Sylphy

multifandom, aroace, artist, filo

[yunaerizz]

HELLO EVERYNYAN! ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ

I'm called Shonny/Sylphy and I am a Filipino aroace artist that is looking for moots with similar interests! I am sort of new here so please excuse my not so aesthetic blog~

Here is a lil introduction so that you guys have an idea on who you are adding ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔: 

✿︎ MULTIPLE Kpop Girlgroups

✿︎ Anime

✿︎ Genshin Impact

✿︎ Honkai Star Rail

✿︎ Zenless Zone Zero

✿︎ Pjsk

✿︎ Danganronpa

✿︎ Camp buddy

✿︎ Indie Horror Games

✿︎ Science

✿︎ Brainrot humor

✿︎ Jjaltoon

✿︎ Megan Thee Stallion

✿︎ Fnaf

✿︎ Muse Dash

✿︎ My Little Pony

✿︎ Psychology

✿︎ Healthy Wonyoungism

✿︎ Cookie Run Kingdom

✿︎ Character Wikis

✿︎ Vocaloid

✿︎ Class of 09

I still have more interests but I can't recall some of them atm.

𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒔:

☀︎︎ Drawing

☀︎︎ Painting

☀︎︎ Listening to music

☀︎︎ Reading

☀︎︎ Studying science 

☀︎︎ Watching youtube

☀︎︎ Playing Video Games

𝑫𝑵𝑰 𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻!!!

Homophobes, Racists, Z!on!sts, P3dos, Zoophiles, Swifties, Proshippers, Overall Weirdos, Rude Ppl, Toxic wonyoungism, toxic kpop fans, suju fans, son chaeyoung and hyuna defenders, and ESPECIALLY lolicons and shotacons. I'm sorry (not really) BUT I DON'T TOLERATE TOXIC PEOPLE HERE!

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃! 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐂 <3

Weird shit aside, I hope I make friends here since I enjoy making content and interacting with people that have the same vibes as me <3 if you personally wanna reach out to me, feel free to add me on discord (it's silf_e if ever the link doesn't work). Also, please add me on my genshin account (830841141, asia server, Eula Main). If you're uncomfy with my presence, then feel free to unfollow/block me.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞, eat cake. <3

[seeunsoon-deactivated20260426]

HACLYON

AESPA Karina x Male Reader

12K WORDS COUNTED

—

The first time someone told Karina that Y/N was handsome, they were six years old and sitting on the cracked concrete of the elementary school playground.

“He looks like a prince,” one of the girls from their class had whispered, cheeks pink, watching him push another kid on the swing with a toothy grin.

Karina had frowned, scooted closer to him, and held onto the hem of his T–shirt like it proved something.

“He’s not a prince,” she’d muttered under her breath. “He’s mine.”

Back then, “mine” meant partner in tag, eater of her leftover snacks, boy who shared his umbrella and homework answers. It meant the only person who sat with her when she cried. It meant the one constant thing in a life that seemed to change too fast.

Years later, “mine” would start to sound different in her own head.

But for a long time, it felt simple.

—

By the time they were in their second year of high school, everyone knew Y/N.

It was not because he tried. It was because he breathed and walked through the hallways like the universe had forgotten to give him an awkward phase.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, all clean lines and a smile that showed one chipped tooth from when he fell off his bike in third grade. His hair fell into his eyes in that way stylists tried to recreate idols. He laughed too loud in the cafeteria, made teachers reluctantly smirk when he cracked jokes, and somehow remembered everyone’s names.

He did not know any of that.

Karina did.

She watched girls straighten their backs when he walked by, watched underclassmen linger at the stairwell a little longer if they heard his voice, watched boys drift toward him during lunch because it was fun to orbit someone like that.

What she hated most was that he did not change at all.

He ruffled hair, shared notes, lent out his pen that had half its grip chewed off, and never once looked like he knew people were staring. He only seemed flustered when teachers called on him in math.

“You know everyone likes you, right?” Karina said one afternoon, the words slipping out sharper than she meant.

They were on the school rooftop, legs dangling through the metal railing, cheap bread from the vending machine in their hands. The wind tugged at his hair and blew hers into her lip gloss.

He blinked up from the chocolate milk carton.

“Huh?”

Karina rolled her eyes. “You are not stupid. You know.”

“Know what?” He took a sip and squinted at her. “You are being weird about something again.”

“People like you.”

“I hope so.” He shrugged. “It would suck if they all hated me.”

She glared. “You know what I mean.”

He only grinned, lazy and bright. “You like me too. So I must be doing something right.”

It was infuriating how easily he could say that and not realize it made her heart skip.

She made a face to cover it up. “You are barely tolerable.”

“You were not saying that when I carried your bag up five floors because your legs were ‘weak from PE’.”

“The elevator was broken. I am short, not weak.”

He laughed and leaned back on his hands, head tipped to the sky. The afternoon sun softened the angle of his jaw, and the breeze tugged at his shirt.

Karina stared a second too long and then looked away, annoyed at herself.

Everyone liked him. Of course they did. He was easy to like. Easy to talk to. Easy to fall for.

And he was stupidly, stubbornly hers.

At least, she intended to keep it that way.

—

Their relationship had never had a clean border between “friends” and something else.

They were the kind of kids teachers automatically seated together because they worked well in pairs. They went to each other’s houses often enough that both sets of parents stopped asking when or why. His mother kept a pair of indoor slippers for Karina by the door. Her father grumbled less when Y/N was the one walking her home late.

They had their first fight in middle school when a boy from class 2–B confessed to Karina behind the gym.

He had been red to his ears, clutching a crumpled letter, stuttering through practiced lines. Karina had listened politely, heart pounding with nothing but discomfort, and then said, “I am sorry. I like someone else.”

She did not. Not properly. Not yet.

But she could see Y/N through the window, face smashed against the glass, wearing an expression like someone had stolen his lunch. Later he claimed he had been “just curious” about what a confession looked like in real life.

She had gone home that night and stared at the ceiling for hours, realizing that her first instinct, when a boy told her he liked her, was to look for Y/N’s face.

Years later, in their final year of high school, that instinct had not changed.

Their classroom was loud with end-of-day chatter. Exam season meant everyone was half hysterical, half resigned. Some kids took pictures, some slept on their desks, some copied homework they had conveniently “forgotten.”

Y/N sat sideways in his chair, one leg stretched out, twirling a pen between his fingers. There was a smear of ink across his knuckles. He was asking if she wanted to hit the convenience store before going home, already listing the snacks they could get.

Karina watched his mouth move and suddenly could not hear anything over the thud of her own pulse.

It occurred to her then, with the bluntness of a thrown brick, that nothing outside that classroom felt solid without him. Not graduation. Not college. Not her secret daydreams of singing on stage.

Every future scene she imagined had his laugh in it.

The thought terrified her.

People left. Friends lost touch. She had moved schools twice as a kid and watched faces blur together into old class photos. But not him. Never him.

Unless someone took him.

Unless he woke up one day and realized someone prettier, smarter, kinder was waiting with both arms open.

The idea made something bitter twist under her ribs.

She slapped her notebook closed.

“Be my boyfriend,” she said.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

The classroom noise dimmed in her ears. She leaned forward across the shared desk, eyes locked on his, daring him to misunderstand.

“Date me,” she clarified. “Starting today.”

He stared at her, searching her face for the punchline.

There was none. Her cheeks were warm, but her eyes were steady. No laughter, no teasing curve of her mouth.

“Why?” he asked, honest as always.

Karina’s fingers curled around her pencil so hard the wood creaked.

Because I cannot stand the thought of you with someone else. Because I have been saying “mine” in my head since we were six and I need it to be true in a way that does not disappear when we graduate.

“Because I want to,” she said instead, blunt, almost brusque. “Is that not enough?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then laughed under his breath, like he still half expected someone to jump out and shout a prank.

“Sure,” he said.

No stars. No fireworks. No dramatic buildup.

Just that. Sure.

He said it like she had asked if she could copy his notes. Like this was inevitable. Natural.

“Really?” she pressed, eyes narrowing. “Do not say it if you are joking.”

He put down his pen, propped his chin in his hand, and gave her a look that had always been reserved for her when nobody else was listening.

“I am not joking,” he said. “I like you. So… yeah. Let’s date.”

Heat flooded her chest, sharp and dizzying.

From then on, “mine” was not just a word in her head anymore.

—

Dating Y/N turned out to be exactly like being his best friend, but with more hand holding and less pretending she did not want to lean into his side all the time.

He carried her bag even when she insisted she was not weak. He stole the pickles off her burgers and rolled his eyes when she put melon soda on top of instant ramen and called it “gourmet.” He walked her home, fingers curled around hers like second nature. They shared airpods and playlists and increasingly shameless amounts of skinship.

He had never been touch shy with her. But now there was a quiet intention behind every brush of his thumb over her knuckles. A new warmth in the press of his palm against the small of her back.

If people stared before, they stared more now.

“About time,” was the general consensus. Some classmates clapped when they first saw them holding hands in public. Someone tried to start a betting pool over how long they would last and got chased off when Karina fixed them with a deadpan stare.

For once, she did not mind the attention.

He was hers. Officially. Publicly. Everyone knew. It should have been enough to silence the old fear.

But sometimes in the hallway, when girls from other classes called his name with too-familiar smiles, that ugly, sour feeling still crawled up her throat.

“Your fan club is noisy today,” she muttered one morning as they pushed through a knot of first years obviously pretending not to look at him.

“Fan club?” He choked on a laugh. “There is no fan club.”

“Sure.” She tugged on his sleeve, forcing him to walk closer to her. “Maybe they can form a line and get your autograph later.”

He slung an arm over her shoulders in that easy way he had, pulling her into his side. “You sound jealous.”

“I am not jealous.” She clicked her tongue. “I am realistic.”

“Realistically,” he said, leaning down until his breath brushed her ear, “I am walking to school with my girlfriend and not with them. So they can be as noisy as they want.”

Her heart flipped. She scoffed to cover it up.

“Corny.”

“You like it.”

She did.

That was the problem.

—

The man in the suit appeared on a Wednesday.

They had just finished cram school and were cutting through the back street behind the main road. It was one of their usual routes, lit by a flickering streetlamp and the neon wash of the convenience store sign at the corner.

Karina was scrolling through her phone, complaining about homework. Y/N was balancing a carton of banana milk on his head for reasons known only to himself.

“Stop that,” she said without looking up, catching the carton before it fell. “You are going to waste it.”

“Art requires sacrifice.”

“Art can pay for its own snacks next time then.”

He was laughing when a shadow stepped into their path.

“Excuse me.”

They both stopped.

The man was in his thirties, clean cut, black suit pressed so sharp it caught the light. He had a leather bag slung over his shoulder and a lanyard with an ID peeking out from under his blazer.

Karina tensed automatically, body shifting half in front of Y/N without thinking.

“We are not interested in religion,” she said flatly.

The man blinked, then chuckled. “I am not here about that.”

He took out a wallet, flipped it open, and showed them his card.

SM Entertainment. Casting Manager.

Karina’s brain stuttered.

She knew the logo on sight. Everyone did. Trainee reality shows, debut announcements, legendary senior groups. SM was not just an agency. It was a myth machine.

“We have been observing the area around this station for a while,” the man said smoothly. “Looking for potential talent.”

He looked at Y/N then. Really looked. His eyes sharpened with something like satisfaction.

“You,” he said. “Have you ever considered auditioning?”

Y/N glanced over his shoulder, like there might be someone else behind him.

“Me?”

“Yes.” The manager stepped closer, professionally polite. “Great proportions, good face. You stand out in a crowd. Have you had any experience singing or dancing?”

Y/N scratched the back of his neck. “Um. Not… professionally. Just karaoke and… YouTube? And school festivals, I guess.”

Karina could not breathe.

She had watched trainee videos in secret for years. Practiced choreography in her bedroom when everyone was asleep. Built silent castles of fantasy around stages she had never stepped on.

To hear those words directed at him with such easy confidence hurt and thrilled her at the same time.

The manager’s gaze flicked to her for a moment.

“You too,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You have a good look. Sharp features. You would show up well on camera.”

Almost.

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Is this… real?”

The manager smiled like he had heard that question a hundred times.

“You can call the company number if you want to verify,” he said, handing each of them a card. “Auditions are open, but a recommendation from scouting helps your profile stand out. We are holding first–round evaluations next month.”

He turned to walk away, then paused and looked back at Y/N again, eyes gleaming.

“You especially. It would be a waste if you did not at least try.”

When he disappeared down the street, the world felt slightly tilted.

Y/N stared at the card in his hand. The SM logo glinted under the streetlight.

“Holy shit,” he said.

Karina did not say anything.

Her heart was beating too hard, her palms slick. SM. The company she had seen in every late night search bar. The one she had never had the courage to approach.

She had always imagined that if this moment ever happened, she would explode with joy or cry or scream.

Instead, her first thought was ugly and selfish.

Of course they notice him first.

He was still looking at the card, mouth parted in faint disbelief. “Do you think it is fake? Like a scam?”

“No,” she said quietly. Her voice did not sound like hers. “It is real.”

He glanced up at her then, eyes bright, boyish excitement starting to dawn.

“This is crazy,” he murmured. “Me? An idol?”

You would be perfect, she thought bitterly. Of course you would.

“How about you?” he asked. “You love music. You should try.”

Her head snapped up.

He was not mocking. His eyes were warm. Encouraging. Like he genuinely wanted her there.

“I…” Her throat tightened. Stage lights. Crowds. Cameras. Panic.

“I cannot,” she said, too fast. “I would die of embarrassment.”

“You will not.” He bumped her shoulder with his. “You sing better than half the people on those shows anyway.”

“That is not true.”

“It is. I have ears. I use them sometimes.”

She stared at the card. It felt heavy.

All those nights of practicing choreography in front of her mirror with the sound turned low came back in a rush. All the times she had fantasized about someone, anyone, looking at her and saying I see something in you.

Now that moment was here and it hurt like a bruise.

He had not come for her. Not really.

But he had looked. And he had said potential. And Y/N was watching her with that open, earnest face, waiting for her to say yes so they could jump into this new world together like they always had.

If she said no, what would happen? He might still go. Alone. Into a place full of people who would see every good thing about him and want a piece of it.

She pictured trainees crowding around him, laughing at his jokes, girls confessing backstage, older idols patting his shoulder. Pictured herself outside, watching through a screen while someone else became his default.

Her grip on the card tightened.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “If it sucks, we can quit together and pretend this never happened. At least you will know you tried.”

He always talked like that. We. Together.

He had no idea how much she had built her life around that word.

“Fine,” she said. “I will do it.”

—

Audition day smelled like sweat and cheap perfume.

Dozens of kids lined the hallway, some clutching lyric sheets, some fixing their hair in tiny compact mirrors. There were girls in full makeup and heels, boys in practice clothes and branded sneakers, a few parents hovering anxiously near the doors.

Karina’s stomach churned so much she wondered if she should have skipped breakfast.

Y/N sat beside her on the waiting bench, bouncing his knee like an excitable puppy. He was in a simple black T–shirt and joggers, hair pushed off his forehead. He looked stupidly good without trying, which irritated her and steadied her in equal parts.

“Number 43,” an assistant called.

Y/N glanced at his number tag. “That is you.”

Karina swallowed.

She stood on wooden legs. Her palms were slick.

“You will be fine,” Y/N said. He reached up and squeezed her hand. “Pretend it is just karaoke. With some men in suits staring at you.”

“That is not helpful.”

“You are going to kill it.” His smile was so confident it was almost offensive. “I promise.”

She wanted to say I am only here because you are. Instead, she nodded and walked into the audition room before she could talk herself out of it.

Three judges behind a long table. A camera pointed at her. A mark on the floor for her to stand on.

She introduced herself, voice shaking a little, then forced herself to breathe, the way she had practiced.

When the music started, her body moved automatically.

She sang a song she had never admitted out loud was her dream debut track. Her voice was not perfect, but it did not crack. Her hands did not shake. She hit the high note clean.

By the end, her lungs were burning and her heart felt strangely light, despite the nerves.

The middle judge scribbled something on his paper. The one on the right hummed thoughtfully.

“You have a pleasant tone,” the left one said. “You are stiff and your breathing needs work, but there is potential.”

That word again.

“Thank you,” she managed, bowing.

Outside, Y/N was pacing.

“How was it?” he asked immediately, searching her face. “Did they like you?”

She blinked. “I… I think so. They said I have potential.”

His grin lit up. “Of course you do. See? I told you.”

His name was called then.

He bounced to his feet, made a face at her, then walked in with that same easy posture he wore to school.

Karina sat down, pressed her hands between her knees to stop them from shaking, and stared at the closed door.

Through the wall, she could barely hear the echo of his voice when he greeted the judges, confident and clear.

When it was over, he came out smiling.

“And?” she demanded.

He shrugged, too casual. “They said my singing is rough and I need breath control. But they liked my dancing. One of them said my expression was good.”

Of course it was. Looking at him felt like watching a stage director’s dream even in practice videos. He moved like music lived under his skin.

“They said they will call in a few weeks,” he added. “If we pass.”

He said we again without thinking.

She hung onto it like a rope.

—

They both passed.

Karina found out from an email after school, her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped her phone. Her parents were skeptical. Her mother frowned at the contract. Her father asked if this was some kind of elaborate scam.

But when she said SM, their expressions shifted.

“You still have to finish school,” her mother said. “You are not dropping everything for a dream.”

“I know.”

“And if it affects your grades…”

“I know,” she repeated, firmer this time. “I will handle it. Please. Let me try.”

Her father studied her for a long moment. It was the first time she had sounded so certain about anything that was not Y/N.

“Fine,” he said at last. “You get a year. If it is all nonsense, you focus on university.”

She nodded.

Y/N called that night, voice crackling over the line.

“You got in too, right?”

“Yes.”

He whooped so loudly she had to hold the phone away from her ear.

“See? We are going to be idols,” he crowed. “You and me. I told you this would be fun.”

His joy was contagious. For a little while, it drowned out the small, mean part of her that whispered they wanted him more than they wanted you.

—

Trainee life was hell with shiny floors.

The SM building was intimidating from the outside, all glass and chrome, but inside it smelled like disinfectant and effort. Practice rooms with mirrored walls, corridors with posters of seniors who felt like distant gods. A cafeteria where everyone looked either exhausted or too awake.

On their first day, they were given ID cards and schedules.

“Y/N,” the coordinator said, sliding his across the desk. “You will be in the male vocal and dance classes. You are in the B batch for now.”

