group of boys studying you like you are some kind of new discovery to mankind. Eyes entirely focused on you with such concentration it’s making your skin itch, and you no longer have sensation after becoming a ghost. So that’s saying a lot.
They don’t move.
You don’t either.
The silence drags on.
One of them slowly, carefully, turns his head to look at the boy beside him. A silent way of saying ‘are you seeing this?’ The other gives the world’s tiniest nod back. ‘Yeah. I wish I wasn’t.’
You blink.
They flinch like you’ve just passed through them.
Your eyelids drop.
Right.
You lightly hover back toward the wall you phased in through, attempting to find some cover from their intense ahh stares.
Bad call.
At your movement, a chorus of terrified roars erupts. The boys scramble for the closest thing within reach and honestly? You don’t know whether to be amused or genuinely worried at their survival instincts.
Keonho’s hand shoots out and closes around the first thing it finds. He raises it above his head, a man ready to fight for his life.
It’s an old shoe.
A very worn one, its soles barely stick together. A humongous hole decorates the toe area.
You stare at the hole in the shoe with sincere disappointment.
Seonghyeon somehow manages to grab a beanie in one hand and someone’s laptop in the other. Holds both up. Laptop first—a shield. Like that’s going to do anything in this paranormal circumstance.
You notice a sticker on the laptop’s front. A name. “Martin.”
That’s not even his laptop.
You sigh.
And then there’s James. Who, to be fair, did manage to locate a decently usable object.
A butter knife.
He points it at you like it’s the equivalent of a military grade weapon. Full confidence. Eyes dead serious. In his mind, he’s likely been training for situations just like this one.
You look at him. He looks at you.
…wow.
Your eyes move to the tallest one, who didn’t even bother to grab anything.
Survival instincts of a baked bean.
He has both arms wrapped around himself so tight that you’re wondering if his blood is flowing okay. He keeps his eyes tightly shut.
You deadpan.
Okay. Judging by their collective panic, they can definitely see you.
At first you thought you were being dramatic, but that reaction just now was way too visceral. You nearly jumped out of your skin at their screams.
You suppose you got what you came for.
You did scare them.
But there’s no satisfaction in scaring someone without meaning to. That just feels insulting, to be honest.
You pointedly choose to ignore that it’s likely because you are literally floating in the air.
Anyway, back to the topic.
They can see you, and that’s genuinely weird because that has genuinely never happened before.
You narrow your eyes at them in suspicion. The lot of you looking like you’re squaring up for a fight.
Silence.
You move the smallest, and you mean the smallest millimetre.
They implode.
“HYUNG DO SOMETHING—”
“—I’M SCARED TOO!”
Someone else squeals in the vocal range equivalent to a girl.
“Guys, I think I’m going to piss myself—”
“THIS IS NOT THE PLACE NOR THE TIME!”
“IT’S LoOkING AT ME—“
This has to be the most over-the-top reaction you’ve ever witnessed in your life…or is it afterlife?
Their shouts only grow in crescendo.
“Oh my gosH, iT’S MOVING AGAIN—”
You literally just blinked.
All of a sudden, granules of sea salt phase through your face.
You scoff.
Seriously?
James only doubles down, reloading a fresh fistful, mumbling something under his breath as he throws.
You manage to catch a word.
Abracadabra.
Then, squinting: “Open Sesame.”
What?
He chucks more salt at you.
“Avada Kedavra.”
“Hyung…that one kills people.”
“Exactly.”
From behind the bedroom door—soft, small, unbothered, comes a disturbingly calm sound.
Ding.
Everyone stops.
The door opens a crack. Juhoon peers through it, face completely flat, eyes only marginally wider than they usually are.
He’s holding a small brass singing bowl.
Like this is an entirely normal and logical response to what is happening right now.
Another Ding.
You know what the problem is?
The problem isn’t the singing bowl. It’s the fact that no one questioned it. Not a single one of the boys even bothered to inquire how on Earth a singing bowl would vanquish a ghost.
You close your eyes.
This can’t be possible.
Ding.
He refuses to step out from behind the door, just continues to hit it. Eyes zeroed in on you. Completely unreadable.
