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hana | she/her | 22 (feb 10th) | infj
hiiiii i'm hana! i love reading, poetry, coffee, friends to lovers tropes, and all kinds of flowers. i've been wonwoo biased for years, but i think jeonghan and vernon have pushed themselves in there. thank you for visiting 💌💐
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Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. You’ve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
⇢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⇢ genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers
⇢ wc: approx. 10k
⇢ warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean 😭
⇢ a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. it’s been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world 💗
⇢ as part of the carat’s ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern
YOU’VE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.
“You're doing the thing again,” Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.
“What thing?”
“You've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.”
“I wasn't staring at the door.” You absolutely were staring at the door.
“Okay.“ Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. “Do these look like chicken eggs to you?”
“They look like abstract art.”
She sticks her tongue out at you. “Okay, well, they're chicken eggs.”
Across the room, Soyeon — who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes — is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.
“I had it first.”
“I had it first first.”
“There's no such thing as first first,” Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. “There are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.”
Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.
The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.
You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun — someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.
“That's not what it says,” you tell her, crouching down.
“I know,“ Chaewon says. “I made it better.”
You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.
By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents — circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.
This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it — the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums aren’t exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes — grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, you’re happy exactly where you are.
Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your mother’s few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.
“So nothing's happening with anyone,” she says, not a question.
You roll your eyes. “Correct.”
“Nothing at all. Zero activity.”
“I have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.”
“I didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.“ Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. “You have like, two friends anyway.”
Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct.
“I saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,” your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate — which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. “He asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasn’t he?”
You scoff. “He's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.”
“Mm,“ your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. “He's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.”
“He asked her to proooom,” Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. “Ow! Mom!”
“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, over Yuna’s complaint.
“I didn't say it meant anything.” Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. “I just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.”
“Can we talk about literally anything else,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “In fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,” you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground — Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth — but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.
Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way he’s never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal — it's just the way it is with him, constant.
Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing.
You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften — him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said “your loss” and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.
There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.
“Get in,” he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, “Alright,” and driven off slowly.
You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year — why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you — and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.
You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding — Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.
You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you can’t call him insistent.
Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything — with a grin, a shrug, a “your loss” tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever.
So you do the same — you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.
The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store — or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, “You're gonna want the other kind.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. “I didn’t ask you, Seungcheol.”
“You didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.” Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. “The one with the honey clusters. Trust me.”
“I don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.”
“It's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I don’t know how to grocery shop.” He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be — which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. “You still owe me an answer on Seokmin’s barbecue thing, by the way.”
“That was two years ago, Seungcheol.”
“I have a long memory.”
“You have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.”
“Different category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.” He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.
“Don't,” you say.
“Didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.“ He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers — like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. “How's the daycare? Still winning?”
“Every day's a battle, but yes.”
“You could come to Seokmin’s barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.”
“I'll think about it,” you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade — him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.
It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.
You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.
“You look like you got hit by that truck of yours,”you'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how you’d felt at your own actions.
“Feels about right.” He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. “There was a house fire. We got everyone out,” he adds quickly, “It’s just — the house. It’s fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were — you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.”
You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful.
“You did everything you could,” you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but it’s true.”
He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit — just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. “They teach you that in your psych degree or what?” he'd asked, attempting for a smile.
You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. “Turns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.”
That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did — his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before they’re about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree — he’d never been to college, of course, and he’d listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.
You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers — and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.
Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both — you and Seungcheol — long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as she’s doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.
“I saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,” Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. “He asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.“
“He's like that with—”
“If you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.“ She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. “I've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?”
You don’t answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. “He’s not serious. It’s like a game to him.”
“Did someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?” She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “It’s been years, ___.”
“Yeah, years of playful flirting. There’s literally nothing serious behind it — I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. It’s a joke. We both know it’s a joke.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s been stuck on you since high school, and you’re too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.”
She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. “He’s not stuck on me,” you say finally. “Seriously. We’ve both dated other people, in high school and after.”
“Don’t be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.”
“Well, he’s never actually said that!”
“Purposefully. Obtuse.” She pokes your forehead after each word. “What are you protecting yourself from here?”
You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.
“Because it's not him,” she continues. “He'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.”
“It's not that simple.”
“It's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.“ She blows on her nails. “He likes you. You like him. It’s the simplest fucking thing ever.”
You don’t say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it — today, she’s said everything you don’t want to hear.
“Anyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?”
“She's added a supervillain.”
“Of course she has.” Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways — into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about — and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.
It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh — who owns and runs Little Pines — gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.
“Also,“ she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, “Fire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual — stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.”
“Cute,“ Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. “The kids’ll love it.”
“Who's coming?” Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and you’re pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheol’s coworkers, Wonwoo.
“Didn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.” Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine.
You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.
The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. They’ve talking about it for a week — Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have “actual axes.” You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.
You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does — a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.
Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. “Who wants to sit in the driver's seat?” he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.
He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (“Couple times,” Seungcheol says. “Rough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.”)
The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who you’d also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.
You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.
“You've got glitter on your face,” he says, by way of hello.
“I always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.”
“It's a good look on you.” He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate — hate — the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.
“You didn't have to come,” you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.
“Somebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,“ he says solemnly. “It's a calling.“
“Right. Noble.” You pause. “They’re four, by the way.”
“Extremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.”
“I'm always nice to you.”
“You're the meanest person I know,“ he says, delighted, “and I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.”
“Anyway,” he says, looking over to the truck. “The kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that — let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.”
“Sure,” you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. You’re pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. “Whatever's easiest.”
“You'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?”
“That's generally how field trips work, yes.”
“Good.” He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking — you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.
And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.
By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.
You don't hear the end of it for a while.
For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays “the fireman” and assigns you the role of “the person who has to be saved,” which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.
The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would “come back when he was ready,” which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.
You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it — a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.
Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light, jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but it’s the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.
Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week you’ve had, but you’re not really looking to drink too much tonight.
You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. He’s saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.
“Oh, this'll be good,” Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider.
You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isn’t really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process.
It’s maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.
He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that he’s drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.
Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brother’s wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.
“You're not listening,” he says, not offended, just observing.
“I'm listening.”
“What'd I just say?”
“Something about a ring.“
“Close enough.“ He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual — like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. “You've got that look.“
“What look?”
“You’re totally zoning out. That look.”
You snort, aiming for humour. “I'm always zoning out around you.“
“I know,” he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, “You always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.”
“Please.”
“It’s true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!”
Heat crawls up your face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.”
“I remember,” he smiles. “Everyone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.”
It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that — all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch — he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade — and your mother at the dinner table — sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time — and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.
He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.
The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first — it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.
Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.
Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.
“I—” you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next.
“Hey,” he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like he’s catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. “It's okay, just — ”
“I shouldn't have — ” You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. “I think I had too much to drink.“
“You didn’t even finish your cocktail,” he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. “Can we just — talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's not— ”
“Cheol, I’m sorry — I — I really think I should go,” you’re fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.
“I'm not trying to freak you out.” He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because you’re still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and it’s his turn to trip over his words: “I just — I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's — I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a se—?” And he cuts himself off, because you’re standing up.
It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. “Please,” he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and he’s gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.
“I have work in the morning,“ you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, it’s a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Get home safe.”
Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. “Hey,” she says, softer than you've heard her all night. “You good?”
“I don't know,” you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.
You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more — that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.
You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.
Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.
Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.
The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if there’s any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.
“Absolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.”
You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.
The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.
When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.
Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before — you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them — crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard.
There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory — before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says “morning,“ in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.
It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.
Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.
“Hey,” you say, inadequately.
He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. “Hey,” he says, not looking up. “Kids have a good time?”
“They loved it. You're good with them.”
“Yeah, well.” He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning — pleasant and closed-off.
“Seungcheol—”
“You should get back to the bus,” he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. “Don't want to lose a kid on my watch.”
It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land — that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it.
“Okay,” you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.
You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough — nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired — but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it.
You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.
“Okay,” Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. “Talk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.”
So you tell her. All of it — the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, “You know what you have to do.”
“I know what I have to do.”
“So why haven't you done it yet.”
“Because I've never actually done this before,” you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. “Turning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.“
“Nobody knows how to do the other thing,” Minji says, not unkindly. “You just do it anyway.”
You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table — the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use.
You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant he’d turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then — keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.
And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative — that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back — was a door you weren't ready to open.
By Sunday you’ve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.
It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, you’ve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has.
It’s not that they mattered less. It’s that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, who’d been the easiest person in your entire year to like, who’d had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and you’d been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative — that he meant it, about you, specifically — just didn’t make sense.
It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception.
You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.
“Okay,” Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. “So let me get this straight. You've liked him since — what, ninth grade?”
“I didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.”
“You basically said that.”
“I said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I haven’t been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.”
You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. “Yeah, well. It seems like he’s been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you don’t have a chance. “I genuinely thought you two just had a bit going. A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.”
“That's not a compliment.”
“It's not not a compliment.” A pause. “You're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.”
Your nose scrunches. “I might.”
“Don't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just — don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.”
You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. “Tomorrow,” you say. “I'll go tomorrow.”
“Good. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.”
“I'm not going to tell you everything.“
“You're going to tell me everything,” Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.
You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know — because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not — he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind.
Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.
He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated — surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.
“Hey,“ he says. “Everything okay? Kids alright?”
“The kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.” Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesn’t comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.
“I've been an idiot,“ you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. “For, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.“
That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
“I think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didn’t make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.”
He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.
“And at the bar,” you say, “I panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I don’t know, I just totally freaked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didn’t deserve it, and I’m really, really sorry.”
He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It was just — in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and — then you’d show up again and, I don’t know. Especially when you moved back.” He pauses — the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. “You were always worth asking,” he says, finally. “I wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I'm really sorry,” you say, and you mean it.
“Okay,” he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Practised in your car,” he repeats, and there — there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.
“Don't gloat.”
“I'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.”
“There he is,” you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.
an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. it’s nearly 4am and i need to sleep.
Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. You’ve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
⇢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⇢ genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers
⇢ wc: approx. 10k
⇢ warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean 😭
⇢ a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. it’s been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world 💗
⇢ as part of the carat’s ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern
YOU’VE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.
“You're doing the thing again,” Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.
“What thing?”
“You've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.”
“I wasn't staring at the door.” You absolutely were staring at the door.
“Okay.“ Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. “Do these look like chicken eggs to you?”
“They look like abstract art.”
She sticks her tongue out at you. “Okay, well, they're chicken eggs.”
Across the room, Soyeon — who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes — is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.
“I had it first.”
“I had it first first.”
“There's no such thing as first first,” Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. “There are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.”
Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.
The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.
You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun — someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.
“That's not what it says,” you tell her, crouching down.
“I know,“ Chaewon says. “I made it better.”
You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.
By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents — circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.
This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it — the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums aren’t exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes — grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, you’re happy exactly where you are.
Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your mother’s few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.
“So nothing's happening with anyone,” she says, not a question.
You roll your eyes. “Correct.”
“Nothing at all. Zero activity.”
“I have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.”
“I didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.“ Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. “You have like, two friends anyway.”
Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct.
“I saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,” your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate — which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. “He asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasn’t he?”
You scoff. “He's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.”
“Mm,“ your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. “He's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.”
“He asked her to proooom,” Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. “Ow! Mom!”
“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, over Yuna’s complaint.
“I didn't say it meant anything.” Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. “I just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.”
“Can we talk about literally anything else,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “In fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,” you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground — Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth — but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.
Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way he’s never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal — it's just the way it is with him, constant.
Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing.
You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften — him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said “your loss” and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.
There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.
“Get in,” he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, “Alright,” and driven off slowly.
You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year — why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you — and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.
You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding — Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.
You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you can’t call him insistent.
Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything — with a grin, a shrug, a “your loss” tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever.
So you do the same — you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.
The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store — or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, “You're gonna want the other kind.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. “I didn’t ask you, Seungcheol.”
“You didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.” Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. “The one with the honey clusters. Trust me.”
“I don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.”
“It's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I don’t know how to grocery shop.” He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be — which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. “You still owe me an answer on Seokmin’s barbecue thing, by the way.”
“That was two years ago, Seungcheol.”
“I have a long memory.”
“You have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.”
“Different category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.” He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.
“Don't,” you say.
“Didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.“ He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers — like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. “How's the daycare? Still winning?”
“Every day's a battle, but yes.”
“You could come to Seokmin’s barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.”
“I'll think about it,” you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade — him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.
It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.
You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.
“You look like you got hit by that truck of yours,”you'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how you’d felt at your own actions.
“Feels about right.” He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. “There was a house fire. We got everyone out,” he adds quickly, “It’s just — the house. It’s fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were — you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.”
You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful.
“You did everything you could,” you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but it’s true.”
He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit — just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. “They teach you that in your psych degree or what?” he'd asked, attempting for a smile.
You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. “Turns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.”
That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did — his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before they’re about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree — he’d never been to college, of course, and he’d listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.
You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers — and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.
Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both — you and Seungcheol — long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as she’s doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.
“I saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,” Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. “He asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.“
“He's like that with—”
“If you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.“ She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. “I've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?”
You don’t answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. “He’s not serious. It’s like a game to him.”
“Did someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?” She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “It’s been years, ___.”
“Yeah, years of playful flirting. There’s literally nothing serious behind it — I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. It’s a joke. We both know it’s a joke.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s been stuck on you since high school, and you’re too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.”
She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. “He’s not stuck on me,” you say finally. “Seriously. We’ve both dated other people, in high school and after.”
“Don’t be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.”
“Well, he’s never actually said that!”
“Purposefully. Obtuse.” She pokes your forehead after each word. “What are you protecting yourself from here?”
You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.
“Because it's not him,” she continues. “He'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.”
“It's not that simple.”
“It's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.“ She blows on her nails. “He likes you. You like him. It’s the simplest fucking thing ever.”
You don’t say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it — today, she’s said everything you don’t want to hear.
“Anyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?”
“She's added a supervillain.”
“Of course she has.” Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways — into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about — and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.
It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh — who owns and runs Little Pines — gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.
“Also,“ she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, “Fire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual — stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.”
“Cute,“ Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. “The kids’ll love it.”
“Who's coming?” Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and you’re pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheol’s coworkers, Wonwoo.
“Didn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.” Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine.
You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.
The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. They’ve talking about it for a week — Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have “actual axes.” You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.
You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does — a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.
Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. “Who wants to sit in the driver's seat?” he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.
He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (“Couple times,” Seungcheol says. “Rough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.”)
The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who you’d also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.
You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.
“You've got glitter on your face,” he says, by way of hello.
“I always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.”
“It's a good look on you.” He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate — hate — the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.
“You didn't have to come,” you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.
“Somebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,“ he says solemnly. “It's a calling.“
“Right. Noble.” You pause. “They’re four, by the way.”
“Extremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.”
“I'm always nice to you.”
“You're the meanest person I know,“ he says, delighted, “and I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.”
“Anyway,” he says, looking over to the truck. “The kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that — let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.”
“Sure,” you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. You’re pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. “Whatever's easiest.”
“You'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?”
“That's generally how field trips work, yes.”
“Good.” He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking — you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.
And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.
By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.
You don't hear the end of it for a while.
For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays “the fireman” and assigns you the role of “the person who has to be saved,” which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.
The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would “come back when he was ready,” which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.
You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it — a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.
Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light, jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but it’s the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.
Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week you’ve had, but you’re not really looking to drink too much tonight.
You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. He’s saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.
“Oh, this'll be good,” Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider.
You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isn’t really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process.
It’s maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.
He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that he’s drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.
Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brother’s wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.
“You're not listening,” he says, not offended, just observing.
“I'm listening.”
“What'd I just say?”
“Something about a ring.“
“Close enough.“ He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual — like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. “You've got that look.“
“What look?”
“You’re totally zoning out. That look.”
You snort, aiming for humour. “I'm always zoning out around you.“
“I know,” he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, “You always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.”
“Please.”
“It’s true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!”
Heat crawls up your face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.”
“I remember,” he smiles. “Everyone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.”
It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that — all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch — he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade — and your mother at the dinner table — sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time — and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.
He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.
The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first — it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.
Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.
Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.
“I—” you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next.
“Hey,” he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like he’s catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. “It's okay, just — ”
“I shouldn't have — ” You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. “I think I had too much to drink.“
“You didn’t even finish your cocktail,” he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. “Can we just — talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's not— ”
“Cheol, I’m sorry — I — I really think I should go,” you’re fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.
“I'm not trying to freak you out.” He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because you’re still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and it’s his turn to trip over his words: “I just — I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's — I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a se—?” And he cuts himself off, because you’re standing up.
It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. “Please,” he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and he’s gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.
“I have work in the morning,“ you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, it’s a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Get home safe.”
Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. “Hey,” she says, softer than you've heard her all night. “You good?”
“I don't know,” you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.
You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more — that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.
You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.
Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.
Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.
The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if there’s any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.
“Absolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.”
You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.
The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.
When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.
Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before — you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them — crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard.
There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory — before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says “morning,“ in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.
It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.
Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.
“Hey,” you say, inadequately.
He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. “Hey,” he says, not looking up. “Kids have a good time?”
“They loved it. You're good with them.”
“Yeah, well.” He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning — pleasant and closed-off.
“Seungcheol—”
“You should get back to the bus,” he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. “Don't want to lose a kid on my watch.”
It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land — that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it.
“Okay,” you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.
You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough — nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired — but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it.
You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.
“Okay,” Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. “Talk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.”
So you tell her. All of it — the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, “You know what you have to do.”
“I know what I have to do.”
“So why haven't you done it yet.”
“Because I've never actually done this before,” you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. “Turning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.“
“Nobody knows how to do the other thing,” Minji says, not unkindly. “You just do it anyway.”
You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table — the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use.
You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant he’d turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then — keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.
And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative — that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back — was a door you weren't ready to open.
By Sunday you’ve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.
It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, you’ve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has.
It’s not that they mattered less. It’s that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, who’d been the easiest person in your entire year to like, who’d had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and you’d been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative — that he meant it, about you, specifically — just didn’t make sense.
It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception.
You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.
“Okay,” Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. “So let me get this straight. You've liked him since — what, ninth grade?”
“I didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.”
“You basically said that.”
“I said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I haven’t been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.”
You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. “Yeah, well. It seems like he’s been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you don’t have a chance. “I genuinely thought you two just had a bit going. A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.”
“That's not a compliment.”
“It's not not a compliment.” A pause. “You're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.”
Your nose scrunches. “I might.”
“Don't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just — don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.”
You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. “Tomorrow,” you say. “I'll go tomorrow.”
“Good. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.”
“I'm not going to tell you everything.“
“You're going to tell me everything,” Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.
You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know — because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not — he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind.
Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.
He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated — surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.
“Hey,“ he says. “Everything okay? Kids alright?”
“The kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.” Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesn’t comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.
“I've been an idiot,“ you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. “For, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.“
That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
“I think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didn’t make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.”
He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.
“And at the bar,” you say, “I panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I don’t know, I just totally freaked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didn’t deserve it, and I’m really, really sorry.”
He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It was just — in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and — then you’d show up again and, I don’t know. Especially when you moved back.” He pauses — the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. “You were always worth asking,” he says, finally. “I wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I'm really sorry,” you say, and you mean it.
“Okay,” he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Practised in your car,” he repeats, and there — there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.
“Don't gloat.”
“I'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.”
“There he is,” you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.
an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. it’s nearly 4am and i need to sleep.
Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. You’ve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
⇢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⇢ genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers
⇢ wc: approx. 10k
⇢ warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean 😭
⇢ a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. it’s been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world 💗
⇢ as part of the carat’s ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern
YOU’VE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.
“You're doing the thing again,” Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.
“What thing?”
“You've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.”
“I wasn't staring at the door.” You absolutely were staring at the door.
“Okay.“ Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. “Do these look like chicken eggs to you?”
“They look like abstract art.”
She sticks her tongue out at you. “Okay, well, they're chicken eggs.”
Across the room, Soyeon — who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes — is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.
“I had it first.”
“I had it first first.”
“There's no such thing as first first,” Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. “There are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.”
Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.
The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.
You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun — someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.
“That's not what it says,” you tell her, crouching down.
“I know,“ Chaewon says. “I made it better.”
You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.
By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents — circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.
This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it — the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums aren’t exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes — grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, you’re happy exactly where you are.
Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your mother’s few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.
“So nothing's happening with anyone,” she says, not a question.
You roll your eyes. “Correct.”
“Nothing at all. Zero activity.”
“I have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.”
“I didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.“ Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. “You have like, two friends anyway.”
Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct.
“I saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,” your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate — which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. “He asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasn’t he?”
You scoff. “He's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.”
“Mm,“ your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. “He's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.”
“He asked her to proooom,” Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. “Ow! Mom!”
“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, over Yuna’s complaint.
“I didn't say it meant anything.” Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. “I just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.”
“Can we talk about literally anything else,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “In fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,” you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground — Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth — but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.
Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way he’s never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal — it's just the way it is with him, constant.
Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing.
You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften — him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said “your loss” and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.
There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.
“Get in,” he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, “Alright,” and driven off slowly.
You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year — why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you — and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.
You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding — Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.
You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you can’t call him insistent.
Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything — with a grin, a shrug, a “your loss” tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever.
So you do the same — you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.
The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store — or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, “You're gonna want the other kind.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. “I didn’t ask you, Seungcheol.”
“You didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.” Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. “The one with the honey clusters. Trust me.”
“I don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.”
“It's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I don’t know how to grocery shop.” He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be — which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. “You still owe me an answer on Seokmin’s barbecue thing, by the way.”
“That was two years ago, Seungcheol.”
“I have a long memory.”
“You have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.”
“Different category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.” He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.
“Don't,” you say.
“Didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.“ He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers — like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. “How's the daycare? Still winning?”
“Every day's a battle, but yes.”
“You could come to Seokmin’s barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.”
“I'll think about it,” you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade — him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.
It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.
You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.
“You look like you got hit by that truck of yours,”you'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how you’d felt at your own actions.
“Feels about right.” He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. “There was a house fire. We got everyone out,” he adds quickly, “It’s just — the house. It’s fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were — you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.”
You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful.
“You did everything you could,” you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but it’s true.”
He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit — just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. “They teach you that in your psych degree or what?” he'd asked, attempting for a smile.
You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. “Turns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.”
That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did — his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before they’re about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree — he’d never been to college, of course, and he’d listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.
You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers — and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.
Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both — you and Seungcheol — long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as she’s doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.
“I saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,” Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. “He asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.“
“He's like that with—”
“If you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.“ She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. “I've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?”
You don’t answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. “He’s not serious. It’s like a game to him.”
“Did someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?” She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “It’s been years, ___.”
“Yeah, years of playful flirting. There’s literally nothing serious behind it — I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. It’s a joke. We both know it’s a joke.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s been stuck on you since high school, and you’re too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.”
She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. “He’s not stuck on me,” you say finally. “Seriously. We’ve both dated other people, in high school and after.”
“Don’t be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.”
“Well, he’s never actually said that!”
“Purposefully. Obtuse.” She pokes your forehead after each word. “What are you protecting yourself from here?”
You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.
“Because it's not him,” she continues. “He'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.”
“It's not that simple.”
“It's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.“ She blows on her nails. “He likes you. You like him. It’s the simplest fucking thing ever.”
You don’t say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it — today, she’s said everything you don’t want to hear.
“Anyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?”
“She's added a supervillain.”
“Of course she has.” Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways — into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about — and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.
It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh — who owns and runs Little Pines — gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.
“Also,“ she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, “Fire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual — stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.”
“Cute,“ Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. “The kids’ll love it.”
“Who's coming?” Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and you’re pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheol’s coworkers, Wonwoo.
“Didn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.” Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine.
You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.
The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. They’ve talking about it for a week — Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have “actual axes.” You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.
You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does — a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.
Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. “Who wants to sit in the driver's seat?” he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.
He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (“Couple times,” Seungcheol says. “Rough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.”)
The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who you’d also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.
You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.
“You've got glitter on your face,” he says, by way of hello.
“I always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.”
“It's a good look on you.” He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate — hate — the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.
“You didn't have to come,” you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.
“Somebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,“ he says solemnly. “It's a calling.“
“Right. Noble.” You pause. “They’re four, by the way.”
“Extremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.”
“I'm always nice to you.”
“You're the meanest person I know,“ he says, delighted, “and I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.”
“Anyway,” he says, looking over to the truck. “The kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that — let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.”
“Sure,” you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. You’re pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. “Whatever's easiest.”
“You'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?”
“That's generally how field trips work, yes.”
“Good.” He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking — you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.
And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.
By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.
You don't hear the end of it for a while.
For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays “the fireman” and assigns you the role of “the person who has to be saved,” which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.
The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would “come back when he was ready,” which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.
You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it — a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.
Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light, jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but it’s the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.
Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week you’ve had, but you’re not really looking to drink too much tonight.
You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. He’s saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.
“Oh, this'll be good,” Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider.
You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isn’t really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process.
It’s maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.
He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that he’s drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.
Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brother’s wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.
“You're not listening,” he says, not offended, just observing.
“I'm listening.”
“What'd I just say?”
“Something about a ring.“
“Close enough.“ He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual — like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. “You've got that look.“
“What look?”
“You’re totally zoning out. That look.”
You snort, aiming for humour. “I'm always zoning out around you.“
“I know,” he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, “You always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.”
“Please.”
“It’s true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!”
Heat crawls up your face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.”
“I remember,” he smiles. “Everyone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.”
It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that — all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch — he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade — and your mother at the dinner table — sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time — and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.
He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.
The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first — it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.
Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.
Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.
“I—” you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next.
“Hey,” he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like he’s catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. “It's okay, just — ”
“I shouldn't have — ” You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. “I think I had too much to drink.“
“You didn’t even finish your cocktail,” he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. “Can we just — talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's not— ”
“Cheol, I’m sorry — I — I really think I should go,” you’re fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.
“I'm not trying to freak you out.” He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because you’re still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and it’s his turn to trip over his words: “I just — I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's — I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a se—?” And he cuts himself off, because you’re standing up.
It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. “Please,” he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and he’s gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.
“I have work in the morning,“ you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, it’s a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Get home safe.”
Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. “Hey,” she says, softer than you've heard her all night. “You good?”
“I don't know,” you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.
You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more — that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.
You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.
Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.
Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.
The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if there’s any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.
“Absolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.”
You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.
The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.
When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.
Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before — you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them — crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard.
There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory — before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says “morning,“ in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.
It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.
Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.
“Hey,” you say, inadequately.
He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. “Hey,” he says, not looking up. “Kids have a good time?”
“They loved it. You're good with them.”
“Yeah, well.” He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning — pleasant and closed-off.
“Seungcheol—”
“You should get back to the bus,” he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. “Don't want to lose a kid on my watch.”
It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land — that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it.
“Okay,” you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.
You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough — nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired — but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it.
You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.
“Okay,” Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. “Talk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.”
So you tell her. All of it — the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, “You know what you have to do.”
“I know what I have to do.”
“So why haven't you done it yet.”
“Because I've never actually done this before,” you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. “Turning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.“
“Nobody knows how to do the other thing,” Minji says, not unkindly. “You just do it anyway.”
You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table — the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use.
You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant he’d turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then — keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.
And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative — that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back — was a door you weren't ready to open.
By Sunday you’ve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.
It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, you’ve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has.
It’s not that they mattered less. It’s that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, who’d been the easiest person in your entire year to like, who’d had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and you’d been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative — that he meant it, about you, specifically — just didn’t make sense.
It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception.
You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.
“Okay,” Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. “So let me get this straight. You've liked him since — what, ninth grade?”
“I didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.”
“You basically said that.”
“I said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I haven’t been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.”
You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. “Yeah, well. It seems like he’s been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you don’t have a chance. “I genuinely thought you two just had a bit going. A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.”
“That's not a compliment.”
“It's not not a compliment.” A pause. “You're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.”
Your nose scrunches. “I might.”
“Don't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just — don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.”
You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. “Tomorrow,” you say. “I'll go tomorrow.”
“Good. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.”
“I'm not going to tell you everything.“
“You're going to tell me everything,” Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.
You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know — because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not — he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind.
Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.
He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated — surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.
“Hey,“ he says. “Everything okay? Kids alright?”
“The kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.” Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesn’t comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.
“I've been an idiot,“ you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. “For, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.“
That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
“I think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didn’t make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.”
He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.
“And at the bar,” you say, “I panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I don’t know, I just totally freaked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didn’t deserve it, and I’m really, really sorry.”
He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It was just — in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and — then you’d show up again and, I don’t know. Especially when you moved back.” He pauses — the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. “You were always worth asking,” he says, finally. “I wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I'm really sorry,” you say, and you mean it.
“Okay,” he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Practised in your car,” he repeats, and there — there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.
“Don't gloat.”
“I'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.”
“There he is,” you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.
an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. it’s nearly 4am and i need to sleep.
You didn’t expect to run into your late brother’s best friend tending bar at an illegal speakeasy — or to start falling for him. But when you realize Vernon is involved in the same kind of work that got your brother killed, liking him suddenly feels dangerous in ways you know too well.
⇢ pairing: chwe vernon x f!reader
⇢ genre: angst, fluff, brother's best friend
⇢ wc: 9.2k
⇢ warnings: guns/gun violence (nothing graphic), illegal activities, alcohol consumption, grief + death, there are 100% historical inaccuracies and i am so sorry.
⇢ a/n: thank you to everyone who sprinted w me!! and thank you to jess and em for talking me into actually doing this. this is not the best thing i've ever written by a long shot, but it feels like forever since i've posted so here it is.
⇢ as part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt !
By the time your shift ends, there's a dull ache behind your ears, and your legs are aching from sitting too still for too long. You button your coat, and step back into the night with the sense that you've been standing still for hours while New York rushed past you.
Outside the telephone exchange, the cold cuts clean and sharp. Steam rises from the grates along the sidewalk, blurring the streetlights. You pull your gloves tighter and spot Catherine immediately, pacing near the corner with theatrical impatience, her hat already tilting off-center.
"There you are," she says, relief and accusation wrapped together. "I was starting to think they'd chained you to the board."
"Almost," you say. "What time is it?"
"Early enough that I refuse to go home yet." She links her arm through yours before you can protest. "Come on. Grace is waiting."
Grace is a block away, leaning against a lamppost with the ease of someone who never quite looks like she's waiting for anything. She straightens when she sees you, grinning.
"I told her you'd get out before seven," Grace says to you, and tosses Catherine a triumphant look. "You owe me fifty cents."
Cathy groans. "You're unbearable."
You smile despite yourself. "What's the plan?"
Grace glances down the street, then lowers her voice. "We're having a drink."
"A drink," you repeat, eyebrows lifting. You already know where this is going.
"A real one," Catherine says, daring you to argue.
You hesitate, brief but noticeable. "You know I don't usually."
"That's exactly why we're taking you," Grace beams, threading her arm through your free one. "You work too much. It's unseemly."
You make a face, but don't protest, and that leaves you reluctantly frogmarched by your two friends down the icy streets. Of course, they don't tell you where you're going at first, just guide you down a side street you rarely use, past shopfronts already dark for the night. Ignoring all your questions, of course, dismissing them with casual waves of the hand.
You let them, though, because it's been a while since you've had a proper drink, and anything is more appealing than going back to your lonely room. You already know your aunt will have fallen asleep in her chair by the window, and won't even stir when you let yourself in later on.
The door of the speakeasy doesn't look like anything at all.
That's the first thing you notice — how easy it would be to miss. Just another unmarked stretch of brick and a narrow doorway wedged between a tailor and a shuttered grocer, the kind of place you've passed a hundred times without wondering what's behind it.
Your friends are already laughing, breath fogging in the cold. Grace knocks twice, pauses, then knocks once more. You watch her hand, oddly attentive. A slit opens, a pair of eyes looks you over. Gracie smiles and says a name you don't recognise. The door swings inward.
Warmth hits you first, then sound. Laughter layered over music, conversation pressed close together. The air smells sharp and sweet all at once. Citrus. Alcohol. Wool coats damp from the cold.
"Oh," Catherine says, delighted. "This is good."
"Told you," Grace grins, though she looks just as pleasantly surprised as you do. "My cousin knows all the good spots."