He turned to Karina. “Karina, right? You are in the female dance C batch and vocal C as well.”

C.

She told herself it meant nothing. Just letters. Just a starting point.

They changed into practice clothes and stepped into their separate rooms.

Karina’s first dance class left her gasping, knees weak, T–shirt drenched. The trainer did not raise his voice, but his comments cut sharp and clean.

“You are thinking too much. Your upper body is stiff. Loosen your shoulders. If you cannot breathe, your lines look dead. Again.”

Each “again” felt like a hammer.

She saw the other trainees. Some younger. Some older. Some clearly already at a high level, bodies moving with a crisp snap she could not replicate yet.

In the mirror, her own face looked pinched.

When class ended, she dragged herself into the hallway and nearly collapsed against the wall.

Y/N found her there, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

“You survived,” he said, dropping down beside her.

“Barely.” She wiped her face with her towel. “How was yours?”

He scratched his cheek, sheepish. “Vocal was rough. They said I have good color but no control. Dance was… okay.”

“Okay” turned out to mean the trainer had made him demonstrate steps for the others by the end. Within two months, he was moved from B batch to A.

“Monster trainee,” one of the boys muttered under his breath once, not unkindly.

Karina heard it from the open door as she walked past for her own class.

Monster.

Of course.

He took to this world like he had been born for it. His body responded; his rhythm sharpened; his voice, under proper training, grew steadier. That same natural charisma that made classmates flock to him now drew trainees too.

“Y/N sunbaenim, can you help me with this step?”

“You hit that note so clean, did you always sing?”

“You should audition for the next boy group, you would get in for sure.”

She watched from the periphery, hands knotted in the strap of her bag.

At first, she was happy for him. Proud. This was good. This was what he deserved.

But pride curdled on the days when trainers asked him to stay back and practice with seniors, while she was told to run basics again. When she saw girls from vocal class laughing with him in the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, too close.

“Your boyfriend is popular,” one of the trainees commented to her in the locker room, tone light.

Karina forced a smile. “He is just friendly.”

“Still.” The girl giggled. “If my boyfriend was that handsome and talented, I would not let him out of my sight.”

Karina laughed too, as if playing along.

The words stuck like a thorn.

—

“Is this about that girl again?”

They sat in the tiny convenience store near the station, the one that had become their unofficial post–practice crash site. It was almost midnight. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The clerk was half asleep behind the counter.

Karina stabbed a fish cake on a stick and glared at him.

“I am not ‘about’ anyone.”

“You get weird every time she talks to me.” He slurped his ramyeon, oblivious to the soup splashing onto the table. “She is just a classmate.”

“She touches your arm a lot for ‘just a classmate’.”

He blinked. “Does she?”

“You do not notice because you are an idiot.”

He laughed. “Hey. I am not an idiot. Just clueless sometimes.”

She set her chopsticks down harder than necessary.

“What if,” she muttered, staring at the stew instead of his face, “one day you stop being clueless and realize you like someone else?”

The words came out more fragile than she intended.

The question hung between them, heavy.

He chewed for a moment, oblivious at first. Then he saw her expression and his gaze softened.

“Jimin,” he said quietly.

She hated how much that name could still calm her down.

He reached across the table and hooked his pinky finger around hers.

“When have I ever not picked you?” he asked. “Since we were kids. Every group project, every game, every stupid thing. It is you. I am not suddenly going to wake up and forget that.”

“That is not how it works,” she muttered, but some of the ice in her chest melted.

He squeezed her pinky. “I picked you as my girlfriend too, remember?”

“You only said yes because I asked out of nowhere,” she said. “You did not even think about it.”

“I did.” His voice was so serious she had to look up. “Maybe not in that exact second. But I thought about it a hundred times before without noticing. It felt… obvious. When you asked, it just clicked.”

Her throat went tight.

“You are so cheesy,” she whispered.

“You like it.”

She did.

She also liked hearing him say I picked you, as if it was a choice he kept making, not a default he could get bored of.

She held onto that, even as the gap between their growth in the company slowly widened.

—

The break came during a holiday.

Most trainees went home for a few days. SM’s schedule eased slightly around the national break, but the serious ones stayed to practice. Y/N was one of them, of course.

“You should rest,” Karina told him that morning, standing in the empty dance room with her hands on her hips. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, cutting the room into stripes.

“I will rest when I am a superstar,” he replied, grinning. “Come on. One more run–through.”

He had found a new choreography on YouTube the night before. Some insane routine from a senior boy group that involved spins, jumps, and footwork that made her ankles ache just watching.

Karina followed him as best she could. They were both tired from the week, but moving together felt familiar. Safe.

Halfway through the song, her lungs started to burn. Sweat ran into her eyes. She made a mistake on the turn, bumped into him, muttered an apology, and kept going.

He did not complain. He only pushed harder, effort etched into the line of his shoulders.

On the final chorus, there was a jump. A full spin and land.

They did it once. Twice. Three times.

On the fourth, Y/N’s foot slid on a patch of sweat on the floor.

Karina saw it in slow motion. His leg extended, weight wrong, knee twisting grotesquely to the side as his body went down.

There was a sound like someone snapping a thick branch. Then his scream.

“Y/N!”

The music cut off as she fumbled for her phone with shaking hands. He was curled on the ground, clutching his right leg, face white, sweat suddenly cold on his skin.

“It hurts, it hurts, fuck, it hurts,” he gasped, voice ragged.

She knelt beside him, useless, trying not to panic.

“Do not move,” she said, though he clearly could not. “I am calling someone. Hold on. Just hold on, okay?”

He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. Tears leaked out despite his effort.

By the time staff rushed in and an ambulance was called, his breathing had turned shallow. He went quiet with the kind of stillness that felt worse than the screaming.

Later, at the hospital, a doctor in a white coat said the words “multiple ligament tears” and “surgery” and “six to twelve months minimum recovery.”

“Will he dance again?” Karina asked, voice thin.

The doctor hesitated. “We will do our best. But he should not rush. If he pushes too hard, he could cause permanent damage.”

Y/N stared at the ceiling. His fingers clenched in the bedsheet.

“I am sorry,” he said, voice shaking. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Karina did not understand why he was apologizing until he looked at her, eyes wild.

“I ruined it,” he said. “We just started. We were going to do this together and I ruined it. You could have been practicing instead of babysitting me in a hospital.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, because the alternative was crying. “None of this is your fault.”

That night, she sat in the uncomfortable visitor chair and watched him sleep through the pain medication, his leg wrapped in bandages and metal.

He looked small for the first time in years.

It hit her then, with ugly clarity, that he might not come back from this the same. Physically. Mentally.

He had thrown himself into this dream for her. Because she asked. Because he always went where she went.

Guilt twisted with a quieter, more shameful feeling.

If he could not dance anymore, if he decided to quit, he would be free from this world that wanted too much from him. He would go back to school. Back to being just hers.

The thought made her sick.

She hated herself for even thinking about it.

But she did.

—

Recovery was brutal.

The first days post–surgery, Y/N could barely move without cursing. Physical therapy made him sweat through shirts he was not even allowed to stand in. His muscles atrophied quickly. The leg that had once carried him through endless choreography now refused to cooperate, stiff and untrustworthy.

SM sent get–well baskets. Trainers visited once or twice. The casting manager came, patted his shoulder, and said, “Focus on healing. We will reevaluate later.”

The word later stretched into something fragile.

Karina’s schedule did not pause. She still had dance classes, vocal drills, monthly evaluations. She siphoned every free minute to visit him, carrying class gossip and ramen and stupid jokes to fill the silence.

He tried to stay upbeat, but sometimes, late at night when the pain was bad, his mask slipped.

“What if this is it?” he whispered once, staring at the dark ceiling. “What if I never get back to where I was?”

“You will,” she said reflexively.

“You do not know that.”

“I do.”

“Jimin.”

She flinched.

He turned his head, eyes tired.

“You always say that,” he murmured. “Like if you believe hard enough, the universe has to listen.”

“Has it not worked so far?” she shot back, too sharp.

His mouth twisted. “We are in a hospital, and I might lose the only thing I am good at. I do not think it is working this time.”

She had no answer for that. Only her own selfishness coiled in her chest.

“You were good at things before this,” she said finally. “You are not… only a trainee.”

He laughed without humor. “Yeah. Class clown. Neighborhood dog–walker. Very impressive.”

She reached out and took his hand.

“You were mine,” she wanted to say.

Instead: “You came here because of me. If you decide this is not worth it anymore, it is okay.”

His eyes searched hers, sharp.

“Do you want me to quit?” he asked.

The question cut her open.

“No,” she lied automatically. “Of course not.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

She swallowed.

About how walking into the practice room without you makes me feel like the floor is gone. About how every time a trainer praises me now, I hear their unspoken but not as good as him. About how the idea of you coming back and being surrounded again, shining, terrifies me in a way I do not know how to name.

“About your future,” she said instead. “If you push your leg and hurt it more, then what? You will not even be able to dance at karaoke.”

He snorted. “Tragic.”

“I am serious.”

“So am I.” He squeezed her fingers back weakly. “We started this together. It feels wrong to stop now.”

There it was again. We.

He did not see what she saw. That this thing, this dream, wrapped around him easier than it did around her. That with or without her, he would have been scouted if he stood on any other street on any other day.

The guilt swelled, hot and acid.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, “this is a sign.”

He frowned. “A sign of what? That gravity is a bitch?”

She managed a humorless smile. “That you were never meant to be here in the first place.”

His eyes stilled.

“You only auditioned because of me,” she pushed on, quiet. “You had plans. University. Music production. That business major you pretended you did not want but your mom kept talking about.”

“So?”

“So maybe this was never your path. Maybe… maybe it is better if you go back. Before it gets harder to leave.”

It sounded almost reasonable out loud. Logical. Concerned.

Inside, something ugly sneered at her own hypocrisy.

He stared at her for a long moment.

“Do you want me there alone?” he asked. “In the company?”

The way he phrased it made her feel like dirt.

“You think everything is about what I want?” she said weakly.

“Is it not?” He tried to make it a joke, but the edge was there.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

“I am saying,” she whispered, “I do not want you to hurt yourself more because of me. If you decide this was just… an experience, that is okay. You do not owe this place anything.”

He closed his eyes.

The worst part was that he heard concern in her voice and believed it. It was concern. It was also a quiet, desperate attempt to keep him from stepping back into a room where everyone else seemed to want a piece of him.

“I will think about it,” he said eventually. “After the therapy. After school decisions.”

Karina nodded.

She left the hospital that night feeling like she had swallowed glass.

—

He did not go back.

It did not happen all at once. There were months of rehab, stretches where it looked like he might heal faster, days when he joked about stage names and fan chants.

But when the year mark approached, when his leg finally bent and straightened without a knife of pain, he stood at a crossroads.

SM asked him to come in for reevaluation.

He looked at the text for a long time. Then at his acceptance letter to a good university’s music production and business program.

Karina sat beside him on the park bench where they had eaten ice cream through half of middle school, watching his profile as he thought.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He blew out a breath.

“When I think about going back,” he said, “I remember the injury first, not the dancing. The panic. The way it hurts to move. It is like… something in my brain rewired it from joy to fear.”

She listened in silence.

“I do not want to be scared every time I step into a practice room,” he confessed. “I do not want to flinch every time I jump.”

“You could get past that,” she said quietly.

“Maybe,” he replied. “But I keep coming back to what you said. About signs.”

Her stomach twisted.

“This feels like a sign to try something else,” he went on. “I still love music. I still want to be around it. But maybe my place is not under a spotlight. Maybe it is behind it.”

He smiled then, small but surprisingly peaceful.

“I think I will focus on college,” he said. “At least for now.”

The words were a relief and a gut punch at once.

“You are sure?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked at her, eyes warm.

“You are staying, right?” he asked. “You are… happy there?”

She thought about the endless drills, the stress, the hierarchy. The trainers who had started nodding at her more. The one time a vocal coach told her, “You are starting to sound like a singer, not just a trainee.” The way her body had started to move when music played, not stiff but almost free.

She thought about the posters on the wall she still sometimes touched with her fingertips.

“Yes,” she said, and this time it felt true. “I think I am.”

“Good.” He bumped his shoulder into hers. “Then I will be your biggest fan.”

He said it easily. Without irony.

She smiled back and leaned her head against his shoulder, ignoring the way guilt gnawed somewhere far beneath her ribs.

It would be years before she admitted to herself that she had nudged him toward that choice. Softly. Gently. For his sake. For hers.

For both.

—

Karina debuted in aespa on a cold November day that smelled like hairspray and nerves.

The build up felt like drowning slowly. Years of training, monthly evaluations, cuts. New girls coming in, old ones disappearing without goodbye. The constant hovering threat of injury, of being “not quite what we are looking for.”

Then one day, the company called her into a room and told her she was in a new girl group.

“You will be Karina,” they said. “This is your concept. Here is your teaser schedule. Here are your members.”

Winter, sharp eyed and deceptively soft looking. Giselle, loud laughter and quick comebacks. Ningning, a voice like liquid gold and a mischievous streak.

They became a second kind of family.

The day their debut MV dropped, Y/N sent a screen recording of the YouTube page to their old group chat with nothing but a string of capslocked swearing.

“Look at you,” he wrote after, spamming emojis. “Are you even real? Proud of you.”

She watched the video in the practice room bathroom on break, staring at her own reflection in the polished tiles as she mouthed along to her own lines.

The girl on screen did not look like the one who had clung to a boy’s sleeve on a playground and declared him “mine.”

This one was sharp, ethereal, eyes lined black, lips painted. She stood in formations that made use of her height. She moved with control she had bled for. Her voice slid into harmonies and hooks people might hum without knowing her name.

aespa exploded faster than even the company had dared to hope.

Staggering streaming numbers. Variety shows. Award shows. Stage after stage. Fancams. Trend videos.

Karina’s life became schedules, cameras, and snatched hours of sleep. Managers knocking on van windows to wake them. Stylists fussing with hair while their artists ate kimbap between makeup touches.

Sometimes, at two in the morning, she would lie in a hotel bed in another city, phone screen dim on the nightstand, and watch old photos of her and Y/N from high school.

Him holding an umbrella over both their heads. Her making a disgusted face as he tried to feed her tteokbokki. His arm slung around her neck like a human scarf.

It felt like looking at someone else’s dream.

They stayed together. Somehow.

It became harder.

He juggled university life, part time jobs, and their relationship. She juggled comebacks, training, and the constant threat of fans or reporters seeing them together.

They texted. They called. They met in hidden corners of the city, hoods up, masks on.

“You are losing weight,” he would say, thumb brushing under her cheekbone.

“You are getting eye bags,” she would retort.

He would laugh, but his eyes would stay worried.

He supported everything. Sent her flowers secretly to the company building when she got her first solo magazine cover. Stayed up to watch music show live streams and texted reactions like a fan.

“You looked fucking insane today,” he wrote once after a particularly intense performance. “That last dance break? I am suing.”

She basked in it. In him.

Even when their calls were short. Even when she snapped at him out of exhaustion and he went quiet on the other end.

She always expected him to be there when she reached.

He always was.

—

He went viral on a night she was not there to see it.

She was overseas for a concert. Another city, another hotel room that looked like all the others.

aespa had just finished a chaotic V Live. Her throat hurt from singing and laughing. Her shoulders ached from the weight of the mic pack. She showered, changed into pajamas, and collapsed onto the bed, scrolling through social media on autopilot.

A video popped up on her explore page.

No caption. No tags. Just a screengrab of a familiar profile under neon karaoke lights.

Karina froze.

She pressed play.

The clip started mid–song. The sound quality was shit, muffled and uneven, but his voice cut through clean.

Y/N was in a cramped karaoke room, holding a mic in one hand, the other gesturing loosely as he hit a high note most people would have murdered. He wore a casual oversized sweatshirt, hair pushed off his forehead, sweat darkening the fabric around his collarbone.

Two friends sat on the couch behind him, cheering. One idiot was yelling, “Look at this guy! Why is he not an idol?” in the background.

The song shifted into a dance track. Someone shouted for the instrumental to play. Y/N laughed and obliged.

He moved.

Not the half–hearted jokey moves people did at parties. Real choreography. Sharp, clean angles. Footwork is smooth but precise. Expression on point, eyes lit up in a way she had not seen in years.

He hit the chorus perfectly, voice and steps both aligned.

Karina’s chest squeezed.

He looked like he belonged on a stage. Even in that stupid cramped room with peeling wallpaper and colored lights, he looked like someone the camera wanted to follow.

The video cut abruptly. Then replayed.

She checked the view count.

Five hundred thousand. No, wait. Refresh.

Eight hundred thousand.

Comments scrolled down faster than she could read.

Who is this???  

He is hotter than half the idols out now  

SM HOW DID YOU LET THIS ONE GO  

His dancing is crazy and his voice too???  

The fact that he said “I was a trainee but quit” casually??? Sir what  

Her blood went cold.

She scrolled further.

There he was in the comments, under his own username, replying to someone.

“I used to be an SM trainee,” he had written. “I stopped because of a leg injury and decided to focus on college instead.”

Someone had screenshot that too. It was trending on a smaller forum already.

Former SM trainee. Viral video. Insane visuals.

The algorithm smelled a story and sank its teeth in.

Karina dropped her phone onto the bed, heart hammering.

The door clicked open. Winter poked her head in.

“Unnie, did you see that video? The guy in the karaoke room? People are saying he was from SM. He is hot.”

Karina’s nails dug into the mattress.

“Yeah,” she said, voice tight. “I saw.”

—

JYP contacted him first.

Not SM, which stung in a petty way she knew was irrational. SM had moved on years ago. Trainees came and went. Injuries happened. People disappeared from the system all the time.

She heard about it from him, on a call that felt too calm for what he was saying.

“They want to meet,” he said. “JYP. For a solo artist contract.”

Karina sat at her dressing table in the green room, surrounded by half–finished makeup, the hum of other staff in the background.

“A solo?” she repeated.

“Yeah.” There was a note of disbelief in his voice. “Not a group. Not ‘we will see if you fit anywhere.’ They want to build something around me.”

She swallowed.

“Did you tell them no?” The words were out before she could catch them.

Silence.

“I am going to hear them out,” he said slowly.

“Y/N.” Her voice came out too sharp. “You know how this industry is.”

“I know,” he said. “I watched you go through it, remember?”

“Then why would you jump back in?”

