crazy form

20 she/her skz • ateez • p1h

[gyuzies]

𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎

single dad!lee minho x dance instructor!reader ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

♡ . — ꒰ 15 ss ꒱

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !! being a new dance instructor to a little girl whose dad believes hes right about everything.

⤷ contains — ˎˊ˗ swearing, suggestive, single dad mimo, dani from katseye, minji from njz, hyune, chan and changbin from skz included.

scan here for group masterlist → 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 ˎˊ˗

✉️ — @nanilis @hoonsocks @sweethoons @beomiracles @izzyy-stuff @yvampyr @kookiesnkim @owlieuwu @seungminsslut @hyukascampfire @yawngnab @hoonicon @rianzysworld @soobabbee @nainai112 @drkbl00d @lottiesls @xhoinicx @b4echo

🌿 — @emotional-zebra @geni-627 @emmalovesjisung @volcanohan @mvkas @abriefnirvana @velvetmoonlght @channlust @viisstrayy @kloversung @yeonbinpetplay

[wooyonyangatiny]

I-i lose my job

[seosexual]

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ daddy 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached. pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader genre: all the above (f,s,a) cw/tags: eventual smut, slow burn, grief/loss, fear of abandonment, insecurity, self-worth issues, overworking, exhaustion & burnout, praise, emotional intimacy soundtrack: apple music - lithen when you're in love / spotify * ✩˚ word count: 12.1K ˚✩ *

Sundays were your favorite.

Everyone else hated them because it meant the weekend was over, but every other Sunday meant catching your new neighbor in his garage with the door rolled open, grease staining his hands while he worked on whatever car currently had its guts spread across the driveway.

Was this borderline stalking? Probably

But he’d never introduced himself, and neither had you, and it had somehow been almost a month since he moved into the small corner house at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Everyone in the cul-de-sac knows each other.

Except him.

He was still an enigma.

Instead of peeking through the blinds like a stalker, you convinced yourself that opening every blind in the house was a perfectly normal alternative.

And there he was, standing in the middle of his driveway with a phone pressed to his ear instead of working on the unfamiliar car sitting with its hood popped open.

He looked worn out actually. Still attractive, unfortunately. But exhausted.

The brutal summer heat probably wasn’t helping either, and before you could stop yourself, one singular thought drifted into your mind:

Is he staying hydrated?

Which immediately sparked an entire chain of questions that could only be answered if you actually spoke to him for once.

So now you were standing in your kitchen cutting apples and making lavender lemonade.

Generic? Maybe.

But it felt like a decent way to introduce yourself without sounding insane.

You definitely weren’t going to tell him you made it specifically for him, though.

You didn’t care much about presentation either.

The apple slices got tossed into a sandwich bag, and you poured two glasses of lemonade. Less in yours to make it look like you’d already been drinking it, and more in the one meant for him.

The outfit, though, took a little more thought.

It was way too hot outside for sweatpants, and if you were finally going to talk to him, the last thing you wanted was to sweat through your clothes.

So, summer shorts and a cute tank it was.

Nothing wrong with showing a little skin when your neighbor spent half his life shirtless in the driveway anyway.

𝜗𝜚

As you headed for the door, you peeked out the window one last time to assess his current predicament.

The phone was gone now, and half his body was buried beneath the hood of the car as he worked, completely unaware that you were seconds away from walking across the street with a quick pick-me-up and several weeks’ worth of curiosity.

The closer you got, the more clearly you could hear the soft spill of saxophones and low bass drifting from the garage speakers.

And unfortunately for your sanity, he looked just as good from the back as he did from the front.

“Jazz fan?” you asked softly, careful not to startle him beneath the hood of the car.

The reaction was immediate.

He jerked hard enough to smack his head against the underside of the hood with a loud clank.

“Shit,” he hissed, stumbling back a step while rubbing the spot with grease-stained fingers.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” he laughed breathlessly, still wincing. “That’s my fault. I think I lost the ability to hear anything besides this engine like twenty minutes ago.”

Up close, he looked even more exhausted.

Faint shadows sat beneath his eyes, damp curls sticking to his forehead from the heat. There was grease smeared along his forearm, another streak near his jaw, and somehow the whole thing only made him more attractive.

Which felt deeply unfair considering you’d crossed the street carrying homemade lemonade just because he looked tired.

His gaze finally dropped to the midday snack in your hands. “…Is that for me?” he asked carefully, like he genuinely wasn’t sure.

“Uh,” you started, suddenly very aware of how suspicious this probably looked.

“I was already making some for myself,” you lied smoothly. “And you looked like you were one second from passing out, so…”

His gaze flicked between you, the lemonade, and the apples in the sandwich bag. “Right,” he said slowly, like he absolutely did not believe you.

Which was fair. Nobody casually made lavender lemonade in this economy.

Still, he took the glass from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for half a second.

“Well,” he said, softer this time, “thanks. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied, trying very hard to act normal despite the fact that your entire nervous system had just short-circuited over brief hand contact.

He took a long sip almost immediately, and the faint tension in his shoulders eased a little.

“Okay,” he admitted after a second, glancing down at the cup, “this is actually really good.”

“Thank you,” you said, maybe a little too fast. The corner of his mouth twitched before the soft sound of saxophone filled the brief silence between you again.

You nodded toward the speaker tucked near the back of the garage.

“So you are a jazz fan.”

Chan glanced over his shoulder at the music before looking back at you. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone trying to figure out if you’re secretly eighty years old.”

That finally earned you a real laugh. Warm, low, slightly tired around the edges. “Jazz is timeless,” he defended.

“That’s not helping your case, actually.”

He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. You bring me lemonade and immediately start attacking me.”

“Keeps you humble, I think.”

“I don’t think I was arrogant to begin with.”

“You mow your lawn shirtless,”

It went completely silent.

Fuck. I said way too much.

Chan stared at you for two full seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched

“In my defense,” he said carefully, “it was ninety degrees.”

Chan took another sip of lemonade, “So you like watching your neighbors do lawn work?”

All of a sudden you were burning up. “I was curious that morning.”

“Mm.” Chan glanced down at the lemonade. “Curious enough to start bringing me refreshments.”

“I’m being neighborly,” you defended immediately.

Chan hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And the apples?”

“Also already cut.”

“Right.”

“You’re being really judgmental for someone accepting free lemonade.”

That earned another quiet laugh from him, softer this time, like he was finally relaxing into the conversation instead of standing awkwardly inside it.

“Well, since we’ve both noticed each other and somehow still never spoken…” you said, “I think that makes us equally guilty.”

Chan’s smile widened behind the rim of his cup.

“Equally guilty, huh?”

“Painfully guilty.”

“Good to know I’m not the only terrible neighbor here.”

“You’re still worse,” you said. “You moved in and didn’t introduce yourself.”

“You watched me mow my lawn shirtless and didn’t introduce yourself either.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it immediately.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” you said, even though it absolutely was not.

Chan looked far too entertained by your suffering.

“So,” he said, leaning back against the car, “how long was I under neighborhood surveillance before you finally decided to talk to me?”

“Surveillance is a strong word.”

“That somehow sounds worse.”His laugh came easier now, lighter than before.

“For the record,” you added, gesturing vaguely toward the garage, “you’re kind of hard to ignore.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That so?”

Heat rushed to your face immediately. “That sounded less embarrassing in my head.”

“Good to know my hard work is appreciated.”

“Your hard work?” you repeated incredulously.

“Maintaining a lawn is serious business.”

“You’re standing here covered in engine grease trying to flirt about landscaping.”

He blinked at you. "I'm not flirting.” The denial came way too fast to sound convincing.

You stared him for a second. "Sure."

His mouth twitched again before he looked away, suddenly seeming very interested in the rag beside him. "Okay, maybe a little."

The admission sounded accidental. Honest in a way that made your stomach flip embarrassingly fast. Like realizing he’d been charming without fully meaning to be.

He wiped his hand against the rag before finally holding it out toward you. “I should probably introduce myself properly before my neighbors start opening investigation files on me,” he said. “Chan.”

You told him your name, trying not to focus on how warm his hand felt when your fingers slipped into his.

“Nice to officially meet you,” he said, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles before letting go.

The gesture was brief enough that you could’ve imagined it. Unfortunately, your brain decided to replay it anyway.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat slightly, “what exactly are you working on?”

Chan glanced back toward the car like he’d almost forgotten it existed. “Customer’s car,” he explained. “Or… technically my friend’s customer. I’m helping him out.”

“Meaning you’re fixing someone else’s problem on your day off?”

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds terrible.”

He laughed softly. “You get used to it.”

You watched him take another sip of lemonade before his shoulders relaxed again, just slightly.

“Long day?” you asked before thinking too hard about it.

Something flickered across his face then. Quick enough that you almost missed it.

“Long month,” he admitted instead.

The answer settled between you more honestly than expected.

And for the first time since moving in, the mysterious neighbor across the street stopped feeling mysterious at all.

Just human.

Right on cue, his phone started ringing again.

And just like that, the same expression from earlier returned. The softness in his face tightened almost instantly, exhaustion settling back over his features like something heavy and familiar.

Chan glanced at the screen and exhaled quietly through his nose. “Sorry,” he murmured, already reaching for it.

“No, you’re okay,” you replied quickly.

For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he answered the call with a tired, “Hey, Mom.”

Mom?

Your curiosity immediately sharpened, but you stepped back anyway, lifting a hand in a small goodbye to give him some privacy.

Chan glanced up from the call almost immediately.

“Wait,” he said quickly, covering the phone against his chest for half a second.

The suddenness of it made you pause.

“Thanks for the lemonade,” he added, softer this time. “And for finally introducing yourself.”

Something warm fluttered annoyingly in your chest. “Try not to die of heatstroke,” you replied.

A tired smile pulled at his mouth. “No promises.”

As you walked back across the street, you heard him sigh quietly into the phone behind you

“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Just bring her back. It’s fine. Thanks.”

Her?

Your steps slowed for only half a second before you forced yourself to keep walking.

It wasn’t your business.

Probably.

𝜗𝜚

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly after that.

You watered your plants. Folded laundry that had been sitting untouched for two days. Pretended very hard not to glance out the window every ten minutes.

Around an hour later, movement across the street finally caught your attention again.

A familiar older woman pulled into Chan’s driveway in a silver SUV. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

A little girl climbed out of the backseat holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear, her tiny sneakers lighting up against the pavement with every step she took.

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Chan appeared from the garage almost immediately after hearing the car door shut.

The exhaustion you’d seen earlier softened the second the little girl spotted him.

“Daddy!”

She launched herself across the driveway at full speed, stuffed rabbit bouncing wildly behind her.

Chan barely had time to crouch before she collided into him, and just like that, the intimidatingly attractive mechanic across the street completely melted.

“Hey, bug,” he laughed softly, catching her against his chest with practiced ease. “Miss me already?”

The little girl nodded dramatically against his shoulder.

From your window, you watched him press a kiss to the side of her head before standing again, one arm hooked securely beneath her legs like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The older woman said something to him then, too far away for you to hear clearly.

You watched see him sigh in response.

She reached up to squeeze his shoulder before heading back toward her car.

Mom.

Well that explained the grocery bags.

The little girl kept talking animatedly while he listened, nodding along despite the lingering exhaustion still written all over him.

And against your better judgment, something in your chest tightened at the sight.

You really tried not to stare after that.

Tried being the important word.

Because the next thing you knew, Chan was balancing the little girl on his hip while attempting to close the garage with the other hand, and she was very seriously holding his lemonade for him like it was an important assignment.

Your lemonade.

Which somehow made the entire thing feel weirdly intimate. The little girl took a curious sip from the straw before immediately making a face.

Chan laughed. Actually laughed. Not the tired, polite kind he’d given you earlier, but something fuller. Easier.

The sound carried faintly across the street even through your closed window. Then, like she could feel herself being observed, the little girl suddenly looked up.

Directly toward your house.

Your body reacted before your brain did, ducking beneath the window.

“What am I doing?” you whispered to yourself from the floor.

Slowly, cautiously, you lifted yourself just high enough to peek over the windowsill again.

He was already looking directly at your house. Specifically, at the exact window you’d just disappeared from.

Mortification hit instantly.

The little girl was still perched on his hip, tiny hands wrapped around the lemonade cup while she whispered something into his ear.

Chan started to smirk.

Oh god.

She definitely noticed you spying.

Before you could disappear for a second time, the little girl suddenly lifted her arm and waved enthusiastically through the window.

Bright, excited and completely unashamed.

Chan glanced down at her, then back toward your house, and to your complete horror, he smiled too. Soft and sleepy around the edges.

Well there went your ability to act normal around this family.

𝜗𝜚

Things only got worse the following evening. Or better. Maybe.

Unfortunately, the distinction was becoming harder to make.

You were dragging grocery bags out of your trunk when you heard tiny sneakers slapping against pavement.

“Hi!”

You looked up just in time to see the little girl from yesterday standing at the edge of your driveway.

Up close, she looked even smaller. Big dark eyes, messy curls, and the same stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm like it legally belonged to her.

Chan trailed a few steps behind her carrying two takeout bags and looking deeply apologetic already. “I’m so sorry,” he called out immediately. “She saw you and escaped.”

“I did not escape,” the little girl argued.

“You absolutely escaped.”

She ignored him completely and looked back at you instead. “Daddy said you made magic lemonade.”

You blinked once. Then slowly turned toward Chan. “Magic lemonade?”

Chan looked mildly horrified. “That’s not what I said.”

“You said it had flowers in it.”

“…That is unfortunately true.”

The little girl stepped closer, lowering her voice dramatically like she was sharing a very serious secret. “Daddy talked about your lemonade all night.”

Chan made a noise somewhere between a sigh and genuine embarrassment. “Okay,” he muttered, staring at the sky for patience. “I think that’s enough sharing for today.”

“I like your flowers too,” she added helpfully.

“Okay, seriously, whose side are you on?” Chan asked.

She gasped softly. “Yours.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You finally laughed, unable to help it anymore, and something in Chan’s expression softened immediately at the sound.

The little girl beamed proudly at the fact that she’d apparently succeeded in making everyone equally uncomfortable.

“I’m Jia,” she announced suddenly.

“Jia,” Chan repeated with the deep weariness of a man who knew exactly where this conversation was headed. “What do we say when introducing ourselves to strangers?”

She thought about it very seriously. “…My dad is twenty-eight?”

Chan closed his eyes. “That is not remotely what I meant.”

“You asked me to be polite,” Jia defended immediately.

“I did,” Chan agreed. “I just didn’t think you’d start listing my personal information like a tiny government employee.”

Jia looked completely unbothered by this comparison. Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to laugh yourself into cardiac arrest in your own driveway.

“Twenty-eight, huh?” you repeated lightly before you could stop yourself.

Chan pointed at you instantly. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m just processing the information I was given.”

“Against my will.”

Jia tugged on his sleeve. “Can we have nuggets now?” The dramatic betrayal faded from his face immediately.

“Yeah, bug,” he sighed softly. “We can have nuggets now.”And there it was again. That softness. The one that seemed to appear every time he looked at her.

You’d kill for him to look at you like that.

Which felt slightly dramatic considering you’d known this man for less than forty-eight hours.

But still.

Chan adjusted the takeout bags in one hand before nodding toward you.

“Sorry again,” he said. “She’s decided privacy is optional.”

“I heard that,” Jia informed him.

“I know you did.”

You smiled despite yourself. “It’s fine. Honestly, I think I’ve learned more about you in five minutes than I did the entire month you lived here.”

“That’s because my roommate keeps violating confidentiality agreements.”

Jia looked delighted by this accusation.

Before he could start ushering Jia toward the house again, you crouched slightly to her level. “Well, Jia,” you said seriously, “I should probably introduce myself properly too.”

Once you told her your name, Jia stared at you for a second before slowly lifting the stuffed rabbit into view. “And this is Leebit.”

“Leebit?” you repeated carefully.

Jia nodded once like this was an entirely reasonable name for a stuffed rabbit. “She’s sensitive.”

“I understand completely,” you replied.

Chan laughed quietly behind her, softer this time. “Okay,” he sighed, finally steering Jia back toward the house before she revealed his blood type next. “Dinner before you expose anything else about this family.”

“Bye!” Jia called, already halfway up the driveway.

Then she stopped suddenly and turned back around. “Wait,” she gasped dramatically. “We forgot to say thank you for the magic lemonade.”

Chan sighed toward the heavens. “It was lavender, Jia.”

“That’s magic to me.”

Honestly? Fair enough.

You smiled, folding your arms lightly against your chest. “You’re welcome.”

Jia beamed at you one last time before finally allowing herself to be herded toward the front door.

He lingered behind for half a second longer. The porch light caught softly against the tired edges of his face, but for the first time since you’d met him, he looked lighter somehow.

“Sorry in advance,” he said quietly, glancing toward the tiny chaos already disappearing inside the house. “She gets attached to people fast.”

Your stomach betrayed you instantly. “That makes two of us,” you almost said.

Instead, you just smiled. “I think I can handle her.”

Chan looked at you for a second too long before finally nodding once. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Chan.”

You spent the rest of the night trying not to think about them.

Which was difficult when your kitchen still smelled faintly like lavender and fresh lemons. Worse, every time you closed your eyes, your brain insisted on replaying tiny moments like an aggressively edited romantic comedy montage.

Chan laughing softly in the driveway.

Jia introducing Leebit with complete sincerity.

The way his face changed whenever he looked at his daughter.

By the time morning rolled around, you’d managed to convince yourself to act normal about the entire thing.

That resolution lasted until approximately 10:14 a.m. Because when you opened your front door to grab a package, Jia was sitting on your porch.

Alone.

Holding Leebit.

And coloring directly on your welcome mat with sidewalk chalk.

“Jia?” you blurted immediately, eyes widening.

She looked up from the chalk drawing completely relaxed, as if this had always been her porch too. “Hi,” she said happily. Leebit was tucked beneath one arm while pink chalk dust coated her fingers.

Your heart nearly stopped. “Why are you over here by yourself?”

Jia pointed vaguely behind her with the chalk, “Daddy’s sleeping.”

Oh.

“Jia,” you said carefully, crouching down a little, “did you sneak out?”

She gasped like you’d accused her of a serious crime. “No.”

A pause.

“I walked out.”

You pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing at the worst possible time.

“Okay,” you said slowly, “that’s still not something you’re supposed to do by yourself.”

Jia considered this information while drawing another aggressively pink line across the concrete. “Daddy was sleeping,” she explained again, like that answered everything.

Which, honestly, explained enough.

Your gaze flicked across the street toward Chan’s house. The curtains were still closed.

A tiny thread of concern tugged at your chest.“How long have you been over here?” you asked gently.

Jia shrugged. “Since cartoons.”

That was not a measurement of time.

“Jia,” you said carefully, “what does that even mean?”

She blinked up at you like you were the confusing one.“The blue dog cartoons.”

…Still not a real answer.

Your concern must’ve shown on your face because Jia suddenly held Leebit out toward you reassuringly. “It’s okay,” she said confidently. “I know where my house is.”

“That’s not my concern, sweetie,” you said gently. “Some cars drive really fast around here. What if you got hurt?”

Jia’s expression faltered slightly for the first time since you opened the door. “But I looked both ways,” she defended quietly.

Your heart squeezed a little. “I know you did, sweetie,” you replied softly. “But you still can’t leave the house without telling your dad, okay?”

Jia looked down at the chalk in her hand.“…Okay.”

And suddenly the situation felt a lot less funny.

“Come on,” you said gently, standing back up. “Let’s get you home. I don’t want your dad waking up and panicking because he can’t find you.”

Jia’s eyes widened slightly. “He’ll panic?”

“Absolutely.”

She looked genuinely thoughtful about this revelation before quietly gathering her chalk pieces into a tiny pile.

Leebit was tucked securely beneath her arm again as she reached for your hand without hesitation.

And that tiny, instinctive trust nearly took you out on the spot. Crossing the street with her tiny hand wrapped around yours felt strangely domestic. Girl, get it together.

The front door of Chan’s house was unlocked when you gently pushed it open, calling out a cautious, “Chan?”

No answer.

The house was quiet in that heavy, sleepy kind of way that suggested someone had crashed hard after being exhausted for too long.

Jia immediately slipped off toward the living room like this was a completely normal morning adventure.

You followed after her just in time to see him asleep on the couch. One arm thrown over his eyes. Phone still in his hand.

The television played softly in the background to absolutely nobody.

The second Jia climbed onto the couch beside him, Chan jolted awake so fast it genuinely startled you.

“So sorry for the intrusion,” you blurted out immediately. This was definitely not how you envisioned the first time stepping inside his house.

Chan blinked at you for a second, still visibly caught between asleep and awake, before his gaze snapped toward his daughter.

“Jia.”

Uh oh.

“I went to visit,” she explained confidently from beside him.

“Without telling me?” The panic in his voice was subtle, but there.

Real enough that guilt twisted in your chest a little on Jia’s behalf.

Chan sat up fully now, running a hand down his face before looking back at you. “Did she cross the street alone?”

“Technically…” you started carefully.

“I looked both ways,” Jia added helpfully.

Chan stared at the ceiling for a long moment like he was asking the universe for strength.

“Don’t be too hard on her,” you said gently. “I already told her that was dangerous.”

Chan exhaled quietly through his nose, some of the panic easing from his shoulders.

Jia immediately took advantage of this. “See?” she said proudly. “I got lectured already.”

“That’s not exactly something to be proud of,” Chan muttered. Still, his hand found the back of her head automatically, smoothing down her messy curls just to reassure himself she was there.

The tiny gesture did something weird to your chest again.

This was probably a terrible idea, but your mouth was already moving before you could stop.“Hey, um…” you started awkwardly, suddenly very interested in the floor.

“If you ever need extra rest or need to handle stuff around here, I can hang out with her for a bit.”

Chan looked at you like nobody had offered him that in a very long time.

Jia, meanwhile, looked ready to adopt you on the spot. “Really?” she gasped.

Chan blinked once before rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t have to do that,” he said softly. But he sounded tired enough that it almost hurt to hear.

Before you could respond, Jia spoke up from the couch.

“Nana’s been busy lately.”

Chan’s expression shifted instantly. Not angry. Just… exposed, somehow. Like a private part of his life had been accidentally placed on the table between all of you.

Jia, completely unaware, kept talking while hugging Leebit to her chest. “So Daddy’s extra tired now.”

Your heart squeezed painfully.

Chan let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face again.

“Nana?” you asked quietly.

Chan glanced toward you before answering. “My mother,” he said softly. Something in his expression gentled when he said it, but the exhaustion never fully left his face.“She usually helps a lot with Jia, but work’s been keeping her busy lately.”

Jia nodded solemnly from the couch like this was a very serious family meeting. You looked between the two of them for a moment.

Chan sitting there barely awake on the couch. Jia curled against his side with Leebit in her lap. The quiet television humming in the background.

The lived-in warmth of the house despite the exhaustion hanging over it.

It hit you suddenly then. He wasn’t distant because he was unfriendly. He was drowning. Working, parenting, moving into a new neighborhood, fixing cars on his days off, surviving on what looked like four hours of sleep and caffeine.

And somehow still managing to be gentle.

“The offer still stands,” you said softly.

Chan looked up at you immediately.

“Even if it’s just so you can nap without worrying she’s gonna escape and start another neighborhood tour.”

“I did not tour,” Jia argued sleepily.

“You trespassed.”

“I visited.”

The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.

Chan watched you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You barely know us,” he said finally.

“Yet,” you pointed out gently, “I’m kind of the only person you guys know in the neighborhood right now.”

Chan went quiet at that, because unfortunately, it was true.

The moving boxes still stacked near the hallway.

The unfamiliar street.

The exhaustion.

All of it suddenly felt a little heavier in the silence.

Jia leaned against his arm, already looking half-asleep again. His gaze dropped briefly toward her before returning to you. Something softer settled into his expression then. Not just appreciation, but relief as well.

“J-just let me know,” you added quickly, suddenly feeling very aware of how personal this conversation had become. “No pressure or anything.”

Chan’s expression softened even further at the stumble in your voice. “Right,” he said quietly. “No pressure.”

But he looked at you like the offer meant more than you realized.

Sensing the sudden shift into dangerously intimate territory, you started backing toward the front door. “I should probably let you guys get back to your morning,” you said lightly.

Jia immediately looked disappointed, and Chan, somehow, looked a little disappointed too. Which absolutely did not help your situation.

“Wait.” Chan stood from the couch before you could make it more than two steps toward the door.

Jia immediately flopped sideways into the cushions the second his arm moved away from her, completely exhausted from what had apparently been a very eventful morning.

Chan glanced toward Jia briefly before looking back at you.

“At least let me repay you somehow,” he said. “You returned my runaway child.”

“That sounds way more dramatic than what actually happened.”

“Does it?”

You smiled despite yourself. “You really don’t have to repay me.”

“Maybe I want to.”

And suddenly the foyer felt a little too small.

Chan leaned lightly against the wall near the doorway, still looking half-awake. Somehow, it only made him more unfairly attractive.

“You like coffee?” he asked after a second.

“That depends,” you replied carefully. “Are you trying to bribe me into future babysitting?”

A tired laugh slipped out of him. “Maybe a little.”

“Then yes. I love coffee.”