You can’t help but be fascinated and slightly concerned by him.
“Yo, this is a strong ghost. It should’ve melted by now.”
What.
Melted?!
You drift further into the room, out of his range, and honestly, away from the bowl’s range too. Just for good measure. You’re not entirely sure if either one would truly do anything to you. But you’d rather not take any chances.
But it seems you haven’t learned that you + movement = bad idea.
Because your unexpected hover sends them absolutely ballistic.
Every single one of them scatters in a random direction like swatted flies. Each aiming for the closest safe haven.
One of them, Seonghyeon, runs so fast that he doesn’t see the door in front of him. His forehead connects hard against the wood emitting a loud ‘thud’, body toppling over to the ground like a wilted leaf. His arms manage to drag him to safety though.
An array of bangs resonates in the air, almost as if they had methodically coordinated their tactical retreat.
Even Juhoon’s door clicks quietly to a close.
Not before one last, muffled ding from behind it, of course.
His final effort in the battle.
Commendable. And still painfully confusing.
You’re left floating in the middle of their now empty living room.
For a moment you just stay there, taking in the scattered salt on the floor, the abandoned shoe by the couch, the faint echo of a singing bowl going quiet. (Why was he still hitting it?)
Then you burst out laughing.
This has got to be the funniest thing you have ever witnessed. Living or dead.
The screams. The butter knife. The bowl.
You are going to think about this for the rest of your afterlife. You’re sure of it.
After a solid minute of cackling like an unhinged villain, you consider leaving the poor dudes alone. They’ve suffered enough.
For today.
You are absolutely coming back.
But before you leave…
With a suspicious grin, you approach the door that the tallest went into. You silently phase your head through the door. Slow—just your face—and wait.
He’s on his bed. Knees to his chest. Eyes screwed shut. Muttering what sounds like a quiet prayer.
Then he opens one eye.
Just the one.
It finds your face roughly five inches away from his.
You watch it happen in real time. The eye goes wide. His mouth drops open. Something behind his whole reaction stops working. Like a browser with too many tabs open.
He makes the highest pitched sound you have ever heard in your entire life. And then his eyes roll back, slowly, almost gracefully, and he tips sideways.
He’s out cold.
You phase back through the door and completely lose it. Careening all over the living room like a dry tumbleweed in June. You’re laughing so hard that you send the lights flickering without even meaning to.
You didn’t even get to say your signature “Boo!”
Calming yourself down, you take one last sweep of the dorm, wondering if you should grab at someone’s toes for a closing act, but you decide against it.
Maybe another day.
You take a breath, admiring the ordinary living room before you.
The corner of your lips nearly tug upwards.
A gentle quietness lingers around you.
They see you.
You’re not sure why, but it feels like you’ve lost something you never wanted in the first place. You try to put a name to it.
Longing?
Loneliness?
A tiny pit of warmth sits in your belly.
You guess you’re… happy.
You haven’t felt that in a while. You didn’t even know you still could.
Smiling to yourself, you give a little twirl in the air and bow to your imaginary audience.
Show’s over folks.
Time to draw the curtains.
And without further casualties added to your name, you disappear like you were never there.
The night is filled with unrest.
Safe to say, the boys don’t sleep a wink that night and show up to practice the next day with eye bags so heavy they’re practically dragging on the floor.
[ author's note ! ] damn i havent wriiten a time stamp in ages. anywho...
[ wc ! ] 188
[ 10: 11pm ] you looked at jooyeon on the supervising screen, his smile so bright that it could light up the darkest nights. pride was beaming on his face – and so it was on yours. the guitar solo he just finished left you speechless.
it’s not like you didn’t hear it before. in fact, for the past few weeks it was the only thing you heard: the sound of jooyeon playing the guitar repeatedly so he can nail it later. there were mistakes, strings of curses when something was off-tune, but… but today it was perfect, just like it was supposed to be.
he walked backstage and you almost flew to him, hands bringing him closer to you by his neck.