“Because I am not eighteen and clueless this time,” he shot back, uncharacteristically impatient. “I took a business degree for a reason. I know how contracts work. I know what to ask for.”

“Your leg…”

“Is fine,” he said. “I would not even consider this if it was not.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting for calm.

“You already have a path,” she tried. “You are good at what you are doing. Music production, right? Why risk all of that for… for some viral video hype and an offer from a company that will eat you alive if you let it?”

On the other end of the line, he went very quiet.

“Wow,” he said after a moment, voice flat. “Okay.”

Guilt pricked her skin, but the words kept tumbling out, driven by a fear she did not know how to name gently.

“You said it yourself. Trainee life is brutal. Being an idol is worse. You see all the shit I deal with. The schedules, the fans, the scrutiny. You really want that?”

“Do you regret your debut?” he asked.

The question cut her off.

“No,” she said instantly.

“Then why is it okay for you but not for me?”

“Because I have been doing this for years,” she argued. “Because I built my whole life around it. You have options.”

“And you do not?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

She paused, floundering.

She could not tell him the truth. The thought of him on stage, under lights that were not SM’s, with people screaming his name and claiming pieces of him, made her feel like the floor had vanished under her feet. That some paranoid, poisonous part of her was whispering He will outshine you without even trying. He will be everywhere and nowhere near you.

“That you only came into this world because of me,” she said instead, softer. “I do not want you to sacrifice yourself again for something that is not even your dream.”

“This is my dream,” he said quietly. “Now it is. Not because of you. Not for you. For me.”

She sucked in a breath.

Before she could respond, someone knocked on her dressing room door.

“Karina–ssi, standby in five minutes,” a staff member called.

“I have to go,” she said, forced back into professional mode.

“Of course,” he said. “You are busy.”

“Y/N, I am not saying this to hurt you, I just–”

“We will talk later,” he cut in. “Good luck on your stage.”

The line went dead.

She stared at her reflection, makeup half done, eyes too bright.

In the mirror, the girl in lashes and glitter bit her own tongue.

—

He accepted.

Of course he did.

JYP trained their idols differently than SM. A different flavor of polish, a different kind of pressure. But they knew how to make a soloist. They had history.

He told her in person, sitting on the same rooftop where she had first asked him to be her boyfriend.

“They made a good offer,” he said. “Creative control. Time to develop. They want to build me, not squeeze me dry. At least, that is what the contract looks like.”

Wind tugged at his hair. The sky was gray.

She stared at him, feeling the ground tilt.

“So you are really doing this,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“For you.”

“For me,” he said firmly.

She laughed, brittle. “You sound so proud of that.”

“I am.” He watched her carefully. “Is that so bad?”

The answer was no. It was good. It was healthy.

It scraped against every selfish thing in her chest.

“You are going to be competing with me,” she blurted. “Do you get that? People will compare you. To me. To aespa. To everyone.”

“People compare you already,” he pointed out. “You do not let it stop you.”

“That is different.”

“How?”

“Because…” She flailed. “Because I am used to it. Because I chose this a long time ago. Because I thought if one of us was on stage and one of us was not, that would be… simpler.”

“How convenient,” he said dryly. “For you.”

She flinched.

His gaze hardened slightly, the way it did when he was really, truly angry, which was rare.

“You keep saying this is about me,” he said slowly. “My health. My options. My happiness. But every time you talk about it, all I hear is how it affects you.”

“That is not fair,” she snapped, hurt and stinging. “I have been supporting you since day one. I was the one in the hospital with you. I was there when you were depressed. I pushed you to go to therapy. I told you to chase what you wanted before you even knew what that was.”

“And I am grateful,” he said. “I always have been. But this is the first time I have wanted something this big for myself. Really for myself. And the only thing you have done since is look like you are waiting for me to change my mind.”

Her hands fisted in her lap.

“Because I am scared,” she said, the truth bursting out, ugly and raw. “Okay? I am scared. I watched this industry chew people up and spit them out. I watched people go crazy from the pressure. I am terrified you will get hurt again, and I am so tired of being the reason why.”

“The reason why?” he repeated. “You think you are the reason I exist?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” He leaned back, eyes on the sky. “Sometimes it feels like you want me to stay small. Where you can reach. Where nobody else can see what I can do.”

“That is not fair,” she said again, weaker this time.

“Is it not?” He looked at her, gaze sharp. “You loved it when I supported your dream, Jimin. When I put college on hold to be your backup dancer in practice rooms. When I quit SM and told you to stay. You called me your biggest fan.”

“You are,” she whispered.

“What about you?” he asked. “Can you be mine? Or do you only like my dreams when they do not collide with yours?”

The silence between them hummed.

He had never spoken to her like this. Not with this much frustration, this much tired hurt.

Fear crawled up her throat.

“Y/N,” she started. “I just do not want to lose you.”

He laughed once, without humor.

“You know what is funny?” he said. “That is exactly what this feels like from my side. Like I am losing you by daring to want something you do not control.”

Her breath hitched.

“Do you think I am controlling you?” she asked, voice so small it disgusted her.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I think you are scared,” he said. “I think your fear makes you say things that sound like support but feel like shackles. I think you love me. I know you do. But sometimes it feels less like love and more like you are holding on for dear life, even if it chokes us both.”

The words landed like blows.

She wanted to cry. To scream. To tell him he was wrong, that she had always, always tried to be good for him. That everything she did was because she loved him so much her bones hurt.

Instead, she stared at her own hands and realized he was not completely wrong.

“Are you breaking up with me?” she whispered.

The question came out so quietly that if the wind had been louder, it would have swallowed it whole.

He was quiet for a long time.

“I do not want to,” he said finally. “I have never wanted that.”

Her heart lurched.

“But I cannot do this?” she finished for him.

He closed his eyes.

“I am about to walk into something huge and terrifying,” he said. “I need people around me who will hold my hand and say, ‘Go. I have your back. I will be there when you fall.’ I did that for you. Gladly. For years. I did it when it was not even my dream.”

He opened his eyes again, meeting her gaze dead on.

“If the best you can manage is to tell me all the reasons I should stay small, then no,” he said. “I cannot do this. Not as your boyfriend.”

The hurt was numb for a moment. Then it came in a wave.

“So this is my fault,” she said dully.

“It is not about fault,” he said. “It is about… what we have become to each other.”

His voice broke a little on the last words.

“I love you,” he added, almost angrily. “You know that, right? You are not… some fling. You are my entire childhood. You are every memory that matters. Breaking this is the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

“Then do not,” she said, desperate. “I can change. I can–”

“You should,” he cut in gently. “For you. Not to keep me.”

Tears blurred her vision.

“What if I cannot?” she choked.

“Then at least I am not helping you hurt yourself or me anymore,” he said quietly.

He stood up.

Panic clawed at her chest.

“Y/N,” she said, reaching out.

He stepped just out of reach.

“I am going to debut,” he said, voice steady now, lined with something like resolve. “I am going to do it with or without your support. I hope you can be happy for me. Someday. Even if it is from far away.”

He hesitated, every muscle in his body screaming reluctance.

“I am not doing this because I stopped loving you,” he said. “I am doing it because I finally started loving myself enough to not let your fear decide my life.”

Then he turned and walked away.

She did not chase him.

Her legs would not move.

She sat there on the rooftop where they had once decided a relationship in a single, casual “Sure” and realized things did not break all at once.

Sometimes they cracked over years, under the weight of words like mine, mine, mine.

The wind was cold.

For the first time in years, she was alone in a way that felt real.

—

He debuted the following year.

She watched it happen through a screen first, then through endless clips shared by people who had no idea who he was to her.

Stage name different. Styling sharp. Vocals strong. Dancing better than ever, refined by time and intention rather than panic and fear.

He looked incredible.

Karina hated him a little for it, in the way people hate what they cannot stop looking at.

JYP knew what they were doing. They built his concept around contrast: clean visuals, sharp performance, lyrics that cut deep. He wrote some of his own songs. They let him talk about fear, about failure, about getting back up.

Fans ate it up.

Her staff started playing his debut track in the waiting room before she even had a chance to ask them not to.

“Have you heard this?” a makeup artist asked one day, dabbing concealer under her eyes. “This new JYP soloist. He is insane. My little sister is obsessed.”

Karina looked at her own reflection as his voice filtered in from the speakers.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I know him.”

Outside, the world spun on. Schedules piled. aespa kept climbing. He did too. Interviews, variety shows, special stages. Collabs with other idols she passed in hallways but never stopped to talk to.

They did not speak.

At first, it was because everything was raw and every notification with his name felt like a blade.

Then, slowly, it was because she did not know what to say anymore.

She watched from afar as he navigated the same storm she did, but on a parallel track.

When reporters asked him about his time as an SM trainee, he smiled and gave neutral answers. When fans asked if any of his songs were about someone specific, he laughed and said, “Aren’t they always?”

Sometimes in the car, between schedules, she would pull up fancams of his performances. Alone. No screaming fans in the background. Just him and the stage.

He looked free.

It hurt like hell.

It also made something inside her crack in a way that felt… necessary.

She started seeing a therapist.

At first, it was for “stress.” The company liked to pretend that was a progressive move. Idols taking care of their mental health made for good PR.

Karina told the therapist about schedules, about pressure, about panic.

Eventually, she told her about a boy on a playground and the first time she had said “mine” in her head.

She told her about the buzz she got from his attention. About the way fear had wrapped around that buzz like barbed wire. About how every girl who looked at him felt like a thief, even before they did anything.

“I thought loving someone meant never letting go,” she said once, voice hoarse. “I thought if I held on tight enough, they could not leave.”

“What did you think would happen if he did?” the therapist asked.

She thought about it. Really thought about it.

“I would disappear,” she whispered. “I did not know who I was without him.”

“Who are you now?” the therapist asked.

Karina did not have an answer.

Not yet.

—

Growth was slow and ugly.

It came in little realizations. In late night thoughts that made her cringe at herself. In remembering arguments and seeing her own words from his perspective.

She remembered the hospital room, her voice planting ideas about signs and college. Remembered the way his brows had furrowed. The way relief and shame had warred in her chest when he chose university over the practice room.

She remembered every time she had used “I am just worried” as a way to steer him away from things that scared her, not him.

She remembered his face on that rooftop when he had asked, “Can you be my fan?”

She cried, sometimes. In bathrooms with the fan on. In vans with her face turned to the window. On her therapist’s couch, when the facade finally cracked and she said, “I was selfish,” out loud for the first time.

“You were scared,” the therapist said. “And you coped with that fear by clinging. It does not excuse the ways you hurt him. But understanding why you did it is the first step to changing.”

“Is it too late?” Karina asked once. “To change? To… fix anything?”

“For him?” the therapist asked. “Or for you?”

“Both.”

“For him, I do not know,” the therapist said honestly. “That depends on where he is now and what he wants. For you? It is never too late to be better.”

She clung to that.

aespa’s schedules did not slow down. She did not get a neat sabbatical for self discovery. Growth had to happen in the cracks between comebacks, in tired moments in hotel rooms, in quiet talks with her members who had seen enough to know something was wrong.

“You are hard on yourself,” Winter said once, sitting cross–legged on the bed with a sheet mask on. “And on him, I think.”

“I am not anymore,” Karina said. “He is… gone.”

“He is not dead,” Ningning called from the bathroom. “He is just across town on a bigger stage.”

Giselle threw a pillow at the door. “Insensitive.”

“I am just saying,” Ningning protested, head peeking around the frame. “If you still like him, you could talk to him. We do collab stages with JYP. It is not like he is on another planet.”

Karina stared at her phone.

She still had his number. Of course she did. She had hovered over it more times than she could count, thumb shaking over the call button.

“What would I even say?” she asked.

“Sorry,” Winter said simply. “And then… whatever else comes after.”

Easier said than done.

—

They saw each other again for the first time two years later.

Not by design.

It was at a year–end music festival. One of those sprawling events where every group, soloist, and their stylists congregated backstage in a massive, chaotic maze of hallways and dressing rooms.

aespa performed third in the lineup. He performed fifth.

She knew his set time. She had checked the schedule unconsciously the moment they had arrived.

“Do not freak out,” Giselle murmured, bumping her shoulder as they waited in the wings. “You do not have to talk to him if you do not want to.”

Karina focused on the stage. The roar of the crowd. The familiar rush of adrenaline.

Their performance passed in a blur of movement and sound. When they came off, hearts pounding, she barely registered the staff crowding around them with towels and water bottles.

“Great job,” their manager said, voice distant in her ears. “Stay nearby. We have interviews later.”

Karina drifted toward the corridor where the monitors were set up, intending to watch the next stage on autopilot like she usually did.

His face filled the screen.

The cheers were deafening.

He stepped onto the stage alone, bathed in sharp white light, wearing a fitted black outfit that made his lines look even cleaner. The intro to his latest single thrummed through the floor.

He smiled at the crowd. The same smile he used to give her over convenience store ramyeon. More polished now. More controlled. But underneath, she could still see the boy who had once balanced banana milk cartons on his head.

He performed like the stage belonged to him.

Every move precise. Every note steady. Expression alive, drawing the camera in. At the bridge, his voice cracked slightly on a sustained note, not out of pitch but out of emotion, and the crowd roared.

Karina’s throat closed.

He was doing exactly what he had said he would. He was chasing his dream. For himself. Without her.

He finished to a wall of sound.

“Please look forward to more from me,” he said into the mic, bowing. “Thank you.”

He turned to walk off stage.

And saw her.

She had not realized she had drifted so close to the entrance. For a second, it was just the two of them in that narrow space, separated by five meters and years of history.

He stopped.

Their eyes met.

His expression flickered. Surprise. Something like pain. Something like… softness. It passed too quickly to name.

He nodded once, a small, polite gesture, then moved on, swallowed by staff.

Her chest ached.

Later, in the chaos of the dressing room, she stared at her phone again.

Her thumb hovered over his contact.

This time, she pressed call.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

She almost hung up.

Then he answered.

“Hello?”

His voice was deeper than she remembered and exactly the same.

Her own caught in her throat. For a moment, she could not speak.

“Hello?” he repeated, cautious. “Who is this?”

“Me,” she forced out. “It is… Karina.”

Silence. Then a faint, disbelieving laugh.

“Jimin,” he corrected automatically.

Her heart twisted.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Hi.”

“Hi.” The word felt absurdly small.

They stood on opposite sides of the same building, phones pressed to their ears, separated by walls and people and the things they had never said.

“I saw your stage,” she blurted.

“Yeah?” He sounded wary.

“It was… incredible,” she said, fists clenching to keep her voice steady. “You were… I mean, you are always good, but… you looked… happy.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Thank you,” he said.

The words that had sat in her chest for two years crowded her throat. Apologies. Explanations. Half formed sentences.

“I am sorry,” she managed finally. “For… everything.”

Silence stretched.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I could tell. From… the outside. From how you are now.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You talk about other people differently in interviews,” he said. “About your members. About fans. About… old trainees. You used to sound like the world was something you had to keep in your hands or it would run away. Now you sound like you are willing to share.”

Heat burned behind her eyes.

“You watch my interviews?” she asked, stupidly.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Old habits.”

She sat down on the nearest chair, knees weak.

“I was scared,” she said. “Back then. More scared than I can explain. I did not know how to keep you without… keeping you.” She laughed, shaky. “That sounds insane.”

“It sounds human,” he said. “Does not make it right. But… I get it a little more now.”

“I pushed you away from SM,” she whispered. “In the hospital. I made it sound like concern. I was concerned. But I was also relieved. Because if you stayed with me there, I was terrified everyone else would see what I saw in you and take you.”

He did not respond right away.

“I know,” he said eventually.

“You do?”

“I thought about it a lot too,” he said. “Therapists are dangerous like that. They make you replay everything.” He chuckled weakly.

“You went too?” she asked.

“Yeah. Different reasons. Same couches.” He paused. “I was angry at you for a long time. For… making me feel small. For making my dreams feel like a threat to you. But I was also angry at myself. For letting your fear weigh more than my own desires.”

“I am so fucking sorry,” she said, voice cracking. “I do not expect you to forgive me or… or to want anything to do with me. I just… needed you to know that I know. That I see what I did. That I am trying not to be that person anymore.”

He sighed.

“Jimin,” he said slowly. “Look. I… I forgave you a while ago.”

She almost dropped the phone.

“What?”

“Forgiveness is for me too, you know,” he said. “I did not want to carry around that much resentment. It was heavy. We were kids. We fucked up. You were selfish. I was passive. We both hurt each other.”

Her vision blurred.

“That does not mean we can just go back,” he added gently. “I do not even know who you are now. You do not know me.”

“I want to,” she said, the words out before she could stop them. “Know you. Again. Not the version in my head. The actual you.”

He was quiet.

“I do not know if that is a good idea,” he said honestly. “Our patterns were… not great. I do not want to fall back into them.”

“I do not either,” she said quickly. “That is the last thing I want.”

Footsteps echoed outside her dressing room. Someone called her name. She ignored it.

“How about this,” she said. “Not… dating. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Just… one conversation. In person. Somewhere we are not being watched. No expectations. If after that you decide you never want to see me again, I will respect it. I swear.”

He let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for a long time.

“Where?” he asked.

—

They met at a small, out of the way music festival two weeks later.

No idol lineups. No cameras. Just indie bands on rickety stages, food trucks, and people in mismatched outfits dancing in muddy fields.

He wore a plain cap and a mask, which he took off once they were swallowed by the crowd. She did the same.

Nobody looked twice. It was almost disorienting.

They stood awkwardly at the edge of the main stage area for a moment, both at a loss.

Then he nodded toward a patch of grass.

“Sit?” he suggested.

“Yeah.”

They sat.

The band on stage was mid song, some dreamy track about lost summers. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in colors that did not look real.

“I used to hate festivals,” she said suddenly. “Too many people.”

“You are an idol,” he pointed out. “You are people’s festival.”

“That is different.”

He smiled faintly. “I like this kind.”

“Me too,” she admitted.

They listened to the music for a while. It filled the space between them so they did not have to fill it themselves.

“I did not support you,” she said eventually. “Not when it mattered.”

He did not argue.

“I want to,” she went on. “Now. Not because I am scared you will leave if I do not. Not because I think I have to keep you. Just because… I like seeing you on stage. Even if it is not my company’s logo behind you.”

He glanced at her, something like surprise and cautious hope flickering through his eyes.

“I watched your last comeback,” he admitted. “The one with the crazy dance break. You looked… free. Less like you were trying to prove you belonged. More like you knew you did.”