You step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the low lighting, lamps shaded in amber, smoke clinging to the ceiling, bodies pressed together in easy familiarity. Jazz hums from somewhere unseen.
"This is so illegal," you say, automatically.
Catherine nudges you. "Isn't it wonderful?"
Someone laughs loudly near your shoulder. Someone else swears affectionately. It's loud, humming with a kind of life that the unremarkable front door conceals impressively. You friends squeeze in at the bar, and you end up slotting yourself in between them, just about close enough to hear each other under the buzz.
The bartender has his back to you, leaning in to hear someone farther down the bar. Dark hair, white shirt, sleeves rolled, and you're watching without any real thought until he turns.
The recognition arrives in pieces. The line of his jaw. The familiar curve of his mouth when he smiles at something the customer says, the way his eyes crease faintly at the corners. He looks older than the last time you saw him, leaner, sharper around the eyes, but unmistakably the same.
Your stomach drops.
Vernon.
For a heartbeat, you're sure he hasn't seen you, and relief flares, sharp and almost dizzying. Immediately, your instinct is to run — let the crowd swallow you, pretend this never happened, but then his gaze lifts, scanning the bar and it lands on your face.
He stills.
It's subtle, but you absolutely see it. His hand pauses, his expression goes blank, then carefully softens. Surprise, clear as day.
You hold his gaze, pulse louder than the jazz, thrumming in your ears. A year and a half collapses into a single moment.
Catherine leans back suddenly, elbowing your arm and lowering her mouth to your ear. "Am I crazy, or is that bartender making eyes straight at you?"
"What?" You barely manage a reply, disoriented. Your mouth seems to move slower, words not fully forming in your mouth.
"Hey," Grace says to the bartender (Vernon, your mind supplies insistently), unaware of the muttered conversation on her right. "Three Mary Pickfords."
He blinks once, glances at you for a beat too long, then nods. "Coming up."
His voice is exactly the fucking same.
He turns away to pour, giving you the barest moment to breathe. You watch him move, the familiarity of him made strange by context, but with all the thoughts rushing into your head, you don't have time to concentrate on his movements. Is he pretending not to know you? Does he actually not recognise you? Did you imagine the way his hands froze and his eyes widened?
He sets the glasses down in front of you, then finally looks at you again. There's a split second where he looks at you, befor he opens his mouth, and instantly you can tell, yes, he knows you. You may have met only a handful of times, but he knows you.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.
Neither of you moves closer. The bar hums around you, and your friends look on with unusual silence.
"I didn't know you…" He stops, adjusts. "I didn't know you — What are you doing here?"
"We just — came out for drinks," you say, and it's awkward, the half-hearted gesture you make towards your friends either side of you.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That makes sense."
Catherine looks between you. "You know each other?"
Vernon glances at you, giving you the choice — it's not much of a choice, after the conversation you just had in front of them.
"This is Vernon," you say, swallowing thickly. "He is — was — friends with my brother."
Your words stumble into each other, and you drop your eyes from Vernon's for a second. You don't want to see the way his eyes flicker when you correct yourself to past tense, don't want to see that sinking feeling in your stomach reflected in his eyes.
Cathy clears her throat. "Well. I suppose that explains the staring."
Vernon offers a small, careful smile, distributing the drinks without moving his eyes from your face. "It's good to see you."
"You too," you say truthfully, swallowing and managing a smile. Your mouth feels dry.
He slides the last glass toward you. "Three Mary Pickfords," he says, almost gentle. "Shout if you need me."
You take it, your fingers brushing the cool glass. "Thanks."
You drink. It burns, then settles.
The night keeps moving. Conversation carries on around you. Grace tells a story about a woman at her office who cried through lunch over a broken typewriter. Catherine interrupts constantly with her usual bright quips. You listen, humming and nodding where appropriate, but you can't make yourself contribute properly; your mind is still stuck on your brother's best friend.
Vernon is everywhere and nowhere at once, called down the bar, ducking behind shelves, leaning in to hear orders. Every time you think he might circle back, someone else needs him. You catch glimpses of him between people, sleeves damp now, hair slightly mussed. Sometimes he smiles, a quick fleeting thing that lights up his face for a second, before disappearing.
You haven't seen him since the funeral. You haven't really thought about him since the funeral, when he looked at you across the room with serious brown eyes. He'd said something to you, just before he left, but you can't remember now. Everything about that day feels like a blur. You only remember fragments: your aunt wailing, the taste of bile sour in your throat. Your hands were cold, tight-knuckled with the fabric of your skirt between them.
You don't speak to Vernon again for the rest of the night, not really. Just a look here, a brief nod there. And when the night is over, and Catherine's announcing she really needs to get home, and Grace is handing you your coat, you try to catch his eye, to say a quick goodbye, at the very least. Except you can't see him anywhere, and Cathy's tugging on your hand, and so you leave it.
You're halfway toward the door when you feel something brush your coat sleeve. You turn. and he's there suddenly, like he's stepped out of the walls themselves. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "Take care getting home," he says, and he looks like he wants to say more.
You don't give him a chance. "I will," you answer. "Thanks."
He nods, and then he's gone. The music swells behind him; you step out into the cold, the door closing softly at your back. The city rushes in, loud and ordinary again.
Behind you, the bar stays hidden, exactly as it was.
The first time you go back, you tell yourself it's because Grace insists.
It's a Thursday, which means you're bone-tired and irritable and not in the mood to argue. Grace corners you at lunch — her office isn't far from the exchange, and the two of you usually stop to scoff down a sandwich for your precious few minutes of lunch break. "Catherine's working late," she says, wheedling. "It'll just be us. We'll tip a few, have a good time!"
"I have work in the morning."
"So do I. That's what makes it thrilling." Her eyes twinkle a little. "Besides, don't you want to see your keen bartender again?"
Your jaw drops and you elbow her. "Stop!"
"What?" she laughs helplessly, dodging you when you aim another. "He's a looker! And he was absolutely making eyes at you, even Cathy said so!"
You give in because it's easier than explaining the tight, restless feeling that's been following you all week. Because you've caught yourself thinking about a pair of steady brown eyes across a bar. Because the memory of his voice, low and familiar, has threaded through your days at inconvenient moments. And you're not sure if it's him, or if it's just you desperately clinging to the last living pieces of your brother.
You don't say any of that to Grace. You just pull your coat on after work and let her lead the way.
Vernon isn't there, in the end, but you spend the evening laughing with Grace and trying to stop your eyes from wandering across the speakeasy like that'll make him appear.
The second time you go back, you don't need convincing.
The door opens the same way. Cathy had coached you through the knock and the password, which you rattle off easily enough. Everything looks the same: warm, laughter ringing out, a few people dancing to the music.
And him.
Vernon looks up almost immediately. There's no visible pause in his movements this time, no falter, but something in his face shifts when he spots you. A small, private acknowledgment.
You take a seat at the bar without waiting to be steered there.
"Evening," he says when he reaches you, his head dipping in an almost comically polite greeting.
"Evening," you mimic, suddenly amused.
He smiles back. "Just you tonight?"
"Grace is on her way," you say. "I'm sure she'll be late, though."
"Well, you want something to get you started?"
You open your mouth to answer, but he's already asking, "Another Mary Pickford?"
You blink. He considers you for a moment, then smiles that sudden, brief smile. "I have a very good memory."
"That's convenient for you."
"It usually is. So?"
"I feel predictable," you say, crossing your arms with a frown. "Now I want something else."
He raises his eyebrows, but something amused plays with the corner of his mouth. "Then what would you like?"
"What would you recommend?"
It seems to be the right question, because he gets to work straight away. You watch him pour and mix without really registering his quick movement, until he sets a glass in front of you. The liquid is pale and clear.
"What is it?"
"Try it."
You do. It's good. Really good, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction.
You look up at him. "Not bad. I'll give you that."
He inclines his head, satisfied. "I'll take it."
He just about finishes his words when Grace appears on your other side, slightly red-cheeked. "Hi, doll," she says, "What's that?" Without waiting for an answer she takes a gulp, swallows. "Swell," she says, smacking her lips. "Vernon, I'll have one of those too, please."
"Of course," Vernon replies, not at all daunted by her sudden familiarity. Grace laughs and drifts away, easily absorbed into a conversation by some lucky admirer. You stay where you are, partly to finish your drink in peace, and partly because, well — Vernon.
For a few minutes he's pulled away again, someone calling for another round, a man waving a crumpled bill, but then, as if the room exhales all at once, there's a sudden lull. A pocket of quiet settles over your stretch of the bar. Grace's lucky admirer has swept her towards where others are dancing and you catch her tilting her head coyly, and snort to yourself.
Vernon returns, setting Grace's drink down where she'll find it when she remembers she ordered it. You take a sip of your drink and smile. "She'll be back eventually," you assure him. "Pretty sure she's stringin' him on to pay for that drink."
He glances over your shoulder. "He doesn't seem to mind."
You grin, trace your fingertip through the condensation on your glass. "She's mostly dragged me here to watch her stuff." You're joking, of course, and Vernon seems to get it, letting a short laugh.
"You didn't want to come?"
"I have work tomorrow," you say, avoiding answering the question. "I work at the telephone exchange."
His eyes spark. "Oh, I remember — " He cuts himself off. I remember you brother telling me, you finish mentally.
You're both quiet for a beat too long, and it's heavy. Then he inhales, keeps going. "How is it?"
You let out a breath that's half a laugh. "Repetitive. But what about you?" you ask, nodding around you. "How did you end up here?"
He glances down the bar, as if to make sure no one's about to interrupt again. "A friend needed help. I was between things."
"Between things," you repeat, dubious.
"Temporary," he says lightly.
You glance around the room, at the crowded tables and the low lamps and the bottle-lined shelves behind him. You lean closer, lowering your voice just a fraction. "You do realise this is wildly illegal."
His mouth twitches. "Is it?"
"Oh, please."
"I thought we were running a perfectly respectable, swanky establishment."
"Of course. With the hidden door and the coded knock."
"Ambience," he replies smoothly.
You shake your head. "I ought to sneak on you."
He actually laughs out loud. "To who? You're going to tell the coppers you stumbled across a speakeasy and accidentally tipped a few drinks down while you were there?"
You open your mouth, then close it again. "That's not the point!"
He leans in slightly, mirroring you without seeming to think about it. "Don't go turning me in now, ___." There's something teasing in his tone, but underneath it, something warmer and slower. His lips linger on your name, you swear it.
You meet his eyes. "I wouldn't."
"Good."
You sit back, lifting your glass again. "You're very calm about all this."
"About you threatening to have me in bracelets?"
"You know I wouldn't!"
"I do." The certainty in his voice makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the drink.
A man at the far end of the bar calls his name, and Vernon straightens automatically, but he doesn't move just yet.
"It's good to see you," he says instead. Something in his eyes shifts, and instinctively you know he's thinking about your brother. You almost expect him to say his name, to say something, but all he does is exhale through his nose, stepping back into himself. "Duty calls."
"Go," you say, waving him off lightly. "Your criminal empire awaits."
He huffs a quiet laugh as he turns away. "Careful," he tosses over his shoulder. "That kind of talk will get you banned."
"From a law-abiding establishment like this?" you call after him.
He doesn't answer, but you catch the quick flash of his smile before he's swallowed up by the rest of the room.
On the third visit, Grace doesn't come at all. You tell yourself you're only stopping in for one drink before heading home.
You end up staying until nearly eleven.
The bar is quieter than usual. The band's taken the night off, replaced by a gramophone that crackles faintly in the corner. You sit at the far end of the bar this time, where the light is dimmer and the crowd thinner. Vernon doesn't even seem surprised to find you there.
"You're becoming a regular," he says.
"Is that allowed?"
"Depends. Can you keep a secret?"
"I work at a telephone exchange," you remind him. "If I repeated everything I heard, the city would implode."
You're only kidding, because you don't have time to listen in on every call. But it makes him laugh softly, and something about the sound loosens a knot in your chest you didn't know was there. He leans against the counter, closer now, forearms resting on the wood.
"You look tired," he says, not accusing. Just observing.
"Gee, thanks." You scrunch your nose. He only smiles, and you shrug. "It's been a long week."
He pushes your drink towards you, and you take a sip as silence settles between you, but it isn't strained. The music swells. Someone at the other end of the bar tells a loud joke.
"You still live with your aunt?" he asks after a while.
"Yes."
"She doing all right?"
"She's okay." Your aunt is old, a little ditzy. She barely knows you, really, but still — she's the only family you have left, and she gives you a bed at night and food to eat. "She misses him."
For a moment, the background hum of the speakeasy is drowned out, and you just watch as the words register on his face. All these minutes of dancing around it, but you're the one who brings him up.
The look he gives you is steady, unreadable in the low light.
You look away first, but he studies you for a second longer. "You know," he says quietly, "sometimes when you tilt your head like that, you look exactly like him."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, they sting. You blink. "I do not."
"You do," he insists, softer now. "Right before you're about to argue."
"That's ridiculous."
"There," he says, almost smiling. "That. Same tone."
You open your mouth to protest again, then hesitate. "I don't sound like him."
"Not usually." He pauses. "But when you're teasing someone."
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. "I don't—"
"I'm not saying it to upset you," he adds quickly. "It's just, you know. Familiar."
Familiar. You stare at the rim of your glass. "I don't know if I like that."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not him."
"I know." His voice is steady. "You're not." He huffs out what could be a laugh. "He always said you were much better than him."
You laugh again, but it wobbles at the edges.
"He was ridiculous," you say. "Always acting like I was made of glass."
"You're not," Vernon says. You're not sure if he's humouring you or if he actually believes that, but you let it slide.
"He talked about you a lot," you say after a moment.
Vernon goes still. He's almost painfully stiff — like if he moves, it'll hurt him. "Did he?"
"All the time. Said you were the only one who could beat him at cards. Said you once tried to cook and nearly burned the building down."
"That was one time," he mutters, but there's a reluctant smile forming at the corner of his lip.
You smile faintly. "He thought you were reckless."
"Oh, that's rich."
"But loyal," you add. "He said that too."
The noise of the bar seems to recede slightly.
Vernon looks down at the counter, running the cloth over a spot that doesn't need cleaning. "He was," he says finally, voice low, "a better man than he thought he was."
You nod, because can't quite trust your voice.
After that night, something shifts.
You start noticing small things. The way he sets a glass in front of you without asking what you want, already knowing. The way his gaze tracks you until you're safely seated, until your coat is hung, until you're settled.
You've never gone out to drink so often in your life. Sometimes you don't even drink — sometimes there are evenings you don't talk much at all. You sit at the bar with a book open in front of you, more for appearance than reading. He moves around you, and every so often your eyes meet. Occasionally, he'll stand in front of you during quiet moments, and you'll talk. Rarest of all, you'll talk about your brother,
Just the steady accumulation of moments.
You don't name what's growing between you. You're not sure you want to. But when he leans in to hear you over the noise and you catch the faint scent of soap and something sharper beneath it, when his shoulder brushes yours and neither of you moves away, when he says your name like it's something carefully held, you feel it.
It sits low and warm in your chest.
On a Friday night, the air inside the speakeasy feels thick and bright with laughter. Cathy is with you again, flushed from the cold and already leaning conspiratorially across the bar before you've even taken your coat off.
"You know," she says loudly, as Vernon sets two glasses down in front of you, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you've got a standing reservation."
"I don't," you reply, though you don't miss the flicker of amusement in Vernon's eyes.
"Sure, sweetheart," Catherine says. "And I'm the mayor."
"You'd be terrible at it."
"I'd be magnificent."
Vernon smiles faintly and moves down the bar to answer someone else's call, leaving you and Catherine to bicker good-naturedly. She's halfway through describing the absolute bluenose at her office when a man steps up to the bar.
You only notice him because Vernon's expression changes, ever so slightly. The man is older, broad-shouldered, his hat tipped low though he doesn't bother to remove it indoors. He doesn't glance at you or Catherine or anyone else; he barely glances at Vernon, for that matter. He speaks quietly, leaning in so that his words don't carry.
You try not to stare.
Cathy keeps talking, oblivious. "—and she cried. Actually cried. Over a crossed line."
You nod, but your attention drifts.
The man slides something across the bar. An envelope. It's small and cream-coloured and you never would have noticed it if you hadn't already been watching Vernon so closely.
Vernon's hand covers it without hesitation, as if it's nothing more than a receipt. He doesn't look down. He doesn't look surprised.
He says something back, equally low. The entire ordeal doesn't take more than a minute, and then the stranger is gone, and you realise you've gone silent.
"Sorry," you murmur. "What were you saying?"
"That I'd have smacked her with my heel."
"Of course you would." Your gaze drifts back to Vernon. He's already serving someone else, expression perfectly composed, like nothing ever happened, so you try to shake it off, downing the last of your drink.
He's back in front of you seconds later, expression smooth. "You need another?"
You study him, before deciding to just be blunt. "Who was that?"
If he's surprised you noticed, he doesn't show it. "A customer."
"That didn't look like a drink order."
He meets your eyes evenly. "Not all business is alcohol."
"You have a lot of interesting customers."
He studies you for half a second too long. "It's New York."
"That's not an answer."
He wipes down the counter, unhurried. "It's not meant to be."
There's no bite in his tone, but equally, there's a steel undertone that tells you plainly he's not going to elaborate.
You force a smile. "Very mysterious."
"I try."
Something unsettled coils in your stomach.
You know what your brother did. Not all of it, of course, but enough. He ran messages, delivered things (he'd never tell you what), anything that'd keep the money coming in. "Just small jobs," he'd said, over and over. "Nothing serious."
Until it was serious. Until it ended in a warehouse by the docks and a gunshot.
You don't want to think about that now, so you look back at Vernon, at the steady calm of him, the familiarity. You tell yourself it's nothing. Bars have suppliers, surely. Accounts. You know this place isn't exactly legal, after all. A few shady characters shouldn't surprise you.
You take a drink and let the music swallow your unease.
You want to push. You want to ask about that man, about what Vernon said to him. For some reason, you want to ask him to talk about your brother, even if it's just to say his name to someone who knew him.
You don't. Instead, you ask about the piano player, about how long he's worked here, about anything that doesn't require him to explain that envelope.
The problem is, it doesn't stop there.
Now that you know to look, you notice a lot more. More men who talk to Vernon in hushed tones, mmore papers slid across the bar smoothly. More nights where Vernon disappears in the middle of his shift — sometimes he's back before you leave, with his hair a little windswept and his eyes a little brighter. Sometimes he's not.
You still don't ask. You can tell he knows you want to, that he can see the curiosity, maybe even the reproach in your eyes, but he doesn't let you, and you don't try. Instead, you talk about work and your friends and your aunt and he listens the same way he always has.
The day your brother died, you had been late coming home.
It wasn't unusual. You'd just started at the exchange then, it hadn't been more than a week or two. You'd been so excited when you landed the job, because it meant you could finally tell your brother to quit "delivering messages", with your new wage and all. He'd promised you he would, that he just had a few things to see through.
You had been carrying a loaf of bread under your arm, still warm through the paper, and rehearsing in your head the scolding you meant to give him for finishing the last of the butter.
You knew something was wrong before you reached the top step, only because the door was ajar. Just enough to show the thin seam of lamplight through the crack, but nobody in your family — not you, not your aunt, and definitely not your brother — would forget to shut the door properly. You pushed it fully open with your hip, already frowning, lips already forming his name.
Your aunt had been standing in the middle of the sitting room, still wearing her apron. She looked smaller somehow, as if the air had pressed her inward. There was a man beside her, hat in his hands, the brim bent slightly between his fingers.
You don't remember dropping the bread, but you must have. Later, you would find it crushed against the wall.
The officer spoke carefully, like he was arranging glass on a shelf. There had been an incident by the warehouses. There had been a gun. He used phrases like unfortunate and tragic and a real shame. You watched his mouth move and thought, distantly, that he should have shaved more closely.
Your aunt had begun to cry before the officer finished speaking. You, on the other hand, didn't cry. You stood very still and stared at the scuffed toes of the officer's boots and wished very hard that he would fucking leave.
Your brother was not the sort of person who disappeared between sentences. He left socks on the floor. He left half-read newspapers on the arm of the chair. He never tied his laces properly. He did not simply stop existing.
The officer asked if you wanted to see him. You shook your head.
The house felt cavernous after they left. Every object was suddenly too specific. His coat slung over the back of a chair — he never remembered to take it with him. The faint imprint of his body in the sofa cushion. A glass on the table with a fingerprint still visible in the smudge.
You touched the sleeve of his coat and it swung gently, as if he might walk back in and shrug into it any second. You told yourself he would.
For weeks afterward, you kept expecting to hear his steps on the stairs. The quick, uneven rhythm of them. The way he'd clear his throat before entering a room, as if announcing himself to an audience.
You thought about the last conversation you'd had, the night before he died. He'd been distracted, smiling at something you couldn't see. When you'd asked where he was going, he'd brushed past you, light and evasive.
"Don't wait up," he'd said, as always.
You hadn't.
In the months before, there had been little things. Late nights, a lot of restlessness. Sometimes you'd wake in the middle of the night and he'd be pacing in the sitting room.
At first, you'd thought it was just a girl he was seeing, but slowly, the later he came home, the more money he came home with, you realised you had got it entirely wrong, and when you asked questions, he'd answer as vaguely as possible.
You remember watching him lace his boots horribly one evening, his head bent, his hair falling into his eyes, and thinking that he looked older than he had any right to.
You remember almost saying, Stay.
You didn't. You knew he wouldn't listen. (Family trait, you aunt would sigh, whenever you and your brother argued. Too stubborn to listen.)
You can't ignore how much this — how much being around Vernon feels like the months before your brother died. When you're watching someone else you care about (because you do care about him, it turns out, more than you'd thought) giving you half-explanations and careful smiles, that same hollow space in your chest begins to open again, tight and painful and raw in your chest. You didn't want to draw the comparison, but every time Vernon disappears, it echoes a time you promised yourself you'd never live through again.
As usual, you ignore it.
One evening, Vernon walks you home.
You're not entirely sure how it happens, it just happens. The rain had started, just after nine. Catherine, who had arrived determined to be sensible, abandons that resolve the moment a man with neatly parted hair offers to share his umbrella. You watch her deliberate for less than a second before she beams and loops her arm through his.
"Don't wait for me," she calls to you, echoing something you've heard a dozen times before.
"I won't," you reply, smiling despite yourself.
Grace had already disappeared an hour earlier, pulled into some back corner with a cluster of strangers arguing about baseball. She'd kissed your cheek in passing and told you not to be dull, to "do something about the bartender you're stuck on".
So you're left alone at the bar, nursing the last inch of your drink, listening to the low hum of jazz as the night wears on. Occasionally, you flick your eyes to Vernon, and then tear them away when you realise you've been looking too long. Vernon moves through the space like he always does — steady and quick on his feet. He's got a dish towel slung over one shoulder now, sleeves pushed high, hair slightly curling at the ends from the damp air every time the door opens. You try not to think about how handsome it makes him look. You fail.
When the rain thickens enough to drum faintly against the windows, you decide it's your excuse. You slip from your stool and gather your coat, the fabric cool against your hands. You shake it out, slide your arms through, and begin fastening the buttons one by one.
"You heading out?"
His voice comes from your left. You hadn't seen him approach.
"Yes," you say, casting him a smile when you look up from your buttons. "Before it gets worse."
He glances toward the door, listening to the steady patter. "I'll walk you."
There's a moment — small, suspended — where neither of you quite moves. The bar behind him carries on as usual: someone laughs too loudly, glass clinks against glass. He's never asked to see you outside of here before; neither of you have ever taken the urge to move this, whatever it is, outside.
"You don't have to," you say, at last.
"I know." He's already fumbling into some sort of storage space for his coat. "I have somewhere to be, anyway. I'll walk you on the way."
You hesitate for the length of a breath, then nod. "All right." You don't ask where he's going — you don't want to know.
He grabs his coat from a peg near the back and says something brief to another bartender, who waves him off without question. There's something about that — how easily he steps away, how little explanation he needs to give — that presses at the back of your mind, but you push it aside.
Outside, rain has glossed the streets into mirrors. You pull your collar higher against the sudden sharp wind. Vernon falls into step beside you without touching, close enough to share your umbrella, close that you can feel the warmth of him between your sleeves.
For a while, you just walk.
The rhythm of your steps finds itself naturally, heel to toe in quiet synchronisation. Your shoulders brush once, accidentally, and neither of you comments on it.
"You're quiet," he says after a few blocks.
"So are you."
He considers that. "Fair."
A cab rattles past, wheels sending up a spray that narrowly misses your hem.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asks suddenly.
You glance at him. "Leaving what?"
"New York."
The question lingers between you, strange and unexpectedly intimate. "Sometimes," you admit, something you never thought you'd do out loud. "Usually after a long day. Or when the heat in the apartment stops working." You tuck your hands deeper into your coat pockets, and a smile appears on your face. "I think I'd like to try farm life, you know." You're only half-joking.
He snorts. "You? On a farm?"
"What?" You try to be offended, but end up laughing along with him. "You don't think I could do it?"
"If you're anything like your brother, you'll do anything you put your mind to," he says, shaking his head. "Even if it's stupid."
"What about you then? Don't you ever want to get out of here?"
"Sometimes," he says, his head tilting slightly to the side. "But I don't know what I'd do anywhere else."
"You could cook," you suggest lightly, biting down the grin that threatens to emerge. "Open a little restaurant somewhere respectable. Legal."
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "You're hilarious."
"No, I've seen you back there. You look very competent."
"That's because I don't have to eat what I make."
You laugh, and the sound drifts into the damp air and disappears. It's just a small conversation, a harmless one, but something about the quiet street makes them feel weightier.
You pass a bakery long closed for the night. The faint scent of bread lingers even through the rain. A cat darts across the alley ahead of you, vanishing into shadow.
"You're coming round less often lately," he says.
You glance at him, surprised. "Are you keeping track?"
He shrugs. "I notice things." You think the apples of his cheeks are pinking, but that could just be the cold.
"I have to be up before six," you say. "If I'm late twice in a week they start writing it down. Like we're schoolchildren."
He makes a quiet sound of disapproval.
"It's not so bad, though," you add quickly. "It's steady."
"You say that like you're convincing yourself."
You nudge his arm lightly with your elbow. "Don't analyse me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The rain picks up slightly, beading along his coat collar. A curl of dark hair falls forward onto his forehead and you have the absurd urge to reach up and push it back.
Halfway down your block, your foot slips on a slick patch of pavement, and his hand closes around your wrist instantly — his grip tightens reflexively, steadying you. Your breath catches, and for a second you're acutely aware of everything. The pressure of his fingers, your pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, the faint scent of rain and soap clinging to him.
You both go still.
His thumb presses lightly against your wrist before he seems to realise what he's doing.
"Sorry," he says, too quickly.
"It's fine," you reply, though your voice sounds breathier than you intend.
He doesn't let go right away. Neither of you moves for a long second, not until rain slides from the brim of his coat and lands against your sleeve. Somewhere down the street, a door slams, and he releases you.
You smooth your coat unnecessarily. He clears his throat.
"You all right?"
"Yes." You try to ignore how hot your face suddenly feels.
"Good."
When you reach your building, the front steps shine wet under the streetlamp. The windows above are dark. Your aunt will already be asleep.
You skip up a step or two, turn toward him, hands still tucked in your pockets to keep them from fidgeting.
"Thank you," you say.
"For what?"
"For walking me."
He shrugs one shoulder. "It's on my way."
You sum up the courage to be a little bolder. "It's not."
A faint smile curves his mouth, not even a little bit flustered. "Doesn't matter."
Rain traces a thin line down his cheekbone. Again, you resist the urge to brush it away. "Do you want my umbrella?" you say, suddenly realising you've left him in the rain. You don't wait for an answer. You hurry back down the steps, shoes slick against the damp stone, snapping the umbrella back open and lifting it over his head. It tilts slightly as you adjust your grip, and in doing so you step closer than you meant to.
The umbrella isn't large. The space beneath it narrows the world to just the two of you — the steady patter of rain above — again, that faint scent of wet wool and soap — the warmth of his body only inches from yours.
Vernon seems to realise the exact second you do.
His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Your breath catches. The hand holding the umbrella trembles just slightly, and he notices — of course he notices.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The city continues around you, rain glossing the pavement, distant wheels cutting through puddles, but it all feels far away.
You're not sure who leans in first.
It's small, almost tentative — a shared decision made without words. His hand comes up, not to pull you closer, just to steady the umbrella where your grip falters. His fingers brush yours, warm and rough, and just as they do, your lips meet softly. A gentle press, testing, as if both of you are making sure the other won't pull away. You don't.
His mouth is warm despite the rain, gentler than you expected. The kiss lingers a heartbeat longer than caution would advise, long enough for something to shift in your chest — something bright and terrifying all at once.
When you part, it's slow. Reluctant.
The umbrella tilts again, rain slipping past the edge and catching in his hair. He exhales, barely a sound, and for a second he looks almost surprised. Then something steadier settles over his expression.
"Get inside," he says gently. "Before you catch something."
You step back toward the door, fingers curling around the handle. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
You hesitate just long enough to look at him once more — the lamplight catching in his eyes, the rain settling into the dark wool of his coat — and then you slip inside.
From the narrow hallway window, you watch him walk away.
He doesn't hurry, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the rain. At the corner, he glances back once — not toward the window, but toward the building itself — as if making sure the door has closed. Then he turns and disappears into the sheen of the city, leaving the street quiet behind him.
You lean your forehead against the cool window. You kissed him — you kissed him, so why does you feel so full of dread?
You run into him three days later in the park.
You'd left the house to escape the stale quiet. Your aunt had fallen asleep in her armchair again, knitting pooled in her lap, so you'd taken your book and walked the few blocks to the park, settling onto a weathered bench beneath a tree that hasn't quite decided to let go of its leaves. It's a little damp, more than a little cold, but you'll take anything that gets you away from being cooped up with your thoughts.
You're halfway through a page when a shadow falls across the paper.
"What are the odds?" a familiar voice asks.
You look up too quickly.
Vernon's dressed differently. No rolled sleeves. No apron. Just a dark coat, collar turned up against the breeze, hands tucked into his pockets. Without the bar framing him, he looks younger.
"Is that disappointment I hear?" you ask.
"Devastation," he says solemnly.
You snort before you can stop yourself. "What are you doing here?"
"Walking."
"Just walking?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
You tilt your head. "A little."
He smiles. "Can I?" He gestures to the empty space beside you.
You hesitate for half a second — not because you want to say no, but because your heart has started beating in that uneven way again — and then you nod. He sits, close but not touching, and all you can think about is how the last time you saw him, his lips were on yours.
For a moment, neither of you speak. It feels almost indecently normal, you sat next to him on a bench. Simple — it feels simple. You wish it was.
"You don't seem surprised," he says after a while.
"To see you?"
He nods. You close your book, wrinkle your nose as you think, thumb marking the page. "I was, for a second. But my aunt always says, you know, the city's smaller than we think."
"Or we're worse at staying away than we pretend."
You glance at him. "Were you trying to stay away?"
His gaze stays forward. "Were you?"
You don't answer. A breeze lifts, tugging a loose strand of hair across your mouth. You reach to brush it away at the same time he does — your fingers collide lightly.
He drops his hand first. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
You both look forward again, but something has shifted — a current humming just beneath the surface. "You read much?" he asks, nodding toward your book.
"When I can."
"Is it good?"
"I don't know yet," you admit. "I've read the same paragraph three times."
He huffs quietly. "Distracted?"
"Maybe."
He studies you then, openly. Silence settles again, softer this time, and after a few long moments, he looks away.
A boy runs past chasing a ball, nearly colliding with Vernon's knee. Vernon catches the ball instinctively before it hits the gravel path, handing it back with a faint nod. The boy grins and dashes off again.
You watch the ease of it. "You know, you seem different out here."
"How?"
"I don't know." You search for the right words. "Less guarded."
He goes still at that.
"Guarded," he repeats.
"At the bar, you're always watching and listening and moving."
"And here?"
"Here you just look like a man sitting in the sun. Honestly, I didn't know you could sit so still until now."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Thrilling." There's a moment where he seems to debate saying something, and then he opens his mouth. "You're different too, you know. In the daylight."
"Really?"
"Even prettier," he says, soft. "I can actually see your face."