“you rocked the stage, oh my god!” you yelled out, the sound of the crowd still going wild almost silencing you. his arms snuck down your waist and pulled you even closer “get it? because rock…”
“yeah?” he breathed out, adrenaline still pumping through his veins “kiss your rockstar boyfriend then”
“gladly” you hummed and in no time your lips crashed on his, only you and him in the moment.
between me, you, and the metro. | [ han jihoon ] 투어스
pairings: stranger!jihoon x introvert!reader.
warnings: somehow, jihoon is STILL dancing even in this au, [“We love you jihoon!”] - we all say in unison.
synopsis: your daily commutes always tended to be rather bland and uneventful. you thought today would follow the same routine, only to be left pleasantly surprised.
wc: 1.4k
a/n: I’ve been thinking about this short idea for so long it’s crazy. I can finally rest easy
pt. II out now: you, me, and… ice cream?
ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯
1:35 ───ㅇ───── 3:29
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : TWS - first hooky
Earphones were made to make people think you’re crazy.
Or at least, that’s what you told yourself as you stared at a boy in the metro popping and locking whilst whispering broken lyrics out of tune.
He was so lost in the beat of the music that he didn’t even feel your rather intense stare.
You were standing in the middle of the carriage, hand tightly gripping the hand rail. He was sitting in front of you, feet tapping the ground rhythmically, head bopping side to side and shoulders grooving to whatever tune he was so immersed in.
You managed to suppress a laugh. For some reason, just watching him move, without hearing the music he was actually dancing to, made him look like he lost his absolute marbles. And considering the uneventful start to your day, this had to be the most entertaining thing that had happened so far.
The train jolted to the side as it took a turn in the underground tunnel. You stumbled forward, barely managing to catch yourself in time, nearly stepping on his foot in the process. Luckily, he had his eyes closed.
You continued to stare.
The train halted at the next stop and the boy sitting before you opened his eyes ever so graciously, a sugary smile laced his lips as he was still drowning in the joyful music his wired earphones transmitted to his ears.
His head lifted to check on what stop he was at, only to meet your very own surprised eyes blinking back, owlishly at him. You froze in place, much too slow to pretend you weren’t looking at him. Embarrassed at being caught gawking at a stranger, you gripped on the hand rail tighter, your knuckles turning pale.
You awkwardly, and very gradually, averted your eyes to look at the colourful dog food advert plastered above his head.
You heard him snort, then laugh airily. Your face grew hot. Despite you avoiding his gaze, he was now looking at you, head tilted in moderate interest.
You felt his eyes study you, and your skin tingled at each passing second. Gulping hard, you contemplated whether to risk a glance back.
The train jolted awake, and with a soft pull, it took off towards the next station.
It was loud.
The train’s metal gears against the iron tracks. The kids giggling in the background, the phone call being administered behind your shoulder. Yet, amongst all the chaos, you could only hear the nervous thumping of your heart.
You tightly shut your eyes for a moment. You really wanted to steal a look, but you could practically see his gaze still on you through your closed lids. And your introverted self was not built to socialise so abruptly.
So you decided to pretend he didn’t exist.
Is what you would’ve said, but that would be a lie.
You sneaked a quick glance anyway.
Your eyes met, causing you to jump slightly, out of surprise. He broke into a friendly smile, at your reaction. You rapidly blinked and gave a curt nod. He gave a polite tilt of the head back. You cleared your throat, and went right back to staring at the dog food advert like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
The train arrived at the next station.
From your peripheral, you noticed some shuffling. You wondered if it was his stop, and secretly hoped it wasn’t. Weirdly, despite not directly interacting with him, you wished for him to stay just a little longer.
Maybe the day was getting to you.
You peered at him from where you stood. He was gathering his stuff, one of his hands gently plucked the earbud out of his left ear.
The train began to move again.
You pursed your lips. Guess the next one was his stop.
Slapping his hands on his laps, he swiftly got up, body just a few inches away from you. You looked straight into his eyes. They were sparkly and full of life, like jewels. His lips tugged into half a smile, eyes becoming moon crescents as his straight hair dangled just above his lashes.
You blinked.
He was much more beautiful up close, you hadn’t anticipated that.
“Sorry, may I squeeze past you?” He uttered carefully.
Wow, even his voice was soft. Your mouth slightly hung ajar as you marvelled at him.