She thought of the nights on her therapist’s couch, of the members’ support, of the long road from that girl who had needed one boy to define her worth.

“I am starting to know,” she said softly. “Who I am. Outside of you.”

“That is good,” he said.

They were quiet again.

“Do you… hate me?” she asked, because she needed to hear it out loud.

“No,” he said. “I did. For a while. But not now. I do not think I could ever fully hate you.”

“Do you…” Her mouth was dry. “Still… love me?”

He stared at the sky.

“I do not know,” he said honestly. “I love who you were to me. I care about who you are now. I am… scared of what we could be if we are not careful.”

She nodded, throat tight.

“Me too.”

“But,” he added, turning to look at her fully, “I am willing to… see. Slowly. As friends. As… something that does not try to own each other this time.”

Her heart stuttered.

“You are?”

“On one condition,” he said.

She held her breath.

“We promise to be each other’s fans,” he said. “Not managers. Not puppet masters. Just… people in the crowd. Cheering. Even when we do not understand every decision.”

It was simple. It was everything they had never managed to do before.

She smiled, small but real.

“Deal,” she said, and held out her hand.

He looked at it for a second, then took it.

The music swelled. The crowd cheered for a band that did not know who they were. The sky darkened, stars peeking through.

They sat there, hands clasped not like chains, but like something they both could let go of if they needed to.

For the first time, love did not feel like possession.

It felt like choosing.

—

Two years later, fans lost their minds when SM and JYP announced a special joint stage for the year–end festival.

“A once–in–a–lifetime collaboration,” the posters read. “Two generations of excellence on one stage.”

Online, people guessed.

BoA and some JYP veteran? NCT and Stray Kids? Red Velvet and Twice?

No one guessed it right.

When the lights went down and the VCR ended, the opening beat of a brand new, unreleased track shook the arena.

Karina stepped into the light first.

She wore a black and silver outfit that cut clean lines along her body, hair pulled back, eyes rimmed in glittering shadow. The crowd screamed.

On the second verse, as she hit a turn, another voice cut in over the track.

Familiar. Powerful.

Y/N walked out from the opposite side, mic in hand.

For a heartbeat, the arena went silent in shock.

Then it erupted.

They moved together like they had been doing this for years. Because they had. Just not in front of this many people.

His voice slid under hers in harmonies that felt inevitable. Her footwork complemented his, sharp where he was smooth. There was tension in their choreography, a push and pull that told a story without hitting anyone over the head.

The lyrics talked about fear. About breaking chains. About letting go enough to be held properly. About standing on different stages and still calling out to each other.

When the final chorus hit, they met in the center, backs almost touching, gazes turned outward to the crowd.

They did not need to face each other to show how far they had come.

The last note rang out.

They bowed.

Backstage, amid the chaos of congratulations and staff herding them to interviews, they found a quiet corner.

Karina’s heart was still racing. Not from nerves. From something like joy.

“You were crazy out there,” she said, grinning despite herself.

“So were you,” he replied. “As always.”

She hesitated, then stepped a little closer.

“Thank you,” she said. “For… letting me share that stage with you.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” he countered. “It was your idea, right?”

She shrugged, suddenly shy. “It felt… right.”

He smiled, soft.

“It did.”

They stood there in comfortable silence for a moment, the echo of the crowd still buzzing in their bones.

Then she leaned in, close enough that no mic could pick it up, and whispered, “I used to be scared you would leave me. Now I am just grateful you came back.”

His eyes softened.

“I did not come back,” he said quietly. “We both just finally walked in the same direction.”

He held out his hand, palm up, not demanding, not pleading.

She took it.

Not because she was afraid he would vanish if she did not.

But because she wanted to.

Love, this time, did not feel like a cage.

It felt like a stage big enough for both of them. 

—

THE END...

[stupidneko]

[firstknightvulion]

This would come up.

[coloururnight]

MANATO !! SMUT

Manato has bigger chest than any zzz woman change my mind. I'm feeling mega lazy quantity over quality ig

SMUT!!

warnings/tags: FEM READER, heat, fluffy smut, multiple orgasms, overstim. belly bulge, yada yada blah

_________________________

“Is it that time of the month?”

“Yes.”

_________________________

Soothing groans filled the room while Manato eagerly thrusted forward into your generously warm cunt, panting softly as his usually stoic face flushed an enticingly deep red, tinted golden by the fairy lights strung around your shared bedroom. “.. I’m.. I’m so sorry.” He whimpered, breaking the pleasant silence as he peppered your face in kisses shyly.

“I’m really, really sorry.. I.. I can’t help it-” The wolf thiren continued to whine, deeply embarrassed as he buried himself to the hilt time and time again.

“It’s… a-alright,” You managed out between soft moans and grunts. Manato’s pace didn’t let up despite his flustered mumbling, if anything, it increased. You bit your lip, nearly drawing blood as you held in a deep gasp at the abrupt change in speed. The thiren’s chest pressed to yours, and you felt oddly warmed at the sight of his tail excitedly wagging behind his muscular frame – an adorable comparison to his troubled face.

You whimpered impatiently as he continued his casual thrusts, gasping quietly as his large, calloused palms ran along the plush skin of your stomach, antsily cupping your clothed breast with a satisfied whine. “Yer’ so pretty..” He mumbled boyishly, his length still diligently ramming into you without faltering as he sluggishly tugged away your top.

“I-I dunno what.. What I’d do without ya’.” He winced s hyly, kissing and mouthing at your breasts and sighing in admiration as the little pink buds pebbled in response to the cool air. Manato nearly sobbed; he just loved you too much – even more so when you graciously offered to help him through his rut.

His eyes sparkled with delight as you exhaled in pleasure, his hips snapping forward keenly as he registered your enjoyment. Manato passionately licked at your collarbone, tail wagging in utter joy as your beautiful gasps and moans filled his tufted ears. Your volume increased just slightly as his canines brushed your hardened nipples. “So, so pretty-” He hushedly praised, kissing the valley between your breasts. You were trembling, legs quivering as he ruthlessly pumped in and out of your sensitive folds.

“I-I’m gonna-”

You cried timidly, hands balling into fists against the silky blankets below you. Before you could spiral into pleasure, Manato’s own bulky hands found your own, fingers intertwining as his forehead brushed against your own. “Me too, yeah–” He muttered, panting heavily as his tail swished to and fro with eager anticipation that was barely registered in your bliss-addled brain.

“Gonna.. Gonna cum inside. Can I? Please, baby?” Manato begged needily, unaware of how heavy his form was atop your own as he ground into you. “Please, I- I really need it…” The wolf thiren sounded like he was on the verge of sobbing, tears pricking at his crimson eyes as he stared down into your own pleadingly. “I need it s’ bad..” He choked out softly, tail wagging even faster despite the overwhelming need in his groin.

You gasped softly, your frame convulsing subtly as you neared your orgasm. You couldn’t care less if he came inside or not, you just desperately needed to reach that high you had denied yourself for far too long. “Please, just- Manato, please..” You croaked with a frustrated sob, hands squeezing his tight enough that it bordered on painful.

Manato bit his lip, hips stuttering forward as lewd slaps of wet flesh echoed throughout your small, comfortable room.

“I l-love you-” The wolf thiren babbled, shyly pressing his lips to yours as you oh-so-romantically came together in sync. You cried out faintly at the feeling of his cum spilling into your insides, your own white pleasure oozing around his cock in a way that made his heart flutter.

“A-Ah.. alright..” You began, panting softly as he gently guided you through your heavy release with a long sigh, pulling it with an erotic squelch. Relieved, you laid still, letting the mixture of white fluid slip out onto your inner thighs. “God, that- You don’t let up, do you?” Chuckling, you teased Manato lightheartedly, not yet noticing the look on his face as he stared at your leaking pussy.

“... Manato? Are you okay?” You piped up after a brief moment of silence, hands gently tugging on his own as he grew antsy from where he was still connected to you.

“Baby? I-I’m.. I’m real sorry… Really s-sorry..” He mumbled, sniffling softly as he moved, burying his face into your chest – in turn making your stomach churn with worry. “Manato? What is it?” You prompted, worried as his tail twitched like a live wire behind his scarred frame. “I love you.. S’.. much..” He reaffirmed with something akin to desperation, and before you could get a response out–

“M-Manato!” A yelp tore from your throat as his abrupt erection rammed into your sensitive, pulsing heat. You couldn’t formulate a response as he rocked in and out of your overstimulated womanhood with renewed fervor. “I.. I know- I-” He whimpered nervously, kissing your swollen lips as he pushed further inside, cock twitching at the sight of a subtle bulge against the skin of your stomach. Manato choked on his words, tail whipping as he whimpered like a puppy.

“I-I needa cum-” He huffed between deep pants, the familiar size making your belly ache with a delicious mix of pleasure-pain – appearing visibly as your stomach grew full. “A-Ah- I.. I need more-” He begged through gritted teeth, biting down on your neck as he soothed the hickey with a sweet swipe of his large tongue.

You grabbed at his deep, charcoal hair lining the nape of his neck, panting as sweat pooled atop your furrowed brow. It was slightly frustrating, not being able to get a single word out because of how much you were drooling. “Please don’t b-be mad- Please don’t..” He whimpered, the sound so endearing your heart swelled despite yourself as he pumped viciously into your abused pussy. He whined needily; “S’ t-tight- Y-You’re so good-”

You mewled, gasping for air as his dick pushed impossibly further into your gut. He choked on what sounded like a sob or a wince, snapping his pelvis forward rhythmically as you felt yourself reaching your second high of the night. “C-Can’t-” You babbled incessantly, strings of drool rolling down your chin in waves as you tried to speak.

Manato didn’t answer, pressing his lips to yours hungrily as he cleaned your chin with rough kisses and his tongue; strings of saliva linking your mouths together. “S-So good, y’are…” He groaned, his movements slowing as he finally came, hips stuttering softly as he milked it carefully. “Thank.. Thank you s’ much..” The thiren whimpered, kissing at your sweat-slicked cheeks adoringly as he pulled out for the second time with an oddly enticing wet ‘plap’.

You panted, face flushed as sweat ran down your skin; the little beads of water glimmering a sweet gold beneath LEDs adorning your ceiling like sprawling vines. “I’m so… so sorry.. I couldn’t..” Manato whimpered in humiliation, kissing at your cheeks in silent apology. A wave of relief washed over as you watched his length grow slack against his stomach.

“... It’s alright.” You croaked with a pant, squeezing his hand lightly as he succumbed to obvious exhaustion beside you.

[starrydragoness]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥Komano Manato x Reader

Contents: Komano Manato x gn reader. Not proof read, we die like men out here. Just pure horny ramble. I don't even play the game bro but that doesn't matter and I need this man rn. Enjoy y'alls smut.

18+, MDNI, NSFW under the cut

Komano Manato was a tower of a man, sturdy with a chest comparable to a barrel and strong arms to match. One big hand fanned itself on your lower back, keeping you on your knees while the other held your head down into the soft pillows.

Ass up and proper, the slapping sound of skin against skin was a distant rhythm to your buzzing ears as you were made to see stars behind your eyelids.

“That’s it.. you love me taking you like this, hm?” his voice filled with gravel as he leaned toward your ear, only receiving a cry in response that made the edges of his lips twitch in a smirk. He hummed in satisfaction when your walls twitched, squeezing him, fluttering so prettily around him he couldn’t resist the urge to push harder, deeper into you.

“Sing for me, pretty bird” he coos, pressing his hips flush against your ass and lingering like that for a moment too long, letting you feel how deep he was inside you, twitching and eager. “Let me hear you beg for it” His thrust only resumed after hearing your desperate pleas for a release, feeling his own climax nearing. It was too much, you thought through the fog in your mind, feeling the ends of your fingertips and toes go numb with pleasure, your knees about to give out and your lungs begging for that sweet air, but pleasure was more important than a swallow of air as Manato finally pushed you over the edge, fucking you through your orgasm that had you seeing sparks and white all at once. His own orgasm crashed over him quickly after, and he released deep within you, fucking you into the matres till you lay flat on your belly and he was flush against you, his big body caging you underneath him.

He remained still, still sensitive and twitching but not pulling out. His hot breath fanned down your nape in quick successions, his fluffy tail brushing against your calves as it slowly wagged in lazy drags. You felt so full and boneless.

Who knew pulling on his tail could crash the dominos that led to this.

Ⓒ starrydragoness. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[roseyodditea]

Shedding Season - Komano Manato x gn!Reader

Summary -> 1.2k words. Brushing out Manato's fur turns into a mini confession. Warnings -> None A/N -> I love when a big strong man ends up being a huge goober. Also, his right nip is totally out in his M6 art, and I never noticed until now. Also also, the demons in my mind are telling me to write smut, and honestly, I might indulge them.

“Hey, hey, stop pulling,” Manato growls, his shoulders tensing as the wire brush caught a tangled patch of fur on the back of his shoulders. 

“Stop it.” You smack the brush lightly on the top of his head, listening to the hollow thunk before going back to taking care of the fur on his back. “If you hadn’t neglected it for so long, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” 

Manato seems offended at your words. “I wasn’t neglecting it. The kids just wanted to ride on my shoulders, and the fur got all tangled, and it’s not like I can reach back there to get it myself.”

You pull the brush away, cleaning the bristles and tossing the dark fur in the trash can set up next to you. “And is that the same reason you’re coming to me with your tail all fucked up too?”

Manato was silent at that, his ears flattening to the top of his head as he looks down at his tail. He grabs the second brush you sometimes use for his coarser fur and starts brushing the end of his tail silently. You both sat in this peaceful silence for a bit, just working on brushing out all of his thinner summer coat to help him stay warm as the temperatures drop. After a while, he finally broke the silence, “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?” Your pace slows a bit, now more worried about just feeling his warmth beneath your finger tips instead of actually brushing his fur.

“Me. All the hair I leave around your apartment. Me coming to you every shedding season and pouting the entire time while you just try to help me out.” Manato’s voice had this soft quality to it. You hadn’t heard it this low since A-Yuet scraped her knee and Manato had to patch it up. “I feel like I take up too much of your time.”

You smack the brush on the top of his head playfully again. “You’re too hard on yourself. If it did bother me, I’d stop letting you in.” You drape your arms around his broad, bare shoulders, now letting his broad figure support your entire body weight. “In fact, you’re my favorite. I just love shedding season because it gives you more excuses to come over.” You smile to yourself as you see the soft wagging of his tail despite that frown still painted across his handsome face. 

“Favorite, huh?” He avoids looking at you, knowing that he’d break if he did.

“Mhmmm. My favorite wolf. My favorite man. My favorite Manato.” The room is filled with the consistent thump, thump, thump of his tail finding a rhythm against the floor, his fingers suddenly preoccupied with digging into the fibers of the rug beneath him. 

“Well I mean if I’m your favorite then I guess It’s good I come to you…” He tries so hard to stay serious, tries to bite back that smile, tries to remain neutral. His blush gives him away, the way he continues to scratch at the rug, and of course that big, fluffy tail. 

“Manato.” You say, grabbing his chin and tilting it up to look at you (honestly this may have been the first time you saw him looking up at you). You silently thank yourself for convincing him to sit on the floor in front of your couch.

He just stares up, shocked, his tail freezing as he watches your every movement. “What?”

“For a big, scary man, you are adorable!” You coo, squeezing his face in between your hands as he lets out a little whine and huffs, but his tail wags even faster. 

“Stop that!”

“No, no. You’re the best puppy ever, and you’re so cute and sweet and fluffy!” You continue to tease, wiggling his head in your hands as he continues to whimper and whine.

Manato grabs your wrists, twisting himself out of your grip and holding both of your wrists in one hand. “Alright, alright, that’s enough,” he growls, bearing his fangs playfully. 

You look at just how big his hands are wrapped around your wrists, your eyes tracing over the veins in his hands. When’s the last time you saw him without his gloves? It was shocking, really. This man, towering over almost everyone and built like a brick wall, could restrain you so gently. One move, one twist of his hand and he could sprain your wrist at least. He squeezes your wrists in his hand, just enough to get your attention. 

“Hey, stop zoning out. We were talking.” He pouts, and you look into his eyes. You pull your wrists out of his grip and reach forward, your fingers touching his soft hair, brushing it out of his face. He seems surprised but lets it happen, dropping his hands and letting you shift the direction of the conversation. 

“Manato.” You whisper, your fingers tracing the scar over his eyes. 

“Yeah?”

“You’re my favorite.” You repeat again, but this time more seriously, this time hoping he’d see the hints you had been trying to drop for so long. 

“...Yeah?” Once again, he tries to remain stoic, but his tail starts instantly wagging at a million miles an hour. “Like… favorite favorite?”

You feel your face get hot, but now’s not the time to back down. “Yeah… favorite favorite.” Manato launches up from his sitting position, pushing you to your back on the couch as he crushes you into a hug, using his entire, shirtless body to squish you. His tail is wagging so hard he knocks over one of your decorative pillows, but he doesn’t care. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath, his nose practically vacuum sealing to your skin. “You’re my favorite too.” He speaks into your skin, grabbing and squishing closer like he was trying to meld into you, not unlike a touch-starved, large dog who just wanted cuddles. What else could you do but take it? You let him crush you, your hand coming up to scratch at the base of his ear, an instinctual low noise rumbling in his chest as he relaxed entirely on top of you. 

“Manato?”

“Hm?” He wags his tail harder as he hears his name on your lips again.

“Manato. Look at me.” “What?” His red eyes look at you with pure adoration. You couldn’t take it anymore. He was too damn cute. You move your lips against his and instantly hear a louder thump, thump, thump as his tail swipes all of the decorative pillows and blankets on your couch, even knocking over one of the back cushions as he kisses back enthusiastically. He crushes you closer, squeezing you closer to him. You could die now and be happy, because at least you’d go out between a broad chest and thick arms. Your hands found his shoulders, half petting the fur before you pull away suddenly.

Manato’s eyes go wide with worry, his tail slowing down as his hand goes to cup your cheek. “Hey, hey. What happened?”

“Dammit… I missed a spot.” You huff and show him the fistful of his summer coat you had just pulled off of his shoulder, and his tail started up again.

“Oh noooo, you have to brush me more. How terrible.” He teases, handing you the brush again. Instead of moving to sit on the floor again, he simply flops down on top of you, happy to cuddle while you brush him.