You swallow.
You can't do this again. The thought arrives sharp and unwelcome, and you stand abruptly. "I should go," you say.
He looks up at you, surprised. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No." You force a smile. "No, I just — I promised my aunt I wouldn't be long."
He rises too. "I'll walk you, then," he says. "If you'll let me."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
You hesitate, and then you nod. The path curves out of the park and back toward the city blocks. You walk side by side, arms brushing occasionally, but neither of you say anything the whole way home.
It's a few nights later, when you see Vernon outside the bar, and something inside you twists.
You hadn't meant to come, but your bed had felt too close, the air too thick with the sound of your aunt's breathing in the next room, the clock ticking too loudly on the mantel. You'd needed air. That was all.
But your feet had turned at the familiar corner without consulting you. Past the bakery, straight past the shuttered tailor, toward the narrow stretch of brick that concealed the door you now knew by heart.
You realise where you're headed only when you see the faint spill of amber light at the end of the block.
You stop.
You could turn around. You probably should turn around.
Instead, you keep walking.
The rain has left the pavement slick and dark. The alley beside the building gleams faintly under a single weak lamp, and you're just about to pass by it when movement catches your eye. Two figures stand half-shadowed against the brick. One taller, shoulders squared. The other angled slightly inward, posture familiar in a way your body recognises before your mind does.
You know it's him before he shifts enough for the light to touch his face.
There's no easy warmth to him here, no softness from lamplight and music, no quick smile sent your way from across the room.
You realise belatedly that the man standing opposite him is the first one you'd noticed weeks ago. Now they're stand close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.
You don't move. (You should go, you think, but you know you won't.) The alley smells faintly of damp brick and stale smoke. Your pulse roars in your ears so loudly you're sure it must be audible.
Reaching inside his coat, Vernon pulls out something wrapped in brown paper — long, narrow, bound tightly with twine. It's too rigid to be anything soft, too carefully held to be casual. He grips it with both hands, angled downward, shielded by his body.
The shape is unmistakable. Even through paper, you can see the outline.
It's a gun.
Your breath leaves you in a thin, soundless rush. You watch as the man steps closer. Vernon keeps his movements controlled, passing the parcel across the small space between them the same way you've seen him hand over a bottle of alcohol countless times.
The man takes it, slipping it quickly beneath his coat, tucking it along his side with familiarity. He adjusts his jacket once, twice, until the shape disappears against his body. They exchange a few quiet words. You strain to hear, but the rain-swollen air swallows the sound. The man gives a single nod, and then he turns and walks toward the mouth of the alley, steps measured, unhurried, merging easily with the dim spill of light from the main street.
Vernon stays where he is. He exhales slowly, the breath visible in the damp air. His hand comes up to his hair, pushing it back from his forehead in that same absent gesture you've seen a hundred times across the bar.
It's so normal.
So terribly normal.
Then he turns, straight towards you — there's one horrible moment where you think he's seen you, he's known you were there all along. Then your thoughts kick in, you realise it's not possible, and as he walks in your direction, instinct slams through you. You step back hard enough that your shoulder hits brick. The cold seeps instantly through your coat. You press yourself into shadow, willing your breathing to quiet, willing your heartbeat to stop battering against your ribs.
He walks past.
Close enough that you see the rain clinging to his lashes. Close enough that you could reach out and catch his sleeve, if you wanted.
His gaze is fixed straight ahead, and the glimpse you get of his eyes shows them hard, focused. Closed off in a way you've never seen when he's looking at you. There's no softness in it now, no warmth or laughter.
He passes within arm's length, and you let him.
And you stand there, rooted to damp brick, the image of brown paper and the unmistakable outline beneath it burning behind your eyes.
You realise you've stopped breathing. Because once again, it's the same. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, it's the same.
Small things. Harmless things. Just helping someone out. Just passing something along. Just a favor. Just temporary.
You've heard it all before, and standing here with the rain dampening the back of your neck and the wind picking up, you remember deciding not to push. You remember telling yourself it was none of your business.
And you remember the knock at the door, the officer's hat in his hands.
You can't do this again.
The thought lands with such force it nearly steals the air from your lungs, but it blocks everything else out, because it's true — you can't.
You can't stand on the edge of something and pretend not to see where it leads. Because that's what this is, whether he names it or not. No matter how much he insists that he's careful; you know how careful men end up. You know how easily small things become bigger ones.
Your eyes burn suddenly, fiercely, and you blink hard against it. The alley feels too narrow, the walls too close. For a wild moment, you consider calling after him.
Vernon.
You imagine the sound of his name leaving your mouth, sharp enough to make him turn. You imagine his surprise. The explanation that would follow. The way he would soften his voice, step closer, tell you it isn't what you think, maybe even cup your cheek, let you lean into the warmth of his hand.
But you don't want to hear it. You don't want to stand under the weak alley lights and listen to him carve this into something reasonable, because you know yourself well enough to know you might believe him.
You don't follow him.
You don't go back for nearly a week and a half. It's the longest you've gone without seeing him since he appeared back into your life.
On the eleventh day, Vernon finds you outside the exchange.
You're startled when he says your name, whipping round so quickly you seem to startle him just as much as he did you. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," he says simply.
You fold your arms. "Why?"
"You haven't been by."
"I've been busy."
He studies you, eyes shrewd. "That's not it."
You hold his gaze. "I saw you."
His expression doesn't change. "Saw me."
"In the alley."
A beat of silence, and then he takes your arm, gently — so gently, he's always gentle — and pulls you into a small alcove.
"You shouldn't have been there," he says, his voice lowered.
"That's not an answer."
He exhales slowly. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it, Vernon? Because to me, it looked like a fucking gun."
He runs a hand through his hair, something uncharacteristically frustrated flickering across his face. "It's nothing serious."
"That's what he said."
Vernon's jaw tightens. "I'm not him," he says quietly.
"I know that."
"Then don't look at me like that."
"I thought you were just bartending," you say. It's not true. You've known for a long time, really, you just haven't let yourself.
"I am."
"And the rest?"
He doesn't answer immediately. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you involved," he says finally. "I didn't want you worrying."
"That's not your decision to make."
"No," he agrees. "It's not." The honesty of it disarms you.
"Why?" you ask, and maybe there's a hint of desperation seeping into your tone. "Vernon, why do you do it?"
"Money," he says plainly. "It's temporary."
You almost laugh. That fucking word again.
"That's what he said," you whisper.
Silence stretches between you. "I'm careful," Vernon says, but he already sounds resigned. "I don't take risks I can't manage."
"You can't manage a bullet," you snap.
The words hang heavy. "I'm not trying to replace him," Vernon says more softly. "And I'm not trying to follow him."
"If you keep going like this, you will," you say, and you have to fight to keep your voice down, and you have to fight even harder to force the tears back into your eyes. "You're going to follow hom straight to the grave." You swallow, hard, raw, painful. "I can't do it again," you say hoarsely.
His hand lifts, thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tear that falls. "Do what?"
"Bury someone else I l— care about," you say. You watch his eyes, softness and conflict swimming in the brown. Your hand reaches up to cover his on your cheek, and you squeeze, feeling the warmth again. "Vernon, please don't make me."
He doesn't say anything, but you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows. "I care about you," he says, finally. "And — I'm sorry."
You leave before he can stop you.
a/n: sad ending i know im sorry!!!!! i never know whether to put it in the warnings bc its technically a spoiler but. idk. i personally don't like seeing it in the tags before i read something but maybe thats just me. "hana will there be a part 2" hana doesn't know. hana is a little bit sick of this fic after rewriting it 4 times and right now hana would like to not think about it for a very long time.
also guys i need u to know its like 1am and i did one quick readthrough for proofreading and every time she says "thats what he said" i couldnt stop laughing. anyway thank u for reading love u all goodbye
You didn’t expect to run into your late brother’s best friend tending bar at an illegal speakeasy — or to start falling for him. But when you realize Vernon is involved in the same kind of work that got your brother killed, liking him suddenly feels dangerous in ways you know too well.
⇢ pairing: chwe vernon x f!reader
⇢ genre: angst, fluff, brother's best friend
⇢ wc: 9.2k
⇢ warnings: guns/gun violence (nothing graphic), illegal activities, alcohol consumption, grief + death, there are 100% historical inaccuracies and i am so sorry.
⇢ a/n: thank you to everyone who sprinted w me!! and thank you to jess and em for talking me into actually doing this. this is not the best thing i've ever written by a long shot, but it feels like forever since i've posted so here it is.
⇢ as part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt !
By the time your shift ends, there's a dull ache behind your ears, and your legs are aching from sitting too still for too long. You button your coat, and step back into the night with the sense that you've been standing still for hours while New York rushed past you.
Outside the telephone exchange, the cold cuts clean and sharp. Steam rises from the grates along the sidewalk, blurring the streetlights. You pull your gloves tighter and spot Catherine immediately, pacing near the corner with theatrical impatience, her hat already tilting off-center.
"There you are," she says, relief and accusation wrapped together. "I was starting to think they'd chained you to the board."
"Almost," you say. "What time is it?"
"Early enough that I refuse to go home yet." She links her arm through yours before you can protest. "Come on. Grace is waiting."
Grace is a block away, leaning against a lamppost with the ease of someone who never quite looks like she's waiting for anything. She straightens when she sees you, grinning.
"I told her you'd get out before seven," Grace says to you, and tosses Catherine a triumphant look. "You owe me fifty cents."
Cathy groans. "You're unbearable."
You smile despite yourself. "What's the plan?"
Grace glances down the street, then lowers her voice. "We're having a drink."
"A drink," you repeat, eyebrows lifting. You already know where this is going.
"A real one," Catherine says, daring you to argue.
You hesitate, brief but noticeable. "You know I don't usually."
"That's exactly why we're taking you," Grace beams, threading her arm through your free one. "You work too much. It's unseemly."
You make a face, but don't protest, and that leaves you reluctantly frogmarched by your two friends down the icy streets. Of course, they don't tell you where you're going at first, just guide you down a side street you rarely use, past shopfronts already dark for the night. Ignoring all your questions, of course, dismissing them with casual waves of the hand.
You let them, though, because it's been a while since you've had a proper drink, and anything is more appealing than going back to your lonely room. You already know your aunt will have fallen asleep in her chair by the window, and won't even stir when you let yourself in later on.
The door of the speakeasy doesn't look like anything at all.
That's the first thing you notice — how easy it would be to miss. Just another unmarked stretch of brick and a narrow doorway wedged between a tailor and a shuttered grocer, the kind of place you've passed a hundred times without wondering what's behind it.
Your friends are already laughing, breath fogging in the cold. Grace knocks twice, pauses, then knocks once more. You watch her hand, oddly attentive. A slit opens, a pair of eyes looks you over. Gracie smiles and says a name you don't recognise. The door swings inward.
Warmth hits you first, then sound. Laughter layered over music, conversation pressed close together. The air smells sharp and sweet all at once. Citrus. Alcohol. Wool coats damp from the cold.
"Oh," Catherine says, delighted. "This is good."
"Told you," Grace grins, though she looks just as pleasantly surprised as you do. "My cousin knows all the good spots."
You step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the low lighting, lamps shaded in amber, smoke clinging to the ceiling, bodies pressed together in easy familiarity. Jazz hums from somewhere unseen.
"This is so illegal," you say, automatically.
Catherine nudges you. "Isn't it wonderful?"
Someone laughs loudly near your shoulder. Someone else swears affectionately. It's loud, humming with a kind of life that the unremarkable front door conceals impressively. You friends squeeze in at the bar, and you end up slotting yourself in between them, just about close enough to hear each other under the buzz.
The bartender has his back to you, leaning in to hear someone farther down the bar. Dark hair, white shirt, sleeves rolled, and you're watching without any real thought until he turns.
The recognition arrives in pieces. The line of his jaw. The familiar curve of his mouth when he smiles at something the customer says, the way his eyes crease faintly at the corners. He looks older than the last time you saw him, leaner, sharper around the eyes, but unmistakably the same.
Your stomach drops.
Vernon.
For a heartbeat, you're sure he hasn't seen you, and relief flares, sharp and almost dizzying. Immediately, your instinct is to run — let the crowd swallow you, pretend this never happened, but then his gaze lifts, scanning the bar and it lands on your face.
He stills.
It's subtle, but you absolutely see it. His hand pauses, his expression goes blank, then carefully softens. Surprise, clear as day.
You hold his gaze, pulse louder than the jazz, thrumming in your ears. A year and a half collapses into a single moment.
Catherine leans back suddenly, elbowing your arm and lowering her mouth to your ear. "Am I crazy, or is that bartender making eyes straight at you?"
"What?" You barely manage a reply, disoriented. Your mouth seems to move slower, words not fully forming in your mouth.
"Hey," Grace says to the bartender (Vernon, your mind supplies insistently), unaware of the muttered conversation on her right. "Three Mary Pickfords."
He blinks once, glances at you for a beat too long, then nods. "Coming up."
His voice is exactly the fucking same.
He turns away to pour, giving you the barest moment to breathe. You watch him move, the familiarity of him made strange by context, but with all the thoughts rushing into your head, you don't have time to concentrate on his movements. Is he pretending not to know you? Does he actually not recognise you? Did you imagine the way his hands froze and his eyes widened?
He sets the glasses down in front of you, then finally looks at you again. There's a split second where he looks at you, befor he opens his mouth, and instantly you can tell, yes, he knows you. You may have met only a handful of times, but he knows you.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.
Neither of you moves closer. The bar hums around you, and your friends look on with unusual silence.
"I didn't know you…" He stops, adjusts. "I didn't know you — What are you doing here?"
"We just — came out for drinks," you say, and it's awkward, the half-hearted gesture you make towards your friends either side of you.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That makes sense."
Catherine looks between you. "You know each other?"
Vernon glances at you, giving you the choice — it's not much of a choice, after the conversation you just had in front of them.
"This is Vernon," you say, swallowing thickly. "He is — was — friends with my brother."
Your words stumble into each other, and you drop your eyes from Vernon's for a second. You don't want to see the way his eyes flicker when you correct yourself to past tense, don't want to see that sinking feeling in your stomach reflected in his eyes.
Cathy clears her throat. "Well. I suppose that explains the staring."
Vernon offers a small, careful smile, distributing the drinks without moving his eyes from your face. "It's good to see you."
"You too," you say truthfully, swallowing and managing a smile. Your mouth feels dry.
He slides the last glass toward you. "Three Mary Pickfords," he says, almost gentle. "Shout if you need me."
You take it, your fingers brushing the cool glass. "Thanks."
You drink. It burns, then settles.
The night keeps moving. Conversation carries on around you. Grace tells a story about a woman at her office who cried through lunch over a broken typewriter. Catherine interrupts constantly with her usual bright quips. You listen, humming and nodding where appropriate, but you can't make yourself contribute properly; your mind is still stuck on your brother's best friend.
Vernon is everywhere and nowhere at once, called down the bar, ducking behind shelves, leaning in to hear orders. Every time you think he might circle back, someone else needs him. You catch glimpses of him between people, sleeves damp now, hair slightly mussed. Sometimes he smiles, a quick fleeting thing that lights up his face for a second, before disappearing.
You haven't seen him since the funeral. You haven't really thought about him since the funeral, when he looked at you across the room with serious brown eyes. He'd said something to you, just before he left, but you can't remember now. Everything about that day feels like a blur. You only remember fragments: your aunt wailing, the taste of bile sour in your throat. Your hands were cold, tight-knuckled with the fabric of your skirt between them.
You don't speak to Vernon again for the rest of the night, not really. Just a look here, a brief nod there. And when the night is over, and Catherine's announcing she really needs to get home, and Grace is handing you your coat, you try to catch his eye, to say a quick goodbye, at the very least. Except you can't see him anywhere, and Cathy's tugging on your hand, and so you leave it.
You're halfway toward the door when you feel something brush your coat sleeve. You turn. and he's there suddenly, like he's stepped out of the walls themselves. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "Take care getting home," he says, and he looks like he wants to say more.
You don't give him a chance. "I will," you answer. "Thanks."
He nods, and then he's gone. The music swells behind him; you step out into the cold, the door closing softly at your back. The city rushes in, loud and ordinary again.
Behind you, the bar stays hidden, exactly as it was.
The first time you go back, you tell yourself it's because Grace insists.
It's a Thursday, which means you're bone-tired and irritable and not in the mood to argue. Grace corners you at lunch — her office isn't far from the exchange, and the two of you usually stop to scoff down a sandwich for your precious few minutes of lunch break. "Catherine's working late," she says, wheedling. "It'll just be us. We'll tip a few, have a good time!"
"I have work in the morning."
"So do I. That's what makes it thrilling." Her eyes twinkle a little. "Besides, don't you want to see your keen bartender again?"
Your jaw drops and you elbow her. "Stop!"
"What?" she laughs helplessly, dodging you when you aim another. "He's a looker! And he was absolutely making eyes at you, even Cathy said so!"
You give in because it's easier than explaining the tight, restless feeling that's been following you all week. Because you've caught yourself thinking about a pair of steady brown eyes across a bar. Because the memory of his voice, low and familiar, has threaded through your days at inconvenient moments. And you're not sure if it's him, or if it's just you desperately clinging to the last living pieces of your brother.
You don't say any of that to Grace. You just pull your coat on after work and let her lead the way.
Vernon isn't there, in the end, but you spend the evening laughing with Grace and trying to stop your eyes from wandering across the speakeasy like that'll make him appear.
The second time you go back, you don't need convincing.
The door opens the same way. Cathy had coached you through the knock and the password, which you rattle off easily enough. Everything looks the same: warm, laughter ringing out, a few people dancing to the music.
And him.
Vernon looks up almost immediately. There's no visible pause in his movements this time, no falter, but something in his face shifts when he spots you. A small, private acknowledgment.
You take a seat at the bar without waiting to be steered there.
"Evening," he says when he reaches you, his head dipping in an almost comically polite greeting.
"Evening," you mimic, suddenly amused.
He smiles back. "Just you tonight?"
"Grace is on her way," you say. "I'm sure she'll be late, though."
"Well, you want something to get you started?"
You open your mouth to answer, but he's already asking, "Another Mary Pickford?"
You blink. He considers you for a moment, then smiles that sudden, brief smile. "I have a very good memory."
"That's convenient for you."
"It usually is. So?"
"I feel predictable," you say, crossing your arms with a frown. "Now I want something else."
He raises his eyebrows, but something amused plays with the corner of his mouth. "Then what would you like?"
"What would you recommend?"
It seems to be the right question, because he gets to work straight away. You watch him pour and mix without really registering his quick movement, until he sets a glass in front of you. The liquid is pale and clear.
"What is it?"
"Try it."
You do. It's good. Really good, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction.
You look up at him. "Not bad. I'll give you that."
He inclines his head, satisfied. "I'll take it."
He just about finishes his words when Grace appears on your other side, slightly red-cheeked. "Hi, doll," she says, "What's that?" Without waiting for an answer she takes a gulp, swallows. "Swell," she says, smacking her lips. "Vernon, I'll have one of those too, please."
"Of course," Vernon replies, not at all daunted by her sudden familiarity. Grace laughs and drifts away, easily absorbed into a conversation by some lucky admirer. You stay where you are, partly to finish your drink in peace, and partly because, well — Vernon.
For a few minutes he's pulled away again, someone calling for another round, a man waving a crumpled bill, but then, as if the room exhales all at once, there's a sudden lull. A pocket of quiet settles over your stretch of the bar. Grace's lucky admirer has swept her towards where others are dancing and you catch her tilting her head coyly, and snort to yourself.
Vernon returns, setting Grace's drink down where she'll find it when she remembers she ordered it. You take a sip of your drink and smile. "She'll be back eventually," you assure him. "Pretty sure she's stringin' him on to pay for that drink."
He glances over your shoulder. "He doesn't seem to mind."
You grin, trace your fingertip through the condensation on your glass. "She's mostly dragged me here to watch her stuff." You're joking, of course, and Vernon seems to get it, letting a short laugh.
"You didn't want to come?"
"I have work tomorrow," you say, avoiding answering the question. "I work at the telephone exchange."
His eyes spark. "Oh, I remember — " He cuts himself off. I remember you brother telling me, you finish mentally.
You're both quiet for a beat too long, and it's heavy. Then he inhales, keeps going. "How is it?"
You let out a breath that's half a laugh. "Repetitive. But what about you?" you ask, nodding around you. "How did you end up here?"
He glances down the bar, as if to make sure no one's about to interrupt again. "A friend needed help. I was between things."
"Between things," you repeat, dubious.
"Temporary," he says lightly.
You glance around the room, at the crowded tables and the low lamps and the bottle-lined shelves behind him. You lean closer, lowering your voice just a fraction. "You do realise this is wildly illegal."
His mouth twitches. "Is it?"
"Oh, please."
"I thought we were running a perfectly respectable, swanky establishment."
"Of course. With the hidden door and the coded knock."
"Ambience," he replies smoothly.
You shake your head. "I ought to sneak on you."
He actually laughs out loud. "To who? You're going to tell the coppers you stumbled across a speakeasy and accidentally tipped a few drinks down while you were there?"
You open your mouth, then close it again. "That's not the point!"
He leans in slightly, mirroring you without seeming to think about it. "Don't go turning me in now, ___." There's something teasing in his tone, but underneath it, something warmer and slower. His lips linger on your name, you swear it.
You meet his eyes. "I wouldn't."
"Good."
You sit back, lifting your glass again. "You're very calm about all this."
"About you threatening to have me in bracelets?"
"You know I wouldn't!"
"I do." The certainty in his voice makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the drink.
A man at the far end of the bar calls his name, and Vernon straightens automatically, but he doesn't move just yet.
"It's good to see you," he says instead. Something in his eyes shifts, and instinctively you know he's thinking about your brother. You almost expect him to say his name, to say something, but all he does is exhale through his nose, stepping back into himself. "Duty calls."
"Go," you say, waving him off lightly. "Your criminal empire awaits."
He huffs a quiet laugh as he turns away. "Careful," he tosses over his shoulder. "That kind of talk will get you banned."
"From a law-abiding establishment like this?" you call after him.
He doesn't answer, but you catch the quick flash of his smile before he's swallowed up by the rest of the room.
On the third visit, Grace doesn't come at all. You tell yourself you're only stopping in for one drink before heading home.
You end up staying until nearly eleven.
The bar is quieter than usual. The band's taken the night off, replaced by a gramophone that crackles faintly in the corner. You sit at the far end of the bar this time, where the light is dimmer and the crowd thinner. Vernon doesn't even seem surprised to find you there.
"You're becoming a regular," he says.
"Is that allowed?"
"Depends. Can you keep a secret?"
"I work at a telephone exchange," you remind him. "If I repeated everything I heard, the city would implode."
You're only kidding, because you don't have time to listen in on every call. But it makes him laugh softly, and something about the sound loosens a knot in your chest you didn't know was there. He leans against the counter, closer now, forearms resting on the wood.
"You look tired," he says, not accusing. Just observing.
"Gee, thanks." You scrunch your nose. He only smiles, and you shrug. "It's been a long week."
He pushes your drink towards you, and you take a sip as silence settles between you, but it isn't strained. The music swells. Someone at the other end of the bar tells a loud joke.
"You still live with your aunt?" he asks after a while.
"Yes."
"She doing all right?"
"She's okay." Your aunt is old, a little ditzy. She barely knows you, really, but still — she's the only family you have left, and she gives you a bed at night and food to eat. "She misses him."
For a moment, the background hum of the speakeasy is drowned out, and you just watch as the words register on his face. All these minutes of dancing around it, but you're the one who brings him up.
The look he gives you is steady, unreadable in the low light.
You look away first, but he studies you for a second longer. "You know," he says quietly, "sometimes when you tilt your head like that, you look exactly like him."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, they sting. You blink. "I do not."
"You do," he insists, softer now. "Right before you're about to argue."
"That's ridiculous."
"There," he says, almost smiling. "That. Same tone."
You open your mouth to protest again, then hesitate. "I don't sound like him."
"Not usually." He pauses. "But when you're teasing someone."
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. "I don't—"
"I'm not saying it to upset you," he adds quickly. "It's just, you know. Familiar."
Familiar. You stare at the rim of your glass. "I don't know if I like that."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not him."
"I know." His voice is steady. "You're not." He huffs out what could be a laugh. "He always said you were much better than him."
You laugh again, but it wobbles at the edges.
"He was ridiculous," you say. "Always acting like I was made of glass."
"You're not," Vernon says. You're not sure if he's humouring you or if he actually believes that, but you let it slide.
"He talked about you a lot," you say after a moment.
Vernon goes still. He's almost painfully stiff — like if he moves, it'll hurt him. "Did he?"
"All the time. Said you were the only one who could beat him at cards. Said you once tried to cook and nearly burned the building down."
"That was one time," he mutters, but there's a reluctant smile forming at the corner of his lip.
You smile faintly. "He thought you were reckless."
"Oh, that's rich."
"But loyal," you add. "He said that too."
The noise of the bar seems to recede slightly.
Vernon looks down at the counter, running the cloth over a spot that doesn't need cleaning. "He was," he says finally, voice low, "a better man than he thought he was."
You nod, because can't quite trust your voice.
After that night, something shifts.
You start noticing small things. The way he sets a glass in front of you without asking what you want, already knowing. The way his gaze tracks you until you're safely seated, until your coat is hung, until you're settled.
You've never gone out to drink so often in your life. Sometimes you don't even drink — sometimes there are evenings you don't talk much at all. You sit at the bar with a book open in front of you, more for appearance than reading. He moves around you, and every so often your eyes meet. Occasionally, he'll stand in front of you during quiet moments, and you'll talk. Rarest of all, you'll talk about your brother,
Just the steady accumulation of moments.
You don't name what's growing between you. You're not sure you want to. But when he leans in to hear you over the noise and you catch the faint scent of soap and something sharper beneath it, when his shoulder brushes yours and neither of you moves away, when he says your name like it's something carefully held, you feel it.
It sits low and warm in your chest.
On a Friday night, the air inside the speakeasy feels thick and bright with laughter. Cathy is with you again, flushed from the cold and already leaning conspiratorially across the bar before you've even taken your coat off.
"You know," she says loudly, as Vernon sets two glasses down in front of you, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you've got a standing reservation."
"I don't," you reply, though you don't miss the flicker of amusement in Vernon's eyes.
"Sure, sweetheart," Catherine says. "And I'm the mayor."
"You'd be terrible at it."
"I'd be magnificent."
Vernon smiles faintly and moves down the bar to answer someone else's call, leaving you and Catherine to bicker good-naturedly. She's halfway through describing the absolute bluenose at her office when a man steps up to the bar.
You only notice him because Vernon's expression changes, ever so slightly. The man is older, broad-shouldered, his hat tipped low though he doesn't bother to remove it indoors. He doesn't glance at you or Catherine or anyone else; he barely glances at Vernon, for that matter. He speaks quietly, leaning in so that his words don't carry.
You try not to stare.
Cathy keeps talking, oblivious. "—and she cried. Actually cried. Over a crossed line."
You nod, but your attention drifts.
The man slides something across the bar. An envelope. It's small and cream-coloured and you never would have noticed it if you hadn't already been watching Vernon so closely.
Vernon's hand covers it without hesitation, as if it's nothing more than a receipt. He doesn't look down. He doesn't look surprised.
He says something back, equally low. The entire ordeal doesn't take more than a minute, and then the stranger is gone, and you realise you've gone silent.
"Sorry," you murmur. "What were you saying?"
"That I'd have smacked her with my heel."
"Of course you would." Your gaze drifts back to Vernon. He's already serving someone else, expression perfectly composed, like nothing ever happened, so you try to shake it off, downing the last of your drink.
He's back in front of you seconds later, expression smooth. "You need another?"
You study him, before deciding to just be blunt. "Who was that?"
If he's surprised you noticed, he doesn't show it. "A customer."
"That didn't look like a drink order."
He meets your eyes evenly. "Not all business is alcohol."
"You have a lot of interesting customers."
He studies you for half a second too long. "It's New York."
"That's not an answer."
He wipes down the counter, unhurried. "It's not meant to be."
There's no bite in his tone, but equally, there's a steel undertone that tells you plainly he's not going to elaborate.
You force a smile. "Very mysterious."
"I try."
Something unsettled coils in your stomach.
You know what your brother did. Not all of it, of course, but enough. He ran messages, delivered things (he'd never tell you what), anything that'd keep the money coming in. "Just small jobs," he'd said, over and over. "Nothing serious."
Until it was serious. Until it ended in a warehouse by the docks and a gunshot.
You don't want to think about that now, so you look back at Vernon, at the steady calm of him, the familiarity. You tell yourself it's nothing. Bars have suppliers, surely. Accounts. You know this place isn't exactly legal, after all. A few shady characters shouldn't surprise you.
You take a drink and let the music swallow your unease.
You want to push. You want to ask about that man, about what Vernon said to him. For some reason, you want to ask him to talk about your brother, even if it's just to say his name to someone who knew him.
You don't. Instead, you ask about the piano player, about how long he's worked here, about anything that doesn't require him to explain that envelope.
The problem is, it doesn't stop there.
Now that you know to look, you notice a lot more. More men who talk to Vernon in hushed tones, mmore papers slid across the bar smoothly. More nights where Vernon disappears in the middle of his shift — sometimes he's back before you leave, with his hair a little windswept and his eyes a little brighter. Sometimes he's not.
You still don't ask. You can tell he knows you want to, that he can see the curiosity, maybe even the reproach in your eyes, but he doesn't let you, and you don't try. Instead, you talk about work and your friends and your aunt and he listens the same way he always has.
The day your brother died, you had been late coming home.
It wasn't unusual. You'd just started at the exchange then, it hadn't been more than a week or two. You'd been so excited when you landed the job, because it meant you could finally tell your brother to quit "delivering messages", with your new wage and all. He'd promised you he would, that he just had a few things to see through.
You had been carrying a loaf of bread under your arm, still warm through the paper, and rehearsing in your head the scolding you meant to give him for finishing the last of the butter.
You knew something was wrong before you reached the top step, only because the door was ajar. Just enough to show the thin seam of lamplight through the crack, but nobody in your family — not you, not your aunt, and definitely not your brother — would forget to shut the door properly. You pushed it fully open with your hip, already frowning, lips already forming his name.
Your aunt had been standing in the middle of the sitting room, still wearing her apron. She looked smaller somehow, as if the air had pressed her inward. There was a man beside her, hat in his hands, the brim bent slightly between his fingers.
You don't remember dropping the bread, but you must have. Later, you would find it crushed against the wall.
The officer spoke carefully, like he was arranging glass on a shelf. There had been an incident by the warehouses. There had been a gun. He used phrases like unfortunate and tragic and a real shame. You watched his mouth move and thought, distantly, that he should have shaved more closely.
Your aunt had begun to cry before the officer finished speaking. You, on the other hand, didn't cry. You stood very still and stared at the scuffed toes of the officer's boots and wished very hard that he would fucking leave.
Your brother was not the sort of person who disappeared between sentences. He left socks on the floor. He left half-read newspapers on the arm of the chair. He never tied his laces properly. He did not simply stop existing.
The officer asked if you wanted to see him. You shook your head.
The house felt cavernous after they left. Every object was suddenly too specific. His coat slung over the back of a chair — he never remembered to take it with him. The faint imprint of his body in the sofa cushion. A glass on the table with a fingerprint still visible in the smudge.
You touched the sleeve of his coat and it swung gently, as if he might walk back in and shrug into it any second. You told yourself he would.
For weeks afterward, you kept expecting to hear his steps on the stairs. The quick, uneven rhythm of them. The way he'd clear his throat before entering a room, as if announcing himself to an audience.
You thought about the last conversation you'd had, the night before he died. He'd been distracted, smiling at something you couldn't see. When you'd asked where he was going, he'd brushed past you, light and evasive.
"Don't wait up," he'd said, as always.
You hadn't.
In the months before, there had been little things. Late nights, a lot of restlessness. Sometimes you'd wake in the middle of the night and he'd be pacing in the sitting room.
At first, you'd thought it was just a girl he was seeing, but slowly, the later he came home, the more money he came home with, you realised you had got it entirely wrong, and when you asked questions, he'd answer as vaguely as possible.
You remember watching him lace his boots horribly one evening, his head bent, his hair falling into his eyes, and thinking that he looked older than he had any right to.