He made a questioning sound whilst stifling a laugh, head tilting at the lack of your response.
“Oh!” You exclaimed, a little embarrassed. “Right, yes! Sorry, I’ll just..” you angled your body to the side so he would have enough space to walk past you. Your gaze followed his movements as he went to stand by the train doors, ready to disembark the carriage.
The train arrived at the next station.
You could feel a pang of disappointment as your gaze lowered to the ground.
Well, there goes your eye-candy.
Perhaps, if you had just gathered up some courage to start up a light conversation, you would have left with a new number added to your contact list.
You gently scoffed at yourself. Yeah, that wasn’t likely. Your own thoughts amused you sometimes.
The doors to the train beeped open, and you gave a slight raise of the head to catch one last glimpse of the male you’ve been staring at for the past 6 stops.
He was already looking at you.
People hopped out the train whilst new commuters waltzed in, and yet, he remained standing, tentative and a little hesitant. Almost like there was more to add to the oddly comforting interaction the both of you mutually shared.
You raised a brow.
As if that was all it took, the boy regained his sunshine energy and gave a small, unnecessary wave. Smiling much brighter than he had for the whole of the trip, he gave one last nod, and leapt off the train just in time for the doors to close behind him.
You stood there, buffering.
The train gave a small cry, a significance that it was ready to pull away. Your eyes found the windows.
He was still there, looking almost sheepish and embarrassed.
Oh, you didn’t wave back yet.
Raising your arm to a noticeable degree, you waved at him. Casual, easy. From the outside looking in, no one would ever believe you were waving at an utter stranger.
He blossomed with a toothy grin, hair dancing as he began to wave back, much more enthusiastically this time. You caught yourself giving a short laugh.
Your heart swelled.
He was quite cute.
The train pulled away, and as you both slowly started to lose sight of each other, you never stopped waving. Both your faces displaying giddy beams and emitting occasional giggles at the absurdity of the whole ordeal.
And then, he was gone.
The train bolted through the next tunnel, and life resumed back to normal, as if that whole exchange was a made up vision in your head.
You continued to stare at the window you were waving through. Eyes looking directly at your reflection as the darkness of the tunnel mirrored back your lingering grin.
Your smile fell.
Oh.
Right.
Your eyes travelled to the map plastered on the walls of the carriage.
The next stop was yours.
Rummaging through your bag, you pulled out a set of wired earphones. You deadpanned at the item in your hand. You wondered if you looked insane too, when you wore your earphones. Shrugging, you plugged them into your phone, scrolled to a random tune, and pressed it like you purposefully looked for it.
Shifting to stand in front of the double doors of the train, your head lightly started to bop to the music, foot tapping the ground and lips mouthing what was likely to be the wrong lyrics to the song.
Beside you, a seated kid blinked at you weirdly. You gave a polite smile.
The train stopped and you hopped out the carriage with an uncharacteristic pep to your step, ready to continue the rest of the day.
Sensing the lingering gaze of the kid behind, you chuckled to yourself, quietly.
Yeah, earphones were definitely made to make people think you’re crazy.
The station lights danced around your skin as you walked further and further away, your calm figure being completely consumed by the chaos of everyday commute.
And just like a passing memory, you were gone too.
Pairing : bestfriend! taesan x reader (ft. sunghoon)
Synopsis : Taesan wouldn’t say he’s the jealous type. He prides himself on handling every situation thrown his way with complete calm. He can handle just about anything. Except this. ‘This’ being you fawning over some random guy named Sunghoon. Tall, suspiciously pale, with an even more suspicious canine smile. Taesan is not jealous. He is simply concerned. There is a difference. There is definitely a difference. He swears he’s usually more put together than this. So why does his cool exterior crack a little more every time you so much as glance at this annoyingly gorgeous specimen?!
Word count : 3.2k
Genre : fluff, comedy, romance (ooh-la-la)
Warnings : nickname for taesan used occasionally (sannie).
You’ve been awfully distracted lately, and Taesan doesn’t like that. Not one bit, actually. You don’t laugh as hard when he does something silly, you’re always looking elsewhere when he’s trying to tell you something, you don’t even punch him on autopilot anymore when he pulls a prank on you!