[wonyology]

What's wrong with secretary Seol? (pt. 1)

NMIXX SULLYOON x male reader

Word count: ~7k A/N: silly? idk i'm changing things up this time, i guess. another one brought back from the dungeon masterlist

──────⋆⋅⋆ ──────

“It’s not late... noona.”

You said as you calmly laid your coffee cup down on the table with a soft clink. The morning light filtered through the giant windows next to you, casting morning golden streaks across the office. Outside, Hannam-dong - the country’s oasis of wealth and luxury - was busy as usual at this time of the day. Inside, everything was peaceful except for the annoyingly silent buzz of the AC and the sound of your sister shifting on the soft leather sofa, who looked completely at home despite the modern space.

“You’re thirty three, idiot. That’s too late.”

“Dad married mom when he was almost forty, didn’t he? I still have a long way to g-” 

“That was different! Society’s changed!” Nayeon shot you a judgemental look.

“Are you serious right now, noona?”

“Yes, really!” your sister crossed her arms, almost offended that you’d asked. “Our country’s birthrate is in crisis. You have to do your part.”

“My part!?” 

“Yes. As a citizen. As our parents’ son.” she pointed at you. “Tall, educated, healthy, financially stable and ugh… I can’t believe I’m saying this…”

“Saying what?”

“Good looks… ughh…” 

It was always good to hear someone who always bullied you since you were little admit that. The stupid smirk on your face showed it really well, especially with how Nayeon was faking, or not, a puking sound.

“Stop doing that! And what are you even waiting for, idiot!?”

“I founded this company, didn’t I?” your turn to roll your eyes. “I…uh, pay taxes. I already did my part.”

She scoffed and sat straighter. “Taxes and high-end clothes don’t get you a wife, idiot.” 

A comeback was already there in your mind. But the look in her eyes stopped you, not annoyed or amused, just tired. She looked down at her hands for a quiet moment before speaking again, her voice filled with what seemed like artificial sadness to you.

“Mom and dad aren’t getting any younger… They are almost getting to the age where we have more hospital checkups than family gatherings. Don’t you realize that?”

“Don’t do that to me… Come on…”

“You’ve never introduced a single girlfriend to us. Not once.” Here came the sad eyes. “Your cousins are having babies, getting married… Everything, even showing up at Chuseok with rings on their fingers and someone beside them. But you!?… you work day and night. For what?”

“It’s just…” You rubbed a hand over your face and sighed. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about this before. “I haven’t dated anyone in a long time, noona.”

“And why is that?” Nayeon asked gently, part anticipating like a sister who was finally hearing something she’d waited a long time to understand.

“I don’t know… I guess I just got comfortable living like this. Letting someone into my life right now doesn’t feel right.”

Your sister stayed silent, and when she spoke, her voice was softer than before.

“...That’s not comfort. You're just used to being alone.”

You looked up slowly, knowing she wasn’t scolding.

“I’m not asking you to fall in love tomorrow. But open the door, at least… Just enough for someone to come in.”

You hummed at her words, not intending on discussing this topic further.

“Anyway...” Nayeon smoothened her scarf, exhaling as if she was letting out all her frustrations and worries. “I didn’t just come here to nag your hopeless ass, you know. I came to bring something for Yoon-Ah.”

“For her? Not your brother?”

“You?” she smirked. “You can take care of yourself. You’re a grown man.”

Like always, Nayeon didn’t even wait for your answer. Instead, she reached for a paper bag beside her legs, lifting it carefully and showed you like it was some prized offerings. 

“Some premium ginseng extract and a few tonic packets from that clinic in Cheongdam. You know, that one all the chaebol wives and mistresses go to? Some black sesame snacks too. Good for stamina and stress.”

“For Yoon-Ah? Really?” you asked again.

“Of course! She mentioned she’s been tired since you made her work too much.” she glared at you, that one look only a sister could give. “I should scold you more for that, you idiot.”

A helpless chuckle escaped your lips.

“She insists on staying late! I drive her home everytime I can.”

…

“So are you two…?” your sister trailed off, narrowing her eyes as she tried to dig for some clues, subtle but sharp.

“Are we… what?” 

Lips pursuing, Nayeon examined you like she could read something off your face like she’d always done back when you were in high school. Well, not anymore. Years had gone by and you’d learnt to adapt. Knowing she couldn’t win this, she simply leaned back on the leather soft with a sigh. 

“I’m just saying… you two seem close. Maybe too comfortable with each other…. And your stupid face lights up whenever you talk about her.”

As much as you hated to admit, you knew Nayeon was right. So you just rubbed the back of your neck and avoided your sister’s gaze. But before she could press further, a soft chime came up from the intercom on your desk.

“Sajang-nim... may I come in?” 

That warm and familiar voice filtered through the speaker, the one that always gave you extra motivation when you sat down on this desk every workday.

You cleared your throat. 

“...Ahem, come in, secretary Seol.” 

The door creaked open, and there she was, your favorite person in this entire building. 

She stepped inside with her usual grace, her simple stripe button up blouse was tucked neatly, like it was tailored specifically to fit her frame. Her hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, all smooth and polished. You never said it out loud, but your days always felt a little bit better when she wore her hair like that. Around her neck hangs a simple lanyard with her ID, one that you'd told her a few times looked to formal, but Yoon-Ah'd just smile and say “It makes me look professional, don’t you think, sajang-nim?”.

“Good morning, sajang-nim…” she turned gracefully and gave a playful yet somehow still very polite little bow at Nayeon. “Unnie.”

You nodded in acknowledgement a little too fast while your sister instantly smiled, sitting more up right on the sofa.

“Oh my!” visibly brightened, Nayeon’s tone turned affectionate. “You’ve gotten even more elegant in person, Yoon-Ah ah! How have you been, honey? Come here!”

Yoon-Ah settled gracefully beside your sister on the sofa, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, her posture was elegant yet unassuming. Your sister reached for her hand instantly.

“Look at you, so beautiful!! Are you sure you’re not secretly royalty!?”

Yoon-Ah laughed softly, cheeks tinting pink. “You flatter me too much, unnie.”

“Nonsense.” your sister pat her hand. “You’re so polite, mmm, well put together… What do you think about my brother? Is he good looking?”

The girl was only caught off guard for a second before regaining her composure instantly and smiled. “Sajang-nim certainly is very… charismatic.”

You would’ve been giggling like a middle schooler had there been no one right here with how Yoon-Ah answered it.

“Charismatic, hmm? Not handsome?” Nayeon leaned closer to her, eyes expecting. Yoon-Ah gave you a subtle glance, unreadable, before replying. 

“That too. He has… his own charms.”

“Did you hear that!? ‘His own charms’. Yoon-Ah just said you’re just barely tolerable, dipshit.”

“Shut up…”

Nayeon just waved you off with a smile and turned back to Yoon-Ah. 

“Honestly, though. You’re so composed and smart, and beautiful on top of that. I don’t know how my brother landed a secretary like you, honey.”

Yoon-Ah chuckled lightly, her gaze lowering as if that could hide the light pink blooming on her cheeks. “He didn’t, unnie. I just applied.”

“Right, right… Whatever fate brought you two together, I’m grateful. You brighten his life up just by being by his side.”

Somewhere between their conversation, you got lost with how ethereal Yoon-Ah looked. Something about the way the sunlight caught the curve of her cheeks, the way her hair framed her face, the softness in her deer eyes. It ached your heart so much… in a good way, of course. You imagined her beside you, but not in the office. Maybe somewhere quieter, warmer, with her head on your shoulder… 

“Yah.” Nayeon’s voice snapped you back to reality immediately. You blinked, eyes adjusting again to the sunlight in the room. Yoon-Ah was still sitting on the sofa with the same pretty smile and graceful posture. The little dream was gone, but it lingered tenderly in your mind.

“What were you saying, noona?”

“Nothing important. I’m leaving now, dummy.” She then stood up with a pleasant sigh, smoothing her jacket as she showered Yoon-Ah with all the warmth in her eyes. “Don’t work too hard, honey. Thank you for keeping my idiot brother in line.”

“Of course, unnie. Thank you for visiting.”

Your sister leaned in, patting her lightly on the arm.

“Don’t act too polite with me. And don’t let him work too hard, okay? Ah, right! Next time, come visit me at our house even without him around.”

You only watched the exchange quietly, heart still beating a little too fast from the daydream you hadn’t meant to fall into. 

“Take care then, noona.”

“I always do. Maybe you should listen to yourself.” Nayeon paused at the door for a moment. “...Especially with Yoon-Ah around.”

The room fell quiet again the moment Nayeon took all the noise with her as she left. Then you looked at Yoon-ah as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, again, still looking like the girl from your imagination.

What the hell am I going to do with these feelings?

“Are you okay, sajang-nim?” 

“Sure, nothing… I just spaced out.”

Yoon-Ah tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting. 

“You looked like you were thinking very hard about something.” As innocent as her voice sounded, you could still catch the tease under her tone. You tried to keep your expression neutral.

“Nothing important, secretary Seol.” 

“Mmm.” she hummed, unconvinced. “It didn’t seem like nothing to me, sajang-nim.”

You shifted in your seat. “My sister likes you, that’s all.”

“Ah… She’s very sweet but I’m guessing that’s not the part that made you zone out.”

Playing dumb wouldn’t get you out of this. Time to take back control.

“Alright… let’s just get to business. What did you come in here for?” 

Yoon-Ah nodded with a satisfied smile, effortlessly shifting into her professional mode at your question. 

“It’s Friday so there isn’t much on the schedule. You have two meetings to review the new releases. Then just a short stop this afternoon at the aespa shoot. You’re supposed to hand Karina-ssi a bouquet and take a photo with her.” 

“Really?” your tone raised a little out of surprise. “I thought they were joking, no?”

“The team insisted.” The corner of her lips curved lightly. “Basic PR duties, sajang-nim.”

“I’m not complaining. It’s not every day that I get to take a picture with Karina anyway. And after that, I’m done?”

“Barring any emergencies.” she checked on the tablet again before looking up at you, though the way she said it felt more than just an observation. “You’ve been working too much lately anyway, sajang-nim. You’re… surprisingly efficient.” 

“‘Surprisingly’? You’ve been with me for three years, since the start of this company and ‘surprisingly’?”

Yoon-Ah pressed her lips together lightly, not the least apologetic. “Just keeping you humble, sajang-nim.”

“...You’re getting bolder.” 

“Maybe I am, sajang-nim.” she shot back instantly. “Or maybe you’re getting softer.”

A quiet beat took over for a second, something a little warmer settled into the room.

…

“Why do you still refuse to call me oppa, Seol Yoon-Ah?” there it was again, the question you always brought up every now and then. “I mean… calling me by my name is also fine by me. It’s not like we are strangers, you know. I gave you permission a long time ago.”

She smiled, definitely not letting you have the smallest glimpse of what she was thinking.

“We have to be professional, sajang-nim.” she said, emphasizing the title to put distance between the two of you, though her tone did the complete opposite. Then she added a soft, teasing line. “Besides… you’d get too happy if I called you oppa. And I’m not here to feed your ego, sajang-nim. I’m here to help you be more efficient and manage your schedule.”

She looked back down at her iPad, the twitch on the corner of her lips signaled a quiet victory. 

Not so early.

The thought barely settled before you stood up, rounding your desk slowly. Yoon-Ah didn’t look up right away but you saw her finger pausing over the screen as she felt you closing the distance. You stopped in front of her, letting your presence linger just enough to make her glance up.

“Then what about that night…?” you smirked. “You got so drunk I really struggled to drive you home and helped you upstairs… and you kept mumbling ‘oppa’ against my chest, secretary Seol.”

Her eyes widened, lashes fluttered just once and that was enough to tell you she knew exactly what night you were talking about. The memory hit her hard before she could guard herself.

“If I recall correctly… You kept biting my hands, crying and complaining that I don’t give you enough attention at work, secretary Seol”

For once, your intelligent secretary couldn’t come up with a comeback as a flush crept into her cheeks and her grip on the tablet tightened. 

“That’s a little too much, secretary Seol. We might have to get HR involved.” Then you leaned in closer, slower to lower yourself beside her ear until she could hear your whisper, a near perfect imitation of Yoon-Ah’s voice, with a smirk. 

“Don’t leave me yet, oppa… please…”

Then you lifted your hand and gently clasped her wrist, startling her.

“You held on to it like this and wouldn’t let go.”

Yoon-Ah’s eyes moved to where your hand grabbed her wrist. She definitely remembered. The ever professional secretary was thrown off balance, blinking like she couldn’t decide whether to pull away or freeze. 

“Still no thank you from you yet,  by the way. It’s been almost two months now.”

The engine was clearly working overtime through her eyes, calculating to come back with something sharp and clever while being flustered, exposed at the same time. Damn, what a cute sight.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or did oppa make too much of an impression saving you that night?”

Yoon-Ah yanked her wrist back like your touch burned her. But you already did too much damage. She was blushing, her posture stiff and her mouth open but couldn’t find the right words.

“Sajang-nim.” she finally muttered, eyebrows drawn tightly together. She turned her head sideways to hide the rising color in her cheeks. .

“Still waiting on that ‘thank you’~” you leaned back to let the tension breathe, enjoying this way more than you should. “You’re usually quicker than this, Yoon-Ah-ssi.”

“Thank you, sajang-nim.” Yoon-Ah finally muttered like it physically hurt her pride to say it.

“Just that?” you titled your head. “You think that’s enough after everything I went through, secretary Seol?”

Only now did she glance up, sharply. “Do you want an award ceremony, sajang-nim?”

“Interest. That’s all. The economy’s been rough lately.” 

Yoon-Ah narrowed her eyes but couldn’t hold back the smile forming on her lips.

“What kind of interest are we talking about here?”

“Maybe… uhh, I don’t know…” you looked up to the ceiling, pretending to think. “A kiss on the cheek should cover the fee, secretary Seol.”

Her scoff was immediate but the amusement in her eyes betrayed her.

“Is that how you do business now? Bullying your way through outstanding debts.”

“Only with clients who get drunk and call me oppa while they almost vomit on me.”

Yoon-Ah stared at you harder, the red on her cheeks didn’t help much. “You’re lucky I haven’t reported that night to anyone, sajang-nim!”

“Ah… but I only helped you home that night. And confessing that to HR would mean creating a workplace scandal right here.”

No power or threat in her glare as Yoon-Ah leaned closer. If anything, you only found it cute.

“Keep pushing it and I’m writing a full report, sajang-nim.”

Your answer was to lean down closer, forehead almost touching hers.

“Make sure to include the part where you begged me to drink with you too, secretary Seol.”

A slight twitch on the corner of her eyes, maybe a mix of annoyance and amusement. 

“One day… I’m going to put you in your place, sajang-nim.”

“I’m counting on it. But for now… cheek?”

The stare she threw at you was long enough for her to weigh her options. Finally, Yoon-Ah let out a long exhale, the sign of resignation.

“Close your eyes, sajang-nim.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t want to peek during an award ceremony, would you?” her voice filled with sudden happiness.

Though a little suspicious, you obliged and shut your eyes with a sigh. “Fine…”

A few seconds went by, still nothing. Just before you were about to say something, you felt a light brush of her lips land just shy of your lips, barely a kiss. You opened one eye to glare at her, your tone completely flat.

“That was nothing. Literally air.”

 Your secretary was already retreating, trying not to laugh and clearly enjoying teasing you.

“It still counts, sajang-nim. The ceremony's over!”

“No, no, no.” you reached out and grabbed her wrist, firm but not enough to hurt her. “Secretary Seol, I demand a kiss.”

“Sajang-nimmm~” Yoon-Ah whined, the sound almost turning your knees into spaghetti. She gave your grip a half hearted tug but didn’t really try to escape. She still didn’t give up on suppressing a smile though she clearly knew she was failing miserably. 

“You’re abusing your power~” she pouted, too cute. 

“Aegyo won’t let you get away with this, secretary Seol.”

You tried so hard not to look away for a second. Seol Yoon-Ah was a dangerous woman. She really had no idea what she was doing to you. Or maybe she did. Who knew? She then scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue to you - a final act of rebellion before stepping even closer, eyes lifting to meet yours.

“Fine.” she mumbled. “One real kiss.”

“That easy…?”

“I just want you to shut up, sajang-nim.” 

You let go of her wrist only to take both of them seconds later deliberately. Yoon-Ah blinked, your grip was firm as your thumbs brushed the inside of her wrists. 

“In case you try to escape. I’m not taking an ‘air’ kiss this time, secretary Seol.”

Suddenly, a flicker of confidence and mischief lit up her face. The corner of her lips curled up, slow and dangerous.

“Close your eyes then, sajang-nim.”

That smug expression on her face left you with no choice anyway. You sighed and shut your eyes again, expecting. You could feel Yoon-Ah tiptoeing slightly, her gentle inhale, the little rustle of her clothes before her lips finally pressed against your cheek. 

No more teasing. Yoon-Ah kissed your cheek long and firm, her lips molding onto your skin with a boldness that stole your breath away. You felt the way she tilted her head slightly, swaying into the kiss like she meant every second of it. You wanted more, so much more. But-

“Muah!”

She pulled away. Your skin was now warm with her lipstick stamped there like her branding. When you opened your eyes, Yoon-Ah was still too close.

“How about that, oppa~?” she murmured, voice a little breathless.

You tried and held onto her gaze, almost failing to act unaffected. Slowly, you let go of her wrists, your fingers intentionally lingering on before slipping away completely.

“Not bad.” you tried to sound confident.

A shy blush bloomed across her face with a nervous smile to replace her confidence just seconds ago. You then cleared your throat, subtle but necessary, before nodding at the leather sofa and nodding your chin in its.

“Ahem… There are some ginseng extracts, a few tonic packets and uh… some black sesame snacks in that bag over there. My sister brought it over for you.” you said, walking to it. “From that clinic in Cheongdam, you know?”

You picked up the bag and held it out to her. Yoon-Ah followed you, cheeks still pink from earlier and took the bag slowly.

“Ah… that one clinic all the rich people’s wives and mistresses go to?” she said, her voice a little soft and flustered. “Your sister told me a lot about it, sajang-nim. We chat a lot, actually.”

“Since when?”

Yoon-Ah gave you a judging look, almost surprised that you even asked. “Umm… since forever? She texts me all the time and asks about you, your dating life… us…”

“And you tell her I make you work too much? If anything, I make you work less and come home early these days.”

Yoon-Ah pretended to let out a small cough to dodge your question, eyes looking at the clock on the wall as she avoided your gaze. “A- Anyway… it’s almost time for your meeting this morning, sajang-nim.”