You remember almost saying, Stay.
You didn't. You knew he wouldn't listen. (Family trait, you aunt would sigh, whenever you and your brother argued. Too stubborn to listen.)
You can't ignore how much this — how much being around Vernon feels like the months before your brother died. When you're watching someone else you care about (because you do care about him, it turns out, more than you'd thought) giving you half-explanations and careful smiles, that same hollow space in your chest begins to open again, tight and painful and raw in your chest. You didn't want to draw the comparison, but every time Vernon disappears, it echoes a time you promised yourself you'd never live through again.
As usual, you ignore it.
One evening, Vernon walks you home.
You're not entirely sure how it happens, it just happens. The rain had started, just after nine. Catherine, who had arrived determined to be sensible, abandons that resolve the moment a man with neatly parted hair offers to share his umbrella. You watch her deliberate for less than a second before she beams and loops her arm through his.
"Don't wait for me," she calls to you, echoing something you've heard a dozen times before.
"I won't," you reply, smiling despite yourself.
Grace had already disappeared an hour earlier, pulled into some back corner with a cluster of strangers arguing about baseball. She'd kissed your cheek in passing and told you not to be dull, to "do something about the bartender you're stuck on".
So you're left alone at the bar, nursing the last inch of your drink, listening to the low hum of jazz as the night wears on. Occasionally, you flick your eyes to Vernon, and then tear them away when you realise you've been looking too long. Vernon moves through the space like he always does — steady and quick on his feet. He's got a dish towel slung over one shoulder now, sleeves pushed high, hair slightly curling at the ends from the damp air every time the door opens. You try not to think about how handsome it makes him look. You fail.
When the rain thickens enough to drum faintly against the windows, you decide it's your excuse. You slip from your stool and gather your coat, the fabric cool against your hands. You shake it out, slide your arms through, and begin fastening the buttons one by one.
"You heading out?"
His voice comes from your left. You hadn't seen him approach.
"Yes," you say, casting him a smile when you look up from your buttons. "Before it gets worse."
He glances toward the door, listening to the steady patter. "I'll walk you."
There's a moment — small, suspended — where neither of you quite moves. The bar behind him carries on as usual: someone laughs too loudly, glass clinks against glass. He's never asked to see you outside of here before; neither of you have ever taken the urge to move this, whatever it is, outside.
"You don't have to," you say, at last.
"I know." He's already fumbling into some sort of storage space for his coat. "I have somewhere to be, anyway. I'll walk you on the way."
You hesitate for the length of a breath, then nod. "All right." You don't ask where he's going — you don't want to know.
He grabs his coat from a peg near the back and says something brief to another bartender, who waves him off without question. There's something about that — how easily he steps away, how little explanation he needs to give — that presses at the back of your mind, but you push it aside.
Outside, rain has glossed the streets into mirrors. You pull your collar higher against the sudden sharp wind. Vernon falls into step beside you without touching, close enough to share your umbrella, close that you can feel the warmth of him between your sleeves.
For a while, you just walk.
The rhythm of your steps finds itself naturally, heel to toe in quiet synchronisation. Your shoulders brush once, accidentally, and neither of you comments on it.
"You're quiet," he says after a few blocks.
"So are you."
He considers that. "Fair."
A cab rattles past, wheels sending up a spray that narrowly misses your hem.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asks suddenly.
You glance at him. "Leaving what?"
"New York."
The question lingers between you, strange and unexpectedly intimate. "Sometimes," you admit, something you never thought you'd do out loud. "Usually after a long day. Or when the heat in the apartment stops working." You tuck your hands deeper into your coat pockets, and a smile appears on your face. "I think I'd like to try farm life, you know." You're only half-joking.
He snorts. "You? On a farm?"
"What?" You try to be offended, but end up laughing along with him. "You don't think I could do it?"
"If you're anything like your brother, you'll do anything you put your mind to," he says, shaking his head. "Even if it's stupid."
"What about you then? Don't you ever want to get out of here?"
"Sometimes," he says, his head tilting slightly to the side. "But I don't know what I'd do anywhere else."
"You could cook," you suggest lightly, biting down the grin that threatens to emerge. "Open a little restaurant somewhere respectable. Legal."
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "You're hilarious."
"No, I've seen you back there. You look very competent."
"That's because I don't have to eat what I make."
You laugh, and the sound drifts into the damp air and disappears. It's just a small conversation, a harmless one, but something about the quiet street makes them feel weightier.
You pass a bakery long closed for the night. The faint scent of bread lingers even through the rain. A cat darts across the alley ahead of you, vanishing into shadow.
"You're coming round less often lately," he says.
You glance at him, surprised. "Are you keeping track?"
He shrugs. "I notice things." You think the apples of his cheeks are pinking, but that could just be the cold.
"I have to be up before six," you say. "If I'm late twice in a week they start writing it down. Like we're schoolchildren."
He makes a quiet sound of disapproval.
"It's not so bad, though," you add quickly. "It's steady."
"You say that like you're convincing yourself."
You nudge his arm lightly with your elbow. "Don't analyse me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The rain picks up slightly, beading along his coat collar. A curl of dark hair falls forward onto his forehead and you have the absurd urge to reach up and push it back.
Halfway down your block, your foot slips on a slick patch of pavement, and his hand closes around your wrist instantly — his grip tightens reflexively, steadying you. Your breath catches, and for a second you're acutely aware of everything. The pressure of his fingers, your pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, the faint scent of rain and soap clinging to him.
You both go still.
His thumb presses lightly against your wrist before he seems to realise what he's doing.
"Sorry," he says, too quickly.
"It's fine," you reply, though your voice sounds breathier than you intend.
He doesn't let go right away. Neither of you moves for a long second, not until rain slides from the brim of his coat and lands against your sleeve. Somewhere down the street, a door slams, and he releases you.
You smooth your coat unnecessarily. He clears his throat.
"You all right?"
"Yes." You try to ignore how hot your face suddenly feels.
"Good."
When you reach your building, the front steps shine wet under the streetlamp. The windows above are dark. Your aunt will already be asleep.
You skip up a step or two, turn toward him, hands still tucked in your pockets to keep them from fidgeting.
"Thank you," you say.
"For what?"
"For walking me."
He shrugs one shoulder. "It's on my way."
You sum up the courage to be a little bolder. "It's not."
A faint smile curves his mouth, not even a little bit flustered. "Doesn't matter."
Rain traces a thin line down his cheekbone. Again, you resist the urge to brush it away. "Do you want my umbrella?" you say, suddenly realising you've left him in the rain. You don't wait for an answer. You hurry back down the steps, shoes slick against the damp stone, snapping the umbrella back open and lifting it over his head. It tilts slightly as you adjust your grip, and in doing so you step closer than you meant to.
The umbrella isn't large. The space beneath it narrows the world to just the two of you — the steady patter of rain above — again, that faint scent of wet wool and soap — the warmth of his body only inches from yours.
Vernon seems to realise the exact second you do.
His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Your breath catches. The hand holding the umbrella trembles just slightly, and he notices — of course he notices.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The city continues around you, rain glossing the pavement, distant wheels cutting through puddles, but it all feels far away.
You're not sure who leans in first.
It's small, almost tentative — a shared decision made without words. His hand comes up, not to pull you closer, just to steady the umbrella where your grip falters. His fingers brush yours, warm and rough, and just as they do, your lips meet softly. A gentle press, testing, as if both of you are making sure the other won't pull away. You don't.
His mouth is warm despite the rain, gentler than you expected. The kiss lingers a heartbeat longer than caution would advise, long enough for something to shift in your chest — something bright and terrifying all at once.
When you part, it's slow. Reluctant.
The umbrella tilts again, rain slipping past the edge and catching in his hair. He exhales, barely a sound, and for a second he looks almost surprised. Then something steadier settles over his expression.
"Get inside," he says gently. "Before you catch something."
You step back toward the door, fingers curling around the handle. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
You hesitate just long enough to look at him once more — the lamplight catching in his eyes, the rain settling into the dark wool of his coat — and then you slip inside.
From the narrow hallway window, you watch him walk away.
He doesn't hurry, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the rain. At the corner, he glances back once — not toward the window, but toward the building itself — as if making sure the door has closed. Then he turns and disappears into the sheen of the city, leaving the street quiet behind him.
You lean your forehead against the cool window. You kissed him — you kissed him, so why does you feel so full of dread?
You run into him three days later in the park.
You'd left the house to escape the stale quiet. Your aunt had fallen asleep in her armchair again, knitting pooled in her lap, so you'd taken your book and walked the few blocks to the park, settling onto a weathered bench beneath a tree that hasn't quite decided to let go of its leaves. It's a little damp, more than a little cold, but you'll take anything that gets you away from being cooped up with your thoughts.
You're halfway through a page when a shadow falls across the paper.
"What are the odds?" a familiar voice asks.
You look up too quickly.
Vernon's dressed differently. No rolled sleeves. No apron. Just a dark coat, collar turned up against the breeze, hands tucked into his pockets. Without the bar framing him, he looks younger.
"Is that disappointment I hear?" you ask.
"Devastation," he says solemnly.
You snort before you can stop yourself. "What are you doing here?"
"Walking."
"Just walking?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
You tilt your head. "A little."
He smiles. "Can I?" He gestures to the empty space beside you.
You hesitate for half a second — not because you want to say no, but because your heart has started beating in that uneven way again — and then you nod. He sits, close but not touching, and all you can think about is how the last time you saw him, his lips were on yours.
For a moment, neither of you speak. It feels almost indecently normal, you sat next to him on a bench. Simple — it feels simple. You wish it was.
"You don't seem surprised," he says after a while.
"To see you?"
He nods. You close your book, wrinkle your nose as you think, thumb marking the page. "I was, for a second. But my aunt always says, you know, the city's smaller than we think."
"Or we're worse at staying away than we pretend."
You glance at him. "Were you trying to stay away?"
His gaze stays forward. "Were you?"
You don't answer. A breeze lifts, tugging a loose strand of hair across your mouth. You reach to brush it away at the same time he does — your fingers collide lightly.
He drops his hand first. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
You both look forward again, but something has shifted — a current humming just beneath the surface. "You read much?" he asks, nodding toward your book.
"When I can."
"Is it good?"
"I don't know yet," you admit. "I've read the same paragraph three times."
He huffs quietly. "Distracted?"
"Maybe."
He studies you then, openly. Silence settles again, softer this time, and after a few long moments, he looks away.
A boy runs past chasing a ball, nearly colliding with Vernon's knee. Vernon catches the ball instinctively before it hits the gravel path, handing it back with a faint nod. The boy grins and dashes off again.
You watch the ease of it. "You know, you seem different out here."
"How?"
"I don't know." You search for the right words. "Less guarded."
He goes still at that.
"Guarded," he repeats.
"At the bar, you're always watching and listening and moving."
"And here?"
"Here you just look like a man sitting in the sun. Honestly, I didn't know you could sit so still until now."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Thrilling." There's a moment where he seems to debate saying something, and then he opens his mouth. "You're different too, you know. In the daylight."
"Really?"
"Even prettier," he says, soft. "I can actually see your face."
You swallow.
You can't do this again. The thought arrives sharp and unwelcome, and you stand abruptly. "I should go," you say.
He looks up at you, surprised. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No." You force a smile. "No, I just — I promised my aunt I wouldn't be long."
He rises too. "I'll walk you, then," he says. "If you'll let me."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
You hesitate, and then you nod. The path curves out of the park and back toward the city blocks. You walk side by side, arms brushing occasionally, but neither of you say anything the whole way home.
It's a few nights later, when you see Vernon outside the bar, and something inside you twists.
You hadn't meant to come, but your bed had felt too close, the air too thick with the sound of your aunt's breathing in the next room, the clock ticking too loudly on the mantel. You'd needed air. That was all.
But your feet had turned at the familiar corner without consulting you. Past the bakery, straight past the shuttered tailor, toward the narrow stretch of brick that concealed the door you now knew by heart.
You realise where you're headed only when you see the faint spill of amber light at the end of the block.
You stop.
You could turn around. You probably should turn around.
Instead, you keep walking.
The rain has left the pavement slick and dark. The alley beside the building gleams faintly under a single weak lamp, and you're just about to pass by it when movement catches your eye. Two figures stand half-shadowed against the brick. One taller, shoulders squared. The other angled slightly inward, posture familiar in a way your body recognises before your mind does.
You know it's him before he shifts enough for the light to touch his face.
There's no easy warmth to him here, no softness from lamplight and music, no quick smile sent your way from across the room.
You realise belatedly that the man standing opposite him is the first one you'd noticed weeks ago. Now they're stand close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.
You don't move. (You should go, you think, but you know you won't.) The alley smells faintly of damp brick and stale smoke. Your pulse roars in your ears so loudly you're sure it must be audible.
Reaching inside his coat, Vernon pulls out something wrapped in brown paper — long, narrow, bound tightly with twine. It's too rigid to be anything soft, too carefully held to be casual. He grips it with both hands, angled downward, shielded by his body.
The shape is unmistakable. Even through paper, you can see the outline.
It's a gun.
Your breath leaves you in a thin, soundless rush. You watch as the man steps closer. Vernon keeps his movements controlled, passing the parcel across the small space between them the same way you've seen him hand over a bottle of alcohol countless times.
The man takes it, slipping it quickly beneath his coat, tucking it along his side with familiarity. He adjusts his jacket once, twice, until the shape disappears against his body. They exchange a few quiet words. You strain to hear, but the rain-swollen air swallows the sound. The man gives a single nod, and then he turns and walks toward the mouth of the alley, steps measured, unhurried, merging easily with the dim spill of light from the main street.
Vernon stays where he is. He exhales slowly, the breath visible in the damp air. His hand comes up to his hair, pushing it back from his forehead in that same absent gesture you've seen a hundred times across the bar.
It's so normal.
So terribly normal.
Then he turns, straight towards you — there's one horrible moment where you think he's seen you, he's known you were there all along. Then your thoughts kick in, you realise it's not possible, and as he walks in your direction, instinct slams through you. You step back hard enough that your shoulder hits brick. The cold seeps instantly through your coat. You press yourself into shadow, willing your breathing to quiet, willing your heartbeat to stop battering against your ribs.
He walks past.
Close enough that you see the rain clinging to his lashes. Close enough that you could reach out and catch his sleeve, if you wanted.
His gaze is fixed straight ahead, and the glimpse you get of his eyes shows them hard, focused. Closed off in a way you've never seen when he's looking at you. There's no softness in it now, no warmth or laughter.
He passes within arm's length, and you let him.
And you stand there, rooted to damp brick, the image of brown paper and the unmistakable outline beneath it burning behind your eyes.
You realise you've stopped breathing. Because once again, it's the same. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, it's the same.
Small things. Harmless things. Just helping someone out. Just passing something along. Just a favor. Just temporary.
You've heard it all before, and standing here with the rain dampening the back of your neck and the wind picking up, you remember deciding not to push. You remember telling yourself it was none of your business.
And you remember the knock at the door, the officer's hat in his hands.
You can't do this again.
The thought lands with such force it nearly steals the air from your lungs, but it blocks everything else out, because it's true — you can't.
You can't stand on the edge of something and pretend not to see where it leads. Because that's what this is, whether he names it or not. No matter how much he insists that he's careful; you know how careful men end up. You know how easily small things become bigger ones.
Your eyes burn suddenly, fiercely, and you blink hard against it. The alley feels too narrow, the walls too close. For a wild moment, you consider calling after him.
Vernon.
You imagine the sound of his name leaving your mouth, sharp enough to make him turn. You imagine his surprise. The explanation that would follow. The way he would soften his voice, step closer, tell you it isn't what you think, maybe even cup your cheek, let you lean into the warmth of his hand.
But you don't want to hear it. You don't want to stand under the weak alley lights and listen to him carve this into something reasonable, because you know yourself well enough to know you might believe him.
You don't follow him.
You don't go back for nearly a week and a half. It's the longest you've gone without seeing him since he appeared back into your life.
On the eleventh day, Vernon finds you outside the exchange.
You're startled when he says your name, whipping round so quickly you seem to startle him just as much as he did you. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," he says simply.
You fold your arms. "Why?"
"You haven't been by."
"I've been busy."
He studies you, eyes shrewd. "That's not it."
You hold his gaze. "I saw you."
His expression doesn't change. "Saw me."
"In the alley."
A beat of silence, and then he takes your arm, gently — so gently, he's always gentle — and pulls you into a small alcove.
"You shouldn't have been there," he says, his voice lowered.
"That's not an answer."
He exhales slowly. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it, Vernon? Because to me, it looked like a fucking gun."
He runs a hand through his hair, something uncharacteristically frustrated flickering across his face. "It's nothing serious."
"That's what he said."
Vernon's jaw tightens. "I'm not him," he says quietly.
"I know that."
"Then don't look at me like that."
"I thought you were just bartending," you say. It's not true. You've known for a long time, really, you just haven't let yourself.
"I am."
"And the rest?"
He doesn't answer immediately. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you involved," he says finally. "I didn't want you worrying."
"That's not your decision to make."
"No," he agrees. "It's not." The honesty of it disarms you.
"Why?" you ask, and maybe there's a hint of desperation seeping into your tone. "Vernon, why do you do it?"
"Money," he says plainly. "It's temporary."
You almost laugh. That fucking word again.
"That's what he said," you whisper.
Silence stretches between you. "I'm careful," Vernon says, but he already sounds resigned. "I don't take risks I can't manage."
"You can't manage a bullet," you snap.
The words hang heavy. "I'm not trying to replace him," Vernon says more softly. "And I'm not trying to follow him."
"If you keep going like this, you will," you say, and you have to fight to keep your voice down, and you have to fight even harder to force the tears back into your eyes. "You're going to follow hom straight to the grave." You swallow, hard, raw, painful. "I can't do it again," you say hoarsely.
His hand lifts, thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tear that falls. "Do what?"
"Bury someone else I l— care about," you say. You watch his eyes, softness and conflict swimming in the brown. Your hand reaches up to cover his on your cheek, and you squeeze, feeling the warmth again. "Vernon, please don't make me."
He doesn't say anything, but you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows. "I care about you," he says, finally. "And — I'm sorry."
You leave before he can stop you.
a/n: sad ending i know im sorry!!!!! i never know whether to put it in the warnings bc its technically a spoiler but. idk. i personally don't like seeing it in the tags before i read something but maybe thats just me. "hana will there be a part 2" hana doesn't know. hana is a little bit sick of this fic after rewriting it 4 times and right now hana would like to not think about it for a very long time.
also guys i need u to know its like 1am and i did one quick readthrough for proofreading and every time she says "thats what he said" i couldnt stop laughing. anyway thank u for reading love u all goodbye
You didn’t expect to run into your late brother’s best friend tending bar at an illegal speakeasy — or to start falling for him. But when you realize Vernon is involved in the same kind of work that got your brother killed, liking him suddenly feels dangerous in ways you know too well.
⇢ pairing: chwe vernon x f!reader
⇢ genre: angst, fluff, brother's best friend
⇢ wc: 9.2k
⇢ warnings: guns/gun violence (nothing graphic), illegal activities, alcohol consumption, grief + death, there are 100% historical inaccuracies and i am so sorry.
⇢ a/n: thank you to everyone who sprinted w me!! and thank you to jess and em for talking me into actually doing this. this is not the best thing i've ever written by a long shot, but it feels like forever since i've posted so here it is.
⇢ as part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt !
By the time your shift ends, there's a dull ache behind your ears, and your legs are aching from sitting too still for too long. You button your coat, and step back into the night with the sense that you've been standing still for hours while New York rushed past you.
Outside the telephone exchange, the cold cuts clean and sharp. Steam rises from the grates along the sidewalk, blurring the streetlights. You pull your gloves tighter and spot Catherine immediately, pacing near the corner with theatrical impatience, her hat already tilting off-center.
"There you are," she says, relief and accusation wrapped together. "I was starting to think they'd chained you to the board."
"Almost," you say. "What time is it?"
"Early enough that I refuse to go home yet." She links her arm through yours before you can protest. "Come on. Grace is waiting."
Grace is a block away, leaning against a lamppost with the ease of someone who never quite looks like she's waiting for anything. She straightens when she sees you, grinning.
"I told her you'd get out before seven," Grace says to you, and tosses Catherine a triumphant look. "You owe me fifty cents."
Cathy groans. "You're unbearable."
You smile despite yourself. "What's the plan?"
Grace glances down the street, then lowers her voice. "We're having a drink."
"A drink," you repeat, eyebrows lifting. You already know where this is going.
"A real one," Catherine says, daring you to argue.
You hesitate, brief but noticeable. "You know I don't usually."
"That's exactly why we're taking you," Grace beams, threading her arm through your free one. "You work too much. It's unseemly."
You make a face, but don't protest, and that leaves you reluctantly frogmarched by your two friends down the icy streets. Of course, they don't tell you where you're going at first, just guide you down a side street you rarely use, past shopfronts already dark for the night. Ignoring all your questions, of course, dismissing them with casual waves of the hand.
You let them, though, because it's been a while since you've had a proper drink, and anything is more appealing than going back to your lonely room. You already know your aunt will have fallen asleep in her chair by the window, and won't even stir when you let yourself in later on.
The door of the speakeasy doesn't look like anything at all.
That's the first thing you notice — how easy it would be to miss. Just another unmarked stretch of brick and a narrow doorway wedged between a tailor and a shuttered grocer, the kind of place you've passed a hundred times without wondering what's behind it.
Your friends are already laughing, breath fogging in the cold. Grace knocks twice, pauses, then knocks once more. You watch her hand, oddly attentive. A slit opens, a pair of eyes looks you over. Gracie smiles and says a name you don't recognise. The door swings inward.
Warmth hits you first, then sound. Laughter layered over music, conversation pressed close together. The air smells sharp and sweet all at once. Citrus. Alcohol. Wool coats damp from the cold.
"Oh," Catherine says, delighted. "This is good."
"Told you," Grace grins, though she looks just as pleasantly surprised as you do. "My cousin knows all the good spots."
You step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the low lighting, lamps shaded in amber, smoke clinging to the ceiling, bodies pressed together in easy familiarity. Jazz hums from somewhere unseen.
"This is so illegal," you say, automatically.
Catherine nudges you. "Isn't it wonderful?"
Someone laughs loudly near your shoulder. Someone else swears affectionately. It's loud, humming with a kind of life that the unremarkable front door conceals impressively. You friends squeeze in at the bar, and you end up slotting yourself in between them, just about close enough to hear each other under the buzz.
The bartender has his back to you, leaning in to hear someone farther down the bar. Dark hair, white shirt, sleeves rolled, and you're watching without any real thought until he turns.
The recognition arrives in pieces. The line of his jaw. The familiar curve of his mouth when he smiles at something the customer says, the way his eyes crease faintly at the corners. He looks older than the last time you saw him, leaner, sharper around the eyes, but unmistakably the same.
Your stomach drops.
Vernon.
For a heartbeat, you're sure he hasn't seen you, and relief flares, sharp and almost dizzying. Immediately, your instinct is to run — let the crowd swallow you, pretend this never happened, but then his gaze lifts, scanning the bar and it lands on your face.
He stills.
It's subtle, but you absolutely see it. His hand pauses, his expression goes blank, then carefully softens. Surprise, clear as day.
You hold his gaze, pulse louder than the jazz, thrumming in your ears. A year and a half collapses into a single moment.
Catherine leans back suddenly, elbowing your arm and lowering her mouth to your ear. "Am I crazy, or is that bartender making eyes straight at you?"
"What?" You barely manage a reply, disoriented. Your mouth seems to move slower, words not fully forming in your mouth.
"Hey," Grace says to the bartender (Vernon, your mind supplies insistently), unaware of the muttered conversation on her right. "Three Mary Pickfords."
He blinks once, glances at you for a beat too long, then nods. "Coming up."
His voice is exactly the fucking same.
He turns away to pour, giving you the barest moment to breathe. You watch him move, the familiarity of him made strange by context, but with all the thoughts rushing into your head, you don't have time to concentrate on his movements. Is he pretending not to know you? Does he actually not recognise you? Did you imagine the way his hands froze and his eyes widened?
He sets the glasses down in front of you, then finally looks at you again. There's a split second where he looks at you, befor he opens his mouth, and instantly you can tell, yes, he knows you. You may have met only a handful of times, but he knows you.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.
Neither of you moves closer. The bar hums around you, and your friends look on with unusual silence.
"I didn't know you…" He stops, adjusts. "I didn't know you — What are you doing here?"
"We just — came out for drinks," you say, and it's awkward, the half-hearted gesture you make towards your friends either side of you.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That makes sense."
Catherine looks between you. "You know each other?"
Vernon glances at you, giving you the choice — it's not much of a choice, after the conversation you just had in front of them.
"This is Vernon," you say, swallowing thickly. "He is — was — friends with my brother."
Your words stumble into each other, and you drop your eyes from Vernon's for a second. You don't want to see the way his eyes flicker when you correct yourself to past tense, don't want to see that sinking feeling in your stomach reflected in his eyes.
Cathy clears her throat. "Well. I suppose that explains the staring."
Vernon offers a small, careful smile, distributing the drinks without moving his eyes from your face. "It's good to see you."
"You too," you say truthfully, swallowing and managing a smile. Your mouth feels dry.
He slides the last glass toward you. "Three Mary Pickfords," he says, almost gentle. "Shout if you need me."
You take it, your fingers brushing the cool glass. "Thanks."
You drink. It burns, then settles.
The night keeps moving. Conversation carries on around you. Grace tells a story about a woman at her office who cried through lunch over a broken typewriter. Catherine interrupts constantly with her usual bright quips. You listen, humming and nodding where appropriate, but you can't make yourself contribute properly; your mind is still stuck on your brother's best friend.
Vernon is everywhere and nowhere at once, called down the bar, ducking behind shelves, leaning in to hear orders. Every time you think he might circle back, someone else needs him. You catch glimpses of him between people, sleeves damp now, hair slightly mussed. Sometimes he smiles, a quick fleeting thing that lights up his face for a second, before disappearing.
You haven't seen him since the funeral. You haven't really thought about him since the funeral, when he looked at you across the room with serious brown eyes. He'd said something to you, just before he left, but you can't remember now. Everything about that day feels like a blur. You only remember fragments: your aunt wailing, the taste of bile sour in your throat. Your hands were cold, tight-knuckled with the fabric of your skirt between them.
You don't speak to Vernon again for the rest of the night, not really. Just a look here, a brief nod there. And when the night is over, and Catherine's announcing she really needs to get home, and Grace is handing you your coat, you try to catch his eye, to say a quick goodbye, at the very least. Except you can't see him anywhere, and Cathy's tugging on your hand, and so you leave it.
You're halfway toward the door when you feel something brush your coat sleeve. You turn. and he's there suddenly, like he's stepped out of the walls themselves. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "Take care getting home," he says, and he looks like he wants to say more.
You don't give him a chance. "I will," you answer. "Thanks."
He nods, and then he's gone. The music swells behind him; you step out into the cold, the door closing softly at your back. The city rushes in, loud and ordinary again.
Behind you, the bar stays hidden, exactly as it was.
The first time you go back, you tell yourself it's because Grace insists.
It's a Thursday, which means you're bone-tired and irritable and not in the mood to argue. Grace corners you at lunch — her office isn't far from the exchange, and the two of you usually stop to scoff down a sandwich for your precious few minutes of lunch break. "Catherine's working late," she says, wheedling. "It'll just be us. We'll tip a few, have a good time!"
"I have work in the morning."
"So do I. That's what makes it thrilling." Her eyes twinkle a little. "Besides, don't you want to see your keen bartender again?"
Your jaw drops and you elbow her. "Stop!"
"What?" she laughs helplessly, dodging you when you aim another. "He's a looker! And he was absolutely making eyes at you, even Cathy said so!"
You give in because it's easier than explaining the tight, restless feeling that's been following you all week. Because you've caught yourself thinking about a pair of steady brown eyes across a bar. Because the memory of his voice, low and familiar, has threaded through your days at inconvenient moments. And you're not sure if it's him, or if it's just you desperately clinging to the last living pieces of your brother.
You don't say any of that to Grace. You just pull your coat on after work and let her lead the way.
Vernon isn't there, in the end, but you spend the evening laughing with Grace and trying to stop your eyes from wandering across the speakeasy like that'll make him appear.
The second time you go back, you don't need convincing.
The door opens the same way. Cathy had coached you through the knock and the password, which you rattle off easily enough. Everything looks the same: warm, laughter ringing out, a few people dancing to the music.
And him.
Vernon looks up almost immediately. There's no visible pause in his movements this time, no falter, but something in his face shifts when he spots you. A small, private acknowledgment.
You take a seat at the bar without waiting to be steered there.
"Evening," he says when he reaches you, his head dipping in an almost comically polite greeting.
"Evening," you mimic, suddenly amused.
He smiles back. "Just you tonight?"
"Grace is on her way," you say. "I'm sure she'll be late, though."
"Well, you want something to get you started?"
You open your mouth to answer, but he's already asking, "Another Mary Pickford?"
You blink. He considers you for a moment, then smiles that sudden, brief smile. "I have a very good memory."
"That's convenient for you."
"It usually is. So?"
"I feel predictable," you say, crossing your arms with a frown. "Now I want something else."
He raises his eyebrows, but something amused plays with the corner of his mouth. "Then what would you like?"
"What would you recommend?"
It seems to be the right question, because he gets to work straight away. You watch him pour and mix without really registering his quick movement, until he sets a glass in front of you. The liquid is pale and clear.
"What is it?"
"Try it."
You do. It's good. Really good, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction.
You look up at him. "Not bad. I'll give you that."
He inclines his head, satisfied. "I'll take it."
He just about finishes his words when Grace appears on your other side, slightly red-cheeked. "Hi, doll," she says, "What's that?" Without waiting for an answer she takes a gulp, swallows. "Swell," she says, smacking her lips. "Vernon, I'll have one of those too, please."
"Of course," Vernon replies, not at all daunted by her sudden familiarity. Grace laughs and drifts away, easily absorbed into a conversation by some lucky admirer. You stay where you are, partly to finish your drink in peace, and partly because, well — Vernon.
For a few minutes he's pulled away again, someone calling for another round, a man waving a crumpled bill, but then, as if the room exhales all at once, there's a sudden lull. A pocket of quiet settles over your stretch of the bar. Grace's lucky admirer has swept her towards where others are dancing and you catch her tilting her head coyly, and snort to yourself.
Vernon returns, setting Grace's drink down where she'll find it when she remembers she ordered it. You take a sip of your drink and smile. "She'll be back eventually," you assure him. "Pretty sure she's stringin' him on to pay for that drink."
He glances over your shoulder. "He doesn't seem to mind."
You grin, trace your fingertip through the condensation on your glass. "She's mostly dragged me here to watch her stuff." You're joking, of course, and Vernon seems to get it, letting a short laugh.
"You didn't want to come?"
"I have work tomorrow," you say, avoiding answering the question. "I work at the telephone exchange."
His eyes spark. "Oh, I remember — " He cuts himself off. I remember you brother telling me, you finish mentally.
You're both quiet for a beat too long, and it's heavy. Then he inhales, keeps going. "How is it?"
You let out a breath that's half a laugh. "Repetitive. But what about you?" you ask, nodding around you. "How did you end up here?"
He glances down the bar, as if to make sure no one's about to interrupt again. "A friend needed help. I was between things."
"Between things," you repeat, dubious.
"Temporary," he says lightly.
You glance around the room, at the crowded tables and the low lamps and the bottle-lined shelves behind him. You lean closer, lowering your voice just a fraction. "You do realise this is wildly illegal."
His mouth twitches. "Is it?"
"Oh, please."
"I thought we were running a perfectly respectable, swanky establishment."
"Of course. With the hidden door and the coded knock."
"Ambience," he replies smoothly.
You shake your head. "I ought to sneak on you."
He actually laughs out loud. "To who? You're going to tell the coppers you stumbled across a speakeasy and accidentally tipped a few drinks down while you were there?"
You open your mouth, then close it again. "That's not the point!"
He leans in slightly, mirroring you without seeming to think about it. "Don't go turning me in now, ___." There's something teasing in his tone, but underneath it, something warmer and slower. His lips linger on your name, you swear it.