And worst of all, you’ve been batting your lashes at this tall, broody looking guy called Sunghoon.
Looking Sunghoon over from across the classroom, Taesan gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
He’s not even that attractive.
Taesan scoffs, sitting up just a tad straighter and widening his shoulders subconsciously.
He’s totally better looking than him.
He watches as Sunghoon nears him, walks right past, and goes to ask you a question. He frowns.
You politely smile, giggle a bit and tuck your hair behind your ear.
You. Tucking your hair. Behind your ear.
It’s like witnessing the birth of an alien.
Taesan grimaces, unable to even blink as he watches the scene before him. You join his side a few minutes after, smile still lingering from your short conversation with the vampire-looking guy.
“Ew,” he says for no apparent reason. “Stop acting all cute, it’s weird.”
“You think I’m cute?” You spin to face him. Your movement being so unexpected that it startles him off his seat a little.
Clearing his throat, he slowly recuperates his calm composure.
“I never said that,” he says plainly, with little projection.
You purse your lips at him, a dangerous tease lingers on the crease of corner your eyes.
For the past few days, you’ve been sneakily inserting Sunghoon’s name into almost every conversation, as if Taesan wouldn’t notice.
At first, he thought it’d be a passing joke. Maybe you were purposefully trying to annoy him by talking his ear off, the way you sometimes did when you were bored and he was the easiest target to torture. He’d plainly nod and sigh every time you brought him up.
But a good couple of days have passed now, and something deep inside Taesan’s gut has quietly curdled into an ugly, green feeling.
“What? Don’t tell me you have a crush on him or something…”
You’re both having lunch out on the field today. The weather has started to grow warm and the sun makes it perfect to linger near the bleachers.
You go very still. Eyes wide, cheeks gaining heat like an old stove at his sudden accusation.
You were just telling him how you were one hundred percent sure Sunghoon looked at you during chemistry today. (Totally not in a delusional way, of course…)
Swallowing harshly, you look down at the sandwich in your hands, gripping its edges for dear life.
“Pfft! Whaaaat, no way! Why would you even—”
“You’re dunking your sandwich in your tea.”
You slowly look down to find that you have, in fact, dunked your savoury sandwich into your flask filled with scalding sweet tea. You startle awake, rapidly pulling your arm back. The sandwich comes out soggy and dripping in hot, steaming liquid.
You stare at it like you’ve lost a loved one.
“And your face is red,” Taesan adds, in a thoroughly unimpressed tone.
“Okay! Okay, I got it.” You huff, getting up to bin your sad excuse of a sandwich.
Taesan, ever the annoying little brat that he is, waits patiently for you to come back so he can torment you further.
Plopping yourself back on the bench, you readjust your sitting position. Your fingers brush his accidentally. You don’t even notice, but his heart is already beating at twice the speed from the simple contact.
He clears his throat, acting like it doesn’t bother him.
Anyway, back to business.
You turn to look him dead in the eyes and cock your head to the side like a yakuza straight out of Tokyo. Sneering, you narrow your eyes at him.
“So what, if I like him. What are you going to do about it, Sannie?” You put on the most intimidating face you can muster, purposefully lowering your voice for that extra dramatised effect.
In a rather theatric manner, you begin to jut your jaw out like he owes you lunch money, and you’re sure he’s probably shivering from pure fright right now.
Taesan stares at you for a good minute…
Then, he shoves a sugared donut down your throat.
You never thought death by sugared donut was a realistic option until today.
Lurching forward, you cough harshly, trying to recover from the attempted murder just plotted against you. Once your coughing dies down, you smack him hard across the back of the head.
He nearly falls off the bench from the force.
Good on him.
“Ow!” he hisses, hand flying to massage the spot.
“You nearly killed me,” you say in a bored tone, reaching for your flask to pour out another cup of hot tea.
“At least then we would have been safe from your horrible taste in men,” he mumbles under his breath.
Your ear twitches.
You stop pouring.
“Han Taesan,” you say slowly. “Did you say something?” You turn to face him with your most venomously sweet smile.
He shudders, shaking his head vigorously and plastering a very careful grin.
After a quiet moment, he speaks.