“...I’ll let it slide this time, secretary Seol.”

Dragging your feet back to your desk with a sigh, you shifted through the clutter of documents on your desk while ignoring the warmth on your skin but paused when you noticed your secretary lingering around before walking toward you. 

“Wait, sajang-nim...” she spoke softly. “You still have my lipstick mark on… your cheek.”

You stayed still as she pulled a tissue from the little box on the desk and reached up, dabbing at the spot with what seemed like precision. Though you couldn’t help but think there was a bit of affection in there as well, you’d been hoping so for so long anyway.

“Reapply your lipsticks, too, secretary Seol.” you continued to search through the documents, not looking at her. “I’ll… ahem, wait.”

Yoon-Ah lowered her head into a small bow. The results of all that messing around a few minutes ago was still clear on her face.

“Ah, yes… thank you, sajang-nim.”

The morning room passed, dreadfully, with what felt like thousands of updates and reviews. You sat at the head of the sleek conference room, listening to everything with Yoon-Ah next to you, taking notes with her usual precision. 

Three years ago, you left one of the biggest names in Korea’s fashion game as their rising creative director - young, bold, and already successful. People thought you were crazy, even your parents stopped you at first. But you took a gamble anyway, at the age of thirty. Now? You were running your own fashion company, still rising, not quite a household name yet but you’d come far. People loved it, you had your own team and your own building in Hannam-dong, the land of the rich right in Seoul.

Somewhere in the middle of the meeting, your eyes turned to Yoon-Ah by themselves.

-

You still remembered being struck by her beauty the day she first walked in for the interview, back when this company was just your dream and a cheap nameplate taped to a rented shoebox in Itaewon. She had been fresh out of university then, too nervous, clutching her portfolio with both hands like it might save her and land her the job as she walked in.

“Why’d you apply here, honestly? I mean… aren’t you scared this might be a… I don’t know, money laundering scheme. This company has nothing right now, Yoon-Ah-ssi.”

She let out a tiny, nervous laugh.

“I… um… I looked you up before I applied.” she answered too fast, glancing down a little like she regretted blurting it out. “I- I read about your work. The collection you helped develop at your pre- previous company… the 2019 one.”

You didn’t say anything and let her go on for another five  minutes. Yoon-Ah fumbled a little more, both endearing and awkwardly. It’d been in your memory ever since, and you loved it whenever she went to work in the same outfit. Something about it always pulled you back to your first meeting, to the shy but clearly talented Yoon-Ah.

-

From that day on, the two of you built more than just your company together. You taught her a lot, from dealing with fashion related problems, difficult clients to how to be more aggressive in business. Yoon-Ah picked up everything fast. You knew she was smarter but she’d been outdoing your expectations after her first few weeks, always delivering more than what was asked. Still, no matter how much time passed or how confident she appeared with others, Yoon-Ah always carried a trace of that shyness when she was around you. 

However, in recent months, things had shifted. A slow, complicated push and pull neither of you wanted to define out loud. Late night conversations in the office. Lingering glances everywhere you went. Her being mad at you for forgetting her gift after a business trip in Japan, only for her to bring you coffee the next morning, made just the way you liked it with a flirty smile that you couldn’t stop dreaming about. 

Yoon-Ah started standing closer and leaning in more. You both intentionally stuck by each other’s side in the elevator whenever it was empty. And you’d started driving her home every day from work too, a quiet routine that had begun just a few months ago. Still, Seol Yoon-Ah always knew exactly when to draw a line, when to turn her head away to remind you that she was still your secretary. But… the kiss on the cheek she gave you this morning was a great leap forward. And you wanted more. So much more.

“Sajang-nim.” her voice broke your trance of thoughts, soft but pointed. “Umm… you were spacing out, sajang-nim. They’ve just finished the presentation.”

You sat up straighter, coughed lightly and picked up where she left off. Another meeting followed. When it finally ended and most of the team had filtered out quickly for lunch, you returned to your office and collapsed immediately on the leather sofa. Yoon-Ah walked in later carrying a small tray. She calmly set everything down on the coffee table before taking her seat next to you.

“Lunch before meeting the Karina, sajang-nim.” Yoon-Ah unwrapped the utensils and handed over yours without looking.

“Ughh… finally. Karina~” you sang with exaggerated joy and dragged yourself upright. 

“Aghh…” Yoon-Ah suddenly whined as she peeled off the lid of her lunch box, poking at a neatly packed pile of green vegetables. “Again~? They always forget I hate these…”

Seizing the chance, you immediately leaned to her side with your mouth open. “Ahh~”

Yoon-Ah froze with her chopsticks in hand, staring at you before her lips twitched into a smile.

“You’re weird sometimes, sajang-nim. It doesn't feel right on you”

You didn’t move, just tilted your head and widened your eyes in the most obnoxiously innocent expression you could ever make. Her cheeks were already pink as she picked up a piece of broccoli and fed you hesitantly. 

“This better not become an everyday thing.” Yoon-Ah looked away the second you started chewing, muttering.

You swallowed, still smug. “I might have to make this a real clause when we discuss your renewal contract, secretary Seol.”

Yoon-Ah scoffed under her breath but the pink on her cheeks deepened. 

“I’m writing a report to HR next Monday.”

You nudged her knee. She picked up another piece of green and held it out silently. You leaned in with no hesitation and took it with a happy hum.

“...You’re enjoying this too much, sajang-nim.” Yoon-ah said, picking up another piece.

“You’re lucky I’m is a good eater.” you mumbled, earning a gentle hit of her elbow on your shoulder.

This went on quietly, rhythmically. Yoon-Ah feeding you vegetables, you chewing with exaggerated joy, her pretending not to smile as she emptied every last piece of green from her lunch box into your mouth. By the end, the only thing left was that smile she was struggling to hide on her lips.

The city rolled past outside the tinted windows of your car, sunlight bouncing off the glass. You had one hand on the steering wheel, the other rested lazily near the gearshift. Yoon-Ah was puffing her cheeks in and out, scrolling through something on her phone.

“Okay. Balance game.”

“Listening.”

“Have chaebol level wealth and power… or stay exactly as you are right now. Same wealth, same power?”

“Really? Didn’t you ask me something similar before?”

This was something you two usually did whenever the ride got too boring. She still didn’t look up from her phone, voice singing. “Answer~”

“Umm… stay as I am now.” You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel and that made her glance at you.

“You’re passing on generational wealth and the power to boss the president around?”

“I mean, chaebol level wealth and power mean I’d have to work pretty much every day. Get in a scandal every few years, get involved in political stuff… and basically no freedom to do what I want in public. Sometimes spend a few months in jail waiting to get pardoned… So it's not worth it.”

Yoon-Ah tilted her head and hummed. “Mmm, interesting.”

“I mean… I have money now, don’t I? I won’t even get to spend all of it before I die. That kind of wealth doesn’t really mean much to me.”

Yoon-Ah leaned back against the headrest, thinking for a moment before asking again.

“So when do you plan to settle down, sajang-nim?” Her tone was definitely not meaningless.

“Why the sudden topic? Are you planning to recommend someone to me, secretary Seol?”

Yoon-Ah let out a soft scoff. “Do you even have a girlfriend right now?”

And there it was, a quiet check. To see if you had one. To see if that romantic tension between all these times was genuine. You knew… well, you guessed it.

“Obviously not. Why do you think my sister keeps coming over to nag me every week?”

“Your sister just wants you to be happy, I guess.”

You finally took your eyes off the road and glanced over at Yoon-Ah for a brief second, catching how she bit back a smile. 

“Okay, secretary Seol. My turn.”

That got her attention, eyes turning back to you. 

“Men your age… ” you paused, speaking again only when it felt right. “Or… let’s just say, men… in their early thirties?”

You didn’t even try to hide what you meant. 

“Why, sajang-nim? Asking for a friend?” That flicker of amusement beneath her expression showed you she knew exactly what you meant. She let the question hang for a moment too long, lips still curved. “Early thirties, I think. More stable. More… mature. But of course, that’s assuming we don’t work together. I don’t have any interest in dating people from work, really.”

And there it was again. The line Seol Yoon-Ah always drew. Not too close. Not too far. You let out a breath through your nose as the silence stretched, feeling a quiet little ache in your heart. Yoon-Ah knew the effect she had on you, always teasing you just enough and staying just far enough.

“Mmm… Got it.” you finally muttered, not wanting to be heard. Ten minutes later, you pulled up at the studio parking lot. From the passenger seat, Yoon-Ah glanced at her phone then at the building. 

“They’re in the middle of the shoot.” 

You reached behind your seat, grabbed the bouquet meant for Karina - wrapped to perfection, all PR polished - and stepped out, the car door shutting behind you with a soft thud. You circled around to her side and opened the door. 

“What kind of boss drives his secretary around and opens the door for her, sajang-nim?”

Again, that playful tendency of hers. You replied flatly, still a bit hurt from your last interaction in the car.

“The really good kind. The handsome kind. The caring kind.”

Yoon-Ah laughed gently, tilting her head as she stepped out. “Mmm~ Must be exhausting being all three.”

You didn’t smile. “It’s worth it. If someone eventually notices.”

“You should save that line for Karina, sajang-nim.” she said and smoothed down the front of her skirt, voice a little softer than before. “She’s the one getting the flower, after all.”

Wasn’t a jab, not really. Under that teasing edge, there was something else, something unspoken. You looked at her to try and catch it but it was too late, Yoon-Ah was already stepping past you and walking toward the studio entrance like nothing had happened. You adjusted your grip on the bouquet and followed.

The studio door shut behind you with a loud click, muffling the city noise outside. Inside, everything was bright, cinematic. Spotlights humming, stylists moving quickly, racks of clothing everywhere. You and Yoon-Ah walked past the staff, bowing and greeting. They led you near the center and there she was.

aespa’s Karina

She was kneeling in front of the green screen, her unique plaid dress hugged her perfectly at the waist. Her hair was sleek, falling down in front of one shoulder leaving the other bare. A leather jacket was slipping down her arms. Everything she wore just looked so effortlessly beautiful and expensive.

“We just started twenty minutes ago, sajang-nim. Sorry for making you wait like this.” a staff member spoke up.

“Ahh, no... It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You guys are working hard.”

The camera shuttered again. Karina shifted to lie on her stomach, legs in the air, the dress riding up just slightly as she propped her chin on her hand. The pose looked casual but you knew how precise every tilt of her head was. She looked great in everything.

“Cut!” the photographer said out loud. “That’s beautiful, everyone! Let’s take a break and reset the lighting for the next setup.”

Karina pushed herself up slowly, movements pretty even off camera as she soon moved with her team to her waiting room. You and Yoon-Ah followed a staff member there but stopped almost instantly when you got there. That moment, you suddenly felt Yoon-Ah’s intense turning to you from the side, sharp and intense, but she stayed silent. 

The moment you got to Karina’s waiting room, her eyes almost twitched into an eye smile as she saw you, like she hadn’t expected to see you today but was definitely glad you came. Then it was gone as she quickly blinked and turned to her staff member to say something about her makeup. Next to you, Yoon-Ah shifted her weight and crossed her arms.

“You’re staring...”

“What?”

“I said…” her tone got low. “I said you’re staring, sajang-nim.”

"No, I'm not." you raised an eyebrow, confused.

"Yes, you were."

"Okay...? I'm gonna go say hi to her then."

Karina’s gaze flicked to as you approached, her expression turned softer before flashing you a gentle smile.

“Hi, Karina-ssi.” you bowed politely, extending the bouquet toward her with both hands. 

“Ah- hi, sajang-nim.” she smiled brightly, standing up quickly to bow back. “It’s really great to see you here today.”

“You’ve been working so hard. I honestly still can’t believe our company landed a deal with you.”

“No, no. It’s really my honour. Thank you so much, sajang-nim.” she smiled looking down at the bouquet, cheeks dusted with light pink. “But I think your clothing just makes me look good, sajang-nim. I really love your designs.”

“No, really. You look really beautiful, like AI. It’s… uh, I can't even describe, honestly.”

Karina laughed quietly as she swayed side to side slightly.  “You shouldn’t say things like that so casually, sajang-nim.”

“I’m only just saying the truth, Karina-ssi.”

The two of you fell into an easy conversation like always as the staff stepped out one by one. You were no strangers to each other, having talked a few times before at some events before she modeled for your company. 

“I’m actually a big fan of aespa.” you admitted shyly. “Have been for a while.”

Karina lit up, genuine as she tiptoed slightly at the mention of it. “Really?”

What started as casual pleasantries stretched out into a few minutes of relaxed, uninterrupted talking. She laughed when you made dumb jokes, you smiled when she said the jacket you designed actually made her feel cooler than she actually was. 

In the middle of it, Karina’s eyes flicked around the room subtly and the remaining of her staff spread out naturally. You were slightly confused at first with how silent the room’d turned but still concentrated on Karina as she stepped closer, her voice dropping so low to make sure that only you could hear. She gently tiptoed up, her perfume finally arrived at your nose.

From a small distance, a certain someone was watching. Yoon-Ah stood just far enough not to hear a word but close enough to see everything. The way Karina smiled up at you, the way you looked back - relaxed, flattered and warm. The way she suddenly handed you her phone so suddenly for some reason. Your secretary didn't move and just stood there, rooted to the floor with fists clenched slightly tigher than usual that her knuckles almost went white. And Karina hadn’t even crossed any lines. She wasn’t being arrogant. She was sweet, polite, even shy. 

She wasn't jealous. No, you and Yoon-Ah weren't a thing. But why did it feel like she was being left behind? She wondered if this was her fault for pulling you in just close enough to only push you away whenever she wanted to? Were you trying to get back at her for what’d happened in the car? That's the first pay back she'd seen from you, ever since this whole 'thing' started. And maybe it affected her more than she'd ever admitted.

Whatever it was, she absolutely despised it. You, obviously, had no idea what Yoon-Ah was thinking, or that she was even looking. You were still dazed, trying to process reality. Now, Yoon-Ah’d had enough. She tried to wait for the heat in her chest to settle, her nails dug crescent moons into her palm but her expressions stayed calm. With steady steps, she approached, heels clicking softly against the studio floor. 

“Photos together for our social media, sajang-nim.”

You turned at the sound of her voice, startled. Karina straightened too, her smile still lingering but a teeny bit more cautious now. Yoon-Ah didn’t even glance at Karina. Her eyes were only on you. And her smile? Impeccable. Cold.

There was a distinct shift in the air, one only Yoon-Ah seemed to feel. Karina stood a little too close to you during the photos, her arm brushing yours once or twice. She laughed softly as she posed with the bouquet you’d given her earlier. Every moment made Yoon-Ah’s inside burn even more with something strange she refused to admit.

Karina eventually returned to her photoshoot, her gaze drifting toward you a few more times before the set moved on. You and Yoon-Ah stayed about thirty minutes longer, exchanging a few words with staff, pretending nothing had shifted. When it was time to leave, Yoon-Ah didn’t wait for you like she always did. She instantly turned and marched outside toward the car without a word, heels clicking furiously against the ground. You watched her from behind, already putting the pieces together in your head.

She reached the car first and didn’t wait for you to open the door for her like usual. Nope, she wasn’t that patient now. Instead, she yanked the door open herself and climbed in, slamming it shut with enough force to make someone passing by flinched. You sighed quietly and walked to the car with a smile. Slipping into the driver’s seat, you shut the door with far less drama than she had. The engine hummed to life, but for a moment, you didn’t even touch the steering wheel. 

“You okay?”

Her arms were crossed, eyes fixed stubbornly out the window. Her silence said more than words could. You let the question hang there and stop a small laugh that was threatening to escape your lips.

“You look cute when you’re jealous.”

“I believe our schedule for the day is done, sajang-nim. Please drive me home.”

That made you smile wider, tilting your head just slightly so that you could annoy her a little more. Never too late for a little revenge.

“Please take me home, sajang-nim. Thank you.” she repeated, this time with even her tone lower and sharper.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You kept your eyes on the road at first, but you couldn’t help but smile just a little. Your grip on the steering wheel loosened as the pieces fell in place. You glanced sideways before looking ahead again. Maybe you’d understood part of the answer to the question you’d been asking yourself all these months:

What’s wrong with secretary Seol?

──────⋆⋅⋆ ──────

[ducktoo]

Farewell my First

Aespa's Karina x M!Reader

Note: I have joined the meta. Can't believe I'm starting my first fic after 2k with a Rina fic lol.

Ok, but seriously, special shoutout to @azelfty for the plot suggestion (it was so good that I have to write it), and @valentinedrifter for beta reading <3

And also listen to Farewell my First by TripleS too.

tw: melodrama.

(11.7k words)

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

Just a slow, exhausted exhale through your nose as the plane shudders again and your headache pulses in protest.

Of course.

Fifteen hours in economy. Middle seat. Paid with possibly all your savings and more. Knees wedged between a metal tray table and the unforgiving spin of the seat in front of you. The guy on your left has annexed half your armrest, while the woman on your right snores like she is in her own place an hour into the flight (and also slowly leaning into your shoulder ever since.)

You consider just lying on the walkway instead, because you'd have legroom there.

The seat cushion is so thin that you swear you can feel the frame underneath, and by then your lower back has given up on fighting back for comfort. Two rows up ahead, the annoying overhead light keeps on flickering at the peripheral of your tired eyes, which apparently is a signal for the plane to jolt again.

Sigh.

Why did you pick Korea again? There were easier places to disappear to, like Thailand or Vietnam with all the foods to eat, cultures to see, and places with history that is not your own.

Well, you clearly didn't think that far when booking the ticket.

Anyway, another dip seems like enough cue for the fasten seatbelt sign to chime (no one is standing anyway.), and you are already strapped in all directions. Good thing your hand can still reach down to your pocket for the phone. Of course, no signal — just you and the sweet ass fifteen hours of recycled air.

So the camera roll it is.

You thumb scrolls lazily — dinner you had last night, a building façade that you saved to show to your boss later, a random rock layout in a garden, the pigeon chilling on your window sill. 

And then there’s Jimin. 

You stop at a particular old photo of her back in 2010 — short hair, bare face, sitting cross-legged on your apartment floor, holding your mirrorless camera that you kept telling her to not touch it (it cost you 8 months' worth of allowance saving.) The conversation still lingers in your head, with how whiny that tomboy was.

"I don't get it," she squints through the viewfinder. "Why does it look worse when I touch it?"

"Because you're touching it."