You meet his eyes. "I wouldn't."
"Good."
You sit back, lifting your glass again. "You're very calm about all this."
"About you threatening to have me in bracelets?"
"You know I wouldn't!"
"I do." The certainty in his voice makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the drink.
A man at the far end of the bar calls his name, and Vernon straightens automatically, but he doesn't move just yet.
"It's good to see you," he says instead. Something in his eyes shifts, and instinctively you know he's thinking about your brother. You almost expect him to say his name, to say something, but all he does is exhale through his nose, stepping back into himself. "Duty calls."
"Go," you say, waving him off lightly. "Your criminal empire awaits."
He huffs a quiet laugh as he turns away. "Careful," he tosses over his shoulder. "That kind of talk will get you banned."
"From a law-abiding establishment like this?" you call after him.
He doesn't answer, but you catch the quick flash of his smile before he's swallowed up by the rest of the room.
On the third visit, Grace doesn't come at all. You tell yourself you're only stopping in for one drink before heading home.
You end up staying until nearly eleven.
The bar is quieter than usual. The band's taken the night off, replaced by a gramophone that crackles faintly in the corner. You sit at the far end of the bar this time, where the light is dimmer and the crowd thinner. Vernon doesn't even seem surprised to find you there.
"You're becoming a regular," he says.
"Is that allowed?"
"Depends. Can you keep a secret?"
"I work at a telephone exchange," you remind him. "If I repeated everything I heard, the city would implode."
You're only kidding, because you don't have time to listen in on every call. But it makes him laugh softly, and something about the sound loosens a knot in your chest you didn't know was there. He leans against the counter, closer now, forearms resting on the wood.
"You look tired," he says, not accusing. Just observing.
"Gee, thanks." You scrunch your nose. He only smiles, and you shrug. "It's been a long week."
He pushes your drink towards you, and you take a sip as silence settles between you, but it isn't strained. The music swells. Someone at the other end of the bar tells a loud joke.
"You still live with your aunt?" he asks after a while.
"Yes."
"She doing all right?"
"She's okay." Your aunt is old, a little ditzy. She barely knows you, really, but still — she's the only family you have left, and she gives you a bed at night and food to eat. "She misses him."
For a moment, the background hum of the speakeasy is drowned out, and you just watch as the words register on his face. All these minutes of dancing around it, but you're the one who brings him up.
The look he gives you is steady, unreadable in the low light.
You look away first, but he studies you for a second longer. "You know," he says quietly, "sometimes when you tilt your head like that, you look exactly like him."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, they sting. You blink. "I do not."
"You do," he insists, softer now. "Right before you're about to argue."
"That's ridiculous."
"There," he says, almost smiling. "That. Same tone."
You open your mouth to protest again, then hesitate. "I don't sound like him."
"Not usually." He pauses. "But when you're teasing someone."
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. "I don't—"
"I'm not saying it to upset you," he adds quickly. "It's just, you know. Familiar."
Familiar. You stare at the rim of your glass. "I don't know if I like that."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not him."
"I know." His voice is steady. "You're not." He huffs out what could be a laugh. "He always said you were much better than him."
You laugh again, but it wobbles at the edges.
"He was ridiculous," you say. "Always acting like I was made of glass."
"You're not," Vernon says. You're not sure if he's humouring you or if he actually believes that, but you let it slide.
"He talked about you a lot," you say after a moment.
Vernon goes still. He's almost painfully stiff — like if he moves, it'll hurt him. "Did he?"
"All the time. Said you were the only one who could beat him at cards. Said you once tried to cook and nearly burned the building down."
"That was one time," he mutters, but there's a reluctant smile forming at the corner of his lip.
You smile faintly. "He thought you were reckless."
"Oh, that's rich."
"But loyal," you add. "He said that too."
The noise of the bar seems to recede slightly.
Vernon looks down at the counter, running the cloth over a spot that doesn't need cleaning. "He was," he says finally, voice low, "a better man than he thought he was."
You nod, because can't quite trust your voice.
After that night, something shifts.
You start noticing small things. The way he sets a glass in front of you without asking what you want, already knowing. The way his gaze tracks you until you're safely seated, until your coat is hung, until you're settled.
You've never gone out to drink so often in your life. Sometimes you don't even drink — sometimes there are evenings you don't talk much at all. You sit at the bar with a book open in front of you, more for appearance than reading. He moves around you, and every so often your eyes meet. Occasionally, he'll stand in front of you during quiet moments, and you'll talk. Rarest of all, you'll talk about your brother,
Just the steady accumulation of moments.
You don't name what's growing between you. You're not sure you want to. But when he leans in to hear you over the noise and you catch the faint scent of soap and something sharper beneath it, when his shoulder brushes yours and neither of you moves away, when he says your name like it's something carefully held, you feel it.
It sits low and warm in your chest.
On a Friday night, the air inside the speakeasy feels thick and bright with laughter. Cathy is with you again, flushed from the cold and already leaning conspiratorially across the bar before you've even taken your coat off.
"You know," she says loudly, as Vernon sets two glasses down in front of you, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you've got a standing reservation."
"I don't," you reply, though you don't miss the flicker of amusement in Vernon's eyes.
"Sure, sweetheart," Catherine says. "And I'm the mayor."
"You'd be terrible at it."
"I'd be magnificent."
Vernon smiles faintly and moves down the bar to answer someone else's call, leaving you and Catherine to bicker good-naturedly. She's halfway through describing the absolute bluenose at her office when a man steps up to the bar.
You only notice him because Vernon's expression changes, ever so slightly. The man is older, broad-shouldered, his hat tipped low though he doesn't bother to remove it indoors. He doesn't glance at you or Catherine or anyone else; he barely glances at Vernon, for that matter. He speaks quietly, leaning in so that his words don't carry.
You try not to stare.
Cathy keeps talking, oblivious. "—and she cried. Actually cried. Over a crossed line."
You nod, but your attention drifts.
The man slides something across the bar. An envelope. It's small and cream-coloured and you never would have noticed it if you hadn't already been watching Vernon so closely.
Vernon's hand covers it without hesitation, as if it's nothing more than a receipt. He doesn't look down. He doesn't look surprised.
He says something back, equally low. The entire ordeal doesn't take more than a minute, and then the stranger is gone, and you realise you've gone silent.
"Sorry," you murmur. "What were you saying?"
"That I'd have smacked her with my heel."
"Of course you would." Your gaze drifts back to Vernon. He's already serving someone else, expression perfectly composed, like nothing ever happened, so you try to shake it off, downing the last of your drink.
He's back in front of you seconds later, expression smooth. "You need another?"
You study him, before deciding to just be blunt. "Who was that?"
If he's surprised you noticed, he doesn't show it. "A customer."
"That didn't look like a drink order."
He meets your eyes evenly. "Not all business is alcohol."
"You have a lot of interesting customers."
He studies you for half a second too long. "It's New York."
"That's not an answer."
He wipes down the counter, unhurried. "It's not meant to be."
There's no bite in his tone, but equally, there's a steel undertone that tells you plainly he's not going to elaborate.
You force a smile. "Very mysterious."
"I try."
Something unsettled coils in your stomach.
You know what your brother did. Not all of it, of course, but enough. He ran messages, delivered things (he'd never tell you what), anything that'd keep the money coming in. "Just small jobs," he'd said, over and over. "Nothing serious."
Until it was serious. Until it ended in a warehouse by the docks and a gunshot.
You don't want to think about that now, so you look back at Vernon, at the steady calm of him, the familiarity. You tell yourself it's nothing. Bars have suppliers, surely. Accounts. You know this place isn't exactly legal, after all. A few shady characters shouldn't surprise you.
You take a drink and let the music swallow your unease.
You want to push. You want to ask about that man, about what Vernon said to him. For some reason, you want to ask him to talk about your brother, even if it's just to say his name to someone who knew him.
You don't. Instead, you ask about the piano player, about how long he's worked here, about anything that doesn't require him to explain that envelope.
The problem is, it doesn't stop there.
Now that you know to look, you notice a lot more. More men who talk to Vernon in hushed tones, mmore papers slid across the bar smoothly. More nights where Vernon disappears in the middle of his shift — sometimes he's back before you leave, with his hair a little windswept and his eyes a little brighter. Sometimes he's not.
You still don't ask. You can tell he knows you want to, that he can see the curiosity, maybe even the reproach in your eyes, but he doesn't let you, and you don't try. Instead, you talk about work and your friends and your aunt and he listens the same way he always has.
The day your brother died, you had been late coming home.
It wasn't unusual. You'd just started at the exchange then, it hadn't been more than a week or two. You'd been so excited when you landed the job, because it meant you could finally tell your brother to quit "delivering messages", with your new wage and all. He'd promised you he would, that he just had a few things to see through.
You had been carrying a loaf of bread under your arm, still warm through the paper, and rehearsing in your head the scolding you meant to give him for finishing the last of the butter.
You knew something was wrong before you reached the top step, only because the door was ajar. Just enough to show the thin seam of lamplight through the crack, but nobody in your family — not you, not your aunt, and definitely not your brother — would forget to shut the door properly. You pushed it fully open with your hip, already frowning, lips already forming his name.
Your aunt had been standing in the middle of the sitting room, still wearing her apron. She looked smaller somehow, as if the air had pressed her inward. There was a man beside her, hat in his hands, the brim bent slightly between his fingers.
You don't remember dropping the bread, but you must have. Later, you would find it crushed against the wall.
The officer spoke carefully, like he was arranging glass on a shelf. There had been an incident by the warehouses. There had been a gun. He used phrases like unfortunate and tragic and a real shame. You watched his mouth move and thought, distantly, that he should have shaved more closely.
Your aunt had begun to cry before the officer finished speaking. You, on the other hand, didn't cry. You stood very still and stared at the scuffed toes of the officer's boots and wished very hard that he would fucking leave.
Your brother was not the sort of person who disappeared between sentences. He left socks on the floor. He left half-read newspapers on the arm of the chair. He never tied his laces properly. He did not simply stop existing.
The officer asked if you wanted to see him. You shook your head.
The house felt cavernous after they left. Every object was suddenly too specific. His coat slung over the back of a chair — he never remembered to take it with him. The faint imprint of his body in the sofa cushion. A glass on the table with a fingerprint still visible in the smudge.
You touched the sleeve of his coat and it swung gently, as if he might walk back in and shrug into it any second. You told yourself he would.
For weeks afterward, you kept expecting to hear his steps on the stairs. The quick, uneven rhythm of them. The way he'd clear his throat before entering a room, as if announcing himself to an audience.
You thought about the last conversation you'd had, the night before he died. He'd been distracted, smiling at something you couldn't see. When you'd asked where he was going, he'd brushed past you, light and evasive.
"Don't wait up," he'd said, as always.
You hadn't.
In the months before, there had been little things. Late nights, a lot of restlessness. Sometimes you'd wake in the middle of the night and he'd be pacing in the sitting room.
At first, you'd thought it was just a girl he was seeing, but slowly, the later he came home, the more money he came home with, you realised you had got it entirely wrong, and when you asked questions, he'd answer as vaguely as possible.
You remember watching him lace his boots horribly one evening, his head bent, his hair falling into his eyes, and thinking that he looked older than he had any right to.
You remember almost saying, Stay.
You didn't. You knew he wouldn't listen. (Family trait, you aunt would sigh, whenever you and your brother argued. Too stubborn to listen.)
You can't ignore how much this — how much being around Vernon feels like the months before your brother died. When you're watching someone else you care about (because you do care about him, it turns out, more than you'd thought) giving you half-explanations and careful smiles, that same hollow space in your chest begins to open again, tight and painful and raw in your chest. You didn't want to draw the comparison, but every time Vernon disappears, it echoes a time you promised yourself you'd never live through again.
As usual, you ignore it.
One evening, Vernon walks you home.
You're not entirely sure how it happens, it just happens. The rain had started, just after nine. Catherine, who had arrived determined to be sensible, abandons that resolve the moment a man with neatly parted hair offers to share his umbrella. You watch her deliberate for less than a second before she beams and loops her arm through his.
"Don't wait for me," she calls to you, echoing something you've heard a dozen times before.
"I won't," you reply, smiling despite yourself.
Grace had already disappeared an hour earlier, pulled into some back corner with a cluster of strangers arguing about baseball. She'd kissed your cheek in passing and told you not to be dull, to "do something about the bartender you're stuck on".
So you're left alone at the bar, nursing the last inch of your drink, listening to the low hum of jazz as the night wears on. Occasionally, you flick your eyes to Vernon, and then tear them away when you realise you've been looking too long. Vernon moves through the space like he always does — steady and quick on his feet. He's got a dish towel slung over one shoulder now, sleeves pushed high, hair slightly curling at the ends from the damp air every time the door opens. You try not to think about how handsome it makes him look. You fail.
When the rain thickens enough to drum faintly against the windows, you decide it's your excuse. You slip from your stool and gather your coat, the fabric cool against your hands. You shake it out, slide your arms through, and begin fastening the buttons one by one.
"You heading out?"
His voice comes from your left. You hadn't seen him approach.
"Yes," you say, casting him a smile when you look up from your buttons. "Before it gets worse."
He glances toward the door, listening to the steady patter. "I'll walk you."
There's a moment — small, suspended — where neither of you quite moves. The bar behind him carries on as usual: someone laughs too loudly, glass clinks against glass. He's never asked to see you outside of here before; neither of you have ever taken the urge to move this, whatever it is, outside.
"You don't have to," you say, at last.
"I know." He's already fumbling into some sort of storage space for his coat. "I have somewhere to be, anyway. I'll walk you on the way."
You hesitate for the length of a breath, then nod. "All right." You don't ask where he's going — you don't want to know.
He grabs his coat from a peg near the back and says something brief to another bartender, who waves him off without question. There's something about that — how easily he steps away, how little explanation he needs to give — that presses at the back of your mind, but you push it aside.
Outside, rain has glossed the streets into mirrors. You pull your collar higher against the sudden sharp wind. Vernon falls into step beside you without touching, close enough to share your umbrella, close that you can feel the warmth of him between your sleeves.
For a while, you just walk.
The rhythm of your steps finds itself naturally, heel to toe in quiet synchronisation. Your shoulders brush once, accidentally, and neither of you comments on it.
"You're quiet," he says after a few blocks.
"So are you."
He considers that. "Fair."
A cab rattles past, wheels sending up a spray that narrowly misses your hem.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asks suddenly.
You glance at him. "Leaving what?"
"New York."
The question lingers between you, strange and unexpectedly intimate. "Sometimes," you admit, something you never thought you'd do out loud. "Usually after a long day. Or when the heat in the apartment stops working." You tuck your hands deeper into your coat pockets, and a smile appears on your face. "I think I'd like to try farm life, you know." You're only half-joking.
He snorts. "You? On a farm?"
"What?" You try to be offended, but end up laughing along with him. "You don't think I could do it?"
"If you're anything like your brother, you'll do anything you put your mind to," he says, shaking his head. "Even if it's stupid."
"What about you then? Don't you ever want to get out of here?"
"Sometimes," he says, his head tilting slightly to the side. "But I don't know what I'd do anywhere else."
"You could cook," you suggest lightly, biting down the grin that threatens to emerge. "Open a little restaurant somewhere respectable. Legal."
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "You're hilarious."
"No, I've seen you back there. You look very competent."
"That's because I don't have to eat what I make."
You laugh, and the sound drifts into the damp air and disappears. It's just a small conversation, a harmless one, but something about the quiet street makes them feel weightier.
You pass a bakery long closed for the night. The faint scent of bread lingers even through the rain. A cat darts across the alley ahead of you, vanishing into shadow.
"You're coming round less often lately," he says.
You glance at him, surprised. "Are you keeping track?"
He shrugs. "I notice things." You think the apples of his cheeks are pinking, but that could just be the cold.
"I have to be up before six," you say. "If I'm late twice in a week they start writing it down. Like we're schoolchildren."
He makes a quiet sound of disapproval.
"It's not so bad, though," you add quickly. "It's steady."
"You say that like you're convincing yourself."
You nudge his arm lightly with your elbow. "Don't analyse me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The rain picks up slightly, beading along his coat collar. A curl of dark hair falls forward onto his forehead and you have the absurd urge to reach up and push it back.
Halfway down your block, your foot slips on a slick patch of pavement, and his hand closes around your wrist instantly — his grip tightens reflexively, steadying you. Your breath catches, and for a second you're acutely aware of everything. The pressure of his fingers, your pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, the faint scent of rain and soap clinging to him.
You both go still.
His thumb presses lightly against your wrist before he seems to realise what he's doing.
"Sorry," he says, too quickly.
"It's fine," you reply, though your voice sounds breathier than you intend.
He doesn't let go right away. Neither of you moves for a long second, not until rain slides from the brim of his coat and lands against your sleeve. Somewhere down the street, a door slams, and he releases you.
You smooth your coat unnecessarily. He clears his throat.
"You all right?"
"Yes." You try to ignore how hot your face suddenly feels.
"Good."
When you reach your building, the front steps shine wet under the streetlamp. The windows above are dark. Your aunt will already be asleep.
You skip up a step or two, turn toward him, hands still tucked in your pockets to keep them from fidgeting.
"Thank you," you say.
"For what?"
"For walking me."
He shrugs one shoulder. "It's on my way."
You sum up the courage to be a little bolder. "It's not."
A faint smile curves his mouth, not even a little bit flustered. "Doesn't matter."
Rain traces a thin line down his cheekbone. Again, you resist the urge to brush it away. "Do you want my umbrella?" you say, suddenly realising you've left him in the rain. You don't wait for an answer. You hurry back down the steps, shoes slick against the damp stone, snapping the umbrella back open and lifting it over his head. It tilts slightly as you adjust your grip, and in doing so you step closer than you meant to.
The umbrella isn't large. The space beneath it narrows the world to just the two of you — the steady patter of rain above — again, that faint scent of wet wool and soap — the warmth of his body only inches from yours.
Vernon seems to realise the exact second you do.
His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Your breath catches. The hand holding the umbrella trembles just slightly, and he notices — of course he notices.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The city continues around you, rain glossing the pavement, distant wheels cutting through puddles, but it all feels far away.
You're not sure who leans in first.
It's small, almost tentative — a shared decision made without words. His hand comes up, not to pull you closer, just to steady the umbrella where your grip falters. His fingers brush yours, warm and rough, and just as they do, your lips meet softly. A gentle press, testing, as if both of you are making sure the other won't pull away. You don't.
His mouth is warm despite the rain, gentler than you expected. The kiss lingers a heartbeat longer than caution would advise, long enough for something to shift in your chest — something bright and terrifying all at once.
When you part, it's slow. Reluctant.
The umbrella tilts again, rain slipping past the edge and catching in his hair. He exhales, barely a sound, and for a second he looks almost surprised. Then something steadier settles over his expression.
"Get inside," he says gently. "Before you catch something."
You step back toward the door, fingers curling around the handle. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
You hesitate just long enough to look at him once more — the lamplight catching in his eyes, the rain settling into the dark wool of his coat — and then you slip inside.
From the narrow hallway window, you watch him walk away.
He doesn't hurry, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the rain. At the corner, he glances back once — not toward the window, but toward the building itself — as if making sure the door has closed. Then he turns and disappears into the sheen of the city, leaving the street quiet behind him.
You lean your forehead against the cool window. You kissed him — you kissed him, so why does you feel so full of dread?
You run into him three days later in the park.
You'd left the house to escape the stale quiet. Your aunt had fallen asleep in her armchair again, knitting pooled in her lap, so you'd taken your book and walked the few blocks to the park, settling onto a weathered bench beneath a tree that hasn't quite decided to let go of its leaves. It's a little damp, more than a little cold, but you'll take anything that gets you away from being cooped up with your thoughts.
You're halfway through a page when a shadow falls across the paper.
"What are the odds?" a familiar voice asks.
You look up too quickly.
Vernon's dressed differently. No rolled sleeves. No apron. Just a dark coat, collar turned up against the breeze, hands tucked into his pockets. Without the bar framing him, he looks younger.
"Is that disappointment I hear?" you ask.
"Devastation," he says solemnly.
You snort before you can stop yourself. "What are you doing here?"
"Walking."
"Just walking?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
You tilt your head. "A little."
He smiles. "Can I?" He gestures to the empty space beside you.
You hesitate for half a second — not because you want to say no, but because your heart has started beating in that uneven way again — and then you nod. He sits, close but not touching, and all you can think about is how the last time you saw him, his lips were on yours.
For a moment, neither of you speak. It feels almost indecently normal, you sat next to him on a bench. Simple — it feels simple. You wish it was.
"You don't seem surprised," he says after a while.
"To see you?"
He nods. You close your book, wrinkle your nose as you think, thumb marking the page. "I was, for a second. But my aunt always says, you know, the city's smaller than we think."
"Or we're worse at staying away than we pretend."
You glance at him. "Were you trying to stay away?"
His gaze stays forward. "Were you?"
You don't answer. A breeze lifts, tugging a loose strand of hair across your mouth. You reach to brush it away at the same time he does — your fingers collide lightly.
He drops his hand first. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
You both look forward again, but something has shifted — a current humming just beneath the surface. "You read much?" he asks, nodding toward your book.
"When I can."
"Is it good?"
"I don't know yet," you admit. "I've read the same paragraph three times."
He huffs quietly. "Distracted?"
"Maybe."
He studies you then, openly. Silence settles again, softer this time, and after a few long moments, he looks away.
A boy runs past chasing a ball, nearly colliding with Vernon's knee. Vernon catches the ball instinctively before it hits the gravel path, handing it back with a faint nod. The boy grins and dashes off again.
You watch the ease of it. "You know, you seem different out here."
"How?"
"I don't know." You search for the right words. "Less guarded."
He goes still at that.
"Guarded," he repeats.
"At the bar, you're always watching and listening and moving."
"And here?"
"Here you just look like a man sitting in the sun. Honestly, I didn't know you could sit so still until now."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Thrilling." There's a moment where he seems to debate saying something, and then he opens his mouth. "You're different too, you know. In the daylight."
"Really?"
"Even prettier," he says, soft. "I can actually see your face."
You swallow.
You can't do this again. The thought arrives sharp and unwelcome, and you stand abruptly. "I should go," you say.
He looks up at you, surprised. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No." You force a smile. "No, I just — I promised my aunt I wouldn't be long."
He rises too. "I'll walk you, then," he says. "If you'll let me."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
You hesitate, and then you nod. The path curves out of the park and back toward the city blocks. You walk side by side, arms brushing occasionally, but neither of you say anything the whole way home.
It's a few nights later, when you see Vernon outside the bar, and something inside you twists.
You hadn't meant to come, but your bed had felt too close, the air too thick with the sound of your aunt's breathing in the next room, the clock ticking too loudly on the mantel. You'd needed air. That was all.
But your feet had turned at the familiar corner without consulting you. Past the bakery, straight past the shuttered tailor, toward the narrow stretch of brick that concealed the door you now knew by heart.
You realise where you're headed only when you see the faint spill of amber light at the end of the block.
You stop.
You could turn around. You probably should turn around.
Instead, you keep walking.
The rain has left the pavement slick and dark. The alley beside the building gleams faintly under a single weak lamp, and you're just about to pass by it when movement catches your eye. Two figures stand half-shadowed against the brick. One taller, shoulders squared. The other angled slightly inward, posture familiar in a way your body recognises before your mind does.
You know it's him before he shifts enough for the light to touch his face.
There's no easy warmth to him here, no softness from lamplight and music, no quick smile sent your way from across the room.
You realise belatedly that the man standing opposite him is the first one you'd noticed weeks ago. Now they're stand close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.
You don't move. (You should go, you think, but you know you won't.) The alley smells faintly of damp brick and stale smoke. Your pulse roars in your ears so loudly you're sure it must be audible.
Reaching inside his coat, Vernon pulls out something wrapped in brown paper — long, narrow, bound tightly with twine. It's too rigid to be anything soft, too carefully held to be casual. He grips it with both hands, angled downward, shielded by his body.
The shape is unmistakable. Even through paper, you can see the outline.
It's a gun.
Your breath leaves you in a thin, soundless rush. You watch as the man steps closer. Vernon keeps his movements controlled, passing the parcel across the small space between them the same way you've seen him hand over a bottle of alcohol countless times.
The man takes it, slipping it quickly beneath his coat, tucking it along his side with familiarity. He adjusts his jacket once, twice, until the shape disappears against his body. They exchange a few quiet words. You strain to hear, but the rain-swollen air swallows the sound. The man gives a single nod, and then he turns and walks toward the mouth of the alley, steps measured, unhurried, merging easily with the dim spill of light from the main street.
Vernon stays where he is. He exhales slowly, the breath visible in the damp air. His hand comes up to his hair, pushing it back from his forehead in that same absent gesture you've seen a hundred times across the bar.
It's so normal.
So terribly normal.
Then he turns, straight towards you — there's one horrible moment where you think he's seen you, he's known you were there all along. Then your thoughts kick in, you realise it's not possible, and as he walks in your direction, instinct slams through you. You step back hard enough that your shoulder hits brick. The cold seeps instantly through your coat. You press yourself into shadow, willing your breathing to quiet, willing your heartbeat to stop battering against your ribs.
He walks past.
Close enough that you see the rain clinging to his lashes. Close enough that you could reach out and catch his sleeve, if you wanted.
His gaze is fixed straight ahead, and the glimpse you get of his eyes shows them hard, focused. Closed off in a way you've never seen when he's looking at you. There's no softness in it now, no warmth or laughter.
He passes within arm's length, and you let him.
And you stand there, rooted to damp brick, the image of brown paper and the unmistakable outline beneath it burning behind your eyes.
You realise you've stopped breathing. Because once again, it's the same. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, it's the same.
Small things. Harmless things. Just helping someone out. Just passing something along. Just a favor. Just temporary.
You've heard it all before, and standing here with the rain dampening the back of your neck and the wind picking up, you remember deciding not to push. You remember telling yourself it was none of your business.
And you remember the knock at the door, the officer's hat in his hands.
You can't do this again.
The thought lands with such force it nearly steals the air from your lungs, but it blocks everything else out, because it's true — you can't.
You can't stand on the edge of something and pretend not to see where it leads. Because that's what this is, whether he names it or not. No matter how much he insists that he's careful; you know how careful men end up. You know how easily small things become bigger ones.
Your eyes burn suddenly, fiercely, and you blink hard against it. The alley feels too narrow, the walls too close. For a wild moment, you consider calling after him.
Vernon.
You imagine the sound of his name leaving your mouth, sharp enough to make him turn. You imagine his surprise. The explanation that would follow. The way he would soften his voice, step closer, tell you it isn't what you think, maybe even cup your cheek, let you lean into the warmth of his hand.
But you don't want to hear it. You don't want to stand under the weak alley lights and listen to him carve this into something reasonable, because you know yourself well enough to know you might believe him.
You don't follow him.
You don't go back for nearly a week and a half. It's the longest you've gone without seeing him since he appeared back into your life.
On the eleventh day, Vernon finds you outside the exchange.
You're startled when he says your name, whipping round so quickly you seem to startle him just as much as he did you. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," he says simply.
You fold your arms. "Why?"
"You haven't been by."
"I've been busy."
He studies you, eyes shrewd. "That's not it."
You hold his gaze. "I saw you."
His expression doesn't change. "Saw me."
"In the alley."
A beat of silence, and then he takes your arm, gently — so gently, he's always gentle — and pulls you into a small alcove.
"You shouldn't have been there," he says, his voice lowered.
"That's not an answer."
He exhales slowly. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it, Vernon? Because to me, it looked like a fucking gun."
He runs a hand through his hair, something uncharacteristically frustrated flickering across his face. "It's nothing serious."
"That's what he said."
Vernon's jaw tightens. "I'm not him," he says quietly.
"I know that."
"Then don't look at me like that."
"I thought you were just bartending," you say. It's not true. You've known for a long time, really, you just haven't let yourself.
"I am."
"And the rest?"
He doesn't answer immediately. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you involved," he says finally. "I didn't want you worrying."
"That's not your decision to make."
"No," he agrees. "It's not." The honesty of it disarms you.
"Why?" you ask, and maybe there's a hint of desperation seeping into your tone. "Vernon, why do you do it?"
"Money," he says plainly. "It's temporary."
You almost laugh. That fucking word again.
"That's what he said," you whisper.
Silence stretches between you. "I'm careful," Vernon says, but he already sounds resigned. "I don't take risks I can't manage."
"You can't manage a bullet," you snap.
The words hang heavy. "I'm not trying to replace him," Vernon says more softly. "And I'm not trying to follow him."
"If you keep going like this, you will," you say, and you have to fight to keep your voice down, and you have to fight even harder to force the tears back into your eyes. "You're going to follow hom straight to the grave." You swallow, hard, raw, painful. "I can't do it again," you say hoarsely.
His hand lifts, thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tear that falls. "Do what?"
"Bury someone else I l— care about," you say. You watch his eyes, softness and conflict swimming in the brown. Your hand reaches up to cover his on your cheek, and you squeeze, feeling the warmth again. "Vernon, please don't make me."
He doesn't say anything, but you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows. "I care about you," he says, finally. "And — I'm sorry."
You leave before he can stop you.
a/n: sad ending i know im sorry!!!!! i never know whether to put it in the warnings bc its technically a spoiler but. idk. i personally don't like seeing it in the tags before i read something but maybe thats just me. "hana will there be a part 2" hana doesn't know. hana is a little bit sick of this fic after rewriting it 4 times and right now hana would like to not think about it for a very long time.
also guys i need u to know its like 1am and i did one quick readthrough for proofreading and every time she says "thats what he said" i couldnt stop laughing. anyway thank u for reading love u all goodbye
All is copacetic and swell in the roaring 20s, and studioSVT invite you to be a part of the shindig. Whether it's the flappers of Midtown or the prim men of Wall Street, there's opportunity for everyone in the Big Apple. Gather round, guys & dolls as we're ✨Puttin' on the Ritz✨!
Turn in your invitations at the door. Join the taglist with a visible age indicator on your blog [no age, no tag!].
🥂 Oops! Some of these invites are only for cats 18+. Please check all the warnings before stepping through those doors 🥂
✨Invitation: Velvet Vengeance by @lovelylonelinesssvt
🥂Hosts: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: New York 1920, mafia controls through strategy, silence, and violence. A fragile peace now begins to break when secrets surface in clubs. Choi Seungcheol is looking for answers, for names, for revenge just like you are. While trying to find the man who’s behind your loss, you’re caught between an imminent gang war and Seungcheol, a man determined to protect you, to fight for you and now to fight next to you.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: tainted tides by @joshujin
🥂Hosts: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: The wife of a politician is good for very few things—how flawless and beautiful and desirable you are being paramount to all. Every fundraiser, every gala, every luncheon, you're at your husband's side, the picture perfect portrayal of who New York City expects their First Lady to be. What they don’t expect is their prohibitionist mayor’s wife to be spotted at a popular speakeasy the night of the city's biggest raid. Or for her to go missing shortly after.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: amontillado by @sailorsoons
🥂Hosts: Yoon Jeonghan x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: Disappearing from your fiancé should have been easy. Instead, you stumble into Jeonghan’s empire of blood and alcohol - and he becomes the only thing standing between you and death.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: and all that jazz by @hannieoftheyear
🥂Hosts: Yoon Jeonghan x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: The Canaries, the bar where unimaginable dreams come true for all, only with one exception. Each night, after the doors lock, the deserted bar hosts one last client: the sidelined jazz singer whose time to shine gets pushed back time and time again, yet, the only one who seems to notice is the watchful bartender, ready to listen to your rambles after-hours.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: under the starlight by @starlightkyeom
🥂Hosts: Joshua Hong x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: joshua doesn't think twice when he takes the job as a singer at a speakeasy. doesn't worry about who's running it or about anything illegal. it's a chance to sing, like he's always dreamt. despite the circumstances, it's all running pretty smoothly. until he meets you. all the knows is that you're married to someone within the family running the speakeasy. that should be enough. when he sees the sadness in your eyes, he knows that he needs to know more.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: safety by @mylovesstuffs
🥂Hosts: Joshua Hong x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: In 1920s New York, a failed medical experiment turns the city into something they’ve only seen in fiction — the infected not quite dead, not quite alive. Fleeing the ruins, Joshua Hong, heir to one of the city’s most influential tailoring and fashion dynasties, and a woman who once lived under his family’s roof, they rely on each other to survive.