“Why do you even like him?”
“He’s hot.”
“He’s mediocre at best.”
“Wouldn’t that be insulting yourself?”
He blinks at you.
“What do you mean?”
You give a low hum. “He kinda looks like you.”
Taesan twists his lips, giving you a complex look caught somewhere between satisfaction and genuine terror.
“So you’re saying I’m hot?”
“I’m saying he’s hot,” you correct, taking a prim sip of your tea with your pinky raised.
“But you said he looks like me.”
“Resembles.” You correct. “He resembles you,” you nod slowly.
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.” You tilt your head to think on it. “Actually, I don’t know. Is it?”
He shrugs, looking just as confused as you are.
You press on. “He’s just different, okay?”
“Different how? What’s he got that I don’t?”
You suck in a breath at his question. Watching him closely, you manage to see something sitting quietly behind his eyes. This time, you slow down before answering.
“Gosh, why are you so persistent today?”
He pulls his gaze away from yours, trying to look like he’s watching the football game going on across the field. But you catch it anyway, the tiniest evidence of a sulk pulling at the corner of his lips.
“I’m not persistent. I’m just curious.”
You look at him for a second, without saying anything.
A still minute passes. The muffled shouts from the boys on the field blur into the background as you focus solely on him.
The air between you hangs softly.
It barely gets to settle before the most egregiously loud stomach grumble decides to shatter it entirely.
Taesan jumps.
You freeze.
Ever so slowly, he turns to you with eyes as wide as saucers.
“What was that?”
You blink at him, the picture of innocence.
“What do you mean?”
He stares at you in disbelief.
“Was that you?”
Silence.
“Must’ve been the wind,”
He breaks. Laughter spills out of him as he tries to muffle it behind his sleeve, shoulders shaking with the effort.
You quietly watch as his eyes crinkle into little stars in a matter of seconds.
“Are you hungry?” He tries to keep himself together, biting his lips to keep the remainder of the laugh at bay, but he’s doing an awful job at it.
You scoff.
“What do you think?”
He gives half a smile.
“I expected this to happen,” he starts, already rummaging through his bag. He pulls out a clear bowl of homemade goods and holds it out.
“So I came prepared.”
“No,” you take the bowl from him, fingers grazing lightly against his and lingering there a little too long for it to be unintentional. “You just don’t like what your grandma made you today.”
He shrugs, leaning back onto the comfort of the bench.
“Same difference. It all ends up in your stomach anyway.”
“Hey!”
He cheeses at your distress. You signal a knife to your throat.
The bell rings and you try to squeeze as much food as humanly possible into your cheeks before standing up.
By the time you and Taesan are back in class, you’re nearly finished with the bowl, cheeks still stuffed. Taesan, who’s now sitting beside you, prods one of them gently.
“You look like a chipmunk.” He says lightly.
You say something back but it comes out so utterly obscured by the food in your mouth that it sounds more like a cry for help.
The classroom buzzes in low ooh’s and ahh’s. You glance up to gage the commotion.
Porcelain skin. Black framed glasses. A nose you could probably go skiing on.
Sunghoon walks in with little interest in his surroundings, drops into the empty seat on your other side, flips open his notebook, and immediately fishes out his phone to doom scroll as the teacher hasn’t arrived yet.
You blink.
Taesan blinks.
Sunghoon blinks, though he has absolutely no idea about the silent battle he just stumbled into.
Taesan cracks his neck to the side.
Your classmates start whispering, and your skin prickles with the sensation of being watched by so many people.
“Since when does he sit here?” Taesan asks hollowly, loud enough for anyone within a 3 mile radius to hear, pointedly refusing to acknowledge Sunghoon directly.
The pale boy beside you pauses his scrolling and looks up in genuine confusion. His dark eyes land on a pair of stubborn brown ones staring him down like he personally persecuted him in a past life.
He has no idea why, but he answers him anyway.
“We don’t have a seating plan for this class.”
You let out a forced laugh, awkwardly patting Taesan’s shoulder with unnecessary strength, to get him to stop his antics.
“Yup! That’s right, no seating plan, haha! Isn’t that great?!”
Sunghoon’s eyes shift to you. Your breath catches.