"I have to touch it." "Not like that what the fuck."

You scroll past them now, somehow never delete them.

The plane jolts again, harder this time. The sleeping woman's head knocks against you, but your quick reflex tilt your shoulder and lift her head up so that she falls back upright without waking.

Apparently, that was amusing enough for you to let out a small chuckle — the same dry sound you made in the park where Jimin screamed like a banshee when learning to ride a bike.

Oh right, here's the video: the park near your high school that day was busier than you expected. Students draped across the grass with textbooks they definitely weren’t reading, couples sharing headphones, a few overachievers holding impromptu study circles, and someone near the food stall insisting their guitar cover of “California Gurls” would change lives.

And then there was you adjusting the rental bike seat, and a certain nervous Jimin stood beside you quivering — helmet strapped tight, hands holding the camera with such pseudo-confidence, and her brows furrowed. She may be pretending to be an athlete, but in reality, she just needed to pedal twenty metres.

“Alright,” you said, patting the seat. “Rule one: don’t panic. Rule two: stay balance. Rule three—”

“Don’t panic again?” she interrupted, lips twitching.

You gave her a flat look. “No. Rule three is don’t make me look stupid in public.”

“…Not ‘be stupid’ but ‘not make you stupid’?”

"Yes, also why are you holding the camera?"

"For you to record my success."

"Bitch, you haven't even moved." "Confidence is key."

“No,” you corrected. “Balance is key. Rule 2. Confidence is what you’ll lose in about ten seconds.”

"Sure right. I got this, easy!"

She did not.

“YAAHHHHHHHHHH—!”

Second attempt: the camera is propped on a bench nearby that (miraculously) got you two in sight. You jogged beside her and hand gripped the back of the seat. She pedalled this time with such wobble and instability. Her breathing is no better — out of context, people will think she's on the last leg of the triathlon. For three seconds, her stance was fine…until she steered directly into a bush.

The video ends here, and you don't remember much of what happened afterwards. It’s been seven years ever since you left (Jeesus, fucking christ. It’s 2017 now.), but you don't delve further to it and lock your phone.

Sigh. Bundang. Korea. Hopefully not meeting Jimin right now, and hopefully the visit will be simple.

You close your eyes again as the plane rattles once more.

-

The headache still continues, and it doesn't go away when you spot Jimin from afar before she spots you. (Aw shuck.)

One thing you remember about Yoo Jimin is that she likes to show off. Because look at that girl leaning against a pillar near Arrivals with her cap low, mask pulled down under her chin, and scrolling through her phone. Oh, and there’s a black SUV parked illegally not too far from the curb. Hazard lights blinking too. Mhm. She is definitely showing off that new car, for sure.

Ok so, your first thought is: how the fuck she knows you're coming today? You told virtually no one.

And then your second thought comes immediately: ah, Mom and Dad.

Yeah, your family and hers have always been like that since moving to the neighbourhood — occasional overlapping dinners, the mothers going groceries together, the fathers bonding over oil leaks and DIY sink repairs, and gossip bounds to pass around. This time? No different — they told her, and she volunteers to pick you up. Well, at least it's better than grabbing Uber with a random driver. No point complaining then, you just adjust the strap of your backpack, hand grabbing the suitcase, and walking towards her.

She looks up.

And her face lights up like those episodes of Shin-chan she never outgrew. She pushes off the pillar and waves both arms above her head, greeting you as if you just found a solution for homelessness (A big problem to solve as a future architect). 

And you resist the urge to turn sideways, preparing to sleep on the street instead. Ah shit that sounds bad, but to refute, you don't hate her — she's been your best friend since the age you both discovered that concrete hurts when you fall. (on the head, because Jimin,)

But that — ugh, fucking hell — is exactly why she's the last person you really want to see right now.

Of all the same-age friends you know, Jimin's the only one who stayed up with you on video calls, listening to you when you two were studying for the CSAT. The one who also has a high chance of accepting the scholarship, yet she said "You'll obviously get it." The one who proudly told anyone who would listen that you were pursuing a top-tier PhD overseas. At a university she once admitted she wished she could attend.

And now…Sigh. Maybe not yet. You're too tired for that conversation.

You drag your suitcase towards her, and up close, and she looks…different. Well, longer hair, for one, but more than that, time actually did its job.

The town used to call her the wild child who unapologetically dragged you into the mud, who climbed trees in oversized shorts and punched your arm for no reason whenever you two sat on a bench in front of the ice cream shop. Yeah, all those memories mean jack shit when looking at her right now — fitted jeans, cropped shirt, and baggy jacket, straight posture like a model, long hair falling down neatly. (You look around to make sure there aren't any idol paparazzi around.)

Speaking of the melon in the room, yeah of course you notice. Not that hard when strangers glance at her twice, and how her curve fills out clothes that makes you forget how she once ate dirt just for a dare.

"What?" Ah shit, she catches you looking. "I look good, yeah?"

"…sure."

"C'mon, be more enthusiastic for me! I've been working out."

"I can tell."

She beams brightly upon hearing the exact validation she was fishing for. "Cool, right? Pilate and good styling. Airport fashion is very important."

"Bitch, last time we called, you were in a public park looking like a bozo."

"Whatever." She slaps your shoulder playfully before grabbing your suitcase handle from you. "You look more homeless now than I am."

You glance down at the hoodie you have been wearing since moving aboard, and the-true-definition-of-comfy trackpants. "I flew here for 15 hours. Almost dying in Economy."

"…Skill issue." "Fuck you."

(You almost smile. Almost.)

She yaps the entire walk to the parking lot — the everlasting traffic, the constant honk when she drives at 20km/h when looking for parking space, how she parallel parked perfectly on the first try, and whatever rambling nonsense Jimin has on the back of her seat. It's easier to let her voice wash over you like a radio on a Sunday morning.

In the car, she adjusts the rearview mirror slightly, presumedly to check herself out. A subtle hair flip and a quick lip gloss touch-up.

"You're staring, sleepyhead." Oh, oops. Must've subconsciously staring at her.

"I'm not." "You are."

"Just thinking how much you've changed." "For the better?"

"…" You pinched your brows.

-

The city lights blur past the window as the car merges to the highway, and the night air outside Incheon is colder than you expected. Or maybe you're just tired enough to feel every little  annoying detail — the chill against the glass, growl of the engine, reflection of the lights glares, and the weight of what's gnawing at you inside sitting heavily in your heart.

But…still awake enough to register the fact that Yoo Jimin is driving with one hand on the wheel (like a self-proclaimed cool adult she has always wanted), the other tapping lighting against her thigh to some song on the radio. It's a far cry from the same girl a few years back cowering in her room and chewing her lip raw over a driving test the next morning.

“How’s living abroad like?”

“Uh…” Your eyes are still closed. “It feels like it takes all of my life saving just to survive for a week.”

“Oh come on…that PhD of yours can afford you some fine things in life, amirite?”

“...Sure.” And you sink down further to your seat. “You can say that.”

"Ok then, show off. How long are you gonna be here?"

"Seven days."

"That's short, what the heck?" Her voice drops slightly.

"It's enough for a rest."

"Hell the fuck it is!" Jimin yelps. "You don't have enough time to go to Seoul for a small trip! Checking out the cute coffee shops in the morning and the fun bars at night! You're missing out!"

Enjoying Korea is the last thing you think you deserve to have, but let’s not say it out loud. Instead: "Peace and quiet is enough for me, really."

She glances at you, studying your expression for a moment. And then she slowly nods and looks back at the road.

"Well lucky for you, I'm also free for 7 days."

You hum. "Why? What are you up to? Did your firm give you a vacation?”

“Sorta? I do use my PTO for a few days too. Looks like my work was significant enough for my boss to let me chill.”

“Well that’s nice. How are you going to spend them?”

"Well, I gotta hang out with my tired best friend before I get married, of course."

“Ah sure sure…wai—”

It does take you a few seconds to register, and when you do, you have never gotten up upright than you ever have in your life. "The fuck what now?" And that seems to be the reaction she wants from you. (Clearly satisfied, she is.)

"Yeah, I am getting married."

…Right, so where is the punchline?

"And I'm being legit."

Ok, there isn't one. Damn. Your brain cycles through possibilities as if you're eligible to review the unfortunate guys who get charmed by her. Which poor idiot signed up for that without knowing the boogers she—

Anyway, you lean back to your seat. "Ok then."

"That's it?" "The fuck you want me to say?"

"I don't know, be happy for me?" "Ok fine, congrats."

"That's so dry." "Bitch, you announced it like a Friday morning."

"Well, it's technically Frid—" "Don't even, Yoo Jimin."

She huffs. "You're not even surprised?"

"No, I was." "Was?"

"…yeah." You clear your throat.

She narrows her eyes. "Bitch, you sat up like someone zapped you."

"It's a reflex." "Yeah, reflex. Sure."

"You say insane things all the time. My body reacts before my brain does."

She lets out a loud laugh. "You're so mean!"

You look out to the window, ignoring the small smile at the corner of your lips, and the churning stomach that paradoxically feels like it's tied in knots.

"Do I know this guy? Also, is he fine with you hanging out with me like this?"

"What?” She teases. "Are you curious?"

"Concerned."

"For him?" "Damn right. Now answer the question."

And Jimin laughs again. Gosh, this is going to happen for the rest of the trip, isn't it?

-

Apparently yes.

And it starts with the next day when she unapologetically drags you out of the couch you crashed out of exhaustion. So much for getting used to jet lag. Also, couldn't she wake you up with something else rather than a pillow whacking to your face?

"Wake the fuck up, bestie!"

You groan into the couch cushion. The light bleeds in through the half-open blinds and cuts across the living room in pale strips. Your phone has been running off with alarms that you set it up every 15 minutes out of habit — years of early classes, work shifts, and other things.

None of them compare to Jimin.

"Wake upppppp!"

You begrudgingly peel one eye open (not without voicing out your disdain with a groan) and see Jimin hovering above you. A far cry from the show off girl last night, her hair is messy, wearing the oversized sport uniform T-shirt slipping off one shoulder that clearly has been overworn (she stole this shirt from you one time she forgot to bring it.)

"Let's go hang out today!"

"Ugh…what time is it…?"

"It's morning time!" "One, that is a terrible pun. And two, that is not a time."

She nudges your knee with her foot. “Get up.” 

“Is this how you wake him up too?” “No, just you.”

You drag a hand down your face, and finally feel the ache in your neck from sleeping on her couch. The blanket she forced on you last night is twisted around your waist. At least the caveat is that her apartment does smell nice — a faint of fabric softener and the aroma of something orange(?) that she sprays.

Maybe it is a good thing that she refuses to let you book a motel. Also, your parents are out of town, so staying at their place alone would’ve been… too quiet. ("You don't have a space." “You can sleep on the couch.” “It’s better than a motel, I paid top money for this couch”) Ugh, her reasoning is still scary and effective as before.

You check your phone. She grins too brightly for 8 a.m.

"Ok, ok, fine." You sigh. "Where are we going?"

-

Yeah, if you still have your free will to run (and if she wasn't your best friend), you definitely would've gone somewhere else but Yuldong Park.

(Why. On Saturday. Ugh.)

Ok, the park does (mostly) nothing wrong — it still looks the same as years ago, with the wide blue open sky and the lake that reflects it, the paved walking paths under the luscious and green canopy where people are walking. Some are couples holding hands, some walking with dogs, and kids running around without a care. It’s a welcome noise for sure, a far cry from living alone in your modest apartment where the loudest thing most nights was the hum of your refrigerator and your own thoughts.

The thing the park does wrong, however, is that stupid motherfucking bungee tower that stands there like an evil's lair.

Your stomach squeezes inwards more and more as Jimin parks. Unlike you, who roll off the chair like a slug, she hops out like she's arriving at Lotte Park.

"Stop being a pussy and come on!" Jimin laughs.

It's actually really nice and sunny, but you feel hyper fixated to the cold air that sting your nose, to the wind brushing against your ears, and the very audible creak when someone jumps that followed by the snaps and recoils of the elastic cord (you're probably just being a bitch, but it is that scary!)

"I am not being a pussy." Yep, totally. You're wearing long sleeves and trackpants.

"You definitely were back then." She reminds you now. "You were literally shaking."

"I did not."

"You were praying."

"I don't pray." "You did that day."

You glare at her.

She’s wearing fitted black leggings and a cropped athletic jacket today. Her hair tied high, and sunglasses resting on top of her head. She looks like she was born for this. A little reminder again for those at the back — you're wearing long sleeves and trackpants. Good to know that air resistance will (maybe) do its job. 

She looks genuinely happy. “C’mon! Smile, dummy. It’s our hang out time!” Because you’re here.

Truthfully…you tell yourself you don’t deserve to smile. 

Not right now. 

You shouldn’t be here pretending everything is fine. Hell, you shouldn’t be fleeing back to Korea right now. You shouldn’t get to stand under a blue sky like nothing cracked inside you months ago, when you hand in your drop out forms.

But she keeps on tugging your sleeve with her wide grin. “Let’s go!” And you couldn’t help but momentarily forget the demons in your head.

Because you just found your impending doom,  where the climb up stairs feels endless. Each metal step clangs under your weight. The higher you go, the louder the wind gets, the canopy becomes a blanket of green, and the lake shrinks beneath you. Only halfway up, and your palms are pooling with sweat. Holy shit, yeah, maybe this is your punishment.

"Ya, are you okay?"

See, that should've been your cue to belt out at her and demand to just go back down to the ground. You could admit that you don’t feel steady in more ways than one. But a part of you screams: Things in life have already gone wrong. What else can be worse than that?

"No, I'm fine. Let's…let’s just do it."

You're totally not fine when you finally reach the platform. The open air hits you fully. Nothing between you and the drop but a staff member, the railings and trust issues.

"Holy—" Jimin walks straight to the edge and leans over casually. "It's higher than I remember."

"Don't fucking lean, damn it."

"You still scared?" "Bitch, of course!"

You need a distraction, quick! Uh…ok, the I-beam is a good choice of material for a non-habitable structure like this tower. At least it won't fall over with adequate support. What else..oh, painting it blue is pretty nice — hopefully it was painted with fire-resistant and rust-resistant coating. And uhh…oh, the wind is a bit nicer now, with how it presses her jacket against her body, and the fitted fabric does absolutely nothing to minimise her well-endowed shape.

…ok, maybe too much distraction. "…You, of all people, should not jump."

"Eh? Why?" "It's inappropriate."

"Huh? How?"

"You're…" you gesture vaguely at her chest. "…overqualified for high-impact sports."

A crow caw from afar. And her eyebrows lift.

"Did living aboard make you a perv?" "No! I'm just— don't think that way, I'm being concerned about you."

She steps closer and slaps your back hard, and you nearly lurch forward toward the railing. "You could've said I have a nice body."

"Like I said, I am not a perv. And may I remind you that you are getting married soon?" She was about to retort back when the staff called her to strap in. (Wait, did she just sigh?) And of course, like before, she gives no hesitation nor visible nerves (or none at all) as Jimin steps into the harness like her usual Monday.

You watched her from behind stepping towards the edge. Steady. Calm. And annoyingly fearless. (Don't cue the song.) The countdown starts: Three, two, one. And she jumps with a child's enthusiasm.

Your heart spikes violently when her body drops out of sight, and quickly rushes to the edge before you can stop yourself. The cord stretches, snapping tight. She rebounds upward, hair flying, laughing mid-air like gravity is optional, followed by a loud "WOOOOOOOOO!"

Of course she is fine. She's flushed and glowing when they pull her back up. "Gosh, that was so fucking fun."

She turns to you. "Your turn."

Oh boy.

Unlike the fearless Jimin, it takes all of your courage and self-chanting to step toward the harness. Your limbs feel strangely disconnected as the staff strap you in tight around your ankles, then waist. An extra pull to the strap just to be secure, and even the wedgie doesn't make your fear go away (well, it sort of does.)

At the corner of your eyes, Jimin has both her hands into fists and cheers for you. Her pout, at least, makes you forget about the situation for a bit. Finally gaining control of your breathing, you step toward the edge.

You look down.

Ah shit, it's all coming back now.

The lake looks distant. The blanket of green canopy looks even more like one colour of green like when the rendering is on 200p. And just like the slow ass render, you freeze on the spot.

You quickly snap out of it when Jimin cheers loudly. "YOU GOT THIS, YOU COWARD! THIS SHOULDN'T BE AS HARD AS YOUR PHD!"

You hate that your pride reacts before your fear. Nodding once, you just step off the platform. But was it really a cheer when she just called you a cow—

The world drops violently and, "HOLY SHIT IT'S GOING DOWN SO FAST, FUCK!!!! YOO JIMIN, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!"

Your stomach lurches upward into your throat. The wind roars past your ears so loud it drowns everything else. And your hands clench instinctively to the safety strap. Your mouth goes wild with a mantra of cry for help. 

(And you don’t realise it, but the demons haven’t gone back…yet..)

"OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH FUCKIN' WHY IS IT SO TA— WHAT THE FU—"

Admittingly, it was funny when you think back, even more so when the cord catches and your body just jerks upward. If Jimin is fearless, you are just weightless. Like a fish getting pulled up to the boat when the staff haul you back up to the platform.

Ok, legs? Shaky, but still here. Arm? Still here. Head? A bit dazed but still here. Ok, sick. You're alive.

Jimin just cackles at the recording when you walk toward her. And instead of feeling annoyed, your heart beats erratically at hearing how full her laugh is. Well, you do, even if it feels temporary, and even if the demon of guilt slowly creeps back.

You hope the tower still stays up if you decide to come back.

-

From Wikipedia:

Yuldong Park had a bungee jumping tower that was 45 metres (148 ft) tall, but operations stopped around 2018, and it was taken down at the end of 2024.

-

Bold of you to assume she doesn't whack your face again the next day. This time at your belly.

You fold in half on instinct, air punching out of your lungs like she just drop-kicked you off a cliff. (Wait, don't give her that idea, she might do it.)

"You fucking piece of sh—"

"Language, Mr. Foreigner-ish." Jimin stands over you, one hand holding the pillow, the other holding the edge of the blanket she just ripped off your body. "Get up."

You groan and turn your face deeper into the couch cushion. And yes, it still ruins your neck even after she claims (multiple times) that it's "orthopedic". Well, she can find those orthopedic(k)-heads and whack them instead.

"What time is it…?"

"Time for some soul-cleansing."

"I didn't sin."

"And I'm not either, but here I am."

Fair.