Forced to pretend they’re something they’re not, they soon learn that safety comes at the cost of truth
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: deadlock by @sailorsoons
🥂Hosts: Wen Junhui x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: You and Junhui have the perfect life together. Sure, you've failed to mention you're a spy for Clockwork and he never mentioned being a hitman for Protocol, but what couple doesn't lie? The lies work - until Junhui is tasked with killing you, his perfect wife who has secrets he never dreamed of.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: Pendulum by @gyuswhore
🥂Hosts: Wen Junhui x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: There are many things your father never told you when he left you his flower shop; the ever creaky door hinges, the delivery man who can never seem to tell the orchids from the gardenias, and the headquarters of the biggest mafia in New York operating in the employee break room.
Of course you're used to it now, the familiar faces passing in and out of the shop while you pretend nothing is amiss. Until a new face appears, disappearing into the backrooms without a word, bloodied knuckles and a poorly strapped revolver on his hips.
Suddenly, it's very hard to pretend.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: Kitty by @aeristudios
🥂Hosts: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: You moved to NYC from the South to seek out Soonyoung, the barber with connections that can help you hide in plain sight. But as you start to finally start to settle in and you and Soonyoung become close, your past catches up to you— putting everything you fought for at risk.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: where do stars go? by @imnotshua
🥂Hosts: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: nothing’s ever been serious where you’re concerned, especially the way you flirt with him. but when he overhears something he shouldn’t, and your perfect mask slips, soonyoung starts to wonder if you’ve been keeping other secrets hidden in the dark.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: my dearest by @straylightdream
🥂Hosts: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: he has a debt to one of the richest men in the city, with ties to the mafia. he's offered a lifeline he can’t turn down. marry the daughter to the man he’s in debt to. they’re both two people thrown into a marriage they never planned. the only way to survive is to stick together and to protect each other.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: granite hearts by @ikeukiss
🥂The Hosts: chauffeur!Jeon Wonwoo x rich girl!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: Wonwoo knows he is far out of his league when it comes to you, the daughter of one of the city’s most notorious gang leaders. He shouldn’t fall for you, much less try to start up conversations with you. But what if that’s exactly what you want? To break free with him by your side?
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: spectre by @shinysobi
🥂Hosts: Lee Jihoon x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: for four years after his graduation from city college of new york, lee jihoon has kept his head down, hoping for the best, and preparing for the day when his little ruse dissolves. he's good at hiding, after all. he's been doing it for years. unfortunately, when dealing with the unruly cousin of a shipping magnate, smokescreens tend to shatter, and spectres tend to return.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: Room 217 by @goldenhourology
🥂Hosts: Lee Jihoon x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: Fresh starts are hard, but running away from your mafia husband is even harder. After escaping the protection of the Lucky Ace gang and fleeing to New York City, you find Lee Jihoon, a reserved yet enigmatic hotel owner. The Hotel Ruby conceals a popular speakeasy, the Velvet Ruby, within its walls. It takes some convincing, but Jihoon eventually offers you a job, a chance at stability and anonymity. But every swanky hotel has its secrets. When you stumble upon the locked door to Room 217, nothing could prepare you for what’s waiting on the other side.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: never forget a pretty face by @miniseokminnies
🥂Hosts: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: your father has always had friends in high places, almost as high as the debts he kept. following his disappearance (read: murder) the men who swore to protect him take you somewhere your father's creditors would never find you: a mechanic's shop tucked away in a little hole in the wall that no one would ever see if they weren't looking for it. your life has been a series of interesting events but this might be the most enticing of them all.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: spellbound by @kyeomofhearts
🥂Hosts: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: love was always easy for you, until it wasn’t. young and careless, you let him fall for you and walked away before admitting he was the one. years later, with the world pressing in and your heart still quietly aching; you meet him again by chance and realize some love never fades, only waits.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: drive me crazy by @jakedustry
🥂Hosts: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: There isn’t anything Kim Mingyu can come back home to, no one waiting for him at night when he gets off his shift, so when he finally takes a few days off, his plan consists of two simple things: drinks and sleep. But his world takes a spin around when he stumbles upon a group of officers arresting a young lady begging for help after a night out. If Mingyu has one weakness, it’s people in distress, especially if it involves a child in need.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: crossing without steps by @nerdycheol
🥂Hosts: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: You grow up knowing your life will be decided for you. The right schools, the right friends...the right engagement. Loving him makes sense. It fits. Then you meet someone who doesn’t. Mingyu is uncomplicated in ways your life has never been, all warmth and honesty, a presence you are not meant to linger on. You tell yourself it is nothing, a harmless pull. But wanting him begins to feel like standing too close to the light. Caught between the future promised to you and the love you never meant to find, you learn that some feelings do not ask for permission.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: somebody's sweetheart by @haologram
🥂Hosts: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: minghao is eerily convinced that nothing means anything without passion. love, money, fame...it's nothing without passion and everything with love. he just has to find the love he preaches before it's too late for her.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: When the Sun Rises in New York by @vernonverse
🥂Hosts: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: You are sent to New York City twenty-four hours before your wedding to a man you've never met. On the train from your home to the big city, you meet Minghao, a struggling painter spending his final day in America before deportation. With the clock already ticking and no future promised to either of you, you spend one day wandering the city, knowing that life is already lining up to tear you apart forever.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: death, diamonds and decorum by @hannieween
🥂Hosts: Boo Seungkwan x f!eader
🌃 The Main Drag: It was only supposed to be a job. One last quick, easy smash-and-grab before you walked away from the life, forever. But everything changed when you were told you would be working side by side with your ex-boyfriend—the love of your life, your biggest mistake and the one person you swore you would never talk to again, Boo Seungkwan.
And that was when you knew this job wouldn’t be so easy.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: Chasing the Feeling by @mingsolo
🥂Hosts: Boo Seungkwan x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: When Seungkwan is tipped about a very illegal shipment being diverted to the Mauve family warehouses, he knows he has to be quick. What he realizes upon arriving is that you are already there, always a step ahead of him.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: last call by @wqnwoos
🥂Hosts: Chwe Hansol x reader
🌃 The Main Drag: You didn’t expect to run into your late brother’s best friend tending bar at an illegal speakeasy — or to start falling for him. But when you realize Vernon is involved in the same kind of work that got your brother killed, liking him suddenly feels dangerous in ways you know too well.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: the phantom of the cinema by @belovedgyu
🥂Hosts: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: Between scandalous nights in a cinema, a love takes shape in time stolen, and a marriage built on survival. A devotion so fierce that art and memory begin to blur. As films mirror truths you’ve tried not to name, you’re forced to confront what was lost, what endures, and whether some stories deserve to be finished…no matter the cost.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: bare your soul by @starlightkyeom
🥂Hosts: Lee Chan x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: your brother is all you have left after losing your parents, but he doesn't always make the best decisions. despite him being older, it's usually you taking care of him. when he gets into over his head with gambling debts, he turns to bare knuckle fighting in an underground ring. the money is actually decent and he's surprisingly good, until a new rival starts rising. chan is undefeated and unrelenting. you might hate him even more than your brother does.
Cocktails 🎊 The Berries
✨Invitation: the bride by @coupsalchemy
🥂Hosts: Lee Chan x f!reader
🌃 The Main Drag: Actress Jung, known for her spectacular hits Love, Forevermore, and La Vie En Rose, that is still housing the Capitol Movie Palace is back on the screen after a year of disappearance. Finally her hiatus comes to an end with a new movie, the bride, in production. Gossip is that the movie is inspired from her calamitous love life that has people wondering how a person, a woman, can fall in love seven times.
Will she get her heart broken for the eighth time with her rumored clandestine Choi Seungcheol or will she break her curse of ‘always a bridesmaid but never the bride’ with the entry of a new male actor in town, Lee Chan.
i think this is true for so many people but 2025 has not been an easy year for me. there were so so many things going on in my personal life that were just. too much for me to handle. i lost a very very dear friend, very suddenly, and a dear family member, not-so-suddenly. and as we all know, grief is a weird and non-linear emotion and ive been all over the place ever since. and i think had such a weird funk with my writing, and a lot of other personal issues and health issues. but at the same time, at the risk of sounding cliché, i do think 2025 taught me a lot about myself.
either way, i hope 2026 is much kinder to me, and to every single one of you. i haven’t been as active as i would’ve liked, haven’t written as much or as well as i would’ve liked, and so i hope i can change some of that in the coming year.
as always, thank you for being here! it still amazes me (and i think it always will) how many of you are here and how many of you read my writing. i don’t think my gratitude can be expressed in words so i won’t try — but thank you all! and again, happy new year 🤍
☆ We've crunched the numbers and are here to share them with you all! Scroll to read more.
☆ studioSVT hosted 5 collabs this year!
☆ A total of 103 fics were written for studioSVT collabs this year!
☆ studioSVT's writers produced a total of 1,173,100 words this year!
🩷 The Lonely Hearts Cafe
ᯓ★ 26 fics
ᯓ★ total word count: 410.4k
🏖️ Carat Bay
ᯓ★ 13 fics
ᯓ★ total word count: 159.5k
🏎️ Light's Out
ᯓ★ 26 fics
ᯓ★ total word count: 418.3k
🔮 The Midnight Menagerie
ᯓ★ 13 fics
ᯓ★ total word count: 153.4k
🎁 2025 Holiday Fic Exchange
ᯓ★ 25 fics
ᯓ★ total word count: 31.5k
☆ Top Writers [no. of fics written]
@starlightkyeom - 6 fics
@haologram - 5 fics
@sailorsoons - 5 fics
@bluehoodiewoozi - 4 fics
@wheeboo - 4 fics
☆ Top Writers [total word counts]
@haologram - 125.2k words
@starlightkyeom - 114.1k words
@sailorsoons - 59.2k words
@bluehoodiewoozi - 52.3k words
@wheeboo - 48.5k words
@etherealyoungk - 42.3k words
@joshujin - 41.2k words
@mylovesstuffs - 33.8k words
@studioeisa - 33.4k words
@diamonddaze01 - 32.8k words
☆ Longest Fics Posted
@haologram for Light's Out
ᯓ★ One Track Mind - 43.1k
2. @etherealyoungk for The Lonely Hearts Cafe
ᯓ★ Crash Course in Romance - 40.8k
3. @haologram for Carat Bay
ᯓ★ Dipped - 33.8k
4. @joshujin for Light's out
ᯓ★ Build This Dream Together - 31.5k
5. @starlightkyeom for The Midnight Menagerie
ᯓ★ No Safety Net - 30.3k
On behalf of the studioSVT team, we'd like to thank you all for your overwhelming support! Catering to the Caratblr community and the writers we work with has been the most rewarding part of this venture, and we hope to continue to be worthy of your energy and support in 2026!
To all of the writers who have put in countless hours of their time, effort and talent into these fics, we thank you immensely. It's your work that keeps the cogs of Caratblr turning, and we're honoured to be part of your journey here. We hope you continue to find peace and excitement here for as long as possible, because this community would be nothing without the people who contribute to it.
This is for the writers and readers we currently have, and the many more to come in the new year 💛
The holiday season is upon us, and with it the annual studioSVT Holiday Fic Exchange! Whether your hemisphere's serving you hot or cold this season, we invite everyone to unwrap our gratitude below! Take your pick from this year's selection!
All fics will be posted from December 23rd to 25th.
‼️ Oops! Some gifts are only meant our 18+ readers to enjoy. Remember to check the wrapping before opening! ‼️
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🎁 From: shhh...
✏️member x reader
🎉 To: @nerdycheol
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✏️member x reader
🎉 To: @kyeomofhearts
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✏️member x reader
🎉 To: @mylovesstuffs
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✏️member x reader
🎉 To: @gyuswhore
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✏️member x reader
🎉 To: @chanranghaeys
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🎉 To: @haoboutyou
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🎉 To: @minisugakoobies
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✏️member x reader
🎉 To: @hannieoftheyear
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🎉 To: @lovelylonelinesssvt
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🎉 To: @starlightkyeom
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🎉 To: @joshujin
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🎉 To: @haologram
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🎉 To: @sailorsoons
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🎉 To: @jakedustry
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🎉 To: @shadowkoo
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🎉 To: @bluehoodiewoozi
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🎉 To: @ikeukiss
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🎉 To: @etherealyoungk
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🎉 To: @heartepub
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🎉 To: @kkaetnipjeon
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🎉 To: @belovedgyu
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🎉 To: @seungkw1
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🎉 To: @shinysobi
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🎉 To: @sknyuz
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You are now entering Carats Ridge, a little place tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city, filled with familiar faces and small town charm. @starlightkyeom, @100vern and I, imnotshua, welcome you to join us and our wonderful committee members for our Winter Festival!
Why don't you take a rest in our exemplary Inn, visit our quaint independent stores and eateries, and celebrate the holidays with us? After a few nights in Carats Ridge, we guarantee, you'll never want to leave!
Carats Ridge Winter Festival starts December 15th right through until 31st March. To be notified, comment TAG ME on this post, and I will tag you in a reblog as our vendors open.
Please remember, some of these establishments are for ADULTS ONLY, please check with the owner before entering.
❄️ Vendor: you can't wash that here by @imnotshua
🚕 Destination: The diner, with landlord!Choi Seungcheol and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Seungcheol needs money fast, or he'll lose his parent's diner. Moving in with his cousin isn't ideal at thirty-two, and the money you're paying in rent for his beloved apartment is only juuuust about covering the shortfall, but needs must and it'll have to do. Thankfully– surprisingly– you've got some other ideas up your sleeve.
🔞 Adult themes + drug use/dealing (weed)
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: want u around by @wqnwoos
🚕 Destination: The daycare, with firefighter!Choi Seungcheol and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. You’ve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun – until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: the first taste by @minisugakoobies
🚕 Destination: The dealer's house, with dealer!Yoon Jeonghan and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: You can’t stop thinking about your neighbor. really, you’re super curious about the number of people you see coming and going from his house at all hours of the day. one summer night, courtesy of a terrible heat wave and a broken air con, you discover why jeonghan’s so addictive. Your neighbor is more than happy to provide, but just remember - only the first taste is free.
🔞 Adult themes + drug use (THC, ecstasy)
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: Mistletoe Festival by @coupsalchemy
🚕 Destination: The boutique, with Joshua Hong and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: One spot, two competitors. Joshua Hong, the new addition to your hometown, your rival, is competing for the spot at Mistletoe Festival, which has always been yours. He stole your customers, sanity and peace of mind, you won’t let him steal your one last hope in keeping your business afloat.
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: coffee, black by @woncheolisms
🚕 Destination: The coffee shop, with hitman!Joshua Hong and coffee shop owner f!reader
🪧 What's on?: A small coffee shop owner is the only thing stopping a crime boss who wants to expand his empire when she refuses to sell her shop to him, no matter what tactics of intimidation he might use. When he has finally had enough, he hires a hitman to finish her off. But Joshua Hong doesn’t work that way. He has principles, even for a hitman.
🔞 Adult themes + mentions of death, violence, threats and intimidation, vigilante action
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: the end of july by @kkaetnipjeon
🚕 Destination: The pet store, with Wen Junhui and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Your grandmother died and bequeathed her crumbling eyesore of a house in the countryside to you, and you give yourself three months to fix it up before selling it and moving back to Seoul. Unfortunately, the local pet store owner and his cats seem hell-bent on making you stay.
🔞 Adult themes + mental health themes, quarter life crisis
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: better than sex by @haologram
🚕 Destination: The yoga studio, with Kwon Soonyoung and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: New in town and actively going through too many changes at once, Kwon Soonyoung finds comfort in many a flirtatious advance. However, when his shop is finally christened by your presence…all the flirting feels futile and his eyes are set on you — despite the very gaudy wedding set resting on your finger.
🔞 Adult themes
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: the second time around by @wonuwoe
🚕 Destination: The pre-school, with Kwon Soonyoung and reader
🪧 What's on?: At your sickly aunt's request, you've agreed to go home for the time being. That means leading the family from now on — including taking over her job temporarily as a pre-school teacher. At pure happenstance, you're not the only one returning to your little town. Soonyoung, who was once your kindred spirit is also back for the reasons you're not so sure of.
🔞 Adult themes + mentions of illness
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: sealed by fate by @mylovesstuffs
🚕 Destination: The post office, with Jeon Wonwoo and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Carats Ridge has always had its own way of tying people together. Some call it fate, some call it tradition, some refuse to call it anything at all. But when a cute hot man apparently returns to the town with a child, you’re drawn to him for reasons you can’t say. And he seems to recognize you for reasons he won’t say. But the truth doesn’t stay hidden for long in a town like yours.
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: Spin Cycle by @hannieoftheyear
🚕 Destination: The laundromat, with Jeon Wonwoo and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: The laundromat is all you've ever known, your past, your present, and your close future. And it could all end because of some stupid, modern crap of a new laundromat that takes all your clients away. So, when your parents send you across town, just a few blocks away, to find out what it's so special about Wonwoo's place, you can't refuse. He might be charming and objectively handsome, but you won't stop until you find out any dirty secret that can save your family's legacy from closing.
🔞 Adult themes
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: This Town by @aeristudios
🚕 Destination: The music store, with Lee Jihoon and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: You swore you would never come back to this foggy town. It reminded you of the past you longed to forget, the cozy small town aesthetic being a facade for how it really is— connections and influence get you far, and if you were born on the wrong side of the tracks, good luck. You fell in love once, with the boy from the sunny side of this place, who gave you the best summer of your life. But a scandal forced you to break up and you left, and now years later, you're back to handle family business and he's still there, at the music store, where you first met.
🔞 Adult themes + violence/gangs, mention of murder
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: all my heart can say by @seungkw1
🚕 Destination: The grocery store, with Lee Jihoon and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Carats Ridge, 1991 — In a small town deep in the heart of the Pacific Northwest, a new resident in town causes a stir when he moves into the long-vacant house up on Hemlock Hill. The old superstitions surrounding the house and its history begin to resurface, leaving a town full of people who already don't trust outsiders uneager to give the newcomer a warm welcome — but Jihoon seems nice, so you decide to befriend him anyway. Soon, though, you realize you've gained something much more than just friendship: you've gained a new perspective on what love can mean, and — for the first time — you learn what it means to truly be loved.
🔞 Adult themes + mentions of minor character death
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: inn by the hollow by @starlightkyeom
🚕 Destination: The inn, with Lee Seokmin and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Your move to Carat Ridge was supposed to be simple. take a step back from fast-paced city life to run a small town inn. Doesn't hurt that it also lets you put your life in the rearview mirror. You don't account for the fact that everyone knows everything in a small town. And you definitely don't account for your new assistant manager. He seems all sunshine and smiles at first. but, there's much more to him than meets the eye.
🔞 Adult themes + discussion of past traumas
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: Final Level: Win His Heart by @nothoughtsjustfic
🚕 Destination: The arcade, with Lee Seokmin and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: The day Lee Seokmin first steps foot into your family’s arcade in all his beautiful DILF glory, he immediately steals your attention with nothing more than a friendly smile and a shy wave. In that very moment, you decide that you want him in very not publicly appropriate ways, even if you don’t know how to achieve that. Still, you’re always up for a new challenge.
🔞 Adult themes + age gap (Seokmin aged up), side character drug use and injury
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: too sweet to me by @straylightdream
🚕 Destination: The bakery, with Kim Mingyu and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Back in college the golden boy from high school was the perfect summer fling. You went off to pursue your career in a different city, and he stayed in Carat Ridge and opened a bakery. Now you’re both pushing thirty and Mingyu has made it clear he won’t let you slip away again.
🔞 Adult themes + mentions of body insecurities
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: Chaser by @yoongihan
🚕 Destination: The pub, with bartender!Kim Mingyu and pub owner f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Better Business Bureau should heap praise upon your decision to hire Kim Mingyu and Jeon Jungkook as bartenders for your Carats Ridge pub, Circles. It’s never slow, beer and liquor always flowing, and the food is good. Your main bartenders bring in the crowds, and you’d praise yourself if you could just keep it professional. Because surely, with how good-looking they are, both of them are fuck boys, right? No matter how much Mingyu’s big brown eyes try to convince you otherwise.
🔞 Adult themes + power dynamic imbalance
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: KITSCHY by @gyuswhore
🚕 Destination: The museum, with Xu Minghao and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Most of Minghao's adult life has been spent dodging emotional blackmail and direct demands—all to avoid going back to his hometown. The result of his incessant refusal now stares back at him in the form of the impossibly kitschy town museum, and every other sight he'd have to bear for the next month. Although, none more awkward than the uncomfortable stance of your Chanel slingbacks, the first thing he spots from across the gravel.
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: when the dust settles by @miniseokminnies
🚕 Destination: The antique store, with Xu Minghao and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: No town this small should have two of anything, maybe not even one of some things. But of course, your business is one of few in town that has a direct competitor. You've never been one to see the other antique store in town, owned by one Minghao Xu, as a threat. Only seeing him as another person in town that shares your passions. he seems to think the exact opposite.
🔞 Adult themes
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: the municipal code by @imnotshua
🚕 Destination: The town hall, with Boo Seungkwan and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Town Selectman, Boo Seungkwan, was challenged numerous times at last night's town meeting. The newcomer (name yet unknown, but she's supposedly bought the old Emerseon house over on Maple Street) had thrown off Boo with incessant questions about the abandoned barn off Winders Road. Boo was undeniably perplexed by her unusual questions, and subsequent heckling, though it could be said the crowd found the interruption somewhat entertaining. As the townspeople left the village hall, sources say the newcomer could be heard muttering "next time I'm bringing my whiteboard." Whatever that means.
🔞 Adult themes
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: totally clueless by @100vern
🚕 Destination: The auto repair shop, with Vernon Chwe and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: It was only supposed to be an oil change—until you discover that somehow the only mechanic in this town doesn't actually have a license. To drive. The only mechanic in this god-forsaken, postage stamp-sized town doesn't know how to drive a car.
🔞 Adult themes
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: out of the stillness by @joshujin
🚕 Destination: The farmers' market, with Lee Chan and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Between deadlines, responsibilities, and your recent divorce from your sleep schedule, your relationship with Chan has been roasting to a crisp on your backburner. But you’re both on holiday break now, and you’re intent on enjoying your time with him… even if that means being stuck in a car for 12 hours… and spending time with his horrible, stuck-up parents… and being severely under-caffeinated through it all. You will have fun, and you will give your boyfriend your undivided attention, and you will save your relationship… even if that means reliving the same day over and over and over again.
🔞 Adult themes + witchcraft
📫 Opening soon
❄️ Vendor: sweetener by @sailorsoons
🚕 Destination: The pizza and ice cream shop, with coworker!Lee Chan and f!reader
🪧 What's on?: Instead of working at your father’s flashy law office, you pick up shifts at the local pizza parlor just to prove you can. And if you convince them your up-to-no-good coworker is your boyfriend to pour salt in the wound… even better.
🔞 Adult themes
📫 Opening soon
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
♥️ Credit and thanks to @100vern for the beautiful collab banner
You and Kim Mingyu have always walked that thin line between professional respect and something dangerously close to flirtation, but neither of you have ever quite slipped. So covering his newest case should be routine — but suddenly, keeping things professional isn't as easy as it used to be.
⇢ pairing. lawyer!mingyu x journalist!reader
⇢ genre. fluff, angst, idiots/acquaintances? to lovers.
⇢ word count. approx. 7.5k
⇢ warnings. f!reader. miscommunication (sorry). lots of pining + tension. a few moral dilemmas but nothing crazy. almost definitely inaccurate depictions of courtroom and law stuff. ft. a few of the itzy girls bc why not!!!
⇢ a/n. happiest of birthdays to one of my favourite people on this planet!!!!! my beloved @gyuswhore this one is for you!! emberly i'm about to type an essay in ur dms anyway but just know that i love u enormous amounts. so so much. and i apologise for the banner its not my best work 😭
THE COURTHOUSE LOBBY is already humming with activity when you step through security: attorneys in suits speed-walking towards elevators, clerks juggling stacks of paper, the espresso machine in the café sputtering and filling the air with the smell of burnt coffee. You’re used to it all by now, and it doesn’t seem anywhere near as chaotic as you used to find it.
But the best part of your mornings tend to be six foot two and annoyingly well-dressed.
You spot Mingyu the moment you step through security: tall, sleek, and freshly pressed, balancing a stack of colour-coded folders against his hip while stirring what you know is an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee.
He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too busy reading something on a sticky note, lips shaping the words. You hesitate a beat, just long enough to be annoyed at yourself for it, then head his way.
“Mr Kim,” you call out, voice just loud enough to cut through the lobby chatter.
His head snaps up. And there it is, that small flicker of recognition followed by the not-quite-smile he always tries to tamp down.
“Ah. My favourite journalist.” He shifts the folders to greet you properly, pretending he’s not already straightening his tie. He always straightens his tie around you. “Here to make my day harder?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You hold up your recorder, tilt your head to the side hopefully. “Pre-hearing comment? Thirty seconds. Forty if you’re feeling generous.”
He huffs a soft laugh and gestures toward the hallway with the tip of his coffee cup. “You ambush me the second you walk in the building and expect me to string something together? It’s barely nine.”
“And yet,” you counter, walking beside him, “you look like you got eight hours of sleep and ironed that suit with time to spare.”
“It’s an illusion. I slept three hours and ate some almonds on my way here.”
“Almonds,” you repeat, snorting. You rummage in your bag, pull out a cereal bar, and hold it up between two fingers. His eyes actually light up, but just before his hand can brush yours, you whisk it out of reach and instead tap your recorder against your palm.
He stops walking to give you a displeased look, nose scrunching. “Really?”
You shrug, entirely unbothered. “Needs must.”
“One might call that bribery, Miss ___.”
“One would then have to remember – it’s a cereal bar, Mr Kim.” You raise your eyebrows. “I’m starting to think you don’t want to give me a quote.”
You’ve interviewed dozens of prosecutors over the years, in this very building. But Mingyu is the only one who makes courthouse mornings feel a little lighter. Maybe it’s because he listens, doesn’t shrug you off immediately like some others do. Maybe it’s because he looks at you like the two of you are in on some private joke – and sometimes you are. Maybe it’s because every time you talk, there’s a hum under your ribs you keep telling yourself to ignore.
He pauses at the bulletin board, scanning the docket. “Just a fraud case today. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re covering it.”
“I can’t resist a good public official messing with paperwork,” you say. “It speaks to me.”
“Fraud speaks to you?”
“Don’t judge my hobbies. Besides, you know better than anyone it’s not just a fraud case when it’s Lee Junhyeon behind it all. Do I get a quote or not?”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Easier than it should be. Easier than it ever is with anyone else you interview. There’s comfort baked into the rhythm you two have built – teasing layered over familiarity layered over something neither of you names aloud.
He takes one last sip of his coffee, narrows his eyes at the cereal bar, straightens ever so slightly – and nods at your recorder. “Alright. Go ahead. But if I pass out mid-sentence, you’re liable.”
“I’ll include that as a quote.”
“Please don’t.”
You hit record, and he slips effortlessly into prosecutor mode, smooth, concise, measured. You watch the shift happen in real time: the warmth fades, replaced by sharp professionalism, like flipping a switch only he seems able to control.
He finishes. You stop the recorder.
“There,” he says with a tiny tilt of his head, shoulders slumping just the slightest bit. “Was that quick enough?”
“Almost disappointing how cooperative you are.”
“Just trying to stay on your good side.”
You open your mouth to reply, but someone calls his name from down the hall.
He sighs, and you give him a knowing look. “Duty calls.”
“I’ll see you inside?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You press the cereal bar on top of his folders, and he glances down at it in surprise. “Don’t inhale it in front of the judge.”
“No promises,” he grins. And he takes a few steps backward toward the courtroom doors, eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turns away, and whatever was pressing down on your chest loosens.
The hallway outsidethe courtroom is louder after the lunch recess, the kind of restless noise that means every reporter is suddenly convinced they’re about to miss something. You weave through the clusters of them, not exactly late, but later than you meant to be, with your notebook tucked under your arm and your phone buzzing with your roommate’s texts about dinner plans.
The Lee Junhyeon case had drawn more media attention than expected for something technically labeled “administrative fraud.” But feeding money into a shell charity he chaired leads to a lot of public interest. Which is why you’re here.
Mingyu and his team arrive from the opposite end of the hall: three attorneys behind him, another two in step beside him, all mid-discussion about something pedantic. He’s flipping through a binder while listening to someone else’s briefing, brows drawn, tie slightly loosened from the morning’s work. He looks focused, a little wrinkle on his forehead, lower lip caught between his teeth. Not that you’re looking at his lips, you remind yourself firmly, clicking your pen.
Which, of course, is exactly when his eyes lift and land right on you.
It’s not a smile – that would be too much – just a brief softening of his features, a small acknowledgment, something only noticeable because you’re tuned to it. He returns his attention to his colleague almost immediately.
Still. Somehow, one look is enough to warm the little dent between your ribs and your stomach,
A handful of other reporters notice him too, and like sharks scenting blood, they move as a group, mics angled, questions already thrust forward. Someone elbows you lightly, not unkindly, but with just enough push that you step to the side to avoid being boxed in.
Mingyu’s team slows. His second chair, Ms. Han, glances over the crowd with unimpressed precision. You join the cluster, not leading it, not hiding either. When one reporter pushes ahead to ask a badly formed question, Mingyu stops walking just long enough to give them a neutral, measured response.
His gaze slips to you again.
You pretend you don’t notice. Or at least you pretend you’re good at pretending.
You ask your question, and he answers just as cleanly, just as concisely. But still, there’s something in how he talks to you. The subtlest, tiniest, warmest thing edging his words, and then he’s gone.
You claim a seat at the press bench again, open your laptop, and start shaping the morning’s notes into something publishable. Your article won’t run until the day after tomorrow, but drafts don’t write themselves – and you’ve learned the hard way that waiting until evening means Ryujin starts threatening to hide your laptop under the couch.
Most of the testimony is dry. A lot of financial analysts, paper trails, the mind-numbing march of spreadsheets projected onto the courtroom screen. The judge interrupts twice; Lee’s defense interrupts five times; the gallery sighs in unison at least twelve. None of this interests you much, but a job is a job, and you know that despite hating it, you’re good at it.
But when Mingyu rises for cross-examination, the room straightens. You do too.
His voice fills the space with that particular calm authority he has, the kind that makes people assume he’s older than he is. You know this version of him well, have reported on his cases more than enough times to be well-acquainted with the gestures he makes, the inflection of his questions. You respect this version of him – you write about it.
But when his eyes pass over the gallery and catch yours, completely by accident, fleeting – you feel something you can’t put in print.
Your stomach drops. You tear your eyes away, look back down at your laptop and type with unnecessary intensity.
You’re still typing later that same evening. Your living room is a battlefield of snack wrappers, loose leaf documents, and Ryujin’s abandoned crochet project. She’s sprawled across the couch like a cat, scrolling through her phone while you type cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on your lap.
“I just think there are very few pros to your job, and many, many cons,” Ryujin says, squinting at you over her screen. “You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it. I tolerate it.”
“You tolerate it the way I tolerate dental cleanings,” she mutters. “Which is to say: not at all.”
You glance up then. “Speaking of, you have spinach in your teeth.”
She doesn’t fall for your bait, rolling her eyes. “But there is one pretty big advantage, I guess,” she says, suddenly sing-song, and you already know what she’s going to say. “Because it keeps you seeing a certain prosecutor, right?”
You determinedly fix your eyes on your screen. “I see lots of prosecutors.”
“But only one who emails back at 10p.m.”
“It was nine-forty-seven, I’ll have you know,” you mutter darkly. And then you sigh, roll your shoulders, and take a sip of cold coffee. Grimace, put the mug down. “It’s a big case. It matters.”
“You know what else matters? The hot prosecutor. He matters.”
“There is no ‘he,’” you say, typing harder than necessary. “It’s work. He’s work.”
“Mhm. But work is six foot two, and looks like that.”
(You’d made the mistake of giving Ryujin his name, just once, and from there she’d found his LinkedIn and his Instagram – which was private, of course, but the profile picture alone was enough.)
You don’t dignify her with a response.