“I guess?” he says, mild bewilderment still written across his face.
You nearly melt in your seat.
“You know what else is great?” Taesan’s voice chimes in and you can already tell that whatever he’s about to say is practically designed to come off as a backhanded insult.
“How good it sounds when you’re not talk—”
You slap your hand over his mouth.
With your other hand you grab the back of his neck, pulling your face close to his.
His eyes grow wide as you drop your voice to barely above a whisper.
“Behave, Sannie. Behave.”
In the next second, you’re back to facing Sunghoon like nothing happened.
Taesan is left with his heart nearly tumbling out of his chest at your bold conduct. A faint dust of pink paints the tip of his ears.
Sunghoon, who went back to scrolling the moment you looked away, remains completely unaware.
You tsk at him quietly.
“See? He doesn’t even pay you half the attention I do.”
Soft. Airy. Right beside your ear.
You whip around. A fast-growing flush scatters across your face as you press your fist against your chest.
“You scared me!” Puffing out your cheeks, you exhale slowly, trying to hide the flustered look behind a scowl that isn’t quite convincing.
Taesan, who seems just as caught off guard by your reaction, goes very still.
His eyes move slowly across your face, like he’s trying to calculate your expression. Once it clicks, he files it straight away.
Then, he smirks. He reaches over and flicks your forehead with barely any force at all.
He gets it now.
You bring your hands to cup your cheeks.
They’re warm.
Dang it.
Did he notice?
The teacher walks in and you sink into your seat with a quiet sigh.
“You don’t actually expect me to believe you like him, right?” he says, as you’re walking home together.
You don’t bother to look at him when you respond.
“Your jealousy knows no bounds, Han Taesan.”
“Your pranks know no bounds either.”
Your steps slow to a stop.
It takes a few more strides for him to realise you’re no longer beside him. The absence of you is immediate and obvious. His hand twitches. His side feels cold.
He doesn’t like that.
He turns.
“How did you…”
“How did I know?” he finishes for you.
You can only nod.
“Something was off about the whole thing. It was too sudden, and every time I asked you for a reason as to why you liked him you just said he was hot.” He gives you a flat look.
“And besides.” He takes a step closer.
“You can’t out-do the doer.” Another step.
“Admit it.” He’s close now, smirking easily. “The person you actually like isn’t Sunghoon, is it?”
Even saying his name out loud sat bitter on his tongue.
The two of you are near enough that your noses are centimetres apart, eyes searching each other’s as you both smirk.
You take the smallest step forward. Unyielding.
“I’ll admit it,” you say simply.
Taesan’s smile grows.
“Only if you admit that you like me first.”
His smile freezes.
He blinks at you, confidence visibly cracking at the edges as the realisation of how well you know him settles in.
He takes a step back. Tries to hide the colour rushing to his face behind the cuff of his sleeve.
You step forward. Not letting him escape.
“Oho! Not so brave now, are we?”
“M-me? Have a crush on you? What—”
“Sannie. It’s been kind of obvious for a while.”
Something in him twitches. The panic softens into something quieter, something almost fragile. But he’s still mildly mortified when he asks.
“It has?”
You nod.
“It has.”
“I thought I was doing great, though?”
“What, acting all nonchalant and mysterious while being very obviously jealous at the smallest interaction between me and Hoon?”
“Don’t call him that.”
“See?”
He stares at you in pure offence.
You scrunch your nose at him, fond and teasing all at once. “I find it kind of cute, actually.”
He short-circuits.
“Wait, don’t call me cu—”
You snort, leaning in closer with a soft, doting look on your face. A single gust of wind would be all it took for your lips to meet his.
“I was waiting for you to just say it outright, dummy.” You smile at him. He gulps.
He isn’t usually like this, all flustered and caught off guard. He’s only ever that way when it comes to you. The familiar push and pull that’s been ruling over him ever since he met you.
“So you really don’t like Sunghoon?” Comes his voice. Serious, a little lower than usual, just to make sure. And the sincerity in his plea for confirmation makes you pause before you toss your head back with a boisterous laugh.
“No! Of course not,” you chuckle, pressing your hand over your mouth at his reaction.