“Good,” he murmured. “There’s a café like ten minutes from here. She likes the cake pops and I survive off iced americanos.”

“A balanced diet.”

“Exactly.”

His smile lingered this time. “Come with us sometime?” he asked.

The question landed so casually it took your brain a full second to process it.

Come with us?

Not me.

Us.

And somehow that made your chest ache even worse. “Yeah,” you answered before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”

His shoulders loosened almost immediately, like he’d been oddly nervous about asking. Which felt insane considering this man looked like that while standing barefoot in sweatpants at eleven in the morning.

Jia suddenly lifted her head from the couch cushions. “Can I get two cake pops?”

“No,” He answered instantly.

“One and a half?”

“That’s not a real number of cake pops.”

Jia thought about this carefully. “Then two.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and he looked over at you again with that same softened expression from earlier.

Like he was quietly cataloging every sound you made.

“Alright,” you said finally, forcing yourself to continue toward the door before your feelings developed a mortgage in this house. “I’ll let you guys rest.”

Jia waved lazily from the couch. “Bye.”

“Bye, Jia. Bye, Leebit.”

The stuffed rabbit stared at you with the same emotional support energy as before.

He walked you to the door despite looking seconds away from passing out where he stood.“Thanks again,” he said quietly once you stepped onto the porch.

“For returning your escape artist?”

“For…” He paused briefly, glancing back toward the living room. “Being nice to us.”

The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected.

Your chest tightened a little. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

He looked at you for a moment like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Still going to.”

After you parted ways, reluctantly, you walked back across the street trying very hard not to replay the entire interaction in your head.

In which you failed immediately.

By the time you made it back inside your house, your brain had already decided to obsess over approximately seventeen separate things.

Chan asking you to get coffee with them.

Jia holding your hand without hesitation.

The way he’d said us.

The fact that his house already felt strangely familiar after only ten minutes inside it.

Which was absolutely not normal.

You dropped onto your couch with a dramatic groan, staring at the ceiling.

“This is how people end up emotionally attached to single fathers,” you informed yourself aloud.

𝜗𝜚

The front door clicked shut behind you, leaving their house quiet again aside from the low murmur of cartoons still playing from the television.

Chan stayed standing there for a second. Longer than necessary.

“Dad,” Jia said from the couch, “you’re staring at the door.”

“I know.”

He scrubbed a tired hand down his face before finally locking it, though the motion felt pointless considering Jia had apparently started wandering the neighborhood at sunrise.

His heart still hadn’t fully recovered from waking up and realizing she’d walked out.

Across the room, Jia hugged Leebit tighter. “She’s nice.”

His gaze drifted automatically toward the front window, then toward the house across the street. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “She is.”

The thing was, he’d noticed little details long before the lemonade.

It was hard not to.

You watered the flowers along your porch every morning before the heat got too bad, usually still half-asleep and wearing clothes that looked thrown on five minutes earlier.

Your car was the little dark-colored sedan with a small dent near the back bumper.

Sometimes you sang absentmindedly while bringing groceries inside.

Sometimes you sat on your porch at night scrolling on your phone with your legs curled beneath you.

And sometimes, when he worked in the garage with the door open, he could feel your eyes on him from across the street.

Not in a creepy way.

Like you’d been trying to figure him out from a distance the same way he’d been trying to figure you out.

He hadn’t expected the neighborhood to feel this lonely.

New house. New routines. New streets.

Most days it felt like he was still unpacking pieces of his life that no longer fit together properly.

Then somehow, within forty-eight hours, the neighbor across the street had walked into his garage with lavender lemonade and looked at Jia like she mattered immediately.

He’s fucked.

“Dad?”

He hummed tiredly from where his head rested against the couch.

Jia tilted her head up at him.“Can we keep her?”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “You ask that like she’s a stray cat.”

“Okay.....then can she come over again?”

He glanced toward the front window again before answering. The flowers on your porch swayed lightly in the summer heat, bright against the white railing.

Your curtains shifted, probably from you moving around inside. And for some reason, the thought settled warmly in his chest.

“Maybe,” he said finally. Jia grinned triumphantly before settling back against him.

The room went quiet again after that, filled only by cartoons and the low hum of the air conditioner struggling against the heat.

His eyes drifted shut briefly. Only for a second, before his phone buzzed against the couch cushion beside him.

His mother.

He sighed before answering. “Hey, Ma.”

“Is Jia better?” his mother asked immediately.

Chan looked over at his daughter, currently half-asleep with chalk still smeared across one cheek. “She’s fine.”

His mother laughed softly through the speaker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help this weekend.”

Guilt hit instantly. “Ma, it’s fine.”

“Christopher.”

Ah. Full government name.

Chan rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Seriously,” he murmured. “I’ve got it handled.”

His mother went quiet for a moment before speaking again, gentler this time. “You don’t always have to handle everything alone, you know.”

“Kind of hard,” he admitted quietly, “when you and Dad are basically my only support systems.” The words slipped out more honestly than he intended. Silence filled the other end of the call for a moment.

Then his mother sighed softly. “Christopher…”

He stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t meant it as guilt. Just fact.

Moving here had been necessary. Better schools. Better neighborhood. More space for Jia.

But starting over somewhere new while trying to hold everything together alone felt a lot heavier in practice than it had on paper.

Especially on mornings where his daughter wandered across the street while he accidentally passed out on the couch.

“You’re doing your best,” his mother said gently.

Chan laughed quietly under his breath.

“Yeah. Some days my best loses the kid before ten a.m.”

“And some days your best fixes cars until midnight and still makes dinosaur pancakes the next morning.”

His chest tightened unexpectedly at that.

Across the couch, Jia shifted sleepily against his side, still clutching Leebit by one ear. He smoothed a hand over her curls automatically. “I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want her growing up feeling like everything’s unstable all the time.”

His mother was quiet for a second before speaking again.“You know what she’s going to remember?”

Chan leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “What?”

“That her father loved her enough to keep trying even when things were hard.”

Well, that hit directly in the sternum.

He went quiet after that.

Because what was he even supposed to say to that?

His mother had always been unfairly good at reaching straight into the center of a problem and pressing on it gently until he stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.

“And,” she added after a moment, her tone shifting lighter, “your neighbor seems nice.”

Chan immediately frowned. “Jia talked to you already?”

His mother laughed outright this time. “Christopher, that child would leak classified military information for a fruit snack.”

Fair.

“She said the neighbor brought you lemonade.”

He stared toward the front window again before he could stop himself. “Lavender lemonade,” he corrected absentmindedly.

A pause, then, “You sound fond already.”

“Ma.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re definitely saying something.”

“Mm.” His mother sounded far too entertained. “And are you denying it?”

…Annoyingly, no.

“Christopher.”

He already didn’t like the tone of her voice.

“Don’t start planning your wedding in your head because a pretty neighbor brought you lemonade.”

“I am not planning a wedding,” he muttered immediately.

His mother hummed skeptically through the speaker. “You noticed she was pretty awfully fast.”

Damn.

“Ma.”

“I’m just happy you sound interested in something again.”

The teasing softened around the edges near the end of the sentence. Enough that his chest tightened a little. Because he knew what she meant. The last year had been survival mode.

Work.

Jia.

Bills.

Moving.

Rebuilding routines from scratch.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, he’d stopped noticing things outside of necessity.

Then suddenly there was a woman across the street who sang while carrying groceries and crouched down to speak to Jia like she deserved full eye contact during conversations.

And apparently that had been enough to restart something in him. Which was terrifying, honestly.

𝜗𝜚

Three days later, Chan learned two very important things.

One: Jia had somehow become emotionally attached to you at alarming speed.

And two: You were apparently immune to embarrassment.

“Dad,” Jia whispered loudly from the shopping cart seat, “there she is.”

He looked up immediately and spotted you near the produce section, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized shirt while carefully inspecting mangos like your life depended on it.

He barely had time to fully think and react before Jia started waving both arms aggressively from the cart.

“HI!”

Half the grocery store turned to look first. Then you glanced up in confusion before spotting them. And then you smiled.

God, that smile was becoming a genuine problem for him.

“Well,” you laughed softly as you walked closer, “there’s my favorite escape artist.”

“I didn’t escape today,” Jia informed you proudly.

“We’re aiming for growth,” Chan added.

Your eyes flicked toward him then, warm amusement immediately settling into your expression. “And look at that,” you teased lightly. “She brought her emotional support dad with her too.”

Chan stared at you for a second before an unwilling laugh escaped him.

Yeah. He was absolutely screwed.

"We ran out of dino nuggets," Jia explained gravely.

"Apparently it's a crisis," he confirmed.

“I can tell.” You dropped a few mangoes into your basket before glancing into their cart.

There were approximately six different snacks, apple juice, coffee creamer, and absolutely no actual dinner ingredients.

Your eyebrows lifted slowly. “Interesting grocery strategy.”

He looked down into the cart before sighing. “In my defense, she was helping.”

“I picked the Oreos,” Jia said proudly.

“Yeah?” A quiet laugh escaped you as Chan rubbed the back of his neck.

“I was supposed to stop by after work yesterday,” he admitted, “but I got home late and we ended up ordering takeout instead.”

Your expression softened immediately. “You guys eaten today?”

Chan blinked once. “That sounded vaguely accusatory.”

“That's not an answer.”

Jia raised her hand from the cart. “We had waffles.”

“Chocolate chip waffles,” Chan corrected weakly.

You stared at him for a second.

Then at the cart.

Then back at him again.

“You know what?” you said suddenly. “Come over for dinner tonight.”

Chan blinked.

Jia gasped, “Really?”

“Only if you want to,” you added quickly, looking back at him now. “I was already planning to cook anyway.”

Chan hesitated for maybe half a second before Jia answered for the both of them, "We want to."

"Jia."

"What? We do."

You laughed softly.

"Seven okay?

He nodded slowly.

"Y-yeah. Seven's good."

The conversation moved on easily after that. Way too easy.

Like this was normal.

As if people invited him and Jia over for dinner all the time.

As if he hadn't spent the better part of last year feeling isolated in ways he didn't know how to explain to anyone.

Neither of you seemed in much of a rush to end the conversation, but eventually the aisle ran out before the talking did.

"Don't let her convince you to buy more snacks," you called lightly before turning your cart away.

Jia giggled as he mumbled a distracted, "Okay." He watched you leave for a second too long.

“Dad?”

"Yes, bug?"

"Why haven't we moved?"

He blinked, finally looking down at her.

"What?"

Jia pointed in the direction you'd disappeared. "You stopped walking."

𝜗𝜚

By six-thirty, you had already changed outfits three times. Which was ridiculous. They were your neighbors.

Not royalty. Not a date.

Definitely not a date.

And yet your kitchen somehow looked like you were preparing for a full dinner party instead of feeding a tired mechanic and his tiny accomplice.

You checked the pasta sauce simmering on the stove for the fifth time before groaning dramatically into your hands. “Why am I nervous?” you demanded aloud to absolutely nobody.

Because realistically, the worst thing that could happen was Jia not liking the food.

Or Chan thinking this entire thing was weird.

Or realizing halfway through dinner that you were getting emotionally attached to his little family at genuinely alarming speed.

Okay.

Maybe there were several worst-case scenarios.

- - -

“No.”

Jia gasped from the middle of the living room floor. “But Leebit wants to come.”

Chan glanced down at the growing pile of stuffed animals beside her.

“Leebit can come,” he agreed carefully. “The other six absolutely cannot.”

Jia crossed her arms immediately. “They’ll feel left out.”

“They’re stuffed animals.”

“They have feelings.”

Chan rubbed a tired hand down his face before glancing toward the clock again.

Why was he nervous?

It was dinner. Just dinner.

With the neighbor. The very pretty neighbor.

…Okay, maybe that was part of the problem.

His gaze drifted toward the unopened bottle of wine sitting on the counter. Was bringing wine too much?

Too formal?

Weird?

Did people even bring wine to casual neighbor dinners anymore?

He barely knew you, but somehow the idea of showing up empty-handed felt worse.

- - -

The knock at your front door came at exactly seven o’clock. Chan definitely seemed like the type to apologize for being thirty seconds late.

Your stomach flipped anyway.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself while smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your shirt. “Normal.”

Which immediately became impossible the second you opened the door.

Chan stood on your porch with one hand resting lightly on Jia’s shoulder.

Freshly showered. Dark curls still slightly damp.

Black t-shirt. Black jeans.

And somehow he looked even more unfairly attractive without engine grease smeared across his face. Which felt rude, honestly.

Jia, meanwhile, looked delighted to be there. “Hi!” she chirped instantly, holding Leebit up toward you like proof of life.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flicked back toward Chan just in time to catch him already looking at you.

Something unreadable softened briefly across his face before he held up the bottle in his hand awkwardly. “I didn’t know if bringing wine was weird,” he admitted immediately.

Your heart did something genuinely embarrassing inside your chest. “No,” you said quickly. “That’s actually really sweet.”

He looked weirdly relieved by the answer. “Okay, good,” he laughed softly. “I stood in the grocery store for like ten minutes trying to decide.”

“Daddy almost bought flowers too,” Jia announced helpfully as she stepped past him into the house.

Chan froze.

You blinked.

Jia blinked back innocently.

“Jia.”

“What?”

Heat climbed straight up Chan’s neck as he shut the front door behind them. “I was not going to buy flowers.”

Jia looked deeply unconvinced. “You stared at them for a long time.”

“That’s because I couldn’t reach the wine.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Chan immediately looked both embarrassed and relieved that you were laughing instead of judging him.

“For what it’s worth,” you smiled, “I think flowers would’ve been nice.”

He stared at you for half a second too long. “Yeah?”

Jia, blissfully unaware of the psychological warfare occurring above her head, wandered farther into your house with Leebit tucked beneath one arm.

“Do you have toys?”

He sighed softly. “Jia.”

“What? I’m just asking.”

“It’s okay,” you said, smiling. “I don’t have toys, but I do have markers and coloring books somewhere.”

Jia’s entire face brightened. “For me?”

“For you and Leebit, if she wants.”

Jia looked down at the stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.

“She does.”

Chan watched the exchange quietly, his hand still wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle. He looked like he wanted to say something.

Like maybe thank you again.

Like maybe something else entirely.

Instead, he just followed you toward the kitchen, after getting Jia settled. “Need help with anything?”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, “You’re a guest.”

“I’m bad at that.”

“At being a guest?”

His mouth twitched, “At sitting still.”

You still shooed him away despite it all.

Unfortunately, he turned out to be exactly as incapable of sitting still as advertised.

You’d barely finished setting plates on the counter before he was beside you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up slightly as he glanced around for something to do.

“What can I help with?”

“You can sit down and relax for more than five minutes.”

"That's impossible."

A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you pointed toward the stove.

“Fine. Stir that for me.”

“See? This is why I offer help.”

He moved beside you easily after that, close enough that you became painfully aware of how little space your kitchen actually had.

Which had never been an issue before.

Now suddenly every movement felt catastrophically noticeable.

Especially when you turned at the exact same time he did.

He caught himself quickly, one hand bracing against the counter behind you to avoid knocking directly into you.

But it still left him close.

Very close.

“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.

“It’s okay,” your voice came out quieter than intended.

Neither of you moved right away.

Then Jia’s voice floated in from the living room.

“Daddy, Leebit wants juice.”

Chan blinked like he’d temporarily left his body. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back again. “Juice. Important.”

You stared very hard at the vegetables in front of you while he disappeared into the living room.

Unfortunately, the universe apparently wasn’t done with you yet.

Because ten minutes later, Chan reached around you for the spoon on the counter at the exact moment you bent down to grab something from the cabinet.

His hand brushed lightly against your waist.

Both of you froze instantly.

“Sorry,” he said again, this time sounding genuinely flustered.

“You’re okay,” you answered quickly.

He lingered for half a second before stepping back again, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

“Small kitchen,” he muttered.

“Apparently.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly before he turned back toward the stove like neither of you had just short-circuited over two seconds of accidental contact.

Neither of you spoke for a second after that.

The kitchen suddenly felt very warm, or maybe that was just you.

Chan busied himself with grabbing glasses from the cabinet while you focused very hard on stirring the pasta with too much force.

Which was ridiculous.

It was a hand brushing your waist.

Unfortunately, your nervous system seemed committed to disagreeing.

From the living room, Jia’s voice drifted toward the kitchen, “Daddy, Leebit needs to go potty!"

And just like that, the tension loosened slightly around the edges.

Chan let out a quiet laugh through his nose beside you. "Bathroom?"

"First door down the hall."

“I should probably go handle that crisis,” he murmured.

“Probably.”

You risked glancing up just in time to catch him already looking at you again, seeing something softer flickered briefly across his expression before he disappeared back toward the living room.

You started setting the table while Chan helped Jia wash her hands in the bathroom. It gave you something to do with yours.

After the kitchen incident, your body still felt a little too aware of him. The brief brush of his hand. The way he’d stepped back so quickly. The way neither of you had really known where to look afterward.

You set down plates. Then napkins. Then adjusted the forks even though they were already straight.

Completely normal behavior.

From down the hall, you heard the faint rush of water, Jia’s tiny voice, then Chan’s quieter response.

You couldn’t make out the words.

Maybe that was worse.

Because even without hearing him clearly, you could still picture the patience in his face. The tired curve of his shoulders. The gentle way he spoke to her even when he looked like he was running on fumes.

You exhaled slowly and reached for the glasses to pour wine.

Dinner. Focus on dinner.

Jia reappeared first, climbing into one of the dining chairs while Chan lingered behind her in the hallway for a second.

Your gaze lifted automatically.

He’d rolled his sleeves up slightly while helping Jia wash off the chalk, exposing strong forearms, which unfortunately did not help your situation at all.

He caught you looking for a second before your attention snapped aggressively back toward the plates. Great.

"This looks really good," he said quietly as he stepped toward the table.

The sincerity in his voice caught you a little off guard.

"I-it's just pasta."

"Still," he murmured. And for some reason, the way he said it feel like he meant more than the food.

Jia looked between the two of you briefly before narrowing her eyes. “You guys are being weird.”

Both of you answered at the exact same time.

“We’re not.”

Silence.

Jia gasped softly. “That was the same voice.”

He immediately dragged a hand down his face while you nearly choked on air across the table.

“Okay,” he muttered tiredly. “Can we play detective later?”

"Mhm"

Dinner settled into something more comfortable and quiet after that.

Jia swung her legs lightly beneath the chair while absentmindedly feeding tiny pieces of bread to Leebit between her own bites of pasta.

“Daddy sleeps on the couch when he works too much,” she said suddenly.

Chan went still for half a second.

“Bug.”

Jia frowned slightly, confused by his tone. “What?” she asked softly. “It hurts your neck.”

The concern in her voice softened something in your chest immediately.

Chan looked down at his plate for a moment before exhaling quietly through his nose.

“I didn’t know you noticed that.”

“I notice,” Jia informed him simply.

And somehow, that felt less like a joke this time.

Your eyes lifted toward him automatically.

He looked embarrassed.

Not because Jia had exposed him, but because someone else had heard it too.

“You should probably sleep in your bed more,” you said gently before thinking too hard about it.

His gaze flicked toward you briefly. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Probably.”

Silence settled briefly around the table after that, not awkward; just quiet in the way good conversations sometimes became.

The kind where nobody felt rushed to fill every second.

Jia eventually went back to eating, humming softly to herself while kicking her feet beneath the chair.

Chan watched her for a moment before glancing toward you again.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “She overshares.”

“She gets that from you?”

His mouth twitched slightly.

“Definitely not.”

“Mm.”

Chan leaned back slightly in his chair then, studying you for a second over the rim of his glass.

“What about you?”

Your fork paused briefly. “What about me?”

“You know basically my entire life story already,” he said lightly. “Feels unfair.”

Warmth crept into your face immediately.

“I do not know your entire life story.”

“You know enough to ruin me in court.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you took another sip of your drink.

“Fine,” you conceded. “What do you want to know?”

Chan looked strangely thoughtful for a second.

Like he was trying to decide which question he actually cared about asking most.

You expected something casual. Favorite color. What you did for work.

Maybe whether or not you always invited near-strangers over for dinner after knowing them for less than a week.

Instead, Chan asked quietly, “Are you always this nice to people?”

The question caught you so off guard you actually blinked at him.

Across the table, his expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Like he genuinely wanted the answer.

“I…” You let out a small laugh, glancing down at your plate for a second. “That’s kind of a heavy question for pasta.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t look away.

Jia hummed softly to herself beside him, completely absorbed in attempting to feed Leebit microscopic pieces of garlic bread.

You watched her for a moment before speaking again.

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I guess I just think people should look out for each other.”

Your fingers traced lightly against the side of your glass.

“We stick together in our little corner of the neighborhood.”

The words settled softly between all of you.

Chan’s gaze held yours for a second too long afterward. Like maybe nobody had included him in something that gently in a very long time.

Jia yawned dramatically beside him a few minutes later, the earlier excitement of the evening finally starting to wear off.

Chan glanced down at her immediately. “You getting tired?”

“No,” she answered automatically.

Then she yawned again so hard her entire body folded forward.

You smiled into your drink while Chan shook his head softly.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s convincing.”

Jia ignored him completely, leaning more heavily against his side instead. He adjusted without even looking. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.

You watched them while your heart pounded at the sight. "You can lay her on the couch if you want," you offered softly.

He glanced up at you.

"You sure?"

You nodded as you got up from the table, "I'll go grab her a blanket."

He watched you disappear briefly down the hallway before looking back at Jia curled sleepily against his side.

Something in his expression softened.

Not just because you offered, but because of how naturally you did it. Like making space for them in your home hadn’t required a second thought.

By the time you returned with the blanket folded over your arms, Jia was already half-asleep against Chan’s shoulder.

He looked up as you approached, “Thank you,” he said gently.

The sincerity in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest. You handed him the blanket and watched him lay his daughter down carefully across the couch, making sure to tuck Leebit beneath her arm before pulling the blanket over both of them.

The sight felt almost unbearably tender. So tender, that you had to force yourself to look away before your feelings developed roots in your living room.

So instead, you escaped into the kitchen under the excuse of cleaning up. Which would’ve worked better if he hadn’t followed you with the dirty dishes a minute later.

“You know,” you said as he set them beside the sink, “most guests usually pretend to relax after dinner.”

“I told you,” he replied quietly, rolling his sleeves up slightly again. “I’m bad at staying still.”

The kitchen felt smaller now.

Quieter too.

Without Jia’s constant chatter filling the house, every little thing suddenly felt more noticeable.

The clink of dishes.

The brush of his arm beside yours.

The way he kept drifting close without seeming to realize he was doing it.

You tried very hard to focus on packing leftovers into containers instead. “Take these home with you guys,” you said, sliding one of the lids into place.

He looked over immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

His gaze lingered on you for a second before softening slightly. “You always do things like this?”

“Feed people?”

“Take care of them.”

The question landed quieter than expected. Your hands paused briefly against the counter. “I don’t know,” you admitted after a second. “I like making people feel comfortable.”

He leaned lightly against the counter beside you, close enough now that you could smell soap lingering faintly against his skin underneath everything else.

“That explains Jia,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened embarrassingly fast. You busied yourself with another container before looking over at him again.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.”

“Why’d you move here?”

Chan went quiet. His eyes drifted briefly toward the living room where Jia slept curled beneath the blanket.

“Fresh start,” he answered finally.

The words were simple. But heavy enough that you didn’t push immediately.

Chan exhaled softly through his nose before continuing anyway.

“Things got messy where we were before.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And Jia deserved somewhere quieter than all that.”

Something in your chest ached a little at the honesty in his voice.

“You'd do anything for her,” you said softly before thinking too hard about it.

Chan looked at you immediately after that. Like the answer to that question was the easiest thing in the world.

“Without a doubt." The certainty in his voice settled heavily in your chest.

Your eyes drifted toward the living room automatically, toward Jia asleep beneath the blanket with Leebit tucked against her chest.

“She’s lucky,” you murmured.

Chan was quiet for a second beside you. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

Something about the way he said it nearly took you out at the knees.

You focused very hard on snapping another lid onto a container before your face betrayed you completely.

“You make it sound easy,” you admitted quietly.

“What?”

“Being there for someone like that.”

Chan leaned back against the counter slightly, studying you with an expression that had gone softer somewhere in the middle of the conversation.

“It’s not easy,” he said honestly. “You just keep choosing them anyway.”

Your hands slowed against the container in front of you before you glanced back toward him carefully. “What happened to her mom…” you asked softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Chan went still.

Quiet in a way that immediately made you wonder if you’d crossed a line.

“You don’t have to answer that,” you added quickly.

He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the living room again to watch Jia. “No,” he murmured after a second. “It’s okay.”

The kitchen felt smaller somehow while you waited.

Chan rubbed a hand slowly across the back of his neck before speaking again.

“She left when Jia was two.”

The words were calm, and straightforward. Like he’d repeated them enough times that they no longer sounded sharp coming out, but something in his face still tightened anyway.

“At first it was supposed to be temporary,” he admitted quietly, at least that's what it seemed like. “Then it just… wasn’t.”

Your chest ached instantly.

Chan laughed once under his breath, though there wasn’t much humor in it.