She groans. “I’m just saying, if you two ever – ”
“We won’t,” you interrupt quickly. Too quickly. She grins at you wickedly, and you exhale again. “It wouldn’t be right, anyway. I’m covering his case – I always end up covering his cases. There’s gotta be some kind of – conflict of interest, some kind of rule I would be breaking.”
“But you would?” She presses, her phone long forgotten. “If it wasn’t for your job and your rules, you would?”
You close your laptop a little too fast. “I’m going to get more coffee.”
“That’s a yes!”
You lean back against the wall, groan and bury your face into your hands. You know just as well as Ryujin claims she does, that yes, you would. Absolutely, you would. And the rational part of you knows that Mingyu – well, you’re not blind. You see how he looks at you. But you also see how he rearranges his features every time you catch him looking.
You know you can’t want something like Mingyu.
“Yes,” you say finally, “Yes, Ryujin, I would, but I can’t, and he can’t, so what’s the point?”
“You’re letting the possible love of your life go because of a job you hate,” she says. “You tell me, what’s the point?”
You don’t have an answer.
The case settles into the city, but the buzz doesn’t quite die down, only fades a little. By the second week of hearings, you’re pretty sure you can recite all of Lee Junhyeon’s shell companies by name.
You arrive earlier than usual, the lobby quieter. You expect to beat him for once (it’s become a private scoreboard in your head, who gets here first) but when you step through security, Mingyu’s already there.
He’s leaning over the front desk, signing something with a clerk, tie slightly crooked like he got dressed in a hurry for the first time in his life. You catch yourself pausing again. That’s becoming a habit you don’t appreciate.
The clerk spots you approaching before he does.
“Oh,” she says, brightening. “He said you’d probably be here right about – ”
Mingyu straightens too fast, almost drops his pen, and clears his throat. “I said she’s usually here around now. That’s not – I didn’t mean – ”
The clerk giggles into her sleeve. You fight down a smile.
“Ignore him,” Yeji says to you in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s jumpy today.”
“I can tell,” you say, eyes flicking to his crooked tie. “Good morning, Mr Kim.”
He notices. Of course he does. “I was running late,” he mutters, and then he glances at your empty hands. “No coffee?”
“What,” you say lightly, “did you want me to get you one?”
He stiffens so hard you nearly laugh. “No. No. I just thought – never mind.”
You should leave it at that. You should walk to the elevators, get your seat in the press row, start preparing the notes you need. But something makes you linger; maybe the way he’s still holding his pen mid-air like he forgot what to do with it, maybe the faint pink rising at his collar.
“Rough morning?” you ask, tone neutral enough that you hope it passes for professional curiosity.
“Not rough,” he says quickly. “Just early. And I had to prep some stuff, and fix…” His hand twitches uselessly toward his tie. “This.”
He looks so mildly defeated you almost feel bad.
“Come here,” you sigh, stepping closer before you can talk yourself out of it.
His eyes widen. “What are you—”
“Relax,” you say. He goes still – like he thinks if he moves you’ll vanish – and you straighten the knot with the same brisk efficiency you use on your own clothes before interviews. He blinks down at you, and it’s a mistake to look up at him because suddenly the distance between you feels a little too charged.
“There,” you blurt, a little too loud, stepping back quickly.
“Thank you,” he says, too soft for the lobby. Then he tries to recover, clearing his throat, straightening his spine. “I could have done it myself.”
“No,” you say, heading for the elevators before either of you gets stupid. “You really couldn’t have.”
He follows automatically, matching your pace without thinking. You wish he wouldn’t do that – not because you mind, but because your cheeks are still burning, and you can still feel the ghost of his warmth under your fingertips.
“You’re early,” he says, voice settling back into something steadier. “I thought you hated mornings.”
“I do,” you admit. “But I needed time to re-read the testimony from the other day.”
“Ah.” He exhales. “Good luck. It put half my team to sleep last night.”
“Tell them to eat more almonds.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Was that a joke?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
It keeps happening.
You don’t plan to run into him every morning. You tell yourself that constantly. But you leave home at the same time, and catch the same bus,and the courthouse security line always moves faster than you expect, and Mingyu always, always seems to step into the lobby within thirty seconds of you.
Today, he approaches from behind while you’re staring at the display on a broken vending machine.
“Miss ___,” he greets, with a faint smile. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
You don’t jump; you refuse to give him that satisfaction. “Do I? I guess I’m too obvious.”
He snorts. “You hate it that much?”
“No,” you say, in a bland tone that obviously means yes. “I’m just waiting for my editor to text me back.”
“Do you need a second opinion?” he asks, already sipping his coffee.
“On my editor’s competence or my writing?”
“Both.”
You let out a laugh. It’s bright, rings through the lobby a little louder than you mean it to. And when you look over at him –
God.
He’s looking at you like he wasn’t prepared for the sound. Like it hit him somewhere unexpected. His expression softens, just slightly, before he pulls it back. You watch it happen, the warmth fading just a little, smile turning down the tiniest bit.
You look away first.
You always do.
An intern or something rushes over with a folder, interrupting the moment as quickly as it appeared. Mingyu takes it, thanks her, and turns back to you.
“I should go.”
“Of course.” You hesitate. “See you in court, Mr Kim.”
He lingers a second, like he wants to say something else.
He doesn’t. He leaves instead, shoulders straighter than before.
You exhale only after he’s out of sight.
It’s one week later, you’re on your way back from the bathroom, typing notes on your phone, when you nearly collide with him as he’s rounding the corner.
Mingyu steadies you before you stumble, one hand hovering near your elbow without actually touching.
You freeze. So does he.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Fine.” Too fast. Too clipped. You clear your throat, try again. “Fine. Thank you.”
He withdraws his hand immediately, stepping back as if he’s not sure how close he’s allowed to be. You can see the calculation behind his eyes; professional boundaries, reporters everywhere.
Except there aren’t reporters everywhere – not right now, at least. Not in this narrow hallway behind the stairwell, empty except for the two of you and the quiet hum of the fluorescent hallway lights.
He seems to realize that at the exact same moment you do.
You clear your throat again, tucking your phone into your bag. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”
“No,” he says. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t, either.”
The air feels different – heavier, somehow. Neither of you moves.
He looks unusually… unsure. Mingyu rarely looks unsure. You’re used to seeing the confident version of him: the prosecutor, the man who can dismantle a witness with three clean questions. Occasionally, you see the slightly clumsy version of him, a little more light-hearted.
But right now, his voice is lower, softer, more hesitant than ever.
“Long day?” he asks.
“Same as any other.”
“Right,” he says, but it’s not really agreement, it’s more like he’s buying time, trying to settle himself.
You shift your weight. He looks down when you move, then up again, slowly, as if tracking you is involuntary.
God, why does the hallway suddenly feel so small?
“Your tie is crooked again,” you blurt.
You want to smack yourself.
He blinks, glancing down with widened eyes. “Is it?”
You should say it’s fine and move on. You should turn, keep walking, go anywhere else except closer to him.
But you don’t. A beat slips between you, long enough you could step away, long enough he could laugh, long enough for both of you to choose sense over impulse.
Neither of you chooses it.
“May I?” The question leaves your mouth before your brain approves it.
He inhales, sharply, quietly, and the only reason you hear it is because of the silence between you - and then he nods once.
You step closer. Close enough to smell the faint starch of his shirt, the ghost of coffee on his breath. Your fingers brush the fabric of his tie, and it feels different to last week. Feels even more tense, with nobody around, no clerk laughing at his clumsiness.
His breath hitches.
When you look up – the same mistake – he’s already looking down at you. There’s something in his expression he never lets slip in court, very rarely lets slip outside. It’s quiet and warm and unguarded, pooling in his brown eyes.
Your hand is still on his tie. You straighten it slowly, but don’t quite pull back. His hand raises, hovering near your hip. Like he wants to close the distance but knows he shouldn’t.
“Miss ___,” he says, but it comes out like your first name. Like he forgets halfway through that he isn’t supposed to say it so gently.
“Mhm?” Your voice barely works.
“We’re…” His jaw tightens. He swallows, and you follow the movement down his throat unconsciously. “We shouldn’t be this close.”
“I know.”
Neither of you moves.
He searches your face like he’s trying to memorise it – that, or he’s trying to convince himself to step back. His eyes drop to your mouth for one split second.
It’s enough.
Heat rushes to your face. Your heart kicks so hard you swear he can hear it, feel it in the air between you, and then you’re leaning in, and he is, too. Noses are inches apart, breaths mingling.
And then – he stops. You stop. Or you stop, and then he stops, you’re not quite sure. It feels simultaneous; if someone had done it first, it’d only be by a millisecond.
Either way, the moment cracks like thin ice.
You pull back first, hand dropping from his tie as if burned. Mingyu steps away so quickly he nearly hits the wall. His breath leaves him in one unsteady exhale he tries and fails to disguise.
“I shouldn’t – ” he starts, voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again. “We can’t.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, composure unraveling in a way you’ve never seen. It makes something twist painfully, sharply, inside your chest.
“If I could…” he begins.
You look up.
“If I could,” he says again, lower now, some kind of urgency pushing his words into the space between you. “I would.”
You can’t breathe.
“But I can’t,” he adds quickly, too quickly, like if he doesn’t say it immediately he’ll lose the ability to say it at all. “Not while you’re covering this case. Not while I’m –” He gestures vaguely to the courtroom, to the entire world you both have to answer to, at least for now. “You know why.”
You nod. Because you do know, you’ve always known. “I get it,” you say softly.
He steps back another inch, like distance is the only thing keeping him sane. “I should go,” he says, then, and you don’t stop him. Just watch him leave, noting through your daze how tight his shoulders are, how rigid his steps are.
When he disappears around the corner, you finally let yourself exhale.
By the time you make it home that night, your legs feel like someone else’s. The walk from the bus stop is only seven minutes, but it stretches out, heavy, your thoughts just racing further with every step.
Ryujin is sprawled on the couch when you walk in, laptop open, hair perched in a precarious bun at the top of her head. She peeks over the screen the moment she hears the door.
“You’re home late,” she says. “What’d the justice system do to you this time? Suck the remaining life out of you?”
You drop your bag by the coat rack. “Basically.”
Ryujin narrows her eyes in exaggerated suspicion. “You didn’t answer my text earlier.”
“I was busy.”
“With court stuff,” she says, as if warming up to a theory she’s been itching to present all day. “Or with your favourite lawyer?”
She says it with a deep, smug, knowing tone.
You glare at her. “He’s not my favourite lawyer.”
“Uh-huh.” She closes her laptop halfway, leaning her chin on her palm. “You’re lying poorly again. Want to try that sentence one more time with dignity?”
You toe off your shoes and join her on the couch, sinking into the cushion like it’s been years since you last sat down. “There’s nothing going on.”
Ryujin doesn’t blink. “Yet.”
You grab a throw pillow and smack her with it. “Not yet, not ever,” you correct. “At least, not until I get rid of this stupid job.”
“And is that in the cards any time soon?”
You stare at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the fridge. You knew this conversation would happen eventually. You just thought you’d have more time to figure out what you want.
“I’ve been applying for new jobs since before this case started,” you admit.
Ryujin sits up straighter. “Wait. Really?”
“Yes.” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “I like writing. You know I do. I just don’t think this lane is where I want to stay. The court stuff, it’s interesting, but it’s not what I got into journalism for. You know that.”
Ryujin blinks, processing. “So this isn’t about him.”
“No,” you say. “It’s not. I’d do this whether I’d met him or not.”
She watches you carefully, long enough that you start to feel exposed under it, then she nods. “Okay. Good. Because quitting a whole career path for a guy would be stupid.”
“You’re very supportive,” you deadpan. “Weren’t you the one going on about oh, the love of your life or a job you hate?”
“I wasn’t serious, you know that. I’m realistic,” she counters, kicking your shin gently. “But if you’ve been unhappy, then yeah! Leave. Apply to every job. Apply to the ones you don’t even want. Chaos is free.”
You laugh, weak but genuine.
“And…” Ryujin raises her brows, voice shifting softer. “It does make it easier for you to go ahead, and, you know. Ask out the man of your dreams.”
You cover your face with your hands. “It’s – he is not – ”
“He absolutely is,” she says. “But that’s fine. We’re not judging. We’re just stating things accurately.”
“Just because I quit doesn’t mean we’re going to magically live happily ever after. He might not even like me like that.” You know that’s not true, especially after today. Still, you hate how much you sound like you’re back in high school.
“You sound like you’re back in high school.”
You groan, sliding down the couch until your head rests against the armrest. “I hate you.”
Ryujin pats your knee affectionately. “No you don’t. You love me. I’m wise.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I am large. I contain multitudes.”
You stare at the ceiling again, but this time, it feels a little lighter. Less like the world is closing in, more like it’s shifting forward.
Ryujin nudges you with her foot. “So. New jobs. What are we looking for?”
You hesitate, but only for a second, because you’ve thought about it so much. “Something with more features. Maybe like, one of those, you know, fancy arts magazines. Or the literature stuff.”
Her grin spreads slow and pleased. “Then we’ll find it. Easy.”
You know it’s not easy – it’s been weeks of sending applications into the void – but the conviction in her voice warms something inside you.
“And hey,” she adds, sitting back with her laptop. “If your tall hot lawyer happens to read your award-winning future articles and regret the day he ever let you walk away, that’s his problem.”
You throw another pillow at her face, and she catches it, triumphant.
You’re not expecting to see anyone from the courthouse on a Saturday morning, least of all Mingyu. The café is a good twenty minutes away from the district building, far enough away that you don’t get any familiar faces whenever you come here to work, except when you drag Ryujin with you.
Today, though, it’s just you, your laptop, a croissant, and yet another job application form. You’re halfway through uploading some of your writing samples when the bell over the café door jingles.
You don’t look up, not until you hear a familiar voice say, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Your fingers freeze over your keyboard.
You raise your eyes slowly. Mingyu stands in the doorway, holding an iced Americano and wearing glasses you’ve never seen before, round, thin-framed, unfairly flattering. His hair is slightly messy, like he didn’t bother styling it for once, and for once, he’s not wearing a suit.
“You’re following me,” you say, because it’s the first thing your mouth decides to go with.
He huffs. “Do you really think I have time for that?”
You close your laptop halfway. “Compelling argument, Mr Kim.”
He winces. “Please don’t call me that here. It’s Saturday.”
You can’t help laughing, and the sound makes him stop mid-step, just for a beat, barely noticeable. His expression softens as he moves toward your table.
“You working?” he asks, nodding at your laptop.
“Trying to,” you reply. “Not court stuff, so don’t worry.”
He hesitates, standing there with his coffee, shifting his weight. “Mind if I…?” He gestures vaguely to the empty seat across from you.
And this – this is where you should say no. Because it’s weird. Because you spend too much time in hallways and lobbies together already, because you almost kissed the last time you were alone together.
But he’s looking at you with hopeful eyebrows, and it’s Saturday, and you’re tired of replaying the same loops in your head.
“Sure,” you say lightly, but as he sits, you angle your laptop away from him without thinking. He notices.
“I’m not trying to peek,” he says, hands raised in surrender.
You smile. “I didn’t think you were.”
There’s a brief lull as he unwraps his straw, stirs his drink, takes a sip. Something about the normalcy of it, the absence of suits, no fluorescent lighting hanging above you – it feels absurdly intimate.
“So am I allowed to ask what you’re working on that’s not court stuff?” he asks. “Creative writing? Exposé about the corruption of local cafés?”
Your eyes widen, feeling caught.
He blinks at your silence, and you see him withdraw just the tiniest bit, a smile plastered on his face. “You don’t have to tell me, you know.”
“Job applications,” you say before you can soften it.
His eyebrows shoot up, surprise breaking across his features. “You’re leaving City News?”
You sigh, pushing a hand through your hair. “Trying to.”
He sits up abruptly. “Why?”
You lean back a little, startled by his sudden change in tone, almost harsh. “What?”
“Listen,” he says, urgently, quickly. “If this is about – last week.”
“What,” you say slowly, raising an eyebrow. If he won’t say it, you will. “When we almost kissed?”
His cheeks redden, but he pushes forward. “Yes, that. If this is about that, then don’t – I mean, it shouldn’t have happened.”
It feels like something cold is dousing your chest, trickling down into the pit of your stomach. “I know that.”
“Because we’re in the middle of an active case.” He insists on continuing, like he hasn't heard you. “It wouldn’t be right, you know that. And besides, it was just – it was bad timing. A mistake. We were, you know, exhausted, and we’ve always been friendly, but you don’t have to le–”
You cut him off. “A mistake?”
“I’m trying to say, you don’t have to quit just because of that. It wouldn’t be right. We can just forget it ever happened!”
You’re still hung up on that word. A mistake. “I’m sorry,” you say, letting out a derisive snort. “If I could, I would – isn’t that what you said? And now it’s suddenly just a mistake?”
Mingyu’s eyes widen, like he’s just realising he’s done something wrong. Like he’s just realising he’s misunderstood this whole entire thing.
“For your information, Mr Kim, I’ve been applying for new jobs for over a month,” you bite out, shoving your stuff into your bag. “It has nothing to do with you, or whatever mistake we made last week.”
“Wait – wait, ___,” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.
“Listen, if you want to forget about it, feel free. Consider it done. I’ll never bring it up again, and once I get my new job, you never have to see my face again.” You’re tired, embarrassed, angry, and all of it knots together inside your chest. “I’ll see you in court, Mr Kim.”
He doesn’t come after you.
You don’t expect the silence to be this absolute.
A part of you thinks that once you step back into the courtroom, once you’re surrounded by clerks and attorneys and the usual shuffle of papers, things will fall back into their familiar rhythm, that he’ll make some quiet comment as he passes your table, or nod in that way that’s half-greeting, half-habit.
Instead, Mingyu barely looks at you.
The first time you see him after the argument, he’s already leafing through a binder. His expression is the same one he wears for every session in court: composed, serious, utterly focused. But he doesn’t lift his gaze when you walk in – not when you take your seat, not even when you have to shift your chair because one of your colleagues squeezes past, the scrape of the metal legs loud against the tile.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it’s for the best.
You tell yourself that yesterday’s email, beginning with Congratulations! means you won’t have to do this for much longer. Except then, outside the courtroom, you ask a follow-up question to something your co-worker asks, and when he replies, your stomach twists because you can hear the difference.
He talks to you the way he talks to every other reporter in the room.
When court breaks, you linger by the aisle to avoid crossing paths. It works for exactly two minutes, until a clerk tries to hand you a set of documents and they slip, scattering across the floor. You kneel to gather them at the same moment someone else does.
Long fingers. A watch you’ve teased him about before.
You stop.
Mingyu hovers for half a second, clearly debating whether to continue. Then, very slowly, painfully slowly, he puts the pile he’s gathered down, retracts his hand and stands.
“I’ll let you take those,” he says, softly.
“Thank you,” you answer, eyes fixed on the papers, pulse loud in your ears.
You don’t look up. You can’t.
He steps away, shoes quiet against the polished floor.
The ink on the papers blur for a second, and you blink hard, blaming the courtroom’s dry air. You breathe again only when the door closes behind him.
Time passes, and the distance settles into a horrible routine.
He holds doors open for everyone, including you, without pausing or meeting your eye. When he makes an objection that gets sustained, you don’t let yourself smile. When he wins a point you predicted he would, you don’t feel the same sense of satisfaction. When he glances up mid-argument, you keep your gaze locked on your laptop.
On one of the later days, he falters, just for a moment – mid-sentence, his breath catches on a word. No one else notices, but you do, and you reflexively look up, his eyes are on you. There’s a beat, and then he continues speaking, steady and smooth as ever, but that single slip echoes inside you.
By the last day of trial, the courthouse feels different.
Not quieter – if anything, it’s louder, people sliding through hallways with more purpose than usual – but the air around you feels muted. As if you’re wrapped in thick cotton, watching everything from a half-step removed.
And maybe that’s because you spend the entire morning doing what you’ve perfected over the past week: not looking at Kim Mingyu. Not unless you absolutely, professionally must.
He doesn’t look at you either. Not unless he absolutely, professionally must.
When you enter the courtroom, he’s already sitting, files arranged in his impossibly neat stack, suit crisp, expression unreadably calm. You don’t let your gaze linger. You don’t give yourself that indulgence. Instead you slide into the press row, notebook out, pen ready.
The judge enters. Everyone rises. Everyone sits.
You take notes mechanically, fingers moving on their own. Working without really thinking, just trying your best to keep your focus away from him, as you have been over the past few weeks. You focus on the defendant instead, on the closing arguments, anything but him.
But Mingyu, of course, makes that impossible.
He stands to deliver the prosecution’s final statement, and even though you stare fixedly at the edge of your notebook, you hear every word, clear, steady, composed. He’s good. More than good. Same as he always is.
Your pen slips once, leaving a long ink drag across the margin.
When he returns to his seat, you don’t look up, you keep writing.
You try not to hear your pulse.
The afternoon stretches. The jury is out deliberating, leaving everyone suspended in that suffocating pre-verdict limbo. Some reporters mingle in the hallway. Others type up summaries. You sit on a bench outside the courtroom, laptop open, pretending to fine-tune your article when really you’re trying not to look down the hall.
Because he’s there, talking to someone on his team, looking completely collected – except for the way he keeps rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to ease out the tension.
You shouldn’t notice that, and you shouldn’t know that gesture as well as you do.
Ryujin messages you once – still going ok? want me to bring u a coffee?? – and you send back a short, all good, last day anyway. She doesn’t push.
You sigh, keep your head down, but eventually, your eyes pull upward on their own. Just for a second. Just to confirm that he’s still there, that he’s –
He’s looking at you.
Only for a moment, but it’s enough that you jolt, like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. You drop your gaze so fast your whole body jerks with the movement, your laptop screen wobbling.
The distance between you feels like a physical thing, thick, uncomfortable, heavy with everything unsaid. And after so much of it, you’re beginning to realize something awful:
You miss him.
You miss teasing him in the lobby. You miss his quick quips, you miss the way he’d accidentally catch your eye in court. The way he’d nod at you in greeting whenever he passed by, the faintest of smiles on his lips.
You press your fingers to your temple. You brought this on yourself, you know that. For some reason, it doesn’t make it easier.
It’s late afternoon when the jury returns.
Everyone shuffles back inside, and the verdict is delivered, a mixture of charges upheld, others dismissed. You type each one out dutifully to draft up later, but you don’t have much interest in your screen. You already know this is your last case to cover, possibly your last time in this courtroom.
When court adjourns, the room splits into a hum of conversation. Attorneys shake hands, reporters drift forward, and you close your laptop slowly. You’re not in a rush, but you don’t have good reason to linger either.
You pack your bag, slip past a cluster of colleagues, and make for the aisle. You almost make it out without a word to anyone, which is quite a feat, but then Mingyu steps, ever so carefully, into your path. His expression is careful,gentle around the edges, but careful. Walking on eggshells.
“Hey,” he says, quietly. He opens his mouth, closes it, wets his lips with his tongue, and finally settles on – “Good work.”
You swallow, throat tight. “You too.”
He nods once, like he expected that. Like he doesn’t expect anything else from you anymore. And then someone’s calling his name from across the room, another attorney, and your phone starts buzzing, and the moment breaks.
Mingyu steps back. Offers you a polite, nearly formal incline of his head, and then he’s gone.
Good work.
Two weeks pass before you set foot in the courthouse again.
You tell yourself it won’t feel strange. You’re here to pick up a few documents, one last errand for City News, nothing more. Nothing to do with prosecutors or defence attorneys or even Lee Junhyeon. Nothing to do with Mingyu, either.
The courthouse looks the same when you approach it, though: winter sun catching on its windows, the wide stone steps as familiar as always. Inside, the lobby buzzes with the usual noise, heels, echoing voices.
You focus on the desk you need to get to. You focus on not looking around. You almost pull it off, chatting to the clerk, Yeji, about your new job with a smile. Chaeryeong comes up behind you both. “___!” she says. “What are you doing here?”
“She’s quitting,” Yeji answers for you, beaming. Even she knew how much you wanted to leave.”She’s going to work at one of those fancy arts and culture magazines.”
“No shit,” Chaeryeong says, admiringly. “You got a new job?”
And then you hear Mingyu, somewhere to your side.
Of course you hear Mingyu. His voice stands out even when you don’t want it to.
“Really?” he asks, soft in a way that hits you low in the stomach. “Where?”
Your throat tightens, half nerves, half guilt. You hadn’t planned to tell him. You hadn’t planned to avoid telling him, either. It was just so much easier this way.
Yeji opens her mouth, probably to answer, but she must see your face, and closes it, suddenly standing up and grabbing Chaeryeong’s hand. “We’re going to, uh. Go do our job. Somewhere else.” And they disappear down the hallway before you can even say anything.
You turn, and for one awful, suspended second, you and Mingyu stare at each other across the lobby. There’s surprise on his face first, then relief, then something unreadable that he very quickly pushes away. He steps toward you, and you force your spine straighter.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
Silence stretches, thin and taut.
You exhale through your nose. “I didn’t know you were here today.”
“I could say the same,” he replies. “I thought – ” He stops, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
You nod. Another silence. It’s not the comfortable kind you used to share, this one is awkward and delicate.
“Congrats,” he says finally. “On the new job.”
“Thank you,” you reply. “I’m excited.”
“You should be.” He means it; you can tell. “It’s a good move for you.”
You swallow. “Listen, Mr –” you start, and then change your mind. “Mingyu. About the other day, in the café. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’m sorry.”
“No,” he says, quickly, eagerly. “I’m sorry. I messed up my words, you had every right to be upset.”
“I still shouldn’t have said it like I did,” you say. “You didn’t deserve that.”
His mouth curves. “Maybe a little.”
You huff out a breath that’s an excuse for a laugh, hands tightening around the strap of your bag. You want to say more, but the words won’t come. And even if they did, this isn’t the place. Not with clerks walking by and the elevator dinging open and shut, not with the ghosts of the last few weeks crowding the air between you.
“I should get going,” you say instead.
“Right. Of course.”
You turn first. You always turn first. You walk toward the exit, and you don’t look back, even though you want to, even though everything in you pulls tight at the thought of leaving things like this again.
The courthouse doors swing open. Morning light spills across the steps. You’re halfway down when you hear your name, called after you.
You stop.
Mingyu’s footsteps are quick, uneven, like he didn’t think before he moved. When you pivot, he’s there, eyes wide, tie, as always, crooked.
“Wait,” Mingyu says, slightly breathless. And he’s looking at you with that expression he never lets slip in court: unguarded, earnest, a little scared and a lot certain. “___,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I know the timing is awful,” he says, voice low but steady.
“The timing is always awful,” you agree, but you’re smiling.
His lips twitch slightly in response, but then he’s serious again. “I don’t want to leave things like this.”
Your pulse stutters.
“And I know we said we needed boundaries before,” he continues quickly, pushing on like he’s afraid you’re going to take flight. “We were right. But you’re not covering my cases anymore. And I’m not your source. And – ” He stops, exhales hard. “Can I take you to dinner?”
The world hangs still.
Not the courthouse behind you or the street below or the people passing, just the two of you and the question he finally asks.
You blink at him.
Then:
“Yeah,” you say, the word soft but sure. “You can.”
Relief unfurls across his features, warm and bright and so unmistakably Mingyu that your chest aches.
“Okay,” he says, almost laughing under his breath. “Okay. Great.”
“Great,” you echo, failing to control the smile that spread across your face.
He stands there a moment longer, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind. You meet his eyes, really meet them, and something settles between you both, warmer and sweeter than ever.
a/n: i was struggling w/ ideas initially but i remembered a convo em and i had like Forever ago about how smart mingyu is and i was like. let me do something with that. and this is what came out. anyway. happy birthday to em. i love u.
You and Kim Mingyu have always walked that thin line between professional respect and something dangerously close to flirtation, but neither of you have ever quite slipped. So covering his newest case should be routine — but suddenly, keeping things professional isn't as easy as it used to be.
⇢ pairing. lawyer!mingyu x journalist!reader
⇢ genre. fluff, angst, idiots/acquaintances? to lovers.
⇢ word count. approx. 7.5k
⇢ warnings. f!reader. miscommunication (sorry). lots of pining + tension. a few moral dilemmas but nothing crazy. almost definitely inaccurate depictions of courtroom and law stuff. ft. a few of the itzy girls bc why not!!!
⇢ a/n. happiest of birthdays to one of my favourite people on this planet!!!!! my beloved @gyuswhore this one is for you!! emberly i'm about to type an essay in ur dms anyway but just know that i love u enormous amounts. so so much. and i apologise for the banner its not my best work 😭
THE COURTHOUSE LOBBY is already humming with activity when you step through security: attorneys in suits speed-walking towards elevators, clerks juggling stacks of paper, the espresso machine in the café sputtering and filling the air with the smell of burnt coffee. You’re used to it all by now, and it doesn’t seem anywhere near as chaotic as you used to find it.
But the best part of your mornings tend to be six foot two and annoyingly well-dressed.
You spot Mingyu the moment you step through security: tall, sleek, and freshly pressed, balancing a stack of colour-coded folders against his hip while stirring what you know is an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee.
He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too busy reading something on a sticky note, lips shaping the words. You hesitate a beat, just long enough to be annoyed at yourself for it, then head his way.
“Mr Kim,” you call out, voice just loud enough to cut through the lobby chatter.
His head snaps up. And there it is, that small flicker of recognition followed by the not-quite-smile he always tries to tamp down.
“Ah. My favourite journalist.” He shifts the folders to greet you properly, pretending he’s not already straightening his tie. He always straightens his tie around you. “Here to make my day harder?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You hold up your recorder, tilt your head to the side hopefully. “Pre-hearing comment? Thirty seconds. Forty if you’re feeling generous.”
He huffs a soft laugh and gestures toward the hallway with the tip of his coffee cup. “You ambush me the second you walk in the building and expect me to string something together? It’s barely nine.”
“And yet,” you counter, walking beside him, “you look like you got eight hours of sleep and ironed that suit with time to spare.”
“It’s an illusion. I slept three hours and ate some almonds on my way here.”
“Almonds,” you repeat, snorting. You rummage in your bag, pull out a cereal bar, and hold it up between two fingers. His eyes actually light up, but just before his hand can brush yours, you whisk it out of reach and instead tap your recorder against your palm.
He stops walking to give you a displeased look, nose scrunching. “Really?”
You shrug, entirely unbothered. “Needs must.”
“One might call that bribery, Miss ___.”
“One would then have to remember – it’s a cereal bar, Mr Kim.” You raise your eyebrows. “I’m starting to think you don’t want to give me a quote.”
You’ve interviewed dozens of prosecutors over the years, in this very building. But Mingyu is the only one who makes courthouse mornings feel a little lighter. Maybe it’s because he listens, doesn’t shrug you off immediately like some others do. Maybe it’s because he looks at you like the two of you are in on some private joke – and sometimes you are. Maybe it’s because every time you talk, there’s a hum under your ribs you keep telling yourself to ignore.
He pauses at the bulletin board, scanning the docket. “Just a fraud case today. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re covering it.”
“I can’t resist a good public official messing with paperwork,” you say. “It speaks to me.”
“Fraud speaks to you?”
“Don’t judge my hobbies. Besides, you know better than anyone it’s not just a fraud case when it’s Lee Junhyeon behind it all. Do I get a quote or not?”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Easier than it should be. Easier than it ever is with anyone else you interview. There’s comfort baked into the rhythm you two have built – teasing layered over familiarity layered over something neither of you names aloud.
He takes one last sip of his coffee, narrows his eyes at the cereal bar, straightens ever so slightly – and nods at your recorder. “Alright. Go ahead. But if I pass out mid-sentence, you’re liable.”
“I’ll include that as a quote.”
“Please don’t.”
You hit record, and he slips effortlessly into prosecutor mode, smooth, concise, measured. You watch the shift happen in real time: the warmth fades, replaced by sharp professionalism, like flipping a switch only he seems able to control.
He finishes. You stop the recorder.
“There,” he says with a tiny tilt of his head, shoulders slumping just the slightest bit. “Was that quick enough?”
“Almost disappointing how cooperative you are.”
“Just trying to stay on your good side.”
You open your mouth to reply, but someone calls his name from down the hall.
He sighs, and you give him a knowing look. “Duty calls.”
“I’ll see you inside?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You press the cereal bar on top of his folders, and he glances down at it in surprise. “Don’t inhale it in front of the judge.”