“Although he is Earth shatteringly handsome.”
He makes it a mission to ignore any other unnecessary comments you manage to muster.
“And you like me back?” He’s looking right into your eyes, head tipped downwards in focus.
“I like you back, obviously.” You spread your arms theatrically wide. “This much.”
He breathes out slowly, releasing something he didn’t even know he was holding.
“So these past few days I was nervous for nothing,” he says more-so to himself.
Then his eyes slide to you, and whatever softness was there sharpens into something dangerously playful.
“Oh, you’re so going to pay for that.”
Your smile drops.
“W-wait, what? It was a harmless prank, with a good cause!”
You step back. He steps forward. His strides are longer than yours.
Your back meets the bark of a tree. You freeze.
He’s close. Too close. The look in his eyes is unreadable in the best and worst way and you can smell his signature cologne from the collar of his shirt.
You swallow harshly, lips trembling.
“Sannie?”
He doesn’t answer.
His arms come up on either side of you, caging you in as he lowers his face toward yours. Slowly. Far too slowly.
Oh!
OKAY—
You close your eyes, feeling his warmth close the remaining distance between you. His lips are barely hovering over yours and you fully expect to fall into a kiss that would jumble your entire brain chemistry—
He pulls away.
For a second, you don’t move. Then your eyes open at the lack of contact.
…
You’re going to kill him.
Today.
You stare at the stupid, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.
He’s already backing off, hands lazily tucked into his trouser pockets, trying to act all cool and au naturel.
“Told you you’d pay for it.” A low laugh slips out before he can stop it.
You practically launch yourself off the tree and go for him.
You miss. Of course you miss.
He bolts, laughter still trailing behind him.
“Hey! Come back here right now!”
You chase after him, embarrassingly fatigued after about ten seconds. He is far more athletic than you. You resent everything about that.
“I’ll catch you,” you huff.
Your run slows to a jog. Your jog slows to a walk.
“And when I do—” you wheeze, unable to finish the threat hanging at the end of your tongue. You crouch, hands braced on your knees. “Ugh. Whatever!”
A moment passes before you hear footsteps slow beside you.
You squint up against the sun, looking like an old granny, trying to make out the figure standing over you.
Stepping forward to block the sun rays from your eyes, Taesan’s face comes into view.
You frown at him, throwing a weak punch his way. He catches it in his large hands without trying.
Chuckling quietly, he reaches for your other hand, helping you to stand to your full height.
When you’ve mostly recovered, he looks at you. Observing the flush on your cheeks, the sweat gripping at your temple, the way your eyes are still trained on him with all that familiar warmth even though you’re busy trying to shoot lasers through his face.
He huffs softly. A small, fond smile.
“You’re so weird.”
You open your mouth to protest.
But you find his lips on yours instead.
No warning. No build up. Just him. You instinctively start to lean closer. You can feel one of his hands reach for your waist, the other moving to hold you steady— a sly measure to keep you from pulling away. Selfish. Cheeky.
You don’t even remember what you were going to say. The only thing on your mind being the feeling of his lips on yours. You can feel the shape of his smile against them.
You don’t want to pull away.
You really, truly do not want to….
His hand moves to cup your face and you think, very genuinely, that you might risk your life just to stay here in this moment. Just a little longer—
—But if you don’t get air in the next two seconds you are going to pass out and cease to exist.
Not to be dramatic or anything.
With the greatest reluctance you’ve felt in a while, you break away, gasping cartoonishly, pressing a hand to his chest.
“Oh man!” A cough. “I forgot I literally just ran before this.” You slap his arm half playfully and half seriously. Your nostrils flare as you inhale deeply, still trying to catch your breath.
“Are you actually trying to kill me or what? This is the second attempt today!” You point at him accusingly.
Taesan stares at you. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks at you for an extended moment.
Eventually, he tips his head back and looks up at the sky, wondering how he fell for such an idiot.
He sighs.
“I want a refund.”
“EXCUSE ME?!”
He barely gets out of the way of a flying kick.
The evening sky fills with your relentless shouted threats and his unceasing annoyingly gorgeous laughter. Perfect chaos. That’s what the two of you are.