“I think I spent a long time trying to convince myself I could fix it if I just worked harder.” His eyes lowered briefly toward the counter. “Turns out relationships don’t work like cars.”

The honesty in his voice made something twist painfully inside you.

“Chan…”

He shook his head lightly before you could say anything else.

“It’s better now,” he said quietly. “Or at least… calmer.” His gaze drifted toward Jia again, softening immediately. “And she’s happy.”

The way he said it made it painfully obvious that Jia’s happiness had become the center of his entire world.

Even at the expense of his own.

Silence settled quietly between you after that. Not uncomfortable.

Just heavy in a way that made you suddenly very aware of how close he was standing beside you.

The sink ran softly while you rinsed out one of the pots, mostly just to give your hands something to do.

He stayed leaned against the counter nearby, arms loosely crossed now. Open in a way he probably wasn't used to.

“I didn’t mean to make things depressing,” he said eventually, voice quieter than before.

You looked over immediately. “You didn’t.”

His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than expected. Like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe that.

“People usually get uncomfortable,” he admitted eventually. “Once they realize it’s just me and Jia.”

Your chest tightened slightly. “Why?”

He gave a small shrug, gaze dropping briefly toward the counter.

“Single dad thing, I guess.” A faint breath of laughter escaped him. “People either think you’re barely surviving or they start looking at you like you’re some kind of tragedy.”

You frowned. “That’s stupid.”

He looked genuinely caught off guard by how quickly you answered.

"I mean it," you continued softly. "You're a great dad, Chan."

He broke eye contact first, "I'm trying," he admitted quietly.

Something about the honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected, because he didn’t sound like someone asking for praise.

Just a parent who was tired.

The rest of the cleaning happened quietly after that.

Softer now, like something between you had shifted slightly without either of you fully acknowledging it.

Chan dried dishes while you put dishes away, the occasional brush of your arms still enough to make your heartbeat stumble embarrassingly fast. Neither of you mentioned it.

By the time the kitchen was finally clean again, the apartment had gone almost completely still.

Jia remained curled beneath the blanket on the couch, one tiny hand still wrapped around Leebit’s ear.

He glanced toward her before exhaling softly through his nose. “She’s out cold.”

“I think the pasta took her down.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. Then his eyes drifted toward the half-finished bottle of wine still sitting on the counter.

“You want me to head out?” he asked.

The question sounded polite, but not like he actually wanted to leave.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass before you answered.

“You can stay a little longer if you want.”

Chan looked at you then, something in his expression softened in a way that immediately made your stomach flip.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later, the two of you ended up back in the living room with fresh glasses of wine while Jia slept peacefully nearby.

The television stayed off.

Neither of you seemed to mind the quiet.

He leaned back carefully into the corner of the couch, one arm stretched loosely along the cushion behind Jia while you sat a little farther down the other end.

Close enough to talk softly. Close enough to notice things.

Like how his voice got rougher when he was tired.

Like how he listened with his full attention whenever you spoke.

Like how neither of you seemed in much of a hurry for the night to end anymore.

The conversation drifted easily after that.

Slower than before. Less careful.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Or maybe the two of you had simply crossed whatever invisible line existed between strangers and something else entirely.

“So,” Chan murmured after a while, turning his glass slowly between his hands, “how’d you end up here?”

You smiled faintly. “In this house specifically?”

“In this aggressively nosy neighborhood.”

A laugh slipped out of you softly enough that Jia stirred slightly beneath the blanket before settling again.

Both of your eyes immediately flicked toward her. Chan’s expression softened automatically once he realized she was still asleep.

It did something deeply unfortunate to your nervous system.

“I grew up around neighborhoods like this,” you admitted quietly once the room settled again. “Everybody knowing each other. Neighbors bringing over food, or having neighborhood cookouts. Somebody’s aunt always watching from a window somewhere.”

Chan huffed softly into his wine. “That last part definitely tracks.”

You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your glass.

“You’re never letting the spying thing go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

His smile lingered afterward. Softer now.

Less teasing than before. Like he’d relaxed enough to stop hiding behind it quite so much.

“I think I missed this,” he admitted after a moment.

Your expression eased slightly. “The spying?”

Chan laughed quietly, shaking his head. “No.” His gaze drifted around the house briefly before settling back on you. “Just… this.”

The room. The conversation. The calm.

You understood immediately anyway.

Something in your chest tightened gently. “It gets lonely?” you asked softly.

Chan was quiet for a second. “Sometimes it feels like I only exist as somebody’s dad now.”

The honesty in the sentence settled heavily between you. He looked almost surprised after saying it out loud. Like he hadn’t meant to.

“Not that I mind being her dad,” he added quickly, glancing toward Jia again. “I just…” He exhaled softly through his nose. “I don’t know. Somewhere in the middle of work and bills and trying to keep everything together, I think I forgot how to be a person outside of taking care of everybody else.”

Your heart genuinely hurt for him then, because he said it so casually.

Like he’d gotten used to carrying that feeling around alone.

“Chan,” you said softly.

His tired eyes lifted toward you again.

The wine had loosened something in him tonight. Not enough to make him reckless.

Just enough to make him honest.

“You know what the weird part is?” he admitted quietly after a second. “I don’t even think I noticed how lonely I was until recently.”

Your chest tightened immediately. “Recently?”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly around the rim of his glass.

“Yeah.”

The single word landed warm. Heavy with implication neither of you addressed directly.

You looked down at your wine before smiling softly to yourself. “I think,” you admitted carefully, “sometimes people get so used to surviving that they forget they’re allowed to want more than that.”

Chan went very still across from you. Like the sentence had landed somewhere deeper than you intended, or maybe exactly where you intended.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The house had gone completely quiet around you.

Just the faint hum of the refrigerator.

The soft ticking of your kitchen clock.

Jia breathing steadily beneath the blanket a few feet away.

Chan’s gaze stayed fixed on you longer than it probably should have. Not intense. Not even flirtatious, really. Just… searching.

“You always know the right thing to say,” he mumbled eventually, voice rougher now.

Warmth crept up your neck immediately. “No,” you laughed softly. “Most of the time I’m just hoping I don’t sound insane.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You don’t.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache unexpectedly.

Like he wasn’t just reassuring you. He genuinely meant it.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass.

You’re easy to talk to too,” you admitted quietly after a second.

Chan looked faintly surprised by that. “Yeah?”

You nodded once, tracing your thumb along the stem of your wine glass.“Most people don’t actually listen anymore. They just wait for their turn to talk.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose at that, gaze dropping briefly toward the floor.

“Occupational hazard, maybe.”

“Mechanics are good listeners?”

“Single dads,” he corrected softly.

Something in your chest shifted at the answer.

Chan leaned back further into the couch afterward, looking more relaxed now than you’d seen him all night, or maybe just less guarded.

“I think I forgot what it felt like to sit somewhere and not feel stressed the whole time,” he admitted after a moment.

Your eyes lifted toward him immediately. He sounded almost confused by the realization himself.

Before you could think too hard about it, the words slipped out, “You can come here whenever you need a break.”

He looked at you. Holding that steady kind of attention that always made you feel like he was listening to more than your actual words.

Your pulse stumbled almost instantly.

“That’s a dangerous thing to offer me,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught slightly at the softness in his voice. “Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Chan’s gaze lingered on you for a second. “Because I think I’d get used to it.”

The confession settled between you gently. Not flirtatious. Somehow worse.

Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately looked down into your wine glass just to regain composure.

He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late because a quiet laugh escaped him afterward, softer around the edges now.

“Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “That sounded more intense out loud.”

“A little,” you admitted weakly.

His smile widened faintly. “The wine’s making me honest.”

“I think you were honest before the wine.”

Chan looked at you carefully after that. Like he was trying to figure out whether you understood how much he already meant every word he said to you.

The terrifying part was, you did.

Chan glanced away first this time, exhaling quietly through his nose before leaning forward to set his glass down on the coffee table.

“You know,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”

Your eyebrows lifted immediately.

“Why?”

“Because Jia gets attached easily.” His gaze flicked toward the couch automatically. “And I didn’t want to assume…” He trailed off briefly before shaking his head. “I don’t know. That we could just suddenly start showing up in your life all the time.”

Something in your chest twisted painfully at the wording.

Showing up in your life.

Like he’d already been thinking about the possibility.

“Chan,” you said softly, "you guys are not a burden to me."

Chan looked down briefly, thumb dragging once against the side of his glass before he let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You say things like that so casually,” he murmured.

Your brows pulled together slightly. “Why do you say that?”

His eyes lifted toward yours again, “You don’t realize what hearing that does to someone.”

Your heart stuttered.

From the couch, Jia shifted sleepily beneath the blanket with a soft little whine.

Both of your heads turned automatically.

Chan checked the time on his phone and immediately grimaced. “Okay,” he muttered quietly. “I definitely overstayed.”

“You didn’t.” The reassurance slipped out before you could stop it.

Chan looked at you for half a second before his expression softened again in that dangerous way you were rapidly becoming too attached to.

“Still,” he said gently, pushing himself up from the couch. “She’s gonna be impossible to wake up for school tomorrow if I don’t get her home.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly as the reality of the night ending settled in.

Suddenly, the house already felt quieter.

Chan crossed the living room slowly before crouching beside the couch. “Bug,” he murmured gently, brushing a curl away from Jia’s face. “Time to head home.”

Jia squinted up at him sleepily from beneath the blanket.

“M’tired.”

“I know.”

“Carry me?”

Chan’s expression softened immediately. “Always.”

Your heart nearly folded in on itself right there.

Jia lifted her arms sleepily toward him while he carefully gathered Leebit and the blanket first before reaching down for her.

Like this exact routine had happened a hundred times before.

Jia curled against his chest almost instantly after he picked her up, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Half-asleep already.

“Tell your neighbor thank you,” Chan murmured quietly.

Jia peeked one eye open toward you. “Thank you for pasta,” she mumbled.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Her eyes drifted shut again immediately afterward. Chan adjusted her slightly higher against his chest before glancing toward you.

“Sorry again for staying so late.”

“Chan.”

He stopped immediately at your tone.

“You don’t have to apologize for being here.”

Something flickered briefly across his face at that. Like hearing it still caught him off guard.

masterlist | next

taglist is closed my loves!

[chrofeisnightmaregf]

Rating my exes: a thread

poly!skz x ateez 9th member!reader smau

TW: Swearing, angst, mentions of panic attacks(and reader is mentioned to have anxiety meds), jokes about violence

IMPORTANT!!! This is a complete work of fiction and does not portray any of the members correctly! This is simply for fun and entertainment purposes!! The members are almost placeholders/faceclaims in a way! Please remember that this is fictional, not accurate or true and to respect the members irl

Authors note: should I be focusing on the eighth chapter of the bet and all my other wips? Yes. Am I? No!(lie)if there is spelling errors no there isn’t! Also sorry the ss are uneven and so long, I tried okay?😭😭in Felix’s part is was supposed to say “treated me like that” but I forgot to add the word that ig💀 anyways…pt 2?

[xxawl]

It's so good, need a part 2 if u don't mind plsplspls

[chrofeisnightmaregf]

No joke working on it as we speak

[eyisy]

What?

── ✶ In which .𖥔 ݁ ˖ You announce your new (tomodachi)baby to ur bf!skz inspired by @miustronomy ’s version of this!

⁀➴ crack, v v suggestive in chans and felix’s!, fluff, some of them get sad when they realise the baby isn’t real :(( 24ss

[ eyisy’s note. ] Sorry for ghosting u guys again my exams are gonna be done soon and I’ll be more active I pinky promise

( 방찬 )

( 이민호 )

( 서창빈 )

( 황현진 )

( 한지성 )

( 이필릭스 )

( 김승민 )

( 양정인 )

Taglist ,, @doliveiraa @danielle143 @yawwni @narratedforbutterflies @queenofdumbfuckery @ch3rry15pin @firstclassjaylee @saturncries @i-like-pandas5 @karlee10261990 @koiiq 𝜗𝜚 | click here if you'd like to be added or removed | masterlist here | feed back is very very much appreciated (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

[strrykais]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬

⤷ ゛ ⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝓝on-𝑰dol! 𝓢eungmin × 𝐅em! Reader ˎˊ˗

᭙ʜᴇɴ ⸝⸝ girl scout season comes around it’s another season Kim Seungmin hates more than anything, until walking by your booth he makes it apparent thin mints might not be the only cookie he wants.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ │ smau, crack, fluff, cursing, sex mention, reader is helping her niece,

⟶ [ 𝐤𝐚𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ] happy birthday to me , got no plans but love me some cake 😛 ♡ ︎ [ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢 ]

[moanz111]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ red string

𐙚 chapter 31 | i have dreams

previous | masterlist | next

𐙚 summary: you weren’t sure you believed in fated meetings, but when one drunken night you made decisions under the influence of your best friend, the so-called red string found its way to you, binding you to whatever it was meant to bring you. you hoped for some fluffy cats and dogs, but love wasn’t that bad too, right?

𐙚 pairing: vet student! gn! reader x cat cafe owner! wooyoung

𐙚 warnings/tags: timestamps/numbers don't mean anything, typos/mistakes, FLIRTING

𐙚 note | thank you so much for reading and as always, any feeback, likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated! my inbox is always open too so don't be shy to leave something in there if you want to <3

taglist is closed

𐙚 tags | @mygsis @chillllllli @staytinyzen @kysstar @solastay @lostxxgirl @onyxmango @deafeningpandareview @dawn-iscozy @herpoetryprincess @tkooooop @renadoesstuff @lixhoe @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @greenyweirdo @estrnrea @shrimpwoo @callmenaonee @ghostbladee @deaddcrow @armtouch @hatxua-q @santineez @fic-for-readers @morbidmadre @pcybuttercup @luvvvash @munyraph @choubidoutriso @silenttrxxs @jiimtaee @queen-thiccness @armycarat2612 @sunlight120902 @wooyonyangs-eomma @biscuitjuice @raicecakes-and-buldak @the-silent-listener09 @yujear @5hinee-arya @sanniesdimples1 @dinossaurz @s1ar4s @glitter-and-tears @jxerv @servethepublic @i-followed-a-honeybee12 @theferretkids @annxjux @hwatention @mandmilovehim

[g0matchi]

❝ YANG JEONGIN FIC RECS❞

as you seen from the title . these are fic . recs " jeongin" editon enjoy

✦ ... : please show these authors and fics SOME LOVE, they work so hard to continue creating there work; so "reblogs,likes, and loving comments". will most likely help them to carry on!

m = mature {18+} | f = fluff | c = crack | a = angst | s = suggestive

✦ : here is some of MY favorite authors heh. even though some of them don't make female content but I am making a few others that will have boy groups sooo.

@xesqz @hanlust @blossomcola @urlovebot @leegyeoul @98oceans @eroskz @leriexoxo @skzophreniic @chanifesto @urjustsosweet @baileysoksbakery

──── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ────────

✦ : nsfw content - 18+

YEAH, I SAID IT : idol yang jeongin | @sithskz

context. during an interview, you’re asked about jeongin's "crush" on you. one small thing: you two have been in a secret relationship. so, you do the only thing you can think to do in that moment – lie and say you prefer older men. naturally, he is less than thrilled when he hears this. wc: 4.8k

DAY DREAM : non!idol yang jeongin | @makeitworse

context. in which you stumble upon the interesting story your quiet friend wrote about you, and you’re not… weirded out? wc: 2.4k

FORBIDDEN' 2 : professor yang jeongin | @jektaev

context. You decide to take this year in person, your professor "hates" you and proves it to you. wc: N/A

NERDS DON'T DATE, RIGHT? : nerd yang jeongin | @yawwni

context. 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀. wc: 6.8k

SHE SAID I WAS A VIRGIN ON VC, SO I RUINED HER HOLES UNTIL THE WHOLE FLOOR KNEW MY NAME : gamer yang jeongin | @jj-one

context. you swore you’d never fuck a gamer virgin. he swore he’d never fold for a sanrio girl. then you found out you live two doors apart, and now you’re at each other’s dorms at 3 am to settle your “rivalry.” wc: 13.2k

GOT WHAT YOU NEED : nonidol yang jeongin | @1nthedarknessofthenight

context. you always noticed them — his hands, big, fingers long and slender, so veiny, that you could feel every single one of them pressing against your skin…you tried so hard not to act on your own inner desires, but as more things started to happen, your control over your body began to waver — and you weren’t the only one. wc: 10.9K

REVENGE : idol yang jeongin | @ybklix

context. in which… Jeongin uses you as revenge against his wife. wc: 5.8k

BETWEEN LAUGHTER, ANIME & MOANS 2 : nerd yang jeongin | @skzficdump

nothing to see here. wc: 3.1k

NAUGHTY DREAMS : best friend yang jeongin | @leriexoxo

context. Jeongin’s heater breaks so he crashes at yours. besties sharing a bed. normal. totally normal... except he’s been working out and suddenly the “innocent” maknae is built like temptation in sweatpants and then he starts moaning your name in his sleep and grinding against you. you were just trying to survive the cold, not his wet dream. wc: 2.8k

MAKE IT UP : nonidol yang jeongin | @ikeukiss

context. 𝘋𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. wc: 1.2k

HOT GUM (SINNERS) : churchgoer yang jeongin | @ghostlyscripture

context. when a trip to the confession booth leads to holy disapproval and painful truths he previously refused to see, jeongin’s left with no other choice than to leave you be—cut you off and run tail. you don’t take lightly to being ignored though, and a few months after his sudden disappearance your left with no choice but to find him yourself. and when do you do? he takes you as eve took to the apple. wc: 10.3k

──── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ────────

✦ : sfw content

NONE (YOU FREAKS) : zhang mei | @g0matchi

context. the fact that I was searching for TWO HOURS shows it all. Lowkey a lil scared. y'all freaky as hell

──── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ────────

✦ : headcannon's - (m.f.s)

CHEMISTRY, LITERATURE, SEX?! : perv nerd yang jeongin | @sourtae

content. Bondage, pet names, dirty talk, explicit language, dacryphilia, unprotected p i v, jeongin cumming on readers thighs, ab riding, orgasm denial, finger sucking, light dumbification, cum swallowing, cock warming, mirror sex

SUCH A NICE GUY : perv yang jeongin | @bambizeld

content. perversion, cumming, lowk creep jeongin, humping, underwear stealing, bad grammar

NERD BF JEONGIN : nerd yang jeongin | @5starluvr

content. unfiltered thirst, awkward soft sex, mutual inexperience, slightly filthy dialogue, overstimulation, crying a little (but in a good way), so many breathy gasps, aftercare, mentions of anime figures and ramen

INEXPERIENCED JEONGIN HEADCANNONS : inexperienced yang jeongin | @seungisms

nothing to see here.

──── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ──────── ⌗ ────────

✦ : smau - (m.f.s)

TEXT WITH BF JEONGIN : boyfriend yang jeongin | @eyisy

content. fluff, a little suggestive at the end because i wanted to and i can, lots of rage baiti think there’s cursing at some point, force feeding mentioned once (as a joke?) very fluffy at the end, also gender neutral reader, everybody cheer (mei's notes: CHEER YAYYYYY)

DIVA DOWN : yang jeongin | @bahngarang

content. friends to lovers, reader fainted and gave themselves a concussion, changbin + reader are cousins, hospital mention, miscommunication, bit of an argument but happy ending

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY : nonidol yang jeongin | @seochanhwang

content. idol!reader, angst, no happy end here, all the times jeongin saw green with jealousy and the one time you had enough.

LIKE I NEED YOU : fwb yang jeongin | @lililixie

content. smau, angst, fluff, cursing, reader isnt a jerk i promise, nothing explicit (the most explicit thing was the song lyric above LOL). ou asked jeongin to come over, but he responded differently than usual

1-800-HOT-N-FUN : best friend yang jeongin | @strrykais

content. when karma is taking too long to be a bitch, you ask yang jeongin to fake date to make your exes jealous. who would of thought this idea would cause a slippery slope.

DOORDASH THE SERIES : nonidol yang jeongin | @luvyeni

content. who knew desperately texting your roommate that you we’re currently stuck in the bathroom in need of tampons would lead to the cute new neighbor doordashing you some …

LOCKED IN : boyfriend yang jeongin | @jeondesu

content. smau, college au, angst, fluff (ig ?), cursing, toxic relationship, possessive/controlling behaviors, yandere!jeongin?, manipulation tactics, isolation, arguing with friends, y/n is very much colorblind to all the red flags

g0matchi — est. 2025 © do not copy, translate, or repost my works on other platforms !

[eyisy]

So nonchalant ab this

[hyunienohanashi]

── .✦ you broke up but have a cat together.

⟢ ┆ lee minho x reader. fluff. slight angst. exes to lovers.

⟢ author’s note: hello, everyone! i’m back with this small story. i don’t really have much to say other than i’m a sucker for cat dad lino. also the cat whose pictures i used is @/nala_cat on instagram. i hope you guys enjoy! if you do, please don’t forget to let me know<3

[ghostintheclub]

Cat Sitter | Lee Know

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Summary: Lee Know needs a cat sitter he can trust to watch SoonDoongDori when he goes on tour with Stray Kids and you’re very shocked when his message comes through on a pet sitting site.

Warnings: Soft smut

Word Count: Ongoing

━━━━━━━━━━━━

🐈 Chapter One - Word Count -7.3k

🐈 Chapter Two - Word Count - 8.2k

🐈 Chapter Three - Word Count - 8.5k

🐈 Chapter Four - Word Count - 9.1k

🐈 Chapter Five - Word Count - 8.9k

🐈 Chapter Six - Word Count - 8.2k

[linoyes]

lee know 🫧 update 26251

[linoxpudding]

my pudding eating a pudding 😻

[ghostintheclub]

Cat Sitter | Lee Know

Chapter Two

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The elevator doors open on his floor and your stomach flips like it did the first time.

Only this time, there’s no one waiting on the other side.

You walk down the hallway, key heavy in your palm, and stop at his door. The little keypad blinks softly.

You punch in the code he sent you again this morning.

fed them around 6 before I left

they were mad

you’ll have to bribe them for me

You smile at the memory of the text as the lock clicks. You slip inside, closing the door quietly behind you.

The apartment feels different without him in it.

It’s subtle. Shoes missing from the entryway. A suitcase-shaped gap by the wall. The air’s a little cooler, a little stiller. But the same soft laundry smell is there, and the same faint jingle of cat toys somewhere in the distance.

You toe your shoes off and line them up by the door like he does, then call out softly:

“I’m here, guys.”

For a second, it’s quiet.

Then, from the living room, you hear the faint thud of something jumping off furniture, followed by the rapid patter of paws.

Soonie is the first to appear, of course.

He waddles around the corner like he owns the lease, tail up, orange-and-white fur almost glowing in the afternoon light. He stops a foot away from you, blinks once, then lets out a short, complaining meow.

“Hi, handsome,” you say, already smiling. “Yeah, I know. Dad left early.”

You crouch down and hold your hand out. He sniffs your fingers, recognition flickering in his eyes, then rubs his head firmly against your knuckles like he’s been waiting all day for this.

Behind him, at the edge of the hallway, Doongie peeks out. Same big eyes, same careful stance. He doesn’t bolt this time, though. He just watches.

“Hey, Doongie,” you murmur. “Good to see you too.”

A rustling sound draws your attention to the side.

Dori has launched himself onto the back of the couch and is perched there like a tiny, striped gargoyle, tail flicking. He stares at you, then at the door, then back at you, like he’s putting the pieces together.

“It’s just me today,” you tell him. “No Minho.”

He chirps once, a funny little half-meow, half-squeak.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t know what that means either.”

You step fully into the living room. The blinds are half-open, casting bars of light across the rug. You drop your bag on the couch and roll your sleeves up.

“Okay,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Operation Single Parent begins.”

━

You start with the basics.

Fresh water first. You rinse their bowls, refill them, and set them back in their usual spots. Soonie follows you like a supervisor, watching closely as if he’s going to file a report if something’s off by a centimeter.

Then food.

You measure out the dry food exactly like Minho showed you, his voice echoing in your memory.

Just a little more for Soonie

Less for Dori

He acts like he’s starving but he’s lying

You can almost hear the tiny exasperated smile in his tone.

You set the bowls down. Soonie digs in immediately. Dori trots over, tail up, and starts crunching like he hasn’t eaten in eighty-four years. Doongie hesitates for a moment, then pads over more slowly, glancing at you once before settling beside the others.

It hits you, suddenly, this little lineup of orange and white and tabby, all in a neat row, eating like you’ve been part of their routine forever.

Your phone is already in your hand before you think about it.

You snap a quick photo, making sure all three are in the frame, then step back so you’re not hovering.

You send it without overthinking.

You: Your sons are eating well and judging me equally

It takes a minute, but the reply comes.

LMH 🐾: good

they look less mad than this morning

A picture follows: a slightly blurry shot from what looks like his bedroom, taken earlier, three cats on the bed, all of them facing away from him, tails pointed in his direction like an accusation.

You snort.

You: they’ve decided to forgive you

for now

LMH 🐾: temporary

LMH 🐾: they’ll remember when I come home with treats

You: wow

buying their love

bold strategy

LMH 🐾: says the one who showed up with a bag of bribes on day 1

You grin at the screen, warmth creeping into your chest.

You: that was diplomacy actually

very different

Three dots.