“No promises,” he grins. And he takes a few steps backward toward the courtroom doors, eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turns away, and whatever was pressing down on your chest loosens.
The hallway outsidethe courtroom is louder after the lunch recess, the kind of restless noise that means every reporter is suddenly convinced they’re about to miss something. You weave through the clusters of them, not exactly late, but later than you meant to be, with your notebook tucked under your arm and your phone buzzing with your roommate’s texts about dinner plans.
The Lee Junhyeon case had drawn more media attention than expected for something technically labeled “administrative fraud.” But feeding money into a shell charity he chaired leads to a lot of public interest. Which is why you’re here.
Mingyu and his team arrive from the opposite end of the hall: three attorneys behind him, another two in step beside him, all mid-discussion about something pedantic. He’s flipping through a binder while listening to someone else’s briefing, brows drawn, tie slightly loosened from the morning’s work. He looks focused, a little wrinkle on his forehead, lower lip caught between his teeth. Not that you’re looking at his lips, you remind yourself firmly, clicking your pen.
Which, of course, is exactly when his eyes lift and land right on you.
It’s not a smile – that would be too much – just a brief softening of his features, a small acknowledgment, something only noticeable because you’re tuned to it. He returns his attention to his colleague almost immediately.
Still. Somehow, one look is enough to warm the little dent between your ribs and your stomach,
A handful of other reporters notice him too, and like sharks scenting blood, they move as a group, mics angled, questions already thrust forward. Someone elbows you lightly, not unkindly, but with just enough push that you step to the side to avoid being boxed in.
Mingyu’s team slows. His second chair, Ms. Han, glances over the crowd with unimpressed precision. You join the cluster, not leading it, not hiding either. When one reporter pushes ahead to ask a badly formed question, Mingyu stops walking just long enough to give them a neutral, measured response.
His gaze slips to you again.
You pretend you don’t notice. Or at least you pretend you’re good at pretending.
You ask your question, and he answers just as cleanly, just as concisely. But still, there’s something in how he talks to you. The subtlest, tiniest, warmest thing edging his words, and then he’s gone.
You claim a seat at the press bench again, open your laptop, and start shaping the morning’s notes into something publishable. Your article won’t run until the day after tomorrow, but drafts don’t write themselves – and you’ve learned the hard way that waiting until evening means Ryujin starts threatening to hide your laptop under the couch.
Most of the testimony is dry. A lot of financial analysts, paper trails, the mind-numbing march of spreadsheets projected onto the courtroom screen. The judge interrupts twice; Lee’s defense interrupts five times; the gallery sighs in unison at least twelve. None of this interests you much, but a job is a job, and you know that despite hating it, you’re good at it.
But when Mingyu rises for cross-examination, the room straightens. You do too.
His voice fills the space with that particular calm authority he has, the kind that makes people assume he’s older than he is. You know this version of him well, have reported on his cases more than enough times to be well-acquainted with the gestures he makes, the inflection of his questions. You respect this version of him – you write about it.
But when his eyes pass over the gallery and catch yours, completely by accident, fleeting – you feel something you can’t put in print.
Your stomach drops. You tear your eyes away, look back down at your laptop and type with unnecessary intensity.
You’re still typing later that same evening. Your living room is a battlefield of snack wrappers, loose leaf documents, and Ryujin’s abandoned crochet project. She’s sprawled across the couch like a cat, scrolling through her phone while you type cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on your lap.
“I just think there are very few pros to your job, and many, many cons,” Ryujin says, squinting at you over her screen. “You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it. I tolerate it.”
“You tolerate it the way I tolerate dental cleanings,” she mutters. “Which is to say: not at all.”
You glance up then. “Speaking of, you have spinach in your teeth.”
She doesn’t fall for your bait, rolling her eyes. “But there is one pretty big advantage, I guess,” she says, suddenly sing-song, and you already know what she’s going to say. “Because it keeps you seeing a certain prosecutor, right?”
You determinedly fix your eyes on your screen. “I see lots of prosecutors.”
“But only one who emails back at 10p.m.”
“It was nine-forty-seven, I’ll have you know,” you mutter darkly. And then you sigh, roll your shoulders, and take a sip of cold coffee. Grimace, put the mug down. “It’s a big case. It matters.”
“You know what else matters? The hot prosecutor. He matters.”
“There is no ‘he,’” you say, typing harder than necessary. “It’s work. He’s work.”
“Mhm. But work is six foot two, and looks like that.”
(You’d made the mistake of giving Ryujin his name, just once, and from there she’d found his LinkedIn and his Instagram – which was private, of course, but the profile picture alone was enough.)
You don’t dignify her with a response.
She groans. “I’m just saying, if you two ever – ”
“We won’t,” you interrupt quickly. Too quickly. She grins at you wickedly, and you exhale again. “It wouldn’t be right, anyway. I’m covering his case – I always end up covering his cases. There’s gotta be some kind of – conflict of interest, some kind of rule I would be breaking.”
“But you would?” She presses, her phone long forgotten. “If it wasn’t for your job and your rules, you would?”
You close your laptop a little too fast. “I’m going to get more coffee.”
“That’s a yes!”
You lean back against the wall, groan and bury your face into your hands. You know just as well as Ryujin claims she does, that yes, you would. Absolutely, you would. And the rational part of you knows that Mingyu – well, you’re not blind. You see how he looks at you. But you also see how he rearranges his features every time you catch him looking.
You know you can’t want something like Mingyu.
“Yes,” you say finally, “Yes, Ryujin, I would, but I can’t, and he can’t, so what’s the point?”
“You’re letting the possible love of your life go because of a job you hate,” she says. “You tell me, what’s the point?”
You don’t have an answer.
The case settles into the city, but the buzz doesn’t quite die down, only fades a little. By the second week of hearings, you’re pretty sure you can recite all of Lee Junhyeon’s shell companies by name.
You arrive earlier than usual, the lobby quieter. You expect to beat him for once (it’s become a private scoreboard in your head, who gets here first) but when you step through security, Mingyu’s already there.
He’s leaning over the front desk, signing something with a clerk, tie slightly crooked like he got dressed in a hurry for the first time in his life. You catch yourself pausing again. That’s becoming a habit you don’t appreciate.
The clerk spots you approaching before he does.
“Oh,” she says, brightening. “He said you’d probably be here right about – ”
Mingyu straightens too fast, almost drops his pen, and clears his throat. “I said she’s usually here around now. That’s not – I didn’t mean – ”
The clerk giggles into her sleeve. You fight down a smile.
“Ignore him,” Yeji says to you in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s jumpy today.”
“I can tell,” you say, eyes flicking to his crooked tie. “Good morning, Mr Kim.”
He notices. Of course he does. “I was running late,” he mutters, and then he glances at your empty hands. “No coffee?”
“What,” you say lightly, “did you want me to get you one?”
He stiffens so hard you nearly laugh. “No. No. I just thought – never mind.”
You should leave it at that. You should walk to the elevators, get your seat in the press row, start preparing the notes you need. But something makes you linger; maybe the way he’s still holding his pen mid-air like he forgot what to do with it, maybe the faint pink rising at his collar.
“Rough morning?” you ask, tone neutral enough that you hope it passes for professional curiosity.
“Not rough,” he says quickly. “Just early. And I had to prep some stuff, and fix…” His hand twitches uselessly toward his tie. “This.”
He looks so mildly defeated you almost feel bad.
“Come here,” you sigh, stepping closer before you can talk yourself out of it.
His eyes widen. “What are you—”
“Relax,” you say. He goes still – like he thinks if he moves you’ll vanish – and you straighten the knot with the same brisk efficiency you use on your own clothes before interviews. He blinks down at you, and it’s a mistake to look up at him because suddenly the distance between you feels a little too charged.
“There,” you blurt, a little too loud, stepping back quickly.
“Thank you,” he says, too soft for the lobby. Then he tries to recover, clearing his throat, straightening his spine. “I could have done it myself.”
“No,” you say, heading for the elevators before either of you gets stupid. “You really couldn’t have.”
He follows automatically, matching your pace without thinking. You wish he wouldn’t do that – not because you mind, but because your cheeks are still burning, and you can still feel the ghost of his warmth under your fingertips.
“You’re early,” he says, voice settling back into something steadier. “I thought you hated mornings.”
“I do,” you admit. “But I needed time to re-read the testimony from the other day.”
“Ah.” He exhales. “Good luck. It put half my team to sleep last night.”
“Tell them to eat more almonds.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Was that a joke?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
It keeps happening.
You don’t plan to run into him every morning. You tell yourself that constantly. But you leave home at the same time, and catch the same bus,and the courthouse security line always moves faster than you expect, and Mingyu always, always seems to step into the lobby within thirty seconds of you.
Today, he approaches from behind while you’re staring at the display on a broken vending machine.
“Miss ___,” he greets, with a faint smile. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
You don’t jump; you refuse to give him that satisfaction. “Do I? I guess I’m too obvious.”
He snorts. “You hate it that much?”
“No,” you say, in a bland tone that obviously means yes. “I’m just waiting for my editor to text me back.”
“Do you need a second opinion?” he asks, already sipping his coffee.
“On my editor’s competence or my writing?”
“Both.”
You let out a laugh. It’s bright, rings through the lobby a little louder than you mean it to. And when you look over at him –
God.
He’s looking at you like he wasn’t prepared for the sound. Like it hit him somewhere unexpected. His expression softens, just slightly, before he pulls it back. You watch it happen, the warmth fading just a little, smile turning down the tiniest bit.
You look away first.
You always do.
An intern or something rushes over with a folder, interrupting the moment as quickly as it appeared. Mingyu takes it, thanks her, and turns back to you.
“I should go.”
“Of course.” You hesitate. “See you in court, Mr Kim.”
He lingers a second, like he wants to say something else.
He doesn’t. He leaves instead, shoulders straighter than before.
You exhale only after he’s out of sight.
It’s one week later, you’re on your way back from the bathroom, typing notes on your phone, when you nearly collide with him as he’s rounding the corner.
Mingyu steadies you before you stumble, one hand hovering near your elbow without actually touching.
You freeze. So does he.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Fine.” Too fast. Too clipped. You clear your throat, try again. “Fine. Thank you.”
He withdraws his hand immediately, stepping back as if he’s not sure how close he’s allowed to be. You can see the calculation behind his eyes; professional boundaries, reporters everywhere.
Except there aren’t reporters everywhere – not right now, at least. Not in this narrow hallway behind the stairwell, empty except for the two of you and the quiet hum of the fluorescent hallway lights.
He seems to realize that at the exact same moment you do.
You clear your throat again, tucking your phone into your bag. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”
“No,” he says. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t, either.”
The air feels different – heavier, somehow. Neither of you moves.
He looks unusually… unsure. Mingyu rarely looks unsure. You’re used to seeing the confident version of him: the prosecutor, the man who can dismantle a witness with three clean questions. Occasionally, you see the slightly clumsy version of him, a little more light-hearted.
But right now, his voice is lower, softer, more hesitant than ever.
“Long day?” he asks.
“Same as any other.”
“Right,” he says, but it’s not really agreement, it’s more like he’s buying time, trying to settle himself.
You shift your weight. He looks down when you move, then up again, slowly, as if tracking you is involuntary.
God, why does the hallway suddenly feel so small?
“Your tie is crooked again,” you blurt.
You want to smack yourself.
He blinks, glancing down with widened eyes. “Is it?”
You should say it’s fine and move on. You should turn, keep walking, go anywhere else except closer to him.
But you don’t. A beat slips between you, long enough you could step away, long enough he could laugh, long enough for both of you to choose sense over impulse.
Neither of you chooses it.
“May I?” The question leaves your mouth before your brain approves it.
He inhales, sharply, quietly, and the only reason you hear it is because of the silence between you - and then he nods once.
You step closer. Close enough to smell the faint starch of his shirt, the ghost of coffee on his breath. Your fingers brush the fabric of his tie, and it feels different to last week. Feels even more tense, with nobody around, no clerk laughing at his clumsiness.
His breath hitches.
When you look up – the same mistake – he’s already looking down at you. There’s something in his expression he never lets slip in court, very rarely lets slip outside. It’s quiet and warm and unguarded, pooling in his brown eyes.
Your hand is still on his tie. You straighten it slowly, but don’t quite pull back. His hand raises, hovering near your hip. Like he wants to close the distance but knows he shouldn’t.
“Miss ___,” he says, but it comes out like your first name. Like he forgets halfway through that he isn’t supposed to say it so gently.
“Mhm?” Your voice barely works.
“We’re…” His jaw tightens. He swallows, and you follow the movement down his throat unconsciously. “We shouldn’t be this close.”
“I know.”
Neither of you moves.
He searches your face like he’s trying to memorise it – that, or he’s trying to convince himself to step back. His eyes drop to your mouth for one split second.
It’s enough.
Heat rushes to your face. Your heart kicks so hard you swear he can hear it, feel it in the air between you, and then you’re leaning in, and he is, too. Noses are inches apart, breaths mingling.
And then – he stops. You stop. Or you stop, and then he stops, you’re not quite sure. It feels simultaneous; if someone had done it first, it’d only be by a millisecond.
Either way, the moment cracks like thin ice.
You pull back first, hand dropping from his tie as if burned. Mingyu steps away so quickly he nearly hits the wall. His breath leaves him in one unsteady exhale he tries and fails to disguise.
“I shouldn’t – ” he starts, voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again. “We can’t.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, composure unraveling in a way you’ve never seen. It makes something twist painfully, sharply, inside your chest.
“If I could…” he begins.
You look up.
“If I could,” he says again, lower now, some kind of urgency pushing his words into the space between you. “I would.”
You can’t breathe.
“But I can’t,” he adds quickly, too quickly, like if he doesn’t say it immediately he’ll lose the ability to say it at all. “Not while you’re covering this case. Not while I’m –” He gestures vaguely to the courtroom, to the entire world you both have to answer to, at least for now. “You know why.”
You nod. Because you do know, you’ve always known. “I get it,” you say softly.
He steps back another inch, like distance is the only thing keeping him sane. “I should go,” he says, then, and you don’t stop him. Just watch him leave, noting through your daze how tight his shoulders are, how rigid his steps are.
When he disappears around the corner, you finally let yourself exhale.
By the time you make it home that night, your legs feel like someone else’s. The walk from the bus stop is only seven minutes, but it stretches out, heavy, your thoughts just racing further with every step.
Ryujin is sprawled on the couch when you walk in, laptop open, hair perched in a precarious bun at the top of her head. She peeks over the screen the moment she hears the door.
“You’re home late,” she says. “What’d the justice system do to you this time? Suck the remaining life out of you?”
You drop your bag by the coat rack. “Basically.”
Ryujin narrows her eyes in exaggerated suspicion. “You didn’t answer my text earlier.”
“I was busy.”
“With court stuff,” she says, as if warming up to a theory she’s been itching to present all day. “Or with your favourite lawyer?”
She says it with a deep, smug, knowing tone.
You glare at her. “He’s not my favourite lawyer.”
“Uh-huh.” She closes her laptop halfway, leaning her chin on her palm. “You’re lying poorly again. Want to try that sentence one more time with dignity?”
You toe off your shoes and join her on the couch, sinking into the cushion like it’s been years since you last sat down. “There’s nothing going on.”
Ryujin doesn’t blink. “Yet.”
You grab a throw pillow and smack her with it. “Not yet, not ever,” you correct. “At least, not until I get rid of this stupid job.”
“And is that in the cards any time soon?”
You stare at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the fridge. You knew this conversation would happen eventually. You just thought you’d have more time to figure out what you want.
“I’ve been applying for new jobs since before this case started,” you admit.
Ryujin sits up straighter. “Wait. Really?”
“Yes.” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “I like writing. You know I do. I just don’t think this lane is where I want to stay. The court stuff, it’s interesting, but it’s not what I got into journalism for. You know that.”
Ryujin blinks, processing. “So this isn’t about him.”
“No,” you say. “It’s not. I’d do this whether I’d met him or not.”
She watches you carefully, long enough that you start to feel exposed under it, then she nods. “Okay. Good. Because quitting a whole career path for a guy would be stupid.”
“You’re very supportive,” you deadpan. “Weren’t you the one going on about oh, the love of your life or a job you hate?”
“I wasn’t serious, you know that. I’m realistic,” she counters, kicking your shin gently. “But if you’ve been unhappy, then yeah! Leave. Apply to every job. Apply to the ones you don’t even want. Chaos is free.”
You laugh, weak but genuine.
“And…” Ryujin raises her brows, voice shifting softer. “It does make it easier for you to go ahead, and, you know. Ask out the man of your dreams.”
You cover your face with your hands. “It’s – he is not – ”
“He absolutely is,” she says. “But that’s fine. We’re not judging. We’re just stating things accurately.”
“Just because I quit doesn’t mean we’re going to magically live happily ever after. He might not even like me like that.” You know that’s not true, especially after today. Still, you hate how much you sound like you’re back in high school.
“You sound like you’re back in high school.”
You groan, sliding down the couch until your head rests against the armrest. “I hate you.”
Ryujin pats your knee affectionately. “No you don’t. You love me. I’m wise.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I am large. I contain multitudes.”
You stare at the ceiling again, but this time, it feels a little lighter. Less like the world is closing in, more like it’s shifting forward.
Ryujin nudges you with her foot. “So. New jobs. What are we looking for?”
You hesitate, but only for a second, because you’ve thought about it so much. “Something with more features. Maybe like, one of those, you know, fancy arts magazines. Or the literature stuff.”
Her grin spreads slow and pleased. “Then we’ll find it. Easy.”
You know it’s not easy – it’s been weeks of sending applications into the void – but the conviction in her voice warms something inside you.
“And hey,” she adds, sitting back with her laptop. “If your tall hot lawyer happens to read your award-winning future articles and regret the day he ever let you walk away, that’s his problem.”
You throw another pillow at her face, and she catches it, triumphant.
You’re not expecting to see anyone from the courthouse on a Saturday morning, least of all Mingyu. The café is a good twenty minutes away from the district building, far enough away that you don’t get any familiar faces whenever you come here to work, except when you drag Ryujin with you.
Today, though, it’s just you, your laptop, a croissant, and yet another job application form. You’re halfway through uploading some of your writing samples when the bell over the café door jingles.
You don’t look up, not until you hear a familiar voice say, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Your fingers freeze over your keyboard.
You raise your eyes slowly. Mingyu stands in the doorway, holding an iced Americano and wearing glasses you’ve never seen before, round, thin-framed, unfairly flattering. His hair is slightly messy, like he didn’t bother styling it for once, and for once, he’s not wearing a suit.
“You’re following me,” you say, because it’s the first thing your mouth decides to go with.
He huffs. “Do you really think I have time for that?”
You close your laptop halfway. “Compelling argument, Mr Kim.”
He winces. “Please don’t call me that here. It’s Saturday.”
You can’t help laughing, and the sound makes him stop mid-step, just for a beat, barely noticeable. His expression softens as he moves toward your table.
“You working?” he asks, nodding at your laptop.
“Trying to,” you reply. “Not court stuff, so don’t worry.”
He hesitates, standing there with his coffee, shifting his weight. “Mind if I…?” He gestures vaguely to the empty seat across from you.
And this – this is where you should say no. Because it’s weird. Because you spend too much time in hallways and lobbies together already, because you almost kissed the last time you were alone together.
But he’s looking at you with hopeful eyebrows, and it’s Saturday, and you’re tired of replaying the same loops in your head.
“Sure,” you say lightly, but as he sits, you angle your laptop away from him without thinking. He notices.
“I’m not trying to peek,” he says, hands raised in surrender.
You smile. “I didn’t think you were.”
There’s a brief lull as he unwraps his straw, stirs his drink, takes a sip. Something about the normalcy of it, the absence of suits, no fluorescent lighting hanging above you – it feels absurdly intimate.
“So am I allowed to ask what you’re working on that’s not court stuff?” he asks. “Creative writing? Exposé about the corruption of local cafés?”
Your eyes widen, feeling caught.
He blinks at your silence, and you see him withdraw just the tiniest bit, a smile plastered on his face. “You don’t have to tell me, you know.”
“Job applications,” you say before you can soften it.
His eyebrows shoot up, surprise breaking across his features. “You’re leaving City News?”
You sigh, pushing a hand through your hair. “Trying to.”
He sits up abruptly. “Why?”
You lean back a little, startled by his sudden change in tone, almost harsh. “What?”
“Listen,” he says, urgently, quickly. “If this is about – last week.”
“What,” you say slowly, raising an eyebrow. If he won’t say it, you will. “When we almost kissed?”
His cheeks redden, but he pushes forward. “Yes, that. If this is about that, then don’t – I mean, it shouldn’t have happened.”
It feels like something cold is dousing your chest, trickling down into the pit of your stomach. “I know that.”
“Because we’re in the middle of an active case.” He insists on continuing, like he hasn't heard you. “It wouldn’t be right, you know that. And besides, it was just – it was bad timing. A mistake. We were, you know, exhausted, and we’ve always been friendly, but you don’t have to le–”
You cut him off. “A mistake?”
“I’m trying to say, you don’t have to quit just because of that. It wouldn’t be right. We can just forget it ever happened!”
You’re still hung up on that word. A mistake. “I’m sorry,” you say, letting out a derisive snort. “If I could, I would – isn’t that what you said? And now it’s suddenly just a mistake?”
Mingyu’s eyes widen, like he’s just realising he’s done something wrong. Like he’s just realising he’s misunderstood this whole entire thing.
“For your information, Mr Kim, I’ve been applying for new jobs for over a month,” you bite out, shoving your stuff into your bag. “It has nothing to do with you, or whatever mistake we made last week.”
“Wait – wait, ___,” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.
“Listen, if you want to forget about it, feel free. Consider it done. I’ll never bring it up again, and once I get my new job, you never have to see my face again.” You’re tired, embarrassed, angry, and all of it knots together inside your chest. “I’ll see you in court, Mr Kim.”
He doesn’t come after you.
You don’t expect the silence to be this absolute.
A part of you thinks that once you step back into the courtroom, once you’re surrounded by clerks and attorneys and the usual shuffle of papers, things will fall back into their familiar rhythm, that he’ll make some quiet comment as he passes your table, or nod in that way that’s half-greeting, half-habit.
Instead, Mingyu barely looks at you.
The first time you see him after the argument, he’s already leafing through a binder. His expression is the same one he wears for every session in court: composed, serious, utterly focused. But he doesn’t lift his gaze when you walk in – not when you take your seat, not even when you have to shift your chair because one of your colleagues squeezes past, the scrape of the metal legs loud against the tile.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it’s for the best.
You tell yourself that yesterday’s email, beginning with Congratulations! means you won’t have to do this for much longer. Except then, outside the courtroom, you ask a follow-up question to something your co-worker asks, and when he replies, your stomach twists because you can hear the difference.
He talks to you the way he talks to every other reporter in the room.
When court breaks, you linger by the aisle to avoid crossing paths. It works for exactly two minutes, until a clerk tries to hand you a set of documents and they slip, scattering across the floor. You kneel to gather them at the same moment someone else does.
Long fingers. A watch you’ve teased him about before.
You stop.
Mingyu hovers for half a second, clearly debating whether to continue. Then, very slowly, painfully slowly, he puts the pile he’s gathered down, retracts his hand and stands.
“I’ll let you take those,” he says, softly.
“Thank you,” you answer, eyes fixed on the papers, pulse loud in your ears.
You don’t look up. You can’t.
He steps away, shoes quiet against the polished floor.
The ink on the papers blur for a second, and you blink hard, blaming the courtroom’s dry air. You breathe again only when the door closes behind him.
Time passes, and the distance settles into a horrible routine.
He holds doors open for everyone, including you, without pausing or meeting your eye. When he makes an objection that gets sustained, you don’t let yourself smile. When he wins a point you predicted he would, you don’t feel the same sense of satisfaction. When he glances up mid-argument, you keep your gaze locked on your laptop.
On one of the later days, he falters, just for a moment – mid-sentence, his breath catches on a word. No one else notices, but you do, and you reflexively look up, his eyes are on you. There’s a beat, and then he continues speaking, steady and smooth as ever, but that single slip echoes inside you.
By the last day of trial, the courthouse feels different.
Not quieter – if anything, it’s louder, people sliding through hallways with more purpose than usual – but the air around you feels muted. As if you’re wrapped in thick cotton, watching everything from a half-step removed.
And maybe that’s because you spend the entire morning doing what you’ve perfected over the past week: not looking at Kim Mingyu. Not unless you absolutely, professionally must.
He doesn’t look at you either. Not unless he absolutely, professionally must.
When you enter the courtroom, he’s already sitting, files arranged in his impossibly neat stack, suit crisp, expression unreadably calm. You don’t let your gaze linger. You don’t give yourself that indulgence. Instead you slide into the press row, notebook out, pen ready.
The judge enters. Everyone rises. Everyone sits.
You take notes mechanically, fingers moving on their own. Working without really thinking, just trying your best to keep your focus away from him, as you have been over the past few weeks. You focus on the defendant instead, on the closing arguments, anything but him.
But Mingyu, of course, makes that impossible.
He stands to deliver the prosecution’s final statement, and even though you stare fixedly at the edge of your notebook, you hear every word, clear, steady, composed. He’s good. More than good. Same as he always is.
Your pen slips once, leaving a long ink drag across the margin.
When he returns to his seat, you don’t look up, you keep writing.
You try not to hear your pulse.
The afternoon stretches. The jury is out deliberating, leaving everyone suspended in that suffocating pre-verdict limbo. Some reporters mingle in the hallway. Others type up summaries. You sit on a bench outside the courtroom, laptop open, pretending to fine-tune your article when really you’re trying not to look down the hall.
Because he’s there, talking to someone on his team, looking completely collected – except for the way he keeps rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to ease out the tension.
You shouldn’t notice that, and you shouldn’t know that gesture as well as you do.
Ryujin messages you once – still going ok? want me to bring u a coffee?? – and you send back a short, all good, last day anyway. She doesn’t push.
You sigh, keep your head down, but eventually, your eyes pull upward on their own. Just for a second. Just to confirm that he’s still there, that he’s –
He’s looking at you.
Only for a moment, but it’s enough that you jolt, like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. You drop your gaze so fast your whole body jerks with the movement, your laptop screen wobbling.
The distance between you feels like a physical thing, thick, uncomfortable, heavy with everything unsaid. And after so much of it, you’re beginning to realize something awful:
You miss him.
You miss teasing him in the lobby. You miss his quick quips, you miss the way he’d accidentally catch your eye in court. The way he’d nod at you in greeting whenever he passed by, the faintest of smiles on his lips.
You press your fingers to your temple. You brought this on yourself, you know that. For some reason, it doesn’t make it easier.
It’s late afternoon when the jury returns.
Everyone shuffles back inside, and the verdict is delivered, a mixture of charges upheld, others dismissed. You type each one out dutifully to draft up later, but you don’t have much interest in your screen. You already know this is your last case to cover, possibly your last time in this courtroom.
When court adjourns, the room splits into a hum of conversation. Attorneys shake hands, reporters drift forward, and you close your laptop slowly. You’re not in a rush, but you don’t have good reason to linger either.
You pack your bag, slip past a cluster of colleagues, and make for the aisle. You almost make it out without a word to anyone, which is quite a feat, but then Mingyu steps, ever so carefully, into your path. His expression is careful,gentle around the edges, but careful. Walking on eggshells.
“Hey,” he says, quietly. He opens his mouth, closes it, wets his lips with his tongue, and finally settles on – “Good work.”
You swallow, throat tight. “You too.”
He nods once, like he expected that. Like he doesn’t expect anything else from you anymore. And then someone’s calling his name from across the room, another attorney, and your phone starts buzzing, and the moment breaks.
Mingyu steps back. Offers you a polite, nearly formal incline of his head, and then he’s gone.
Good work.
Two weeks pass before you set foot in the courthouse again.
You tell yourself it won’t feel strange. You’re here to pick up a few documents, one last errand for City News, nothing more. Nothing to do with prosecutors or defence attorneys or even Lee Junhyeon. Nothing to do with Mingyu, either.
The courthouse looks the same when you approach it, though: winter sun catching on its windows, the wide stone steps as familiar as always. Inside, the lobby buzzes with the usual noise, heels, echoing voices.
You focus on the desk you need to get to. You focus on not looking around. You almost pull it off, chatting to the clerk, Yeji, about your new job with a smile. Chaeryeong comes up behind you both. “___!” she says. “What are you doing here?”
“She’s quitting,” Yeji answers for you, beaming. Even she knew how much you wanted to leave.”She’s going to work at one of those fancy arts and culture magazines.”
“No shit,” Chaeryeong says, admiringly. “You got a new job?”
And then you hear Mingyu, somewhere to your side.
Of course you hear Mingyu. His voice stands out even when you don’t want it to.
“Really?” he asks, soft in a way that hits you low in the stomach. “Where?”
Your throat tightens, half nerves, half guilt. You hadn’t planned to tell him. You hadn’t planned to avoid telling him, either. It was just so much easier this way.
Yeji opens her mouth, probably to answer, but she must see your face, and closes it, suddenly standing up and grabbing Chaeryeong’s hand. “We’re going to, uh. Go do our job. Somewhere else.” And they disappear down the hallway before you can even say anything.
You turn, and for one awful, suspended second, you and Mingyu stare at each other across the lobby. There’s surprise on his face first, then relief, then something unreadable that he very quickly pushes away. He steps toward you, and you force your spine straighter.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
Silence stretches, thin and taut.
You exhale through your nose. “I didn’t know you were here today.”
“I could say the same,” he replies. “I thought – ” He stops, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
You nod. Another silence. It’s not the comfortable kind you used to share, this one is awkward and delicate.
“Congrats,” he says finally. “On the new job.”
“Thank you,” you reply. “I’m excited.”
“You should be.” He means it; you can tell. “It’s a good move for you.”
You swallow. “Listen, Mr –” you start, and then change your mind. “Mingyu. About the other day, in the café. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’m sorry.”
“No,” he says, quickly, eagerly. “I’m sorry. I messed up my words, you had every right to be upset.”
“I still shouldn’t have said it like I did,” you say. “You didn’t deserve that.”
His mouth curves. “Maybe a little.”
You huff out a breath that’s an excuse for a laugh, hands tightening around the strap of your bag. You want to say more, but the words won’t come. And even if they did, this isn’t the place. Not with clerks walking by and the elevator dinging open and shut, not with the ghosts of the last few weeks crowding the air between you.
“I should get going,” you say instead.
“Right. Of course.”
You turn first. You always turn first. You walk toward the exit, and you don’t look back, even though you want to, even though everything in you pulls tight at the thought of leaving things like this again.
The courthouse doors swing open. Morning light spills across the steps. You’re halfway down when you hear your name, called after you.
You stop.
Mingyu’s footsteps are quick, uneven, like he didn’t think before he moved. When you pivot, he’s there, eyes wide, tie, as always, crooked.
“Wait,” Mingyu says, slightly breathless. And he’s looking at you with that expression he never lets slip in court: unguarded, earnest, a little scared and a lot certain. “___,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I know the timing is awful,” he says, voice low but steady.
“The timing is always awful,” you agree, but you’re smiling.
His lips twitch slightly in response, but then he’s serious again. “I don’t want to leave things like this.”
Your pulse stutters.
“And I know we said we needed boundaries before,” he continues quickly, pushing on like he’s afraid you’re going to take flight. “We were right. But you’re not covering my cases anymore. And I’m not your source. And – ” He stops, exhales hard. “Can I take you to dinner?”
The world hangs still.
Not the courthouse behind you or the street below or the people passing, just the two of you and the question he finally asks.
You blink at him.
Then:
“Yeah,” you say, the word soft but sure. “You can.”
Relief unfurls across his features, warm and bright and so unmistakably Mingyu that your chest aches.
“Okay,” he says, almost laughing under his breath. “Okay. Great.”
“Great,” you echo, failing to control the smile that spread across your face.
He stands there a moment longer, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind. You meet his eyes, really meet them, and something settles between you both, warmer and sweeter than ever.
a/n: i was struggling w/ ideas initially but i remembered a convo em and i had like Forever ago about how smart mingyu is and i was like. let me do something with that. and this is what came out. anyway. happy birthday to em. i love u.
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