LMH 🐾: right

You tuck your phone into your back pocket and move on.

Litter boxes next.

They’re exactly where he showed you they’d be, tucked neatly in a corner of the hallway closet space, with mats, scoops, and extra bags all arranged in that quietly efficient way of his.

You scoop, trying to be quick but thorough. The whole time, you can feel little eyes on you.

When you peek out, Dori is nose-deep in your bag on the couch.

“Hey,” you say. “Excuse me, sir.”

He looks up at you, totally unbothered, a pen cap hanging from his mouth like stolen treasure.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, crossing the room. “You are absolutely that kid.”

You gently pluck the cap from between his teeth and fish your bag out of his way, setting it on the dining table instead where he can’t reach it as easily.

He immediately jumps up onto a chair and then the table like you’ve issued a challenge.

“Dori,” you warn. “Your dad said you’re not allowed up here.”

He sits, tail swishing, clearly unrepentant.

You scoop him up before he can start sampling your notebook next, holding him against your chest. He squirms for a second, then settles, purring faintly.

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmur, rubbing behind his ears. “You’re very tough.”

Your phone buzzes again.

You shift Dori carefully and check it.

LMH 🐾: Just boarded

how’s everything?

You glance around.

Soonie’s returned to the couch and is loafed proudly where Dori was climbing a second ago. Doongie has migrated to the rug, lying on his side, paws curled, watching you with quiet curiosity. Dori is melting into your arms, all stripes and warmth and purrs.

You lift your phone and snap another picture: you from the neck down, Dori pressed to your chest, his paws tucked, his face tilted toward the camera.

You send it before you can second-guess it.

You: we’re good

everyone ate

boxes are clean

Dori tried to claim my bag as his own

You attach the photo.

It takes a little longer this time, he’s probably finding his seat or cramming his bag into the overhead bin, but eventually:

LMH 🐾: wow

he looks very comfortable

You look at the picture again. You hadn’t really noticed at first, too focused on documenting chaos, but, yeah. Dori looks smug. And you… you look comfortable too. Like you’ve done this a hundred times.

You: he’s heavy

tell him to stop eating plastic

LMH 🐾: I try

he doesn’t listen to me either

You: don’t worry

I’ve got them

focus on your flight

LMH 🐾: I know

LMH 🐾: thanks again

really

You look at the words for a moment, the sincerity in them, and feel something warm and steady settle in your chest.

You: anytime

we’ll send you updates

LMH 🐾: I’m their biggest fan

we’ll see about you

You snort.

You: excuse you

I’m literally scooping their poop

I think that gives me at least a silver membership

This time, his reply takes longer. You imagine him tucking his phone away as the flight attendants tell everyone to switch to airplane mode.

Right before you assume he’s gone offline:

LMH 🐾: fine

you can have gold

LMH 🐾: don’t tell them I ranked you that high

they’ll get jealous

You smile, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a second, then type:

You: jealous of what?

For a moment, there’s nothing.

LMH 🐾: of you stealing their dad’s attention

Your heart stutters.

You stare at the words, warmth spreading up your neck, and before you can really think about it you answer:

You: maybe they’ll let me borrow some when you get back

There’s no reply after that, just a little “Read” and then the quiet you know means airplane mode.

You exhale, realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“All right,” you tell Dori, who has decided to crawl up onto your shoulder like a tiny, striped parrot. “It’s just us now.”

━

You spend the next hour getting to know what the apartment feels like when it’s just you and them.

Soonie follows you from room to room, never too close, like a soft orange shadow. If you sit, he appears. If you stand, he relocates to a vantage point where he can see you.

Doongie eventually sidles over when you settle on the rug and sit cross-legged. You pretend not to notice him circling closer and closer until he finally presses his side lightly against your thigh and sighs, closing his eyes.

It feels like an enormous compliment.

Dori, of course, is chaos incarnate.

He chases his own tail. He attacks the string of a toy you find under the couch. He tries to climb the curtain, you gently dislodge him, he does it again just to see if the laws of gravity changed.

At one point, he launches himself at a crinkly ball, overshoots, and slides halfway across the living room like a tiny, furry bowling ball.

You’re laughing so hard you have to sit back on your hands.

You reach for your phone, still grinning, and take a short video, Dori zooming, skidding, then sitting there blinking like “I meant to do that.”

You save it to send later, once you know he’s landed.

By the time you check the clock, it’s been almost an hour and a half. The light outside has mellowed into evening. The apartment feels… settled. Less like you’re visiting, more like you’re part of the rhythm.

You fill their water bowls again, just a little top-up. You double-check the locks on the windows and the balcony door, just like Minho drilled into your head. You turn off the TV you’d never turned on and flick on a low lamp near the couch.

Soonie is back on his throne cushion. Doongie has claimed a blanket in the corner. Dori is halfway up the cat tree, blinking sleepily, clearly considering a power nap.

You grab your bag, double-check you haven’t left anything weird out, and head for the door.

Before you leave, you turn back one last time.

They’re all watching you. It’s subtle, but they are. Three pairs of eyes, three different personalities, all tuned into you leaving.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you promise. “Same time. We’ll hang out again.”

Soonie gives you a slow blink. Doongie flicks his tail once, then tucks his nose under it. Dori yawns dramatically and then flops sideways on the cat tree like you’ve bored him to sleep.

You lock up carefully behind you and step out into the hallway, the quiet closing around you.

━

On the bus home, you scroll through your camera roll.

You’ve already got a small collection: Soonie mid-loaf, looking like a fuzzy bread roll; Doongie sleeping with one paw over his face; Dori halfway through a jump, body a blur.

You pick the best ones and make a little collage. Then attach the video of Dori’s unfortunate slide.

You check the time. If his flight left when he said, he might’ve just landed or be close.

You send it.

You: day 1 report - everyone ate, drank, peed, pooped

soonie supervised everything

doongie accepted minimal thigh contact

dori attempted several stunts

You attach the photos and video.

It takes a good twenty minutes before your phone buzzes. Long enough that you’ve already started a game on your phone and half-lost.

LMH 🐾: just landed

Another message comes right after, with a tiny airplane emoji, like proof. ✈️

LMH 🐾: I watched that video like three times btw

You grin.

You: he’s fine btw

his ego might not be but physically he’s okay

LMH 🐾: good

LMH 🐾: they look happy

or as happy as they can be without me

You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in smeared lights.

You: they’re good

they looked for you when I came in

but they settled pretty fast

There’s a pause.

LMH 🐾: that’s because they’re easy

LMH 🐾: I’m the dramatic one

You smile at the screen.

You: shocking

LMH 🐾: careful

I can fire you from anywhere in the world

Your heart skips, but you know him enough now to feel the joke underneath.

You: you won’t

who else is going to send you daily content of your children?

LMH 🐾: true

LMH 🐾: thanks

really

seeing them like that makes it easier

You look at that for a long second.

You can feel how much he means it, even through the tiny screen. How much he hates leaving them. How much he’s trusting you.

You: then I’ll keep them coming

you focus on being an idol or whatever

LMH 🐾: “or whatever”

LMH 🐾: my fan is very disrespectful

You grin.

You: your fan is currently ranked gold in your cats’ fanclub

show some gratitude

Three dots. A longer pause.

LMH 🐾: I am grateful

more than you know

Your cheeks warm.

You stare at the message for a minute, then type before you can chicken out.

You: we’ll take good care of each other here

so take care of yourself there too

eat real food

sleep at least a little

don’t live on coffee

You: please

The reply takes a bit longer this time.

LMH 🐾: bossy again

LMH 🐾: I’ll try

You rest your head back against the bus seat, phone warm in your hand, and smile.

You survived your first solo visit.

The cats are fed, the boxes are clean, the apartment is locked. Minho’s somewhere in another country, maybe in a van or a hotel room, watching your photos and videos on a tiny screen.

And below all the logistics and litter and feeding schedules, there’s that steady little current between you.

Soft. Playful. Just enough to make your heart flutter.

Tomorrow, you’ll go back.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Six weeks suddenly doesn’t feel like a job.

—

Your night is very glamorous.

You in pajamas, hair up, half-finished cup of instant ramen on the coffee table. A cat documentary playing in the background just for the vibes while you scroll through your own camera roll of… more cats.

You’re debating if it’s too much to send Minho a meme of a loaf-shaped orange cat when your phone buzzes and lights up.

Caller ID: LMH 🐾

Your stomach does that stupid little flip it always does when you see his name.

You swipe to answer immediately and press the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

Just a burst of muffled noise.

You frown slightly. “Minho?”

More noise. Louder this time. It sounds like a room full of people, a door slamming, someone laughing in the distance. You pull the phone away just enough to glance at the call screen.

The timer is counting up.

He called you. The call connected.

“Hello?” you try again, a little louder now. “Minho, can you hear me?”

Still no answer. Just the chaotic soundtrack of… whatever backstage or hotel situation he’s in.

Someone yells something in Korean across the room. There’s a burst of laughter. A voice that sounds sort of like Changbin whining about food. Bongos or something banging in the background. Another door.

You slowly sink back against the couch.

Oh.

Pocket dial.

You stare at the ceiling for a second, torn between hanging up and staying on just long enough to confirm he didn’t mean to call you. You’re already about to pull the phone away when you hear his voice.

Closer now. Much clearer.

“Where’s my phone?” Minho asks, sounding distracted. “It was just here.”

Your heart jumps in your throat.

You probably should hang up now. The normal thing to do would be to hang up.

You don’t.

You sit there, frozen, listening.

“You’re always losing it,” another voice says, teasing. “Maybe it ran away. It’s tired of hearing you talk about your cats.”

Han.

You recognize him instantly. The tone, the slight whine, the way he kind of laughs on the ends of his words. He sounds close, like he’s right next to wherever Minho’s phone is.

“I’m not always losing it,” Minho grumbles. “Someone moved it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Han says. “Blame the ghost again.”

There’s a rustle, fabric shifting. Someone’s footsteps. A chair scraping slightly.

You press the phone closer to your ear, guilty curiosity battling with common sense.

“Anyway,” Han says, his voice a little lower now, like they’ve moved away from the loudest part of the room. “I’m serious, hyung. You should just marry her.”

You choke on absolutely nothing.

You’re suddenly very awake.

There is a pause. The background noise fades a bit, like they’ve stepped into a hallway or a corner.

“What?” Minho says, flat.

“You heard me,” Han says. “Marry her. I mean, come on. Your kids already like her more than us. That’s like half the work done.”

Your whole body goes hot.

They’re talking about you.

You. There’s no other “her” with his kids involved.

You clamp a hand over your mouth even though they can’t hear you, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.

“You’re ridiculous,” Minho says, but he doesn’t sound mad. Just tired and a little amused. “We literally just met.”

“Okay, but,” Han insists, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “You won’t shut up about her already. ‘Oh Hannie she’s so good with them, Hannie she remembered all the instructions, Hannie Dori sat on her lap, Hannie she’s cute, Hannie she’s..’”

“Shut up,” Minho cuts in, and there’s a soft thump like he’s smacked his arm.

Your heart stops on one word.

Cute.

Your ears ring.

“She’s cute and she’s sweet,” Minho says, and your brain basically explodes. “I’m not denying that. I’m just not proposing to anyone anytime soon.”

Your lungs forget how to function.

He said it so casually. Not defensive, not embarrassed, just stating facts. She’s cute and she’s sweet. Like that’s already a given in his head.

Han snorts.

“Whatever,” he says. “This is how it starts. First it’s ‘she’s cute’ and ‘she’s good with my cats’ and then boom, five years later Chan is crying at your wedding.”

Minho makes a disgusted sound. “Don’t put that image in my head.”

“What, Chan crying or you getting married?” Han laughs.

“Both,” Minho replies, dry.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing out loud.

There’s another rustle, footsteps shifting again.

“Seriously, though,” Han says after a second, tone softening a bit. “I’m happy you found someone you trust with them. You worry a lot when we’re away.”

You can almost picture Minho’s face at that. The way his eyes probably drop, the little stubborn line his mouth gets when someone sees through him too easily.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters. “They’re important.”

“She seems good,” Han adds. “From what you said.”

Your heart does a weird tuck and roll. From what you said. How much has he said? How often?

“She is,” Minho says, quiet but clear.

You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body for a second.

There’s another burst of noise from further away. Someone shouting that they have to go soon. A staff member calling out times. The sound of chairs scraping, bags being grabbed.

“Come on, lover boy,” Han says, clearly moving now. “We’ve got rehearsal. You can text your future wife on break.”

“Stop calling her that,” Minho says, exasperated.

“Fine,” Han says. “Gold-ranked fanclub member. Happy?”

You slap a hand over your mouth again, eyes wide. If you weren’t already sitting down, your knees would’ve buckled.

There’s a muffled scuffle, another soft smack, and then a clatter. The sound gets louder for a second, like the phone shifted. For a heartbeat you’re terrified the screen lit up and Minho saw your name.

You hold your breath.

“Wait,” Minho says. “Is that my phone?”

There’s a sharp rustle, like fabric and a quick grab.

The call goes dead.

You’re left in your quiet apartment, phone screen back on the home page, your own reflection staring back at you with huge, stunned eyes.

You sit there for a solid sixty seconds without moving.

Then you slowly lower the phone into your lap, heart still hammering.

He called you cute.

Again.

To his friend.

He said you’re sweet.

He said you’re good with his kids.

He told Han enough that Han is out here saying “just marry her” like that’s a normal suggestion.

You flop sideways on the couch and bury your face in a pillow, letting out a strangled, incoherent noise.

“Why,” you whisper into the fabric. “Why did I hear that? Why did I have to hear all of that?”

Your brain is already spiraling.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

He thinks you’re cute and sweet.

The thought slides through you, warm and dangerous.

You open your messages with him on instinct, thumbs hovering. You could say something. You could joke.

Hey, you pocket dialed me, tell Han he’s crazy.

Or

Next time you talk about marrying me maybe don’t broadcast it live?

You throw your phone gently onto the other end of the couch like it personally offended you.

No. Absolutely not.

You cover your face with both hands, trying to shove the blush back into your skin.

You know too much now. More than he meant to show you. That private, soft part of him that worries about his cats, that talks to his members about you when he doesn’t think you’ll ever hear.

Your chest aches a little in the best way.

“Okay,” you tell the empty room. “New rule. I act like I didn’t hear anything. I am normal. I focus on the cats. I do not think about Han saying ‘just marry her.’”

You last all of three seconds before a helpless smile pulls at your mouth.

It’s ridiculous.

You met him a few weeks ago. You’re his cat sitter. This is very much not a romance drama.

You reach for your phone again and scroll up to your last conversation. The gold membership joke. His “cute and professional. lucky me.”

You press your thumb lightly against the screen over his name.

“Lucky me,” you murmur back, a little dazed smile on your face.

Tomorrow, you’ll go back to his apartment. You’ll feed the cats, scoop the litter, send him pictures like nothing’s changed.

—

The next morning you wake up to your alarm and the faint memory of a voice in your ear.

“You should just marry her.”

You groan and shove your face into your pillow.

“Why did I hear that,” you mutter. “Why did my ears have to be present.”

There is no good answer, so you drag yourself out of bed instead.

By the time you get to Minho’s building, the sky is bright and the air has that cold little bite that makes you tuck your hands deeper into your sleeves. You punch in the code, step inside, and are immediately greeted by the soft thump of paws.

Soonie appears first, like always. He waddles toward you, tail up.

“Good morning,” you say, toes already out of your shoes. “Did you sleep well, sir?”

He answers with a short meow. Doongie is a few steps behind, blinking slow. Dori sits on top of the couch, squinting at you like the sun personally offended him.

You’re just about to set your bag down when your phone starts buzzing.

You glance at the screen.

Incoming FaceTime: LMH 🐾

Your stomach drops straight to your knees.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Of course it’s now.”

You hesitate for half a second, then swipe to accept and lift the phone.

His face fills the screen.

He’s clearly in a hotel room. Neutral curtains behind him, generic headboard, that weird patterned wallpaper every hotel somehow shares. His hair is messy, flattened on one side like he’s been sleeping hard. He’s in an oversized t-shirt, no makeup, eyes heavy with that soft just-woke-up squint.

He looks unfairly good.

“Soo-ah,” he says, voice raspy with sleep. “You’re there already.”

Your heart jumps at the way he says your name, casual and familiar.

“Yeah,” you say, trying very hard to sound normal. “I just got here. You look tired.”

“I am tired,” he says. “I just wanted to say hi to my babies.”

You swallow.

“Right. Of course. Babies.”

You clear your throat and glance down at the cats clustered around your ankles.

“You guys hear that?” you tell them. “Dad’s on the phone.”

Soonie chirps and nudges your leg. You laugh despite yourself.

“Hang on,” you say into the phone. “I’ll set you up somewhere so you can see.”

You prop the phone against a heavy mug on the coffee table, angling it so he has a good view of the living room and the cats. His face shrinks to the top corner while the rest of the screen shows his own apartment.

There’s a little lag, but you hear him inhale softly.

“They look good,” he says, a hint of relief threading through the sleepiness. “Soonie, come here.”

Soonie, because he absolutely understands Korean and also likes attention, hops onto the couch and stares at the phone like he knows.

“There he is,” you say, smiling as you kneel by the food station. “He came running when I came in.”

“Of course he did,” Minho says. “Hungry little traitor.”

You start rinsing their bowls, the water rushing softly in the sink.

“Hi, Soonie,” Minho coos from your phone. “Are you being nice to Soo-ah? Or are you bullying Doongie again?”

On cue, Doongie creeps into frame, hovering near the edge of the couch.

“Hi, Doong,” Minho says, voice dropping even softer. “You ok?”

You pour water into the bowls and set them down, heart twisting a little at the tenderness in his voice. The cats don’t understand the phone, not really, but they definitely react to the sound of him.

Dori appears next, hopping down from the back of the couch to sniff near the phone.

“Of course,” you mutter. “Main character.”

“Dori,” Minho says, and there’s this fond little exhale. “Don’t bite the phone. I need that.”

You glance over. Dori is sniffing the edge of the screen, whiskers twitching, then patting it once with a paw.

“He’s being good,” you report. “Minimal crime so far.”

“That’s suspicious,” Minho says. “He’s planning something.”

You move around the room, refilling water, measuring out dry food with the same little routine as yesterday. You try to focus on the bowls, the scoop, the sound of kibble, anything that is not the echo of Han’s voice in your head saying “just marry her.”

They all line up to eat. You catch it on camera, stepping back so the view is clear.

“You see them?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Send me a screenshot later.”

“I’ll send you something better,” you say. “I’ve been practicing my photography. Gold membership perks.”

You hear him huff out a little laugh.

“Oh, so now you’re proud of that,” he says.

“Of course,” you answer. “I worked hard for that rank.”

You finish up in the kitchen and grab the scoop for the litter box. You angle the phone slightly so he doesn’t have to watch you scoop poop in HD.

He must be watching you though, because after a quiet stretch he says, a bit too casual,

“So… yesterday.”

Your hand stills on the scoop.

Alarm bells.

You laugh, a little too quickly. “Yesterday what? We talked yesterday. I sent you a video of Dori committing crimes.”

“Not that,” he says. You can hear sheets rustling on his end, like he’s sitting up against the headboard now. “I mean… did you get a weird phone call from my phone?”

You very nearly drop the scoop.

You close your eyes for a second, force your voice light.

“Uhh. Weird phone call?” you echo. “What sort of weird phone call?”

“The kind where my phone is in my pocket and I’m an idiot,” he says. “I may have accidentally pocket dialed you. Han said my phone lit up and I just … grabbed it and ended the call. I didn’t really check. I just don’t know what all you heard.”

His tone is awkward and careful, like he’s bracing for impact.

You do a little nervous laugh that sounds way too high in your own ears.

“No, no, phone call, what? I didn’t get anything,” you lie badly. “I didn’t hear anything, I certainly didn’t hear anything Han said about you marrying me, I didn’t…”

Your brain catches up to your mouth one full second too late.

You freeze.

Silence.

“…shit,” you whisper.

You stand there, scoop in hand, staring at the wall like it betrayed you.

On the phone, there’s a beat of stunned quiet.

Then a tiny choke that is absolutely Minho trying not to laugh.

“So you did hear it,” he says.

You want the floor to open up and swallow you.

“I mean, hypothetically,” you say, voice faint. “If I had, in a completely theoretical way…”

“Soo-ah,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says your name now that makes your skin prickle. Amused. Mortified. Fond.

You put the scoop down, wipe your hands on a tissue, and shuffle back into the living room on autopilot. You sit on the floor across from the coffee table, facing the phone.

He has shifted against the headboard. His hair is a mess, and his ears are visibly pink. He’s holding the phone a little farther away from his face, like that’ll make this less intense.

You pick it up and hold it in your hand.

“Ok,” you say quietly. “Yes. I got the call.”

He winces.

“And I answered,” you add. “Because your name popped up and I thought maybe something was wrong.”

His expression softens a little at that.

“I said hello like three times,” you say. “But you didn’t hear me. And then I realized it was just… noise. So I was about to hang up and then…”

You trail off and look at the nearest cat for emotional support. Soonie is licking his paw and ignoring you.

“And then?” Minho asks, even though you both know.

“And then Han started talking,” you mumble.

He drags a hand down his face.

“Of course he did,” he mutters.

You chew your lip.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” you rush to say. “It just kinda… happened. And then I heard him say the thing and my brain died and I froze and then you said the thing and then I froze more and then the call hung up and I died again.”

His eyes flick back to you.

“The thing,” he repeats slowly. “You mean him saying I should marry you or me saying you’re cute and sweet?”

Your face bursts into flames.

“Both,” you say, voice strangled. “Let’s be honest.”

There is a long, long pause where you swear you can hear both of your hearts beating through the connection.

Finally, he exhales.

“Ok,” he says. “First of all, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to hear that. It’s… Han. He talks too much.”

“You don’t say,” you mutter.

That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.

“Second,” he says, sobering a bit. “I really am an idiot for not checking. I didn’t want you to feel weird.”

You look at him on the screen. His eyes are steady on you, even through the grainy connection. He doesn’t look like he’s joking now. He just looks… earnest. A little shy, but not backing away.

“I mean, it is a little weird,” you admit, because pretending otherwise is pointless. “Pocket dialing your cat sitter and having your friend tell you to marry her is not exactly standard professional behavior.”

He presses his lips together, clearly fighting a smile.

“True,” he says. “But for the record… Han is dramatic. That part was all him.”

“And the other part?” you ask softly, before you can stop yourself. “The cute and sweet part?”

He looks away for a second, his jaw flexing. When he looks back, his gaze is a little more serious.

“That part was me,” he says.

Your throat goes dry.

“I wasn’t lying,” he adds. “About that.”

You stare at him, your own embarrassment duking it out with a surge of warmth.

“I thought you meant it in a professional way,” you blurt.

He snorts.

“There is no professional way to call someone cute and sweet,” he says. “You said that yourself.”

You groan and cover your face with your free hand.

“I hate that you’re using my own logic against me,” you mumble.

He laughs, soft and genuine.

The sound makes your chest ache in a stupid, pleasant way.

“Look,” he says after a moment. “If it makes you feel better, I was going to pretend it never happened. I just… needed to know if you heard anything. So I could die in peace.”

“Wow,” you say. “Good. We were both planning to be cowards.”

He smiles, small but real.

“So now that we’ve established that,” he says, “and you’ve heard my friend decide our entire future, and you’ve heard me say things I didn’t plan to say out loud… is this too weird? For you?”

You look down for a second.

Soonie has wandered over and is rubbing his cheek against your knee. You reach down and scratch his head, using the motion to think.

“It is weird,” you say honestly. “But not in a bad way.”

He blinks.

“Not in a bad way?” he echoes.

You shrug with one shoulder.

“I mean, I already knew I liked you,” you say lightly. “Found out you think I’m cute and sweet by accident. That’s just… bonus content.”

He stares at you, caught off guard.

“You’re taking this very well,” he says.

“I’m trying,” you say. “Internally, I died three times and set myself on fire.”

He laughs again, shoulders relaxing.

“Ok,” he says quietly. “Then… can we just agree that Han is insane, and I’ll yell at him later, and we keep going like normal?”

You hesitate, then tilt your head.

“Normal?” you repeat. “With you knowing I’m your fan and I know you talk about me to your friends and we both know I heard you call me cute and sweet?”

His mouth twitches.

“Ok, yeah,” he concedes. “Our version of normal.”

You consider him for a moment.

“Fine,” you say. “We can be our version of normal.”

Dori chooses that exact moment to leap up onto your shoulder from behind the couch, almost knocking the phone out of your hand. You yelp and grab him on instinct, pulling him into your lap.

Minho’s eyes widen.

“Dori,” he scolds. “Don’t kill her. That’s your nanny.”

You laugh, breathless.

“Your nanny?” you repeat. “Wow. Gold membership and a promotion in one day.”

He smiles, softer now.

“They like you,” he says. “I like that they like you.”

Your chest squeezes.

You look down at Dori, who’s making biscuits on your leg like he pays rent, then back at Minho.

“I like them too,” you say. “And… I like talking to you. Even when your phone tries to sabotage you.”

His eyes warm at that, something unspoken flickering there.

“Good,” he says. “Because I think I’m going to keep calling to see them.”

You arch a brow.

“Just to see them?” you ask.

He lifts his chin a little.

“For now,” he says. “They get jealous, remember.”

You smile into your phone.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll share my screen time with your children.”

You adjust the phone angle so he gets a full view of the three of them lounging around you, then set it back on the table.

“Eat something before rehearsal,” you add. “And sleep when you can.”

“Yes, boss,” he says.

“And don’t pocket dial me on purpose next time,” you add. “If you want to talk, just talk.”

He goes a little still at that.

Then nods.

“Ok,” he says. “I will.”

You hear staff in the background calling something about a schedule. He glances over his shoulder.

“I have to go,” he says. “Text me after you leave, tell me if they cause any trouble.”

“They’re angels,” you say automatically.

Dori starts chewing on the corner of your shirt in full view of the camera.

You both look at him.

“Mostly angels,” you correct.

He smiles, eyes crinkling.

“Talk to you later, Soo-ah,” he says.

“Bye, Minho,” you answer.

The call ends. The apartment quiets, just you and the cats and the faint hum of the fridge.

You exhale a long breath you didn’t realize you were holding and flop back onto the rug.

Soonie immediately climbs onto your stomach like you’re a mattress. Doongie edges closer to curl behind your shoulder. Dori headbutts your chin, then settles on your chest like a furry paperweight.

You stare at the ceiling, your face still warm.

He knows you heard.

You know he meant it.

Han is out there manifesting weddings.

You lift your hand and scratch behind Dori’s ear.

“Your dad’s a disaster,” you tell him quietly. “But I think I like him anyway.”

Dori purrs.

—

It’s a few nights later when he calls again.

You’re already in his apartment, in your usual evening rhythm. Food bowls rinsed, kibble scooped, wet food ready for the royal trio. Soonie is loafed on the counter like a supervisor. Doongie sits a careful distance away, watching every move. Dori is under the table, plotting his next crime.

Your phone buzzes on the counter.

Incoming FaceTime: LMH 🐾

You wipe your hands on a towel and swipe to accept.

His face pops up and your brain just stops.

He looks like he just showered. Hair damp and soft, pushed back from his forehead. Skin clean and bare. He’s in a big hoodie, hood down, sitting against hotel pillows with some generic city lights glowing faintly behind the curtains.

He looks ridiculously cozy.

And hot.

“Soo-ah,” he says, voice a little soft around the edges. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you say, and your voice comes out just a little breathless. “You look… tired.”

“I am tired,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “But I missed them.”

He glances past the camera. “And you’re there again. Good timing.”

“Yeah, your timing’s freaky,” you mutter. “I just finished their food.”

You turn the camera so he can see. Three bowls in a row, three cats circling like sharks.

“Soonie,” he calls. “Come on. Show me you’re eating.”

Soonie, obedient little thing, immediately sticks his face in his bowl. Dori zooms in, tail up. Doongie takes a careful step, then another, then finally joins.

You prop the phone up against the backsplash so he has a full view of the kitchen area while you grab their water fountain to refill.

He’s still talking quietly to them while you move around.

“You were good today,” he murmurs. “You didn’t bully Soo-ah, right, Soonie? Dori, don’t push him. Doongie. Good boy.”

You fill the fountain at the sink, trying very hard to act like a person who can multitask.

“Everything good there?” you ask, keeping your tone light. “You guys survived rehearsal?”

“Barely,” he says. “I think my legs fell off. I showered and now I’m a ghost.”

You picture him stepping out of the shower, hair dripping, grabbing that hoodie, dropping onto the bed and calling you. Your brain chooses violence.

Your hand slips. The water level shoots way past where it should be and spills over the edge of the fountain, splashing all over your hands and the sink.

“Oh fuck,” you yelp, jumping back a little.

You fumble with the faucet, finally turning it off, water still sloshing over the rim. It’s not a disaster, just messy, but you’re soaked up to your wrists and suddenly very aware of how obvious that just was.

From the counter, you hear Minho’s laugh. Not a sarcastic little huff, but a real one. Warm, low, amused.

You look at the phone.

He’s grinning at you, head tipped slightly, eyes crinkled. Damp hair, hoodie, that stupid soft smile.

“Soo-ah,” he says, and it’s pure teasing now. “You ok there?”

You feel your face heat.

“Yes,” you say, entirely too fast. “I’m fine. Everything is fine. I just, you know, decided to bathe the water fountain. Enrichment.”

He laughs again, softer this time. “You know it’s already water, right?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing a towel and wiping your hands and the counter. “It’s your fault.”

“Oh,” he says, eyebrows lifting. “My fault?”

“Yes,” you say, refusing to look directly at his stupid damp hair. “You call me while you’re all… glowy and cozy or whatever and expect me to function.”

“Glowy,” he repeats, amused. “That’s a new one.”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble. “You look like a skincare commercial.”

He actually looks a little thrown by that.

“Do I?” he asks.

“Unfortunately,” you say.

The corner of his mouth curls.

“You’re flustered,” he says.

You scoff. “I am not flustered. I just almost drowned your sink.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Because of gravity. Not me.”

You glare at the fountain like you can blame it. “Exactly.”

On the floor, Soonie finishes eating and wanders over to sniff your leg. You bend down and scratch his head, trying to pretend your heart isn’t beating as fast as it is.

“You miss them?” you ask, focusing on Soonie and not the way Minho is watching you on the screen.

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. “A lot.”

His eyes drift to the view behind you, scanning the kitchen, the living room.

“Did Dori behave today?” he asks.

You snort. “Define behave.”

“He didn’t try to climb into the fridge again?”

You blink. “Again?”

He sighs. “Yeah. He thinks food teleports in there. He tries to go to the source.”

You grin. “He did try to climb in when I opened it. I blocked him with my leg. You’d be proud.”

“I am proud,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

You refill the fountain to the proper line this time and reassemble it, pretending your hands aren’t trembling a tiny bit. You set it back down and plug it in and the quiet bubble of water fills the space.

In the corner of your vision, you can see him watching, head resting against the pillows, hair drying in little curls at the ends. He looks softer like this, like the boy who texts you about his cats and not the idol on stage.

“Are you really that distracted by me?” he asks suddenly, tone casual but eyes a little too curious.

You freeze.

You know he knows. He literally watched you overflow the fountain.

“Yes,” you say, before your filter can kick in. “Obviously.”

His eyebrows jump.

You blink. “I mean. In general. As a concept. Not in a weird way.”

One corner of his mouth lifts slow.

“In a not weird way,” he repeats.

“Shut up,” you say again, but there’s no heat behind it.

He laughs, low and warm.

“You’re cute when you panic,” he says, like he’s just stating a fact. “You start talking too fast.”

“That’s rude,” you mumble. “You’re not supposed to notice.”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says quietly.

That pulls your gaze back to him.

He’s relaxed against the headboard, one arm under his head now, the phone propped in his other hand. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up a bit, and you can see the faint lines of his forearm. The light in his room is dimmer than his usual stage lighting, just a soft lamp on the nightstand.

You look away first, cheeks warm.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “Next time you want to see them, maybe don’t FaceTime right at the moment I’m filling things.”

“Why?” he asks. “I liked the show.”

You shoot him a look. “You liked watching me almost flood your kitchen?”

He smiles. “I liked watching you.”

You go very still for a heartbeat.

He must see something in your face, because he adds lightly, “And them, obviously. My kids have main character status.”

You roll your eyes to hide the effect of that first part.

“Obviously,” you echo. “We’re all just supporting characters in their story.”

“Exactly,” he says.

You carry the empty food cans to the trash and rinse your hands again, this time very focused, no chaos. He stays on the line, just watching quietly. You can hear some muted sounds outside his room, voices in the hallway, then the click of his door when he probably locked it.

“Tired?” you ask again, glancing at the dark circles under his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “We finished late. I showered and called you.”

The simplicity of that sentence hits somewhere low in your chest.

“You should sleep,” you tell him. “I’ll send you the usual photos after I leave. You don’t have to stay on.”

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”

Your heart does that stupid flutter.

You bend down to pick up a toy for Dori so you have something to do with your hands.

“Well,” you say softly. “Hi, then.”

He smiles, smaller now. Softer.

“Hi,” he echoes.

You toss the toy and Dori bolts after it, skidding dramatically on the rug. Doongie hops up on the couch and does that spiral-circle-spiral thing before settling. Soonie stretches like he’s been working hard all day and then flops in the doorway.

You point the phone so he can see them.

“We’re all ok,” you say. “No fridge incidents. No curtain deaths. No sink floods, besides that one.”

“I saw that one,” he reminds you.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He watches them for a while, eyes half-lidded. You can see the way his shoulders drop a little as he relaxes, like just seeing his living room makes him breathe easier.

“Thanks,” he says after a bit, voice quieter. “For doing this. For letting me see them.”

“Anytime,” you say. “You don’t have to ask.”

He hesitates, then adds, “And… for not freaking out. About the call. And Han. And everything.”

“I freaked out a little,” you admit. “But only in the privacy of my living room. With witnesses being zero.”

He huffs a laugh.

“I’m getting used to it,” you add, voice light. “You saying nice things by accident.”

His mouth curves. “Who says it’s an accident?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

For a second, the air between you goes thick and quiet and charged in a way that has nothing to do with cats or water fountains.

Dori chooses that exact moment to leap at your ankle.

You yelp, wobble, and the phone almost slips from your fingers. He laughs again, bright and delighted.

“Ok,” you say, scooping Dori up. “We’re going to end this call before someone dies.”

“Fine,” he says, still smiling. “Send me photos later.”

“I will. Sleep,” you warn.

“Yes, boss,” he repeats.

You hover for half a second, then say it before you can chicken out.

“Night, Minho.”

His eyes catch yours one more time, warm even through the screen.

“Night, Soo-ah,” he says.

You end the call and exhale, leaning back against the counter.

Your hands are still a little damp. Your heart is very not normal.

So you do what you do best.

You grab your phone again, turn the camera on the cats, and start taking pictures.

Tag list: @whydolife @skzcodered @abbiestearsricochet @scribblesnsketches05 @ot8srzlover @porangporangxlinosxx

[yoongikook]

LEE KNOW - Allure Truth Serum

[danielleursocool]

hyunjin instagram update

[linolinoing]

BANG CHAN ⋮ dominATE FRANKFURT — 250715 (© sigus_str on tiktok)

[myy-moonflower]

© tyunkisses

[lovecase]

(UN)LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME ℘ HAN JISUNG's.

ɞ . abstract. for three years, your relationship with han jisung was defined by thirty-six inches of distance, sharp-edged insults, and a mutual vow to never stand each other. but when a broken-down truck and a coastal road trip strip away the noise of the city, the silence between you starts to feel less like a battlefield and more like home. it turns out, hating him was easy—it was the falling in love that was inevitable.

ɞ . warnings / tags. enemies to lovers. forced proximity. past emotional conflict. claustrophobia/tight spaces. constant bickering. consumption of alcohol. mild peril. implied academic stress. pining. slow burn (kind of). two idiots in love. 19k+ words. (listen while reading!) (my masterlist!)

CHAN'S LIVING ROOM SMELLED LIKE overpriced coffee and the faint, underlying scent of lemon floor cleaner that definitely wasn’t doing enough to mask the chaos currently unfolding.

maps were sprawled across the coffee table, chargers were tangled in every corner, and the air was thick with the kind of frantic energy that only exists forty-eight hours before a massive road trip.

"okay, everyone shut up for a second," chan said, his voice straining to keep that responsible dad tone he always defaulted to when the group got too loud. he was squinting at his laptop, the blue light reflecting off his glasses. "i’m looking at the final confirmation for the rental. we’re picking it up friday morning, right?"

"yeah, the big silver one," felix chimed in, leaning over chan’s shoulder with a bag of chips in hand. "the one with the swivel seats so we can actually look at each other while we play mario kart."

seungmin, who was currently using your shoulder as a head rest while he scrolled through his phone, let out a hum of approval. "as long as i’m not sitting next to minho. he pinches."

"i pinch because you breathe too loud," minho countered from the armchair, not even looking up from his book.

chan’s face went pale. it wasn’t a slow drain of color; it was an immediate, ghostly white. he started clicking his mouse aggressively, his brow furrowing. "uh. guys?"

"what?" you asked, feeling a tiny prickle of dread in your chest. "chan, what’s that face for?"

"the reservation..." chan trailed off, turning the laptop around so the screen faced the group. "it’s for a four-seater transit van. not a six-seater."

the silence that followed was heavy. you stared at the screen, blinking at the bold text that clearly stated capacity: 4 adults.

"you're joking," you said, your voice flat. "chan, we've been planning this for two months. there are six of us. we can't fit six people and all our luggage into a car meant for four. we'd have to stack felix and han on top of each other like legos."

"i didn't book it!" chan defended, putting his hands up. "i swear! i was the one who found the hotel and handled the deposit for the airbnb near the beach. i told you guys weeks ago, i passed the rental booking down to minho because i was drowning in exams."

everyone’s eyes pivoted to minho. he didn't even flinch, just slowly closed his book and leaned back. "don't look at me. i was busy mapping out the itinerary and finding those hidden hiking spots you all insisted on. i gave the link and the credit card info to seungmin."

seungmin straightened up, looking offended. "and i was handling the grocery list and the communal budget! i gave it to felix during our study session last tuesday."

felix stopped mid-crunch, a piece of potato chip hovering near his mouth. his eyes went wide. "oh. right. but... i was in the middle of that bake sale prep? i remember now. i was covered in flour and i asked han to finish the checkout process."

the room went dead silent. five pairs of eyes slowly slid toward the corner of the couch where han jisung was currently trying to disappear into the upholstery. he was holding a controller, his character on the screen currently walking into a wall repeatedly because he’d stopped playing.

"han," you said, your voice dangerously low. "tell me you finished the booking."

han let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh that sounded like a tea kettle whistling. "so... funny story..."

"jisung," chan groaned, rubbing his temples.

"i was going to!" han squeaked, dropping the controller. "i swear! but then i got a notification for a new drop on that one site, and then i got a call from my mom, and then i think i... i might have just clicked 'confirm' on whatever was already in the cart without checking the size? i thought ‘van’ just meant ‘big car’!"

a collective groan erupted. seungmin threw a pillow at him. felix just looked disappointed, which was somehow worse.

"you are actually unbelievable," you said, throwing your hands up. "you had one job, han. one. we talked about the big van for three weeks straight. how do you even manage to be this airheaded?"

han scoffs, his guilt quickly turning into defensiveness. he crossed his arms, leaning back. "oh, please. like you’ve contributed anything to this trip besides your stupid curated playlist that’s just eighty percent indie songs no one has ever heard of."

"i organized the packing list so we didn't end up with six bottles of shampoo and no toothpaste!" you snapped. "at least i can read a confirmation page!"

"it was a mistake!" he yelled back, his face flushing. "everyone else forgave me! why are you always such a buzzkill?"

"maybe because i don't want to spend my spring break sitting on a suitcase in the trunk of a cramped suv!"

"alright, alright! break it up," chan shouted, standing between you two. "arguing isn't going to conjure a bigger van. let me call the rental place. maybe they have an opening or a cancellation."

chan stepped into the hallway, his voice dropping into his 'customer service' tone. for ten minutes, the living room was a battlefield of tense silence. han kept shooting you glares, and you spent the time aggressively refreshing your phone, pretending he didn't exist. minho and seungmin, meanwhile, looked way too entertained by the friction.

chan walked back in, looking even more stressed than before. "bad news. it’s spring break for every college in a five-state radius. they’re completely sold out of vans and suvs. they have our four-seater, and because they feel bad about the 'glitch'—which was definitely just han—they can give us one other vehicle they have on the lot for a discount."

"what is it?" felix asked hopefully.

"it’s a... well, it’s a beat-up, two-person pickup truck," chan said, wincing. "it’s old. the radio barely works, and the heater is finicky. but it’s the only way we all get to the destination at the same time."

you felt a cold shiver of premonition. "so... four in the van, two in the truck."

"exactly," chan said. "and we need to decide who’s taking the hit."

the arguing started immediately. nobody wanted the truck. the van had air conditioning, more legroom, and, most importantly, the rest of the group. the truck sounded like a recipe for a very long, very lonely eight-hour drive.

"i’m driving the van," chan said firmly. "i’m the only one authorized on the primary insurance."

"i'm sitting with chan because i'm the navigator," minho added quickly, claiming the front seat before anyone could blink.

"i get carsick if i'm not in the middle," felix lied poorly, eyes wide and innocent.

"well, i’m not riding in a rust bucket," you said, looking at seungmin. "tell them, seungmin. tell them your sister deserves a comfortable seat."

seungmin looked at you, then at the group, and then at a bowl of coins on the side table. "let's just draw for it. it's the only fair way."

he grabbed six pieces of paper, marking two with an 'X'. he crumpled them up, shook them in his hands, and tossed them onto the coffee table. "everyone grab one. no peeking until everyone has one."

you reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and snatched a small ball of paper. you offered a silent prayer to every deity you knew. please, please, please let me be in the van.

"on three," chan said. "one, two, three."

you smoothed out the paper. a big, black, aggressive 'X' stared back at you.

"no," you whispered. "no way."

"oh, you've got to be kidding me!" han shouted. he was holding his paper up, his face a mask of horror. he had the other 'X'.

the room was silent for a beat before minho burst out laughing, a sharp, loud cackle that echoed off the walls. "no way. fate has a sick sense of humor."

"this is a mistake," you said, standing up. "draw again. seungmin, you did it wrong. do it again."

"i didn't do it wrong!" seungmin said, though he was clearly fighting back a grin. "it's random chance!"

"i am not spending eight hours in a truck with him," you said, pointing at han. "he’ll talk the entire time. or he’ll forget which way is north and we’ll end up in canada. i’ll die. i will actually perish."

"you think i want to be stuck with you?" han retorted, standing up to meet your energy. "it'll be eight hours of you judging my driving and sighing every time i breathe. i'd rather walk!"

"then walk!"

"guys, come on," chan said, though he was starting to smile too. "it’s just a drive. it’ll be a bonding experience."

"not you too, chan!" you cried, feeling betrayed. "don't 'bonding experience' me. this is a hostage situation."

"let's just draw one more time," han pleaded, looking at chan with puppy-dog eyes. "please. best out of three? for my mental health?"

chan looked at the group. everyone else seemed perfectly happy with their van spots. "fine. one more time. but this is the last one. if it’s the same, it’s sealed."

seungmin gathered the papers, shuffled them even more thoroughly this time, and dropped them back down. you took a different one this time. you held it against your chest, closing your eyes.

"open them," minho urged, leaning forward with a smirk.

you looked down. an 'X'.

you looked at han. he looked like he’d just seen a ghost. he slowly turned his paper around. another 'X'.

"it's fate," chan said, laughing now. "the universe has spoken. you two are the truck crew."

"this is rigged!" you shouted. "seungmin, you’re my brother! help me out here. pull the brother card! you really want your baby sister in a car for eight hours with some guy? what if he tries to pull something? what if he’s a creep, huh?"

han scoffed so hard he nearly choked, his face turning a brilliant shade of pink. "oh, please! like anyone would ever want anything to do with you? i'd have to be paid in gold bars to even consider 'pulling something.' you’re lucky if i even look in your direction for the next twelve hours." he even made a dramatic, fake gagging sound, clutching his throat.

seungmin just laughed, leaning back on the couch and stretching his arms out. he looked at you with that typical annoying, older-brother nonchalance.

"honestly? i trust han more than i trust you not to kick him out of a moving vehicle," seungmin said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "besides, you guys need to work out whatever this weird tension is. it’ll be fine. just try not to kill each other before we hit the state line."

"seungmin! his driving is shit—that’s what’s gonna get us killed!"

han looked genuinely offended. “please, like you’re any better than i am.”

you glared at him, arms crossed. “i definitely am.”

“it’s not like you can drive, anyways,” seungmin interrupted. “it’s manual transmission.” you give your brother a look and he rolls his eyes. “shift. it’s stick shift. you can't drive that.”

“oh,” you frowned. so, not only were you stuck in a car with your worst enemy, but you also couldn’t even do anything about his driving inevitably being the thing that ended your life.

“hah,” han grinned, too smug for your liking. you consider murdering him in your sleep. “imagine not being able to drive stick.”

“you’re so fucking ann—”

"it's settled," chan said, clapping his hands together. "we leave at six a.m. sharp. chan, minho, felix, and seungmin in the van. han and her in the truck. the nice luggage goes in the van since it's more weather-proof, and the rest goes in the truck bed. let's get some sleep."

you looked at han. he was staring at you, looking absolutely miserable.

"i'm picking the music," you snapped.

"in your dreams," he muttered, turning on his heel to stomp toward the door. "get ready for eight hours of heavy metal, princess."

as you watched him leave, the reality of the situation settled in. you, han jisung, and a beat-up truck. it was going to be the longest eight hours of your life.

you just might've been the unluckiest girl in the world.

the morning of the departure was less of a "bright and early" start and more of a "dark and miserable" descent into madness. at 5:45 a.m., the driveway was a hazy stage of flickering headlights and freezing breath.

the contrast between the two vehicles was almost comical. parked on the left was the silver transit van—sleek, modern, and currently being loaded with organized precision by chan and minho. inside, you could see the plush headrests and the glow of built-in charging ports.

felix was already vibrating with caffeine, tossing bags of premium salt-and-vinegar chips and gourmet jerky into the backseat like he was prepping for a royal banquet.

then there was the truck.

it was a boxy, matte-black relic that looked like it had spent the last decade hauling gravel through a swamp. the tailgate groaned like a dying animal when han tried to kick it shut, and the interior light flickered with a rhythmic, ghostly pulse.

"you're seriously putting my designer duffel in the back of that?" you asked, clutching your coffee cup like a holy relic as you watched han struggle with the luggage.

han didn't look back at you. he was wearing an oversized hoodie and a beanie pulled low over his messy hair, trying his absolute hardest to look like he knew what he was doing. he hoisted seungmin's heavy suitcase with a grunt, his muscles tensing beneath his sleeves—a sight you pointedly ignored by focusing on a very interesting crack in the driveway.

"it’s got a tarp, doesn't it?" han snapped, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead despite the cold. he leaned against the side of the truck bed, trying to strike a cool pose, but he tripped slightly on a loose pebble, ruining the effect immediately. "it’s fine. your precious bag won’t get a speck of dust on it."

"if it comes back smelling like wet dog and rust, i’m charging you for a replacement," you muttered.

seungmin walked past you, looking far too refreshed for six in the morning. he tossed a bag of pillows into the van and gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "good luck, sis. if he starts falling asleep at the wheel, just scream. he hates loud noises."

"very helpful, seungmin. thanks," you deadpanned.

"alright, team!" chan shouted, clapping his hands. his enthusiasm was borderline offensive. "van is loaded. truck is loaded. we’ll keep the walkie-talkie on channel four. if you guys get lost or the truck explodes, let us know."

"explodes?" your voice climbed an octave.

"he's joking," han said, though he didn't sound entirely sure. he opened the passenger door for you with a mock bow that was more mocking than polite. "hop in, princess. your carriage awaits."

the moment you climbed into the cab, the smell hit you. it wasn't bad, exactly, but it was intense. it smelled like twenty-year-old upholstery, stale coffee, and a cloud of han’s cologne—something woody and expensive that didn't match the dirt under his fingernails.

the seats were a cracked, tan vinyl that creaked every time you shifted, and the floorboards felt thin enough that you half-expected to see the pavement rushing by beneath your feet.

han climbed into the driver’s side, the truck rocking under his weight. he jammed the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. the engine sputtered, coughed, and finally roared into a shaky, vibrating life.

"see?" he grinned, slapping the dashboard. "she’s got character."

"she’s got a respiratory infection," you corrected, buckling your seatbelt and leaning your head against the window.

the first thirty minutes were excruciating. the van had peeled out of the driveway with a smooth hum, leaving you and han in a cloud of exhaust. for a while, the only sound was the rattling of the glove box and the heavy thrum of the tires on the asphalt.

it was that awkward, thick silence where every movement felt magnified. you fixed your hair; han cleared his throat. you shifted your legs; han adjusted the rearview mirror.

finally, the silence became too much. your hand reached for the radio dial.

"don't touch that," han said, his hand darting out to block yours.

"i'm bored, jisung. and if i have to listen to the sound of this transmission grinding for one more minute, i’m going to jump out into the ditch."

"not happening," han said, his jaw setting. "we are in a truck. a truck requires a specific vibe. and your 'indie-girl-crying-in-a-coffee-shop' music is not it."

"it is not crying music! it’s atmospheric!"

"it’s boring," he countered. he fumbled with his phone, plugging it into a dusty auxiliary cord he’d pulled from the glove box. "get ready for the real deal."

suddenly, the cabin was flooded with a wall of sound so aggressive you felt it in your teeth. it was heavy, distorted guitar riffs and a drummer who sounded like he was trying to break his kit. the speakers, which were clearly blown, crackled and hissed with every bass hit.

"are you serious?" you shouted over the noise. "it's six-thirty in the morning! i haven't even had coffee!"

"it wakes you up!" han yelled back, nodding his head to the beat, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "it’s classic! it’s high energy!"

"it’s a headache in audio form!"

you reached for the volume knob, but he swatted your hand away. "driver picks the music, passenger shuts their mouth. those are the rules of the road."

you didn't argue. you knew him well enough to know that arguing gave him the attention he craved. instead, you reached into your tote bag and pulled out a thick, weathered paperback book. you opened it to your page and leaned your head against the vibrating window, trying to tune out the screaming vocals and han’s occasional humming.

out of the corner of your eye, you saw han's grin falter. he glanced at you, then back at the road, then back at you. "you're really gonna read? right now?"

you ignored him, turning a page with a sharp snap.

"it's dark out," he pointed out, sounding annoyed. "the interior light is flickery. you're gonna ruin your eyes."

silence from your side.

"and i’m telling you now, this road gets real curvy once we hit the mountain pass," he continued, his voice rising as he tried to compete with the thrash metal. "reading in a car like this is a one-way ticket to barf-town. you get carsick, i’m not stopping."

you finally looked up, your expression as flat as a pancake. "i don't get carsick, jisung. and even if i did, i'd rather throw up than talk to you."

"suit yourself," he huffed, turning the music up one more notch.

for the next hour, it was a battle of wills. han played the most abrasive, chaotic tracks he could find, singing along in a dramatic, off-key growl just to break your concentration. you, in turn, clutched your book with white-knuckled intensity, moving your eyes across the lines even as the world began to tilt.

the truck began to climb. the straight highway gave way to winding, narrow roads that hugged the side of the hills. the constant swish-swish of the turns, combined with the vibrating floorboards and the smell of the old heater, started to do exactly what han had predicted.

a dull ache started behind your eyes. then, a slow, cold swirl in the pit of your stomach. you swallowed hard, trying to focus on the print, but the words were starting to swim.

i am fine, you told yourself. i am not giving him the satisfaction.

you turned another page, but your hand was slightly clammy. the truck took a particularly sharp left turn, the tires screeching slightly, and your stomach took a violent leap toward your throat. your face went a sickly shade of pale, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on your forehead.

you felt han’s eyes on you. the music suddenly dipped in volume, the screaming replaced by a low, rhythmic thumping.

"you look like you're about to die," he said, his voice surprisingly devoid of its earlier snark.

"i'm... fine," you managed, though your voice was a weak thread. you stared intensely at the paragraph about a 19th-century ballroom, but the floor of the ballroom was currently spinning.

"put the book down."

"no."

suddenly, a hand reached across the center console. you expected him to just yank it away, but instead, he reached out and snatched a stray receipt from the dashboard, tucked it neatly into the page you were on to mark your spot, and then pulled the book out of your hands.

"hey!" you gasped, though even the effort of speaking made your head throb.

"shut up," he said, tossing the book onto the dashboard. "you're stubborn as hell, you know that? i told you this would happen."

"i'm not—"

"look out the window," he commanded, his eyes fixed on the road. his hands were steady on the wheel, navigating the curves with a lot more skill than you had given him credit for. "pick a point on the horizon. look at the trees. don't look at anything inside the cab."

"i'm fine," you whispered, leaning back and closing your eyes tightly.

"no, don't close your eyes!" han scoffed, making you flinch. he wasn’t being particularly loud, but with your headache, it felt draining. "that makes it worse! your brain thinks you're moving but your eyes say you're still. look at the road, princess. that's an order."

"i hate you so much," you groaned, but you finally relented, opening your eyes and staring out the side window.

the grey, misty morning was rushing past. the skeletons of winter trees blurred into a messy smudge of brown and charcoal. you focused on a distant mountain peak, taking slow, deep breaths of the cool air leaking in through the faulty window seal.

after a few minutes, the world stopped spinning quite so fast. the nausea didn't vanish, but it settled into a manageable simmer.

han let out a huff of laughter, his tension easing. "see? i'm a genius. you should really listen to me more often."

"you're a parasite," you muttered, though you didn't have the energy to put any real bite into it. "you and your stupid metal music and this stupid truck that smells like a basement."

"it doesn't smell like a basement," he defended, sounding genuinely hurt. "it smells like adventure. and my cologne is top-tier, don't even lie."

"it smells like you're trying too hard to hide the fact that this seat hasn’t been washed in a decade."

"wow," he said, shaking his head. "i save you from a car-puke incident and this is the thanks i get? seungmin was right, you really are a terror."

"seungmin is a traitor," you said, resting your head against the cool glass of the window. "and you’re a menace to society. we’ve been on the road for two hours and i already want to pay a stranger to drive me the rest of the way in their trunk."

"well, too bad," han said, clicking the turn signal as the truck drifted toward a small, lonely-looking gas station at the edge of the mountains. "we're stuck together for six more. and i'm out of caffeine, so you better buckle up. the next playlist is nothing but k-pop b-sides from 2012."

you let out a long, theatrical groan, closing your eyes despite his earlier warning. "just kill me now, jisung. just drive us off a cliff and end the misery."

"not yet," he grinned, pulling the truck into a parking spot. "i haven't even started on the road-trip snacks yet."

as he hopped out of the truck, the cold air rushed in, momentarily clearing your head. you watched him through the window as he jogged toward the store, his oversized hoodie billowing in the wind.

he looked ridiculous, arrogant, and entirely too energetic—and for the first time since the "van incident," you realized that the silence in the truck was actually worse than the bickering.

you leaned forward, grabbed your book from the dashboard, and tucked it safely back into your bag.

"six more hours," you whispered to the empty cab. "i can do six more hours."

but as you looked at the dark clouds gathering over the mountain peaks ahead, a small, nagging feeling in your gut told you that this was only just beginning. and that it could, and likely would, get much worse.

the truck felt like it was slowly turning into a microwave, but without any of the efficiency. after the gas station incident, the sun had stayed out just long enough to bake the vinyl seats into something that felt like molten plastic against the backs of your thighs.

"can you at least crack a window?" you asked, fanning yourself with a stray map you’d found in the side pocket.

"and ruin the aerodynamics? absolutely not," han replied. he was back to being a menace, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in a rhythm that didn't match the music at all.

you rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. "aerodynamics. jisung, we are going forty-five miles per hour in a vehicle that has the wind resistance of a brick wall. crack the window."

he grumbled something under his breath—likely an insult to your lineage—but he reached over and cranked the handle. a blast of mountain air hit you, and for a second, it was heaven. but then the noise started. a high-pitched, whistling scream that sounded like a tea kettle was strapped to the roof.

"see?" han shouted over the whistle. "now we’re haunted. happy?"

"thrilled," you deadpanned.

you leaned your head back and watched the scenery change. the lush green of the valley was giving way to jagged rocks and pines that looked like they’d seen better centuries.

it was beautiful, in a rugged, lonely sort of way, but you were too busy trying to ignore the way han’s shoulder kept brushing against yours every time the truck hit a pothole.

the cabin was just too small. it was designed for people who actually liked each other, or perhaps for people who didn't mind the intimate scent of unwashed upholstery and expensive cologne.

every time he shifted gears, his knuckles grazed your knee. the first few times, you’d jerked away like you’d been burned. by the tenth time, you just sat there, stiff and annoyed, trying to convince yourself that the heat in your cheeks was just from the faulty heater.

"you’re thinking too loud," han said suddenly.

"i’m not thinking anything."

"you are. you have that 'i'm-plotting-a-murder' look. it’s very distinct on you. the eyebrows do this little twitchy thing." he mimicked a twitch with his own brow, looking ridiculous.

"it's not a murder plot. it's a 'how-do-i-teleport-to-the-van' plot. there’s a difference."

"the van is boring," he said, and for once, he sounded almost serious. "it’s too quiet. minho is probably staring at a wall, seungmin is judging someone in his head, and chan is being... well, chan. in here? we have drama. we have character. we have the possibility of the floor falling out at any second."

"you say that like it's a perk."

"it's an experience!" he chirped. he reached into the center console and pulled out a bag of those salt-and-vinegar chips felix had tossed in earlier. he popped it open with a loud crack and held it out toward you. "truce?"

you looked at the bag, then at him. his hair was a mess, falling into his eyes in a way that made him look less like an annoying rival and more like a tired college student. he looked... human. it was a frustrating realization.

"one chip," you said, reaching in.

"take two. be a rebel."

you took a handful and crunched into them, the vinegar stinging your tongue in the best way. for a few minutes, the only sound was the whistling window and the crunch of chips. it was the most peaceful you’d been since the trip started.

"hey," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "i know i'm a lot."

you paused mid-chew. "a lot is an understatement."

"fair. but i didn't actually mean to get the shitty truck. i just... i got distracted. i've been meaning to get better about that," he admits. "granted, i guess i'm not doing such a great job. you're genuinely one of the most annoying people i've ever met, but that doesn't mean i wanted to ruin your trip."

you’re quiet for a moment. everything about this is so unnatural. natural is hating him. natural is him hating you, too. natural doesn’t include genuine-sounding apologies and bashful smiles. it doesn't include talking to him without expletives aimed directly at each other.

and a couple hours in this shitty truck shouldn’t change that dynamic. there’s no reason for it to. it’s not like this is some cute rom-com; you’re not going to magically stop hating him just because the heater is blowing too warm and the radio is low. because you do hate him.

you hate the boy that made up nasty things about you so the guy you were talking to freshman year would drop you.

you hate the boy who purposely sat behind you in every psych lecture just to kick your chair and whisper corrections while you were trying to take notes.

you hate how he always seemed to find the one empty table you were at in the library just to make it loud and unbearable.

you hate the boy that "accidentally" spilt coffee all over your project and didn't blink twice.

but sitting here, watching his hands on the wheel—steady, veins prominent against his skin—the anger feels… heavy. it’s tiring.

for years, your relationship was built on sharp edges and biting remarks. he was the person you looked for in a crowd just so you could roll your eyes.

but now, the way he keeps glancing over to make sure you aren't shivering, or the way he actually waited for you to finish your sentence instead of cutting you off with a smirk, feels like a glitch.

"you okay?" he asks, his voice hitting a lower register that vibrates in the small space. he doesn't look at you, but he reaches over to nudge the air vent away from your face, and you don't think too hard about why. it'll just mess you up more.

it’s a small, stupidly thoughtful gesture. and it makes you want to scream, because if he stops being the the boy you hate, you have no idea who he's supposed to be to you. or worse, you have no idea who you're supposed to be to him.

"huh? oh, uh, it's fine. i know you didn't mean it... or, whatever. i'll get over it," you shrug, shifting further away from him. though, there's not much room anyways.

"i know, i know," he sighed, and for a second, he actually looked sheepish. he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the road. "i just wanted this to be cool. like, the kind of trip people talk about for years. 'remember that time we drove through the mountains in that insane black truck?'"

"we’re definitely going to talk about it," you muttered. "mostly in therapy."

he let out a short, surprised laugh. it wasn't his usual loud, performative cackle. it was small and genuine, and it sent a weird little spark through your chest that you immediately tried to extinguish.

"you're funny when you're not being a total princess," he said.

"and you're almost tolerable when you're not being a total idiot."

he grinned, and this time it didn't feel like a challenge. it felt like... something else. he reached over and turned the radio down, the aggressive metal fading into a low hum.

"so," he said, "tell me about that book. the one that almost made you puke."

"why do you care? you said it was 'crying girl' music in paper form."

"i'm bored, okay? humor me. what's so great about nineteenth-century ballrooms?"

you hesitated, expecting him to make a joke the second you started talking. but he just kept driving, his expression neutral, waiting. so, you started. you told him about the plot, the pining, the ridiculous social rules, and the way the lead character was a girl who felt like she was constantly failing to be what everyone wanted her to be.

you expected him to mock the romance or the drama. instead, he listened. he actually asked questions—mostly about why the guy didn't just tell her he liked her—and for about twenty minutes, the bickering stopped.

you found yourself gesturing with your hands, getting into the details, and when you looked over at him, he was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. it wasn't annoyance. it wasn't mockery. it was almost... soft.

"what?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"nothing," he said, quickly looking back to the road. "just didn't realize you were such a nerd."

"oh, shut up."

"no, it’s fine. i like nerds. they’re easier to annoy."

the moment was gone, replaced by his usual brand of arrogance, but the air in the truck felt different now. it was less like a war zone and more like... a truce. a fragile one, held together by salt-and-vinegar chips and the smell of old vinyl.

you leaned your head back against the window, the cool breeze finally winning the battle against the heater. for the first time, you didn't feel the immediate urge to jump out of the moving vehicle.

he wasn't that bad. he was still a menace, and he was still driving a death trap, and he was definitely still a prick—but he was a prick who listened.

you watched his hands on the wheel, the way his veins stood out slightly, and the way he hummed a quiet, unrecognizable tune under his breath. you told yourself the little flip in your stomach was just the remaining carsickness.

it had to be.

because if it wasn't, you were in a lot more trouble than a broken engine could ever cause.

"we're almost at the pass," he said, breaking your train of thought. he pointed to a sign that was rusted nearly to the point of being unreadable. "get ready. this is where the scenery gets 'instagrammable'."

"just focus on the road, jisung. i’d rather get to the airbnb than get a good photo."

"trust me," he said, flashing that lopsided grin. "i've got everything under control."

he didn't. not even close. but for a few more miles, as the sun began to dip behind the first peaks and the truck rattled along the edge of the world, you almost believed him.

the four-hour mark was where the wheels officially started to fall off—metaphorically, though with the way the truck was shuddering, you wouldn't have been surprised if it became literal.

the sun was high now, but it offered no warmth, only a harsh glare that bounced off the truck’s hood and directly into your retinas.

the heater, which had been lukewarm earlier, had decided to go into overdrive, pumping out a thick, dry heat that felt like being trapped inside a giant hair dryer.

your head was throbbing—not from the nausea anymore, but from sheer, unadulterated annoyance.

han was currently driving with his left hand on the wheel and his left foot propped up on the door frame, his knee nearly hitting his chin. he’d been like this for thirty miles, looking like a complete idiot while trying to maintain some semblance of "truck guy" aesthetic.

"can you put your foot down?" you asked, your voice tight. "it's distracting, it's dangerous, and quite frankly, it's embarrassing for both of us."

"it's called airflow, princess," han replied, not even looking at you. he was wearing his sunglasses now—dark, mirrored ones that made him look like a cheap extra from an action movie. "it’s a lifestyle. you wouldn't get it."

"the only lifestyle i'm getting right now is deep-vein thrombosis. put your foot back on the floor."

"no," he said simply, then began to hum along to a high-pitched pop song that had been on loop for the last fifteen minutes. he wasn't just humming; he was doing it specifically in that nasal, slightly-off-key way that he knew made your eye twitch.

"you're doing this on purpose," you accused.

"doing what? driving? existing? being a light in your otherwise dreary life?" he flashed a grin that was eighty percent teeth and twenty percent malicious intent. "sorry i’m such a vibe, i guess."

your phone buzzed in the cup holder. it was a photo from the group chat. it showed the interior of the van: felix and seungmin were sharing a literal platter of fruit and cheese, chan was smiling at the camera, and minho was fast asleep against a plush travel pillow. the caption read: smooth sailing! how’s the rust bucket?

you looked at han. his foot was still out the window, his hair was a static-charged mess from the heater, and he was currently trying to open a bag of beef jerky with his teeth because he refused to stop the car.

"we're stopping," you commanded. "now. i’m hungry, i’m hot, and i need to be away from you for at least ten minutes before i do something that gets me featured on a true crime podcast."

"i was gonna stop anyway," han lied, his voice reaching a defensive pitch. "i need a recharge. my social battery is carrying this entire trip."

he swerved the truck—literally swerved—into a gas station that looked like it hadn't seen a health inspector since the mid-seventies. it was a lone building on a stretch of grey asphalt, flanked by rusted gas pumps and a sign that just said 'EAT' in flickering neon.

he grinned. "gas, snacks, and... live bait? perfect."

you winced, already regretting the choice to stop here.

the moment the engine died, the silence that rushed in was deafening. han hopped out, stretching his arms over his head with a loud, theatrical groan. "god, i'm such a good driver. eight hours of this? i should be a professional."

"you've been driving for four hours and we've nearly hit three squirrels," you said, climbing down from the cab. your legs felt like jelly.

inside, the gas station smelled like floor wax and old hot dogs. the fluorescent lights hummed with a low-frequency buzz that vibrated in your skull. you headed straight for the refrigerated section, desperate for anything cold.

han, meanwhile, was wandering the aisles like a toddler in a toy store. he was grabbing the most neon, chemical-laden snacks he could find.

"get some water," you called out.

"water is for the weak," han replied, holding up a bright blue energy drink and a box of powdered donuts. "this is fuel. this is what keeps the engine of han jisung running."

"the engine of han jisung is going to have a heart attack before we reach the airbnb," you muttered, grabbing a sensible sandwich and a bottle of green tea.

at the checkout counter, the tension peaked. han insisted on paying, but he did it with a flourish that made you want to scream. he fumbled with his wallet, dropped a handful of change, and then had the audacity to wink at the stony-faced clerk who looked like she wanted to bury both of you in the woods.

"keep the change," he said to the woman, despite the change being exactly three cents.

"you are so embarrassing," you hissed as you pushed through the creaky glass doors.

"i'm generous!" he countered. "i’m a man of the people! why are you always so judgy? you've spent the last four hours looking at me like i’m a stain on your upholstery."

"because you are!" you turned to him on the sidewalk, the wind whipping your hair across your face. "you're loud, you're messy, you forgot to book the right car, and now you’re acting like you’re doing me a favor by driving this piece of junk!"

han’s expression shifted. for a split second, the smug mask slipped, and he looked genuinely annoyed. he stepped closer into your personal space, the blue energy drink clutched in his hand. "listen, princess. i know i messed up the booking. i apologized. everyone else moved on. but you? you’re holding onto this like it’s a blood feud. you didn't even want to come on this trip! all you did was complain about the itinerary and the packing. so don't act like you’re the martyr here."

"i didn't want to come because i knew something like this would happen!"

"no, you didn't want to come because you're scared of actually having fun without a schedule! you're so wrapped up in being 'perfect' and 'organized' that you’re making everyone miserable!"

"at least i'm not a liability!" you shouted.

"at least i'm not a bore!" he yelled back.

the silence that followed was sharp. you glared at him, your chest heaving. han looked back, his eyes dark behind the mirrored shades. for a moment, the bickering felt different—sharper, heavier, like the air right before a lightning strike.

then, a low, ominous rumble rolled across the sky.

you both looked up. the bright, harsh sun from ten minutes ago was gone, swallowed by a wall of heavy, charcoal-grey clouds that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. the wind had picked up, carrying the scent of damp earth and something cold.

"great," han muttered, his voice dropping. "just great."

he turned back to the truck, his pace more hurried than before. you followed, the anger still simmering in your gut but suppressed by a new, creeping sense of unease.

and guilt?

no. not guilt. he was a prick. a condescending, unruly, obnoxious prick. he prided himself on making your life hell, so you weren't saying anything particularly untrue.

yeah, so... not guilt.

as you climbed back into the cab, the interior felt smaller, darker.

han shoved the key in and turned it. the truck groaned. it didn't start.

he tried again. chug-chug-chug-whine. "oh, c'mon," you whined. "don't die on us now."

"it's fine," he said, though he sounded breathless. he turned it a third time, pumping the gas pedal. finally, the engine caught, but it sounded... different.

there was a new noise, a rhythmic clack-clack-clack coming from somewhere beneath the hood, echoing against the metallic rattle of the dashboard.

han shifted into gear, and the truck lurched forward with a sickening jolt.

"what was that?" you asked, grabbing the door handle.

"nothing," han said, his jaw tight. he wasn't propping his foot up anymore. he wasn't singing. he was leaning forward, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. "it’s just the mountains. the altitude affects the... the thingies."

"the thingies? you don't know anything about cars, do you?"

"i know enough!" he snapped, but his eyes were darting to the temperature gauge.

the first few drops of rain hit the windshield—fat, heavy splatters that smeared the dust into streaks of mud. the clack-clack-clack grew louder, a mechanical heartbeat that seemed to be counting down to something inevitable.

the road began to incline sharply, winding into a narrow pass where the trees crowded the pavement like spectators at an execution. the clouds had descended, turning the afternoon into a premature twilight.

"jisung," you said, your voice remarkably calm despite the panic rising in your throat. "the engine light is blinking."

"i see it," he said through gritted teeth.

"and the hood is smoking."

he didn't respond. he just pressed harder on the gas, but the truck didn't speed up. it just groaned louder, the vibration shaking your very teeth. the rain was a torrential downpour now, the wipers struggling to clear the sheets of water.

then, with a sound like a gunshot, something deep inside the truck snapped.

a cloud of thick, white steam erupted from the edges of the hood, instantly blinding the view. the power steering went dead, and the truck began to slow, dying right in the middle of a steep, narrow incline with nowhere to pull over.

"shit!" han yelled, hauling on the wheel with all his strength to guide the dead weight toward a narrow strip of gravel at the edge of the cliff side.

the truck skidded, the tires losing grip on the wet mud, before coming to a violent, jarring halt against a large rock. the engine gave one last, pathetic hiss and went silent.

only the sound of the rain remained, drumming a frantic rhythm on the tin roof.

you sat in the dark, the steam from the engine curling around the windows like ghosts. you looked at han. he was staring at the steering wheel, his chest rising and falling rapidly. the cocky truck guy persona was gone. his hair was plastered to his forehead, and his shoulders were hunched.

"well," you said, your voice trembling. "great. the rust bucket is dead."

he didn't snap back. he didn't make a joke. he just closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wheel.

"the walkie-talkie," he muttered.

you reached for the glove box, pulling out the small black radio chan had given you. you clicked it on.

crackle. static. hiss.

"chan? seungmin? do you, um, copy?" you said into the receiver.

nothing. only the sound of the storm.

"the mountains," han said, finally looking at you. his mirrored sunglasses were gone, and his eyes looked wide, vulnerable, and incredibly small in the dim light. "we’re in a dead zone. they’re probably twenty miles ahead by now."

you looked out the window at the wall of grey rain and the steep drop-off just feet away. you were stranded, four hours from anywhere, in a broken truck with the one person you couldn't stand.

and then, the first flash of lightning illuminated the cab, followed by a crack of thunder that shook the very ground beneath the tires.

"we're gonna have to stay in here, aren't we?" you asked, the reality sinking in.

han looked at the steam rising from the hood, then back at you. the condensation was already starting to fog the windows, sealing you into a tiny, cold world of your own.

"yeah," he said softly. "we're stuck."

the rain didn't just fall; it orchestrated a siege. for nearly an hour, the world outside the truck’s fogged-up windows ceased to exist. there was only the metallic drum of water on the roof and the rhythmic, shaky exhales of two people who had spent the last four hours screaming at each other and now had nothing left to say.

the silence inside the cab was no longer sharp—it was heavy, damp, and oddly insulating. the windows were completely opaque now, frosted over with the condensation of your collective breath. it felt like being trapped in a tiny, vinyl-scented submarine at the bottom of a very loud ocean.

han was still slumped over the wheel, his forehead resting on his knuckles. the cocky "man of the people" who had winked at gas station clerks was gone, replaced by a boy who looked like he wanted to crawl into his oversized hoodie and disappear.

"jisung," you said softly. the sound of your own voice felt weirdly intimate in the small space.

he finally lifted his head. he looked exhausted—not just tired from the drive, but drained. the bravado had completely evaporated, leaving behind a boy who looked like he wanted to crawl into the backseat and disappear.

"i’m sorry," he whispered.

you blinked, tilting your head. you weren't completely sure why he was apologizing again. did he really feel that bad about all this? "what?"

"i’m sorry," he repeated, louder this time, finally turning to look at you. his eyes were bloodshot. "you were right. about the booking. about the truck. about me being a liability. about everything. and i know i already said most of this, and i know it sounds stupid, but... i wanted to be the guy who handled the 'rugged' side of things because i knew you guys thought i was just the loud, forgetful one. and now i’ve basically stranded you on the side of a mountain in a thunderstorm."

you watched him, your heart doing a strange, uncomfortable little flip. you were prepared for a fight. you were prepared for him to blame the gas station fuel. you weren't prepared for him to just... own it. the first time he said sorry, you weren't sure he really meant it. sure, you saw the guilt in his eyes, but he was han. he was the guy you despised, the guy you weren't sure you could trust.

but this was different. he looked so... torn. it made your chest ache.

"it's not just your fault," you said, the words feeling clumsy in your mouth. "the rest of them shouldn't have passed the buck so many times. also, you’re not just, um, loud and forgetful, okay? i mean, you are, but you’re more than that. and... i shouldn't have been such a bitch at the gas station. i was just... frustrated."

han let out a weak, breathy laugh. "you were right to be frustrated. i was being a prick. the foot out the window? i don't even know why i did that. my hip actually hurts."

you felt a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "i knew it. i knew that couldn't be comfortable."

"it really wasn't," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders.

"are you cold?"

he finally lifted his head, blinking at you. his hair was sticking up in three different directions from the static of the heater. "are you?"

"a little."

he reached into the small space behind the bench seat, rummaging through a mess of old gym clothes and empty soda bottles. he pulled out a thick, slightly pilled flannel shirt. without saying anything, he leaned over and draped it across your lap.

"it’s clean," he said, his voice scratchy. "mostly. it doesn't smell like the truck."

you took the shirt, the fabric still holding a faint warmth. as you pulled it over your shoulders, you caught a whiff of him—not the spicy cologne he’d doused himself in this morning, but something softer, like laundry detergent and cedar. your heart gave a traitorous little thud against your ribs.

"thanks," you whispered.

the storm eventually shifted from a roar to a steady, rhythmic patter. the white steam from the engine had cleared, though the truck was still very much a decorative lawn ornament at this point.

han wiped a circle into the condensation on the windshield with the side of his palm, peering out into the twilight. "the rain's letting up. i think... i think i saw a sign for a motel back near that gas station. maybe half a mile down the road? it looked sketchy as hell, but it’s better than sleeping in a forty-five-degree angle on this cliff."

"you want to walk in this?"

"we don't have a choice," he said, his voice regaining a bit of its usual firmness. "we can't stay here. if the mud shifts, we're going for a ride we won't come back from."

you looked at the steep drop-off outside and felt a cold shiver. "okay. half a mile. i can do that."

the walk was miserable. the air was freezing, and the ground was a slurry of mud and pine needles. han insisted on carrying your duffel bag along with his own, despite his earlier complaints about its weight. he walked a half-step in front of you, blocking the worst of the wind with his broader frame.

every time you stumbled over a hidden root, his hand was there—solid and warm—gripping your elbow to steady you before pulling away as if he’d been burned.

"you okay?" he asked for the fourth time, glancing back.

"i'm fine, jisung. stop asking."

"i'm just making sure you don't fall off the mountain. seungmin would never let me hear the end of it."

you rolled your eyes, but you didn't pull away when he reached back to grab your hand to pull you up a particularly steep embankment. his palm was calloused and large, and for a fleeting second, you found yourself wanting to squeeze it.

it's just the adrenaline, you told yourself. you're just cold. you don't like him. he's a menace.

the motel looked exactly like the setting of a horror movie. a flickering neon sign hummed 'VACANCY' in a sickly shade of pink, illuminating a row of low, concrete-block rooms. the parking lot was empty save for a rusted sedan and a puddle the size of a small lake.

the lobby was a tiny, wood-paneled box that smelled of stale cigarettes and pine-scented cleaner. a man who looked like he’d been sitting in the same chair since 1984 looked up as you and han dripped water onto his linoleum floor.

"need a room?" the man rasped.

"yeah," han said, stepping forward. his teeth were chattering now, and his hoodie was soaked through. "two, if you have them."

the man let out a dry, hacking laugh. "son, the pipes burst in the north wing an hour ago. i got one room left. take it or leave it."

you and han shared a look of pure, unadulterated dread.

"is there... another motel nearby?" you asked hopefully.

"ten miles that way," the man pointed into the dark, rainy abyss you’d just walked out of. "unless you got a boat, you ain't getting there."

han sighed, a long, weary sound. he looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. you looked at the dark windows, the freezing rain starting to pick up again, and your own shivering hands.

"we'll take it," you said.

the room was... an experience. it was about the size of a walk-in closet. the walls were a jaundiced shade of yellow, the carpet was a mystery of brown swirls, and there, sitting in the center of the room like a taunt, was a single, sagging queen-sized bed.

"oh, you've got to be kidding me," you breathed, closing the door behind you.

"at least it's dry?" han offered, though he looked just as horrified as you. he dropped the bags on the floor and stood in the corner, looking awkwardly at his feet. "i can... i can sleep on the floor. or the chair."

the 'chair' was a plastic-seated thing that looked like it belonged in a middle-school cafeteria.

"don't be stupid, jisung. you’re tall and the floor is probably covered in ancient bacteria," you said, trying to sound practical to hide the fact that your face was currently the temperature of a dying sun. "we’re adults. we can... we can just share. stay on your side, don't touch me, and we’ll survive until morning."

"right. yeah. stay on my side. easy," he nodded fervently, sounding like he was trying to convince himself.

the next hour was a flurry of awkward coordination. you took the bathroom first, peeling off your wet clothes and scrubbing your skin with the tiny, chalky bar of soap provided. when you came out, dressed in your driest oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, the room was filled with the smell of han’s spicy cologne again—he’d changed into a fresh shirt but was currently sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at a crumpled bag of vending machine crackers.

"dinner is served," he said, holding up a packet of peanut butter crackers and a lukewarm bottle of ginger ale. "the pizza place down the road doesn't deliver in 'weather like this.' cowards."

you sat on the other edge of the bed, a respectable three feet of floral-printed polyester between you. you took a cracker, the dry saltiness feeling like a five-star meal after the day you’d had.

"i'm sorry. again," he said suddenly, his voice quiet. "the stuff i said at the gas station. about you being a bore. you're not. you're just... organized. and i’m a mess. i get why that’s annoying."

you stopped chewing, looking at him. the harsh, yellow light of the bedside lamp softened the lines of his face. he looked younger like this, stripped of the bravado and the mirrored shades.

"stop apologizing, okay? you didn't for any of this to happen. it's not your fault. quit blaming yourself, i mean it. and i'm sorry i called you a liability," you said, the words feeling heavy on your tongue. "you're not. you actually did a good job not killing us when the steering went out. i don't think i could have done that."

han’s head snapped up, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "really? you think i did a good job?"

"don't let it go to your head," you warned, but you couldn't help the small smile that mirrored his. "it was a solid c-plus effort, sungie." the nickname slips out before you can do anything about it, and you still, cheeks warm. you're embarrassed. beyond that, even. you're already planning different ways to fake your death. or, better yet, you might as well plan a real one.

where did that even come from? jesus christ.

his reaction echoed yours, equally surprised, but he recovered quick. his lips, previously shaped as an 'o', melted into a grin. "i'll take it," he chuckled.

he reached over to grab the ginger ale, but as he did, his hand brushed against yours on the bedspread. the contact was electric. you both froze, the air in the tiny room suddenly feeling very thin.

han didn't pull away immediately. his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, his thumb grazing the back of your hand. you looked up, and for the first time, you didn't see your 'sworn enemy.' you saw the boy who had stayed up late with you in the library freshman year even though he wasn't in your class. you saw the boy who always made sure you had a seat at the table during group dinners, even though he insisted he hated you.

you saw han jisung.

your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, rhythmic thud that made your ears ring. you felt a heat crawl up your neck, staining your cheeks. you quickly looked down at your lap, pulling your hand away to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.

"it's been a while since we checked in with the others. we should probably tell them we’re not dead," jisung said, breaking the silence. he was sitting on the very edge of the bed, staring at his phone. "chan’s probably already calling the national guard."

"if he can even get through," you muttered, pulling your legs up to your chest. "i have zero bars."

jisung held his phone up high, waving it around like he was trying to catch butterflies. "nothing. wait—" he squinted at a faded piece of paper taped to the back of the door. "there’s a wi-fi password. 'motel-luv-69.' seriously?"

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. "of course that’s the password. just… just connect and call them."

after a minute of frustrated tapping and a few choice words directed at the router, the call finally connected. jisung hit the speakerphone button and set it on the floral bedspread between you.

the ringing didn't even last a full second before the speaker exploded with noise.

"hannie? are you alive?" felix’s voice was high-pitched with panic.

"jisung, if you wrecked that truck i am going to make you pay for the insurance hike for the next ten years!" chan’s voice was lower, but vibrating with stress.

"we’re fine! we’re fine!" jisung yelled back, leaning over the phone. "stop screaming, you’re gonna blow out the speaker."

"where are you?" it was your brother, seungmin. his voice was calm, but you could hear the way he clipped his words—the 'big brother' version of a panic attack. "we’ve been calling for two hours. we’re already at the airbnb, and the storm is nasty here. seems like it spans pretty far. is that what you got caught in?"

"yeah. we’re at a motel," you said, leaning closer to the phone so they could hear you. "the truck died. something with the engine, and then the rain got too bad to do anything about it. we’re stuck here until the morning."

"a motel?" minho’s voice joined in, sounding far too amused for the situation. "in the middle of the mountains? is it one of those places where the owner keeps his mother’s skeleton in the basement?"

"minho, not helping!" chan snapped. then, more softly: "are you guys okay? are you safe? do you have food?"

jisung looked at the crumpled packet of peanut butter crackers and the lukewarm ginger ale. "yeah, we’re feasting. 10/10 service. the wallpaper is a lovely shade of 'smoker’s lung' and the bed has a suspicious dent in the middle."

"wait," seungmin interrupted. "how many rooms did you get?"

the silence that hit your end of the line was deafening. you looked at jisung. he looked at the jaundiced walls.

"one," jisung said, his voice cracking slightly. "the pipes burst in the rest of the building. it was this or a mudslide."

the explosion of noise on the other end was immediate. you heard felix gasp, minho let out a loud, delighted cackle, and chan groan like he was in physical pain.

"one bed?" minho’s voice was clear as a bell. "oh, this is better than a movie. please tell me there’s only one bed."

"minho, leave them alone," chan scolded, though he sounded like he was suppressing a laugh himself. "listen, stay put. don’t try to move the truck until the sun is up and the rain stops. i’ll call a local tow service from here first thing in the morning."

"and jisung?" seungmin’s voice turned dangerously protective. "if i find out you so much as breathed on her, i’m using your guitar strings for fishing line."

jisung rolled his eyes, though his cheeks were still pink. "relax, seungmin. we’re on opposite sides of the bed with a literal 'no man’s land' of polyester between us. i’m more worried about her kicking me in her sleep."

"i only kick people who deserve it!" you shouted toward the phone.

"see?" jisung pointed at the phone as if they could see him. "hostile environment. send help."

"we'll see you tomorrow," chan said, his voice finally relaxing. "get some sleep. both of you. and stay off the wi-fi after this, the connection is probably unencrypted and i don't want you getting hacked."

"goodnight, lovebirds!" minho chirped.

"shut up, minho!" you and jisung yelled in unison.

the call disconnected with a soft bloop.

the silence that rushed back into the room felt twice as heavy as before. jisung picked up the phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.

"well," he said, not looking at you. "now they know we aren't dead. so that's… one less thing."

"yeah," you whispered, pulling the scratchy blanket up to your chin. "one less thing. i... i think i’m gonna try to sleep," you stammered, your voice an octave higher than usual.

"yeah. me too," he said, his own voice sounding a bit strangled.

you both crawled under the scratchy, thin blankets, clinging to the extreme edges of the mattress. you stared at the ceiling, listening to the drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet in the bathroom and the steady, heavy breathing of the boy three feet away.

he was an intrusive thought. he was the grit in your gears, the static on your radio, the one person who knew exactly how to push every single one of your buttons. you hated him. you definitely, absolutely hated him.

so why, you wondered as you closed your eyes, did the room feel so much colder every time he shifted further away?

"hey," han whispered into the dark.

"yeah?"

"don't let any bedbugs bite. i’m not authorized to perform medical procedures."

you let out a soft, involuntary laugh into your pillow. "shut up, jisung."

"goodnight, princess."

"goodnight, han."

as you drifted off to sleep, the bickering of the day felt like a lifetime ago. but the memory of his hand against yours stayed, a warm, persistent spark that refused to go out, no matter how much you tried to smother it.

the long, dark room was silent now, but for the first time in your life, you weren't sure if the person next to you was the villain of your story... or something else.

someone else.

the darkness in the room was not the empty, peaceful kind of dark. it was thick, heavy with the scent of pine cleaner and the rhythmic, soft sound of the rain finally tapering off against the roof.

it was the kind of silence that made every small sound feel like a shout—the hum of the old refrigerator, the whistle of the wind through the door frame, and, most prominently, the steady breathing of the boy lying exactly eight inches away from you.

you were wide awake.

your heart felt like a bird trapped in a cage, fluttering erratically every time han shifted. you were hyper-aware of everything. you could feel the dip in the mattress where his weight settled. you could feel the faint, radiating heat from his body, cutting through the damp chill of the room.

you had spent years building a wall between yourself and han jisung—a wall made of witty barbs, eye rolls, and genuine frustration—and tonight, that wall felt like it was made of wet cardboard.

you tried to lie perfectly still, but your skin felt too tight for your body. you shifted to your left side, the scratchy floral quilt rustling loudly. then, two minutes later, you shifted to your right.

then your back. you stared at the ceiling, trying to count the wood knots in the rafters, but your mind kept drifting back to the way he’d looked earlier in the truck, teeth biting his lower lip in concentration as he navigated the muddy turns.

every movement felt like a neon sign flashing in the dark. i'm awake and i'm losing my mind.

"you’re vibrating," a voice whispered.

you nearly jumped out of your skin, your breath hitching. han’s voice was low, gravelly with sleep, and it sounded dangerously close in the quiet room.

"i'm not vibrating," you whispered back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. "i'm just... adjusting."

"you've 'adjusted' fourteen times in the last ten minutes," he said. you heard the mattress creak as he turned onto his side, facing you. you didn't look, but you could feel his gaze, heavy and attentive. "is the bed that bad? or is it the company?"

"it’s fine, jisung. just go back to sleep. stop counting my movements, it's creepy."

"i can't sleep if you're over there having a wrestling match with a pillow. you know, some of us need our beauty sleep, princess."

silence fell again, but it was different now. the barrier of 'pretending to be asleep' had been broken. you felt a flush creep up your neck, grateful for the darkness.

you thought about all the things you’d said to him over the years. the time you told him his blonde hair made him look like a neglected highlighter. the time he’d intentionally "misplaced" your favorite pen during a mid-term.

"hey," he said, his voice even softer now, losing that defensive edge he usually carried like a shield.

"what?"

"why didn't you switch?"

the question caught you off guard. you blinked into the dark, the rhythm of the refrigerator hum filling the gap in conversation. "switch what?"

"with seungmin," han clarified. you could hear him fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, the fabric dragging against his skin. "yesterday. in the driveway. you could have pulled the 'baby sister' card harder. seungmin acts like a prick, but he would've swapped with you if you really asked him to. you didn't have to get in the truck with me. you could have had the suv with the heated seats and the decent speakers."

you hesitated. the honest answer was a tangled mess that you weren't sure you wanted to unknot. "i didn't want to cause a scene. everyone was already stressed. chan was losing his mind over the packing list, and you looked like you were about to cry when minho started laughing at you for forgetting the jumper cables."

"i was not about to cry," he scoffed, though there was no heat in it. "i was just... frustrated. it’s a lot of pressure, being the one in charge of the transport." he paused, then his voice dropped an octave. "but seriously. you hate my driving. you hate my music. you hate... well, you pretty much hate me. why did you stay?"

"i don't hate you, jisung," you said, the words slipping out before you could filter them.

the silence that followed was deafening. you felt like you’d just dropped a glass vase on a marble floor. you held your breath, waiting for the impact, waiting for him to laugh or make a joke about how "obsessed" you must be.

"you don't?" he asked. he sounded genuinely surprised, maybe even a little bit hopeful, which was far worse than him being mean.

"i mean... you're a lot," you corrected quickly, trying to claw back some of your dignity. "you're loud and you're disorganized and you play metal at six in the morning while i'm trying to drink my coffee in peace. you once told my lab partner that i have a crush on professor kang just to make it awkward for me for a week. but i don't hate you. if i hated you, i wouldn't have stayed in the library with you freshman year when you were failing stats. i would've just let you fail and watched the sparks fly."

han let out a quiet, huffy laugh. "i remember that. you called me a 'statistical anomaly' because i managed to get every single practice question wrong. you looked like you wanted to hit me with the textbook."

"because you did," you smiled into the dark, feeling the tension in your shoulders finally start to give way. "it was actually impressive. i’ve never seen anyone misunderstand probability that fundamentally."

"i think..." han started, then stopped. he took a deep breath, and you heard him sit up slightly, propping himself on an elbow. "i think i’ve used the bickering as a shield. it’s easier to be the 'annoying guy' than to be the guy who’s actually trying to get your attention and failing miserably at it."

your heart skipped a beat. "what is that supposed to mean?"

"it means i’ve spent three years obsessed with what you think of me," he admitted. the raw honesty in his voice made your stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. "whenever you walk into a room, i start acting like an idiot because i don't know how to just... be normal around you. i play the music loud because i’m afraid if it’s quiet, i’ll say something stupid. or i’ll realize how much i actually like the way you look when you're annoyed. like this. like what i’m saying right now."

it's too much to process. three years? han jisung? feeling whatever it was he felt about you? what were you supposed to do with that information? what were you supposed to say? what were you not supposed to say?

three years?

you finally turned your head, meeting his silhouette in the dim red glow of the heater. he was looking right at you, his eyes reflecting the tiny bit of light in the room, looking nothing like the cocky kid who used to kick your chair in psych 101.

"jisung..."

"i've felt like this for a long time," he continued, the words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "and i thought you genuinely couldn't stand the sight of me. so i leaned into it. if i couldn't make you like me, i could at least make sure you couldn't ignore me. being your enemy was better than being nothing to you."

you felt a lump form in your throat. all the times he’d "accidentally" sat next to you, all the times he’d picked a fight over something trivial just to keep the conversation going—it all reframed itself in an instant. it wasn't a blood feud. it was a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek where you were both hiding in plain sight.

"i didn't know that," you whispered, your voice trembling. "i mean, i didn't even know i felt this way until this road trip. i thought i was just annoyed by you. but then... when the truck broke down, and you were so worried about me getting cold, and you were so careful not to bend the pages of my book when you moved it..." you trailed off, feeling the heat in your face again. "i realized i don't hate the bickering. i think i just like talking to you. about anything. even if it’s how much your driving sucks."

"it doesn't suck that much," he teased, but his voice was thick with emotion.

"it really does," you laughed, a small, watery sound. "but i don't know what any of this means, jisung. we’re, like, enemies. that’s our whole thing. what happens when we aren't? what do we even talk about if we aren't insulting each other?"

the mattress creaked as he moved closer, sliding toward the edge of his twin bed. though it's dark, you can see the hesitation in his movements. the cautiousness. he crosses that "no-touching-line," and your breath hitches.

"maybe we just figure it out," he suggested. "no labels. no pressure to be the 'cool couple' or whatever. just... you and me. maybe we start by not yelling for twenty-four hours and see how that feels? like a trial run."

"twenty-four hours? that’s a big ask for us. we usually hit our limit by breakfast."

"how about twelve?" he countered. "we start tomorrow morning. a truce. no sarcasm, no eye-rolling, no bringing up the highlighter hair incident."

you looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, you let yourself see the boy behind the bravado. the boy who was terrified of being forgotten. the boy whose smile, despite everything, always made the room feel a little brighter, even when he was being a total pain.

"okay," you said softly. "twelve hours. starting now."

"starting now," he agreed.

he reached out into the space between you, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before his fingers found yours on top of the quilt. he laced his own with them, his hand warm. the pads of his fingers were calloused from years of playing the guitar, yet his touch was so soft. so sweet. he held you carefully, not like you were fragile, but like you were reverent.

"is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.

"yeah," you whispered, gently squeezing, pulling him just an inch closer. "this is okay."

the tension that had been keeping you awake for hours finally began to dissolve, replaced by a warm, heavy sense of relief. the rain had stopped completely now, leaving only the quiet, rhythmic drip of the eaves.

"princess?"

"hmm?"

"i really am sorry about the truck. i have to be honest, though, this makes it pretty worthwhile. can't say i regret being an idiot."

you giggle, breathless. "you're always an idiot, sungie."

"okay. but for the record? your indie music isn't that bad. i actually have a few of those songs on my secret playlist. the one i don't let the guys see."

"i knew it!" you nudged him with your shoulder through the blankets, a small laugh escaping you. "i knew you were a closet fan. i saw you humming to phoebe bridgers earlier."

"truce!" he squeaked, laughing under his breath. "you're breaking the twelve-hour rule already! that was definitely an insult."

"fine, fine. goodnight, okay?"

"goodnight, princess."

there was a beat of silence until jisung spoke again. "hey... is your brother gonna kill me? he's totally gonna kill me," he groaned, voice frantic.

your laugh slipped out before you could stop it. "maybe. probably."

"aw, man."

you closed your eyes, the contact of his hand against yours feeling more solid than any van or luxury hotel. as you finally drifted off to sleep, you realized that the long, dark drive hadn't been a disaster at all.

it had been the only way to get you exactly where you needed to be—eight inches away from the person you’d been running toward for years.

the light that filtered through the motel’s yellowed lace curtains was a sickly, bruised grey. it didn’t wake you up gently; it sort of prodded at your eyelids until you finally groaned and rolled over, only to realize your hand was empty.

the space next to you on the bed was cold, the scratchy quilt tossed back in a messy heap. for a terrifying three seconds, you thought the night before had been a fever dream brought on by carbon monoxide poisoning from the truck's faulty heater. but then you heard it—a frantic, rhythmic shuck-shuck-shuck sound coming from the small bathroom.

you sat up, rubbing the crust from your eyes, and squinted toward the door. jisung was standing there, still in his wrinkled t-shirt from last night, aggressively shaking a plastic foam cup.

"tell me you’re not trying to make coffee with bathroom water," you groaned, your voice thick with sleep.

jisung jumped, nearly sloshing the brown liquid onto the linoleum. his hair was a catastrophic nest of bedhead—a bird could have moved in and raised a family in the back of it without him noticing. he looked stressed, caffeinated, and strangely cute in a way that made your stomach do a little pathetic somersault.

"it’s lukewarm," he announced, taking a brave sip and immediately making a face like he’d just swallowed battery acid. "it’s... efficient. look, the tow truck guy is ten minutes out. chan called three times while you were dead to the world. he already paid the dispatch fee, so we just have to ride with the guy to the nearest shop."

"ten minutes?" you scrambled out of the bed, feeling the chill of the room hit your skin. "why didn't you wake me up earlier?"

"you looked peaceful," he muttered, busying himself with throwing his damp hoodie into his duffel. "and i figured if i woke you up at six a.m., our twelve-hour truce would be over in about thirty seconds. i’m trying to keep my record clean, princess."

you paused, your hand on your suitcase. last night. the truce. the way he’d held your hand under the quilt until his breathing went shallow and even. you looked at him, and he caught your eye for a split second before looking away, a faint, dusty pink creeping up his neck.

"right," you said softly. "truce."

the arrival of the tow truck was not the cinematic rescue jisung had probably envisioned. there was no heroic music, just the heavy, wet crunch of gravel and the smell of menthol cough drops. the driver was a guy named daryl—or maybe derek—who looked like he hadn't smiled since the turn of the century.

he didn't say much as he hooked the "rust bucket" to the back of his rig. you and jisung stood on the side of the road, shivering in the drizzle, watching the truck get hoisted up like a dead fish.

the ride to the shop was cramped; you had to sit in the middle of the tow truck’s bench seat, pressed firmly against jisung’s side while daryl chewed on a cough drop loud enough to echo.

every time the tow truck hit a bump, jisung’s arm would jostle against yours, and you could feel the heat radiating through his jacket. he didn't pull away.

in fact, he seemed to lean into you just a little bit more than necessary, his thumb absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

once you reached the shop—a tiny garage that looked like it was held together by grease and prayers—daryl spent about five minutes poking around the engine while jisung stood by with his hands in his pockets, trying to look like a guy who knew things about internal combustion.

you leaned against a stack of tires, watching the exchange.

"so," daryl said, wiping his hands on a rag that was blacker than the tires. "good news is, your truck is fine."

you blinked. "fine? it exploded. there was smoke. the power steering died."

"nah," daryl rasped. "engine flooded. he was probably trying to force it up that incline in third or fourth gear instead of downshifting. chokes the life out of 'em. and the smoke? just a little coolant spray hitting the hot block because a sensor shorted out from all the rain. it's dried out now. starts right up."

the silence that followed was heavy. you turned your head slowly to look at jisung.

he was staring at a grease stain on the floor, his jaw tight. the rugged truck guy persona was currently being dismantled in real-time. it... was a hard watch.

"so... it works?" you asked, your voice flat.

"starts right up," daryl confirmed, patting the rusted hood like it was a loyal dog. "but i wouldn't take it over the pass. road's washed out five miles up. you'll have to take the long way around through the valley. adds about three hours to the trip."

"three hours," you repeated.

daryl nodded, took his payment, and climbed back into his rig, leaving the two of you standing in the oily shade of the garage.

jisung wouldn't look at you. he walked over to the driver's side, opened the door, and climbed in without a word. you followed, hopping into the passenger seat and clicking your belt. the smell of the truck—old vinyl and jisung—greeted you like an old, slightly annoying friend.

he put the key in the ignition. it turned over instantly. no cough, no sputter. just the steady, rhythmic rattle of a perfectly functioning, twenty-year-old engine.

"don't say it," he whined, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

"i wasn't going to say anything."

"you were. i can hear you thinking it. you're thinking 'jisung, you idiot, we spent the night in a motel with duck pictures on the wall and ate peanut butter crackers for dinner because you forgot how gears work.'"

"actually," you said, reaching over and gently placing your hand over his on the wheel. he froze, his breath hitching. "i was going to say that for a guy who flooded the engine and stranded us on a cliff, your 'statistical anomaly' status is still very much intact."

jisung let out a long, ragged sigh, his shoulders finally dropping from around his ears. he turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through yours. he looked at you, his eyes soft and a little bit embarrassed, but mostly just... relieved.

"i really did try to look cool for you," he admitted, a small, lopsided smile breaking through. "i wanted to be the hero of the road trip. instead, i’m the guy who got outsmarted by a manual transmission."

"for me? that's... actually really cute. well," you said, squeezing his hand before pulling back so he could shift. "you might not be a hero of the road, sungie. but you're definitely something."

"is that a truce-breaking insult?"

"no," you laughed, leaning your head back against the cracked headrest. "it’s a fact. now, drive. we have three extra hours in the valley, and i’m picking the music this time. no metal."

jisung grumbled something under his breath about "musical oppression," but he didn't fight you when you plugged your phone in. as the truck rolled out of the garage and toward the valley road, the grey drizzle didn't seem quite so miserable anymore.

you had three more hours. and for the first time since the trip started, you weren't in any rush to get to the end of them.

"hey," jisung said, eyes on the road as he navigated the first easy turn.

"yeah?"

"twelve-hour truce is almost up. just so you know, once it hits noon, i’m going back to calling your playlist elevator music."

"and i'm going back to telling everyone you make coffee with bathroom water."

he grinned, a bright, genuine thing that made the cramped cab feel twice as big. "fair enough, princess. fair enough."

as the valley opened up before you—green, misty, and miles away from the rest of the group—you realized that being stranded wasn't the worst thing that could have happened.

the rust bucket was rattling, the road was long, and you were definitely going to have to explain a lot of things to seungmin later.

but for now, it was just the two of you, a working engine, and a very long way to the start of your vacation.

the "long way around" was a stretch of highway that snaked through the valley, flanked by dense pine forests and the kind of mist that looked like it belonged in a gothic novel. the road was smoother here, devoid of the terrifying hairpin turns of the mountain pass, but the atmosphere inside the truck had shifted into something entirely new.

the sharp, jagged edges of your bickering had been sanded down by the events of the last twelve hours. what was left wasn't quite peace—it was a strange, vibrating self-consciousness. every time you shifted in your seat, you were aware of the way your shoulder brushed against his. every time jisung reached for the gear shift, you watched the way his sleeve pulled back to reveal his wrist, the light catching the fine hairs on his arm.

it was exhausting. it was like being hyper-aware of your own heartbeat in a room that was far too quiet.

"okay," jisung said, breaking a twenty-minute silence that had started to feel a little too heavy to breathe through. "the twelve-hour mark is officially passed. the treaty has expired. i am legally allowed to tell you that this song sounds like it was composed by a very depressed cat in the middle of a rainstorm."

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, a small smile tugging at your lips. the familiar rhythm of your back-and-forth felt safer than the heavy silence. "sungie, it's supposed to be calming. not everyone wants to feel like they’re being punched in the eardrum by a drummer on amphetamines at nine in the morning."

"it’s not calming, it’s a sedative," he countered, though his tone lacked its usual bite. he reached for the console, his fingers hovering over the screen, looking for a distraction. "can we please find a middle ground? my brain is starting to turn into oatmeal and i’m pretty sure i’m going to start seeing colors if we listen to another three minutes of synthesizers and rain sounds."

"fine," you sighed, leaning back against the cracked vinyl of the passenger seat. "no metal. no indie-folk. what’s left? we’ve exhausted the radio's capabilities."

"true crime," he said instantly, his eyes lighting up.

you blinked at him. "true crime? for a road trip through the middle of nowhere?"

"yeah. the gruesome kind. the kind where you spend the whole time shouting at the narrator because the police missed a very obvious bloodstain on the ceiling while they were busy looking at the neighbors' cat. it keeps you alert."

half an hour later, the truck was filled with the low, ominous tones of a podcast narrator describing a mysterious disappearance in the 1970s. it was, surprisingly, the perfect solution. the shared focus on a mystery allowed the awkwardness between the two of you to melt into the background. for the next two hours, you were a team again—not a team trying to survive a storm, but a team of armchair detectives.

"no way," you shouted, gesturing wildly at the dashboard as the narrator revealed a new piece of evidence. "the neighbor did it! he had a van exactly like that and he was the one who 'found' the shoe! that's classic killer behavior!"

"no, it’s the brother-in-law, obviously!" jisung argued, his left hand tapping a frantic rhythm on the wheel. "the alibi is too perfect. nobody remembers what they were doing at 4:15 p.m. on a tuesday three years ago unless they rehearsed it. he’s lying through his teeth."

"you remember what you were doing three years ago," you pointed out, the words leaving your mouth before you could check them. "you told me last night you’ve been 'obsessed' with me for three years."

the cab went dead silent. the narrator’s voice continued to drone on about forensic evidence and tire tracks, but neither of you were listening anymore. jisung’s ears turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the truck’s emergency light. he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, his knuckles turning white.

"i... well," he stammered, his bravado crumbling like a sandcastle. "that’s different. that’s an emotional milestone. it’s not a tuesday at 4:15. it's... just different."

you felt your own face heating up, your skin prickling under your damp hoodie. "oh. right. emotional milestones."

"yeah," he muttered, reaching out to turn the volume up on the podcast just a little too loud to discourage further conversation.

about three hours into the valley drive, the mist began to lift, revealing a much more civilized landscape of rolling hills and small towns. the "rust bucket" was humming along surprisingly well, as if it was trying to make up for its earlier betrayal.

"i need actual food," jisung announced as you approached a sprawling, modern rest stop. "if i eat one more peanut butter cracker, i’m going to turn into a legume. my body is sixty percent sodium and regret right now."

this rest stop was a stark contrast to the "live bait" station from the day before. it was bright, clean, and smelled of freshly baked pretzels and expensive coffee. as you stepped out of the truck, the cool valley air felt amazing against your skin, but you couldn't stop shivering. your hoodie was still damp from the trek to the motel, the fabric heavy and cold against your neck.

"stay here," jisung said as you reached the glass doors. "find a table. i’ll handle the rations."

"i can help, i have money—"

"princess, honestly, you look exhausted," he said, and for the first time, the nickname felt more like a soft endearment than a taunt designed to get under your skin. "go sit down. i got this, yeah? just don't let anyone steal our spot."

you didn't have the energy to argue. you found a corner booth near a large window and watched the cars zip by on the highway. your mind kept replaying the feeling of his hand in yours in the dark of cabin four. it felt like a secret you were carrying, something fragile and strange that would shatter the moment you rejoined the others and the pressure of "enemies" was put back on you.

fifteen minutes later, jisung reappeared. he was carrying a tray of steaming hot sandwiches and two large coffees, but he was also clutching a plastic bag from the gift shop. without saying a word, he dropped the bag into your lap before setting the tray down.

you opened it to find a thick, oversized navy-blue hoodie with a local mountain logo on the chest. it was soft, warm, and smelled like brand-new fabric.

"your other one was grossing me out," he muttered, sliding into the booth across from you. he pointedly ignored your stunned expression as he unwrapped a giant sandwich, his eyes fixed on the table. "you were getting all cranky and shivery. i don't need you catching a cold and blaming me for that, too. i have enough on my plate."

"oh, sungie..." you pulled the hoodie out, the warmth of the fleece feeling heavenly. "this was expensive. these gift shop places rip you off. you didn't have to."

"it's fine," he said, his mouth full of turkey and provolone. "i stole some of your crackers yesterday. and i made you walk through a monsoon. consider us even. just put it on so you stop vibrating."

you pulled the hoodie over your head, disappearing into the soft, oversized fabric. it was much too big for you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, but it was the most comfortable thing you’d ever worn. it felt like a hug. you felt a lump form in your throat as you took a sip of the coffee—it was exactly the way you liked it. two sugars, extra cream.

"did you... did you remember how i take my coffee?" you asked quietly, peeking out from the giant hood.

jisung paused, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. he looked out the window, his expression unreadable, though his jaw tightened. "i pay attention to things," he said simply. "even when i'm being an 'unruly prick.' you always complain if the coffee is too bitter at the library."

you spent the rest of the meal in a comfortable, quiet hum. you shared a large bag of salt-and-vinegar chips—the gourmet kind felix had boasted about—and finished the podcast episode. the mystery was solved (it was the neighbor), and the tension was replaced by a soft, weary contentment.

as you walked back out to the truck, the sun finally managed to break through the clouds, casting a golden light over the parking lot. the air was crisp, the sky was clearing, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, the destination felt real.

"only another hour and a half," jisung said, checking his phone as he climbed back into the driver's seat. "chan sent the location pins. they’ve been at the airbnb for hours. minho is apparently already making dinner and threatening to lock us out if we don't bring 'tribute' for being late."

"tribute?"

"wine," jisung translated. "and a heartfelt apology for making them worry. mostly the wine, though."

he started the engine, but he didn't put it in gear right away. he sat there for a moment, his hands resting on the wheel, looking at the navy-blue sleeves of the hoodie you were wearing. he looked like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it, then changed his mind again.

"hey," he said, his voice dropping to that low, soft register. "when we get there... things are gonna be loud. seungmin is gonna interrogate you. the guys are gonna tease me for the truck dying. it’s gonna be... back to normal."

you looked at him, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of anxiety. "i know. they're going to want to know why we aren't at each other's throats."

"but it’s not, right?" he asked, finally turning to look at you. his eyes were searching yours, looking for the same confirmation you were looking for. "the truce is over, but... we aren't going back to that, are we? the fighting just to fight?"

you reached out, lacing your fingers through his on the center console. the fabric of your new, oversized hoodie brushed against his skin. "no. i don't think i can go back to pretending i hate you, jisung. it’s too much work. i'm retired from the hater business."

he let out a breathy laugh, squeezing your hand, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. "good. because i’m exhausted. i’d much rather just be the guy who buys you overpriced hoodies and argues with you about serial killers than the guy who has to think of a new insult every time you walk into a room."

"i think i’d like that too," you whispered.

he gave your hand one last squeeze before shifting into gear. as the truck pulled back onto the highway, you realized that the "long way around" wasn't just a detour. it was the space you both needed to bridge the gap between who you were and who you were becoming.

the airbnb was waiting, and the group was waiting. but as you watched the trees blur past the window, your fingers still tingling from his touch, you knew that the best part of the trip had already happened in a broken-down truck on a rainy mountain pass.

and maybe something between the two of you was waiting, too.

the road through the valley was a long, silver ribbon of asphalt that seemed to stretch into eternity. with the sun finally making a real appearance, the world outside looked less like a horror movie and more like a postcard.

the air coming through the cracked windows was sweet with the scent of damp pine and wet earth, a far cry from the stale, pressurized heat that had nearly suffocated you both the day before.

jisung was driving with a newfound ease. he wasn’t propping his foot up on the door anymore, and he wasn’t white-knuckling the wheel. he looked... relaxed. he looked like the kind of person who actually enjoyed the open road, rather than someone trying to survive it.

"hey," he said, glancing at a wide, flat stretch of road that was completely devoid of other cars. "you ever driven a stick shift?"

you looked at the gear shift between you, then back at him. "you've seen me drive my automatic. i once hit a curb in a parking lot because i got distracted by a particularly large bird. do you really think i should be in charge of three pedals and a gearbox?"

"it’s a life skill," jisung insisted, already slowing the truck down. "what if we’re in a zombie apocalypse and the only getaway vehicle is a manual? you’re gonna be lunch because you didn't know how to find the biting point?"

"i'll just take my chances with the zombies, thanks."

"nope. not happening." he pulled the truck over onto a wide, gravel shoulder. the engine idled with a rhythmic, mechanical thrum. "we have time. the guys are busy arguing over who gets the master bedroom anyway. switch with me."

you groaned, but there was a flutter of excitement in your chest that you couldn't quite suppress. "if i break the rust bucket, it’s on you."

"it's already broken in spirit," he joked, climbing out of the driver's side.

switching seats felt different this time. instead of the cold, rain-slicked tension of the day before, there was a playful energy in the air. you slid into the driver's seat, feeling strangely small in the space jisung usually occupied. the seat was adjusted for his longer legs, and the scent of him—now mixed with the new fabric of your hoodie—was everywhere.

jisung climbed into the passenger seat, leaning over immediately to point at the floor.

"okay, look. three pedals. left is the clutch. that’s your new best friend," he said, his voice dropping into a serious tone that was about fifty percent genuine and fifty percent him trying not to laugh. "you have to treat it like a delicate conversation. you can't just dump it, or the truck gets offended and dies."

"like you did on the mountain?"

he winced. "too soon. truce-adjacent violation. now, foot on the clutch. all the way down."

you pressed the pedal. it was heavy and resistant. "it feels like i’m stepping on a spring-loaded brick."

"that's the character of the vehicle," jisung said. he reached over, his hand landing naturally on the gear shift. "this is first. up and to the left. now, slowly—and i mean slowly—let the clutch out while giving it just a tiny bit of gas. you'll feel it catch. that's the biting point. the sweet spot."

you tried. you really did. you let the pedal up a fraction of an inch, the truck gave a violent, seismic shudder, and then—clunk. the engine died. the silence that followed was deafening.

you slumped against the wheel. "i told you. i'm a liability."

"it's fine!" jisung said, his voice bright. "everyone stalls the first time. or the first ten times. try again. turn the key."

the next twenty minutes were a cycle of shudders, stalls, and jisung’s surprisingly patient coaching. he didn't tease you. he didn't roll his eyes. instead, he stayed leaned over the center console, his focus entirely on you.

on the fifth try, he moved his hand. instead of just pointing, he placed his palm directly over yours on the gear shift.

the effect was instantaneous. the electric feeling from the motel returned, but this time it wasn't a spark—it was a steady, humming current. a rush. his skin was warm, his grip firm as he guided your hand into first gear.

"together," he whispered. "slowly. i've got the gear, you just work the feet."

you focused on the pedals, your heart hammering against your ribs. you could feel the heat of him beside you, his arm brushing against the sleeve of your hoodie. as you slowly released the clutch, you felt the truck lurch forward—not a shudder, but a smooth, rolling movement.

"you're doing it!" jisung cheered, his hand still covering yours. "don't let go! keep going!"

you rolled forward about fifty feet, the engine purring under your control. a laugh of pure, unadulterated joy escaped you. "i'm doing it! jisung, look!"

"i'm looking," he said.

his voice was different. it wasn't the cheering instructor anymore. you slowed the truck to a stop, pressing both pedals in, and turned to look at him.

he wasn't looking at the road. he was looking at you.

his hand was still on yours, his fingers slightly interlaced with yours over the knob of the shifter. the golden valley light was hitting his face, catching the stray hairs of his bedhead and the soft, honest expression in his eyes. the bravado, the bickering—it was all gone. there was just jisung.

just sungie.

the silence in the cab shifted. it wasn't the silence of a mystery podcast or the silence of an awkward motel room. it was heavy, expectant, and so thick with three years of unsaid things that you could barely breathe.

"you have an eyelash on your cheek," he said softly, his voice barely a murmur.

"do i?" your voice was just as quiet.

he reached out with his free hand, his thumb grazing your cheekbone. his touch was tentative, as if he were waiting for you to pull away, to snap a joke, to break the spell. you didn't. you leaned into it, your eyes fluttering shut for a second.

"yeah," he whispered. "right there."

he didn't move his hand back. his fingers slid into your hair, his palm cupping the side of your face. you could feel the rapid-fire thrum of his pulse in his fingertips. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a silent question written in the nervous twitch of his brow.

you didn't say anything. you just moved.

it wasn't a cinematic, perfectly timed movie kiss. your noses bumped first, and your teeth clinked slightly because you were both shaking, and for a split second, you thought you might actually laugh from the sheer absurdity of it. but then his hand tightened in your hair, and he tilted his head, and the world just...

stopped.

it tasted like the lukewarm coffee and salt-and-vinegar chips, and it felt like the relief of finally reaching the end of a very long, dark road. it was desperate and messy and perfect. it was the sound of a hundred arguments being settled all at once.

when he pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing hard, the air in the cab suddenly feeling hot and scarce.

"so," jisung breathed, his eyes still closed. "is that a truce-breaking move?"

you let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands finding the hem of his hoodie to pull him closer. "i think the truce is officially dead, jisung."

"good," he whispered, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "i hated that truce anyway. it was too quiet."

he kissed you again, slower this time, his hand moving from the gear shift to the small of your back, pulling you across the center console as much as the cramped space allowed.

it was the kind of kiss that made you forget you were sitting in a rusted-out truck on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere.

eventually, you pulled apart, both of you looking a little dazed and very flushed.

"we should... we should probably get to the house," you said, though you didn't move an inch. "before someone actually starts a fire. i really wouldn't put it past them."

jisung nodded, a goofy, lopsided grin spreading across his face—the first real, unburdened smile you’d seen from him in years. "right. the house. the guys. seungmin's shovel."

"he's not going to kill you," you promised, smoothing down his hair, though it didn't help much. "i won't let him."

"my hero," he teased, leaning in for one last, quick peck before hopping out to switch back to the driver's seat.

as he pulled the truck back onto the road, the truck felt different. it wasn't a cage or a liability anymore. it was the place where everything had changed. jisung reached over, finding your hand and squeezing it tight, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles as he drove.

it was pretty perfect.

the gravel crunched under the tires of the rust bucket as it finally rolled into the driveway of the beachside villa. the house was stunning—all glass and weathered wood, perched right on the edge of a dune—but the most prominent feature was the six boys crowded onto the second-floor deck, looking down at the truck like it was a visiting alien spacecraft.

minho was leaning over the railing, brandishing a spatula like a scepter, his apron flapping in the sea breeze. "look! the survivors have returned! did you leave room for jesus between you in the truck, or was it a tight fit?"

"shut up, minho!" jisung shouted back. he didn't even sound annoyed; there was a lilt in his voice, a lightness that usually only came after too much sugar.

he hopped out of the cab, his boots hitting the gravel with a confident thud. as he walked around to the back to grab the bags, he caught your eye over the roof of the truck. he didn't smirk.

he didn't roll his eyes or make a face at your expense. he just gave you a small, private nod—a silent acknowledgment that while you were back with the group, the something else that had happened in that yellow-walled motel room and on that valley shoulder wasn't staying behind.

the house was chaos from the second you stepped inside. the smell of salt air was replaced by the scent of frying garlic and pure glee. chan was fussing over whether you’d eaten, his hands hovering over your shoulders as if checking for physical damage and mental trauma. felix was giving you a bone-crushing hug, his deep voice muffled against your hair as he apologized for the bad luck of the truck's breakdown.

"you look... different," seungmin said, leaning against the kitchen island with a dish towel over his shoulder. he was squinting, his protective-brother-radar pinging at maximum frequency. "you're wearing a different hoodie. that’s not yours. and you haven't told jisung to shut up once in the last ten minutes. actually, you haven't even looked at him with the usual 'i want to poison your lunch' expression."

"it's been a long trip, seungmin," you said, trying to keep your voice even as you busied yourself with a plate of shrimp. your heart was hammering against your ribs. "i'm too tired to be mean. i’ve used up my yearly quota of insults on his driving."

"suspicious," he muttered, eyes darting between you and jisung, who was currently being tackled by felix. seungmin didn't look convinced, but he let it go for the moment as chan popped a bottle of wine and started pouring glasses for everyone.

the night unfolded in a blur of laughter and relief. as the wine flowed and the adrenaline of the trip finally ebbed away, the group settled into a familiar rhythm. the "act" was surprisingly easy to keep up, mostly because the bickering hadn't stopped—it had just mutated. it was lighter now, the insults carrying a playful warmth that hadn't been there before. it wasn't about trying to hurt; it was about trying to stay close.

you were all sprawled out in the living room, a cutthroat game of monopoly in full swing. minho was winning, naturally, having somehow acquired a monopoly on the dark blue and green properties within twenty minutes. he sat cross-legged on the floor, looking like a smug cat.

"this is rigged! i'm filing a formal complaint!" jisung whined, throwing himself back onto a giant beanbag. "how is it fair that you have hotels on park place and i'm literally in jail? this is a metaphor for my life. i am being oppressed by the system. i'm a victim of circumstance."

"you're in jail because you rolled doubles three times, you theatrical squirrel," minho retorted, gleefully collecting rent from a grimacing chan. "pay up. i don't accept tears as currency."

you laughed, leaning back against the sofa. you felt a hand brush against your ankle—jisung, reaching out from his beanbag to give you a quick, grounding squeeze. his thumb traced a small circle over your skin before pulling back to continue his dramatic monologue about the injustices of capitalism. the touch was brief, hidden by the coffee table, but it felt like a jolt of electricity.

it felt good. it felt right. but as you looked at him—his face flushed with wine, his hair a mess from running his hands through it—the urge to keep it a secret started to feel less like a necessity and more like a burden. you were tired of the wall. you were tired of the "enemies" label everyone else had slapped on you.

maybe it was love, maybe it was the wine. either way, you have no excuse for what came over you.

you stood up, stretching your legs. "i'm going to get more popcorn. the losers look like they need emotional support snacks."

"get the butter kind! and don't skimp on the salt!" jisung called out, looking up at you with that bright, lopsided grin—the one that had finally, completely won you over somewhere between mile marker forty and sixty.

you paused. the room was loud, filled with the clatter of dice and chan's booming laughter. without overthinking it—knowing that if you thought about it for even a second, you'd lose your nerve—you leaned down and pressed a quick, firm kiss to jisung’s cheek.

the room didn't just go quiet; it seemed to physically deflate.

the dice stopped rolling. chan’s wine glass stopped halfway to his mouth. felix’s jaw dropped so low you thought it might actually hit the coffee table. minho’s eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across his face as he leaned back.

"i knew it," minho whispered into the silence. "i am the smartest man alive. pay up, chan. i told you the truck breakdown was a blessing in disguise."

seungmin, however, was a different story.

he stood up slowly, his face a mask of calm, terrifying fury. he didn't look at you; he looked directly at jisung, who was currently frozen on the beanbag like a deer caught in high-beams, his hand still frozen mid-air where he’d been gesturing.

"han jisung," seungmin said, his voice dangerously low, the kind of quiet that usually precedes a natural disaster. "get up. we are going into the backyard. i need to show you a very interesting rock. and by 'show you a rock,' i mean i'm going to bury you under one."

"truce! truce!" jisung yelled, finally snapping out of his trance and scrambling backward over the beanbag as seungmin started to lunge for him. "seungmin, wait! it was the manual transmission! the stress of the road! it changed us! it was a spiritual experience!"

"i'll change your manual transmission into a funeral procession!" seungmin shouted, chasing him around the sofa while hyunjin and felix started cheering like they were at a wrestling match.

chan jumped up, grabbing seungmin around the waist to hold him back, though he was laughing too hard to be very effective. "seungmin, let him live! we need him for the drive back!"

"no, we don't! i'll drive the truck into the ocean!"

"sungie, run!" you laughed, leaning against the kitchen doorframe as you watched the chaos. it was exactly what you expected, and yet, the weight that had been sitting on your chest for years was gone.

jisung darted behind the kitchen island, using you as a human shield. he pointed a frantic finger at seungmin. "save me! tell him you like me! tell him i'm a vibe! tell him i'm the best thing that ever happened to this group!"

"he's a vibe, seungmin! i promise!" you shouted over the noise.

"he's a menace! he's been annoying you since freshman year!" seungmin yelled back, though he was finally starting to crack a smile despite his best efforts to stay angry.

eventually, the chase died down, leaving everyone breathless and leaning on each other for support. jisung gingerly crept back toward the group, hiding behind chan’s shoulder until he was sure seungmin wouldn't actually tackle him again.

as the night finally wound down and the others drifted off toward their bedrooms, the house grew quiet, the only sound the distant roar of the atlantic. you and jisung found yourselves alone on the deck, looking out at the dark, moonlit ocean. the air was cool and sharp with salt.

jisung stepped up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. you felt the soft navy-blue fleece of his hoodie—the one he’d practically forced you into when the truck heater died—against your arms.

"so," he whispered, his chin resting on your shoulder. "that was one hell of an arrival. i really thought seungmin was going to end me."

"seungmin is going to give you a hard time for the rest of your life," you reminded him, tilting your head back to look at him. "you know that, right? he's never going to let you forget the 'highlighter hair' comments."

"worth it," he said, and for once, there was no joke in his voice. he sounded grounded. "totally worth it. i’d let him chase me around the house every day if it meant i didn't have to pretend i don't want to be near you."

he turned you around in his arms, his gaze soft as he looked at you in the moonlight. the bickering wasn't gone—it would probably always be part of the way you communicated—but the weight of it had changed. it wasn't a wall meant to keep people out anymore. it was just the way you played.

"eight hours in a rust bucket," he mused, leaning down until his forehead touched yours. his breath was warm against your skin. "one sketchy motel with thin walls. a flooded engine. and i still think i’m the happiest guy on this beach."

"don't get sappy, sungie," you whispered, though you were already reaching up to tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. "you're still an annoying, disorganized, statistical anomaly."

"yeah," he breathed, closing the gap between you, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "but i'm your statistical anomaly."

and as the moon rose over the water, officially ending the longest road trip of your life, you realized that sometimes the best way to find exactly where you’re going is to get completely, hopelessly lost with the last person you ever expected to love. he kissed you, and it was just as sweet as before.

you just might've been the luckiest girl in the world.

🏷️ ( ask to be added! ): @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @doliveiraa @notmeneo @gadriezmannsgirl

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