You drag a hand over your face. It feels like a repeat of yesterday — room flooded with late-morning light, half-drawn curtains, pale streaks of lighting peeking through; something citrusy is in the air, she sprayed that damn mist again.

Oh, and she's already dressed. Long skirt, light blouse, her long hair tied back at the nape of her neck, minimal makeup, glossy lips.

"…Didn't you say you're taking days off? Sudden new clients you have to meet? I thought you said that the project is doing ok? Or going somewhere with your fiance? I need a break from your annoying ass right now."

"…it's Sunday church, you dunce."

"…No." "Yes."

"Why?" "My fiance is busy with work today, so I’m dragging you instead.”

"But I stopped." "Well, just go look at the architecture there or something."

"But I want to slee—" "And I'm leading Bible study today."

2 for 2, you jolted up again, this time from your couch. "You?"

"Yes."

"You? Leading?" "Yes." A little sweeter this time, she is.

"The fuck you do?" "Nothing?"

"Bro, that is worse."

-

After being in the practice since you started your Master's, you and Jimin have come to appreciate how cool the Bundang Church is.

You thought you would get sick of the theatre-like layout after 5 years of attending lectures back when you're still studying for your Bachelors, but you have to admit, it works. The space rises in tiers like an auditorium, and there is a central stage lit with fluorescent lights and a giant projectile screen at the back. The seating arcs gentling toward the stage, and it feels expansive, almost dramatic, but not cold. There’s something truly oddly homely about it.

Or maybe that’s just nostalgia playing tricks on you.

It's one of the largest Roman Catholic buildings on the Asian continent (Jimin boasted one time through a call), yet…it doesn't overwhelm you. It's a mix of modern and Gothic, so none of the stained glasses or intricated walls and columns, but just clean structural lines and brick walls—

Ah. So much for a break after that entire disaster of a life implosion.

"Dummy, we're not at a site visit." Jimin nudges your side.

"No, just wondering how tall the auditorium is." What a try hard."

Well, props to her for pointing out a cause why you're back here. "Anyway, where is the session?"

"On the stage. It's a small group anyway."

"Yeah, like you would present for a full house." "Hey! I am capable!"

Sure, sure. Back then, you two used to sit in the third row from the back (after sneaking away from the parents who sat near the front), whispering nonsense and timing how long Father would stretch the speech. You’d both pretend to bow your heads while actually passing notes. And she once bet you five thousand won that she could recite the whole Psalm section faster.

She lost.

Now she's walking to the stage like she owns it, and your curiosity rises through the roof. (The auditorium is 9m in height. Nice.) She looks like she has a great standing in the society, and honestly, good for her, truly. You’re really proud of what she has worked herself to be.

You? Pretty much fucked. 

Your casual student assistant job for a tyrant shitshow of an architectural firm is going nowhere, you got no proper standing in life like Jimin does, everyday is just you chasing the bills living in a foreign country by yourself, every day chasing deadlines that don’t even carry your name on the credits. Sometimes (or all the time you two call each other) you do wonder if Jimin thrives in your predicament better than you.

(With her optimism? Most likely.)

"Anyway, please address me as Katarina while in session."

…sure. Whatever floats her boat. As long as she doesn’t start interrogating you in front of children. You thought she would have asked already. Yesterday, maybe. Or during lunch.

But she hasn’t.

That freaks you out more than anything ever.

She smooths down her sleeve, posture straightening slightly as she approaches down. There’s a confidence to her movements that didn’t exist when she was the mud-covered kid who dared you to eat dirt behind the convenience store. The main stage is already illuminated. A semicircle of chairs arranged for the kids, with a chair in the middle, presumedly for Jimin. The parents filter in with their children and exchange greetings. Huh, maybe Jimin has become a big shot here. Quite a crowd huh.

"Thank you so much for leading today, Miss Katarina." One mother gives gratitude.

"It's my pleasure, ma'am." Jimin replies with that polished smile. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. You almost applaud.

You have no intention of attending the session — you’re not twelve. And you haven’t really attended properly since you left Korea. So you linger near the aisle instead, which caught the eyes of a few parents.

"And you are…?"

"Hello." You lightly bow. "Her friend, visiting from abroad."

"Oh wow, exciting! What do you do?"

"Working for a firm."

"What field?"

"Architecture."

"Oh wow, just like Miss Katarina! You must've been making good money, right?"

“...you can say that, yes.”

“Oh! I remember you now. Miss Katarina speaks highly of you!”

“Wow, did she?”

The questions keep stacking, (Salary. Overseas life. How competitive is the field? Do you design skyscrapers? Did you get to have tea with the high class? Do you miss Korea?) and far out, it's starting to feel invasive. This shouldn't be how Jimin finds out you–

CLAP. "Ok! Ma’am, sir, I will take it from here. Thank you!"

You glance over at Jimin who is very jolly, but she's already looking in your direction as she announced, which gets the parents to finally tidy themselves up to leave. Huh, maybe Jimin has grown. There’s something annoyingly mature about her social awareness and her way of diffusing before things escalate.

Maybe you did underestimate her.

Maybe you did.

Her fiance must’ve seen this every Sunday, huh. Have to admit, you do feel quite envious of him then. (Or her, you don’t know who you truly envy.)

When the parents leave the space, the kids settle into their seats and exchange greetings, and it does remind you of times where you and Jimin sit together on the corner of the semicircle. Jimin sits on her central chair and guides them into the opening prayer.

Maybe you should pray. Mhm. Yeah, just once in a while.

What should you pray about? About your luck in a better job? Eh, you pray too much for that. About making new friends? Urm…hard to get any time for that when you keep getting overtime work. What about a lucky lotto ticket?...tempting.

Maybe just… pray for Jimin. For her upcoming marriage. For her happiness. It feels easier to wish good things for her than to ask for anything for yourself.

You lower your head.

She clears her throat, smiles. And immediately, you regret your generosity from five minutes ago.

"Yo."

You choke instantly. How the fuck none of the kids laugh at this? How long has she started praying like that? Is this what you call the Generation Gap?

“Dear Lord, thank You for bringing us here safely today…”

How the fuck she is so calm and composed?

“…and please grant patience,” she continues evenly, “especially for a certain idiot in this building who thinks I won’t see him laughing.”

You don't realise a wheeze escape from you before she points it out.

Well that is a jab, Yoo Jimin. Unbelievable.

(Maybe coming back to Korea is not so bad, after all.)

-

Today’s session: Sincerity and Guilt

The aim of our charge is love that issues from a pure heart and a good conscience and a sincere faith.

1 Timothy 1:5, New Testament, 378.

For my iniquities have gone over my head; like a heavy burden, they are too heavy for me.

Psalm 38:4, New Testament, 500.

-

You wake up to the hum of the engine and the faint vibration of tires rolling over the road. Wait, hold the fuck up — this is not Jimin's couch. Well, the stiffness when you wake up is still there, the scent of orange mist is still here (why the hell does she have this mist sprayer everywhere), and Yoo Jimin is here. Phew.

Well, you're in the passenger seat, and she's driving. Not phew.

Hair tied up in a low twin bun, sunglasses sit on her nose despite the sun barely being fully up. Just like before, one hand rests confidently on the steering wheel, while the other taps absentmindedly against it in rhythm with the music playing low from the speakers. Safe to say, she's more awake than you right now.

You squint at the windshield, and trees blur past you. "Where the fuck are we…"

She glances at you, and her lips fail to contain her amusement. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

"What time is it?" "It's…6."

"A.M?!" "Uhuh."

"Are you selling me off?"

"Hey, I tried to wake you up multiple times while I was packing. So this was the best next move."

"Hold up." At this point, she is skipping too many steps for you to even process. "Packing?"

She nods toward the back without taking her eyes off the road. “Camping gear.”

True to her words, there is a cooler wedged between two duffel bags. A folded tent. Fishing rods. A stack of blankets. A grocery bag filled with food. You can only stare at it speechlessly, and then back at her.

So much for having free will.

"Now," she starts quickly, already getting defensive. "Before you yell at me. Yes, you will do that, I know. I just want to maximise our time together! You have like 4 days left!"

…At least she has good intentions. Or you're just giving up arguing with her at this point — her plans sound more exciting than you just lounging around even more like a sloth. So you just sink back to the seat and close your eyes again. (And also pretending to not feel the growing excitement in your chest.)

A good little manageable nap later, you open your eyes to murmurs. And then at some point, you hear her voice clearer, soft and different.

“Yeah, we’re almost there. No, he’s still asleep— Ya, you should be taking my side! I did it with good intention!”

You blink. Who is she talking to?

“This blunt idiot will just lay down on the floor all day, and that is so boring, honey!”

“Jimin,” a voice from the other side says. “Babe, the more you describe it, the more I think it’s a kidnap.”

Oh…her fiance.

Eh, let’s just close your eyes a second longer. This conversation is pretty entertaining..well it was until: “No, it’s fine. I’ll make him carry the heavy stuff. Obviously.” 

Her laugh sounds different than whenever she’s with you. Not brazen or a cackle. More…womanly. Still, it doesn't constitute the fact that she admits that you will be her porter. And far out, she notices immediately when you open your eyes. “Hey, you’re awake.”

“Of course I do, when I’m being subjected to carry all of that shit behind us.”

She lowers the volume slightly, then glances at you before speaking into the phone again. “He’s on the phone. Want to say hi?”

Your brain is definitely not ready for this.

She smacks your shoulder with her free hand while keeping the other hand on the wheel. “At least say hi. Don’t be rude.”

…She’s not wrong. “Ahem, uh…hey man, nice to meet you.”

There’s a brief, polite greeting from the other end. Friendly. Normal. Nothing threatening. Just a man you’ve never met but who apparently knows about you from your best friend. Words have been exchanged —weather, work (not telling him everything, of course), how much of a headache Jimin has been — that is a joke, and other random things.

“Nice to finally talk to you. Hopefully we get to have a can of beer together.” Oh right, and you both love Asahi Dry.

“Likewise man.” You chuckle. “Thank you for choosing Jimin.”

And it’s over.

She hangs up and smiles faintly. “See? That wasn’t hard.”

You turn back towards the windshield, and a while later, the Yuldong Park sign appears as the car passes through. She’s not dragging you back for another round of bungee jumping, right?

You turn toward her in suspicion, but before you can accuse her of attempted murder, she signals and turns into a newly paved entrance you don’t recognise.

"Why are we…" "You'll see."

Today you learn: there's a campsite now. Close to the lake, actually.

Wait, this is kinda cool, what the heck. They have large tensile shelter lining up on the gravel, neatly sectioned tent grounds clean vegetations along the road, and there's a fucking proper cabin for the toilet. Oh yeah, this is definitely not here when you left.

“This is new,” you mutter.

“Opened two years ago,” she says proudly. “I booked us a tent spot. You’re welcome.”

This is too much of a surprise for a morning. The lake greets you again with the glints under the morning sun. The air smells like wet grass and pine. Families are already setting up tents. A couple nearby struggles with poles while arguing in whispers. Everything feels so unfamiliar, and you had too many bad experiences with the unknown.

Honestly, you expected to feel guilty again for being here, and for even having a thought of enjoying this when you feel like you haven’t earned it. But Jimin looks elated, proud of this little surprise she concocted behind your back, and happy that you’re here to see it.

Maybe you can enjoy it…yeah, might as well. So you stretch when you step out of the car, spine cracking faintly. Fuck, that feels great.

"Ok, old man. Stop showing your age."

"Look at you." You point out her stretching pose. "Stop showing your age too, dummy."

She grins.

-

Camping with Jimin is exactly how you remember it back then: a fucking mess.

She insists on assembling the tent herself, but then pushes the work towards you anyway. Well, not all of it, you just unroll the fabric first and flatten it against the ground while Jimin fumbles with the poles.

"Did you check if everything's here, Jimin?" You yawn.

"Of course, duh. I'm the most meticulous girl ever."

One minute later, she's staring at two identical poles and probably forgot how they work. You can hear the mutters under her breath, rambling about what the fuck they do. You look over to find her flipping one pole around, then the other, then squinting at the instruction sheet like it owns her floor plans and a section.  "Jimin, you're practicing architecture as your career, by the way. Top of your cohort, too."

"Reading floor plans are easier than reading Ikea instructions. Be patient, this kid."

“I fear for the lawsuits coming at you.” “Shhhh.”

You crawl over and brush her shoulder, reading the instruction while taking one of the poles from her hand. "Ok, make it stand. I will do the cross support."

The pieces snap together with eases like the sound of breaking spines. Jimin, reading the cue, slides the pole through the sleeve of the tent after you finish it. Together, you lift the structure upright. The frame arches slowly, fabric stretching tight as you secure it into the ground. Your hands get dirty pressing the stakes in. Jimin struggles with one stubborn corner as she plants the stake and then — instead of using her foot — leans her entire body weight on it.

"Ya, don't just lean your melons to it." "It's an accident!"

She pushes harder. The stake finally sinks in and she nearly falls forward. You catch her by the elbow automatically, because you have always been.

She freezes, which makes you freeze. "I get that you're very excited to be productive during our 7 days, but far out, don't overexert it."

Jimin straightens immediately and brushes grasses off her knees like nothing happened. "I had it…"

"I know, I'm just telling you."

When the tent finally stands properly — the fabric fully stretched out, poles standing proudly and strong, and stable enough that it won't collapse after one touch — you both step back to admire it. It's simple, a two person tent, yet you feel more accomplished than the multiple times you have attended the work sites.

And it feels smaller than you remember.

"Not bad." Jimin starts.

"Duh, I mostly built it." "Shaddup, I put equal contributions to it."

"No, you kept leaning on the pole and almost made it collapse multiple times." You nudge her shoulder.

"Are you calling me fat?" "Now you're just twisting my words as usual."

She kicks your ankle lightly. "You didn't even deny it, perv."

"Ok, I am not a perv, and I did not say anything about your chest." "When did I say anything about chest?"

The bantering doesn't stop until the tent collapses after a pigeon lands on it.

-

About an hour later, you two finally fish.

(Let's not think about how many times the tent collapsed because one of you “accidentally” nudged a pole mid-argument.)

You walk down toward the water where the dock is, with the rods balanced on your shoulders. The lake is still calm and barely rippling. The breeze carries that clean, damp scent of freshwater and pine. It cools the sweat at the back of your neck, softens the lingering irritation from assembling the tent for the third time. Jimin, from behind, carries the basket filled with a box of bait, and some drinks. She deserves to carry the heavier stuff with all the shenanigans she caused. 

(Ok, you're not that mean. She just wants to flex her power. Her words, not yours.)

Jimin kneels first, and opens the bait box.

"You still remember how to fish?"

"Probably not." "Lovely, I can teach you again!"

"Yay. How fun." "Don't use that tone with me, mister."

You crouch beside her anyway, taking the hook between your fingers. The worm twists slightly as you thread it through. You did say you forgot, but your hands move like they never did. The motions are almost fluid, precise, steady — muscle memory sliding back into place without permission. Well, almost fluid, because your hand gets a bit sweaty with the laser-focused look from Jimin behind you.

"Jimin, you're scaring me."

"You said you forgot." She pouts.

"…maybe I am built different." "I think I got goosebumps hearing you saying slangs."

"Ok, rude."

She laughs, loudly and full. Hell, her shoulders shake a little after hearing a very corny joke — which makes your heart leap a mile again whenever she laughs. You just shove the rod towards her and sigh. "Here, now don't try to fall."

"I won't." She gets up and stretches (and with an unnecessary old man groan).

“You sound like that with him too?” you ask dryly.

“With my fiancé?” She grins. “Yes. He says I’m like a grandma.”

“He’s correct.”

“Jealous?”

“Of him? Never.” (You do.)

She walks to the edge of the dock, winding up too dramatically like there are multiple cameras around, she casts the bait.

It lands pathetically about 5 feet away.

"Lovely casting, Champion of the Lake." You clap slowly.

"Shush."

You cast yours — smoother, cleaner, and more streamlined. The line arcs perfectly into the water like the Harbour Bridge.

You can't stop the smirk on your face. "Should I teach you instead?"

"Show off, tsk." Jimin pouts. "Bet I catch one first."

"Loser cooks the fish." "And starts the fire."

The dock creaks softly. Leaves rustle. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs. The water ripples gently around the floating bobbers. Jimin hums under her breath.

“You know,” she says suddenly, eyes still on the water, “I made him try fishing once.”

You glance sideways. “And?”

“He got bored after ten minutes. Said it was too quiet.”

You huff. “Weak.”

“I told him you could sit still for hours,” she continued lightly. “Back then, at least.”

Right, back then. “Well, tell him again that I still can.”

“You competitive ass.”

And it's back to childhood again, where Jimin doesn't have a wedding at the end of the trip, and where you don't have to figure out how to tell her. Just an over-the-top competition about basically nothing, where 90% of it is Jimin rambling about her time with her fiance and ways to make it “interesting”.

It's simple.

-

The day ends with you sitting on the camping chair and sipping on hot tea while watching Jimin trying her best with the "fish on a stick". 

It was burned to fuck.

-

The next day, she decides that she refuses to accept defeat.

“You know what we haven’t done yet?” Jimin asks through a mouthful of toothpaste, words bubbling and distorted as she brushes aggressively…in public.

You’re beside her, equally half-dead, foam at the corner of your lips. “What?” you mumble, spitting and rinsing to the gravel. “Are we committing a crime now?”

"No, we're biking."

You freeze mid-wipe.

Your brain lags for a second before supplying the image: the rental bicycles lined up near the trail entrance yesterday. Rows of metal frames gleaming under the sun, and bright plastic helmets dangling off handlebars. The lake behind them looks deceptively calm and inviting.

It probably invites you to a comedy show with you and Jimin.

"You remember back then?"

"That was years ago," she spits out. "I have more practice now."

"You ram straight to the bush."

"It's not going to happen this time," She rinses her mouth again and glares at you. “Trust.”

You don’t.

Yet somehow, fifteen minutes later, you’re fastening a helmet strap under your chin like this was always the plan. Many times you have wondered at some point in life that it was a mistake to sign a lifetime contract as Yoo Jimin’s babysitter. 

The trail curves along the lake, paved smooth and wide. Morning sun filters through the trees, scattering light across the trail. Families ride past casually. An elderly couple pedals in steady paces.

Now, let's see how you both fare when it comes to biking.

You? Mount the bike easily, and push off in one fluid motion.

Jimin? Nah. Well… at least she lasts 10 more seconds before the handlebar wobbles.

“Why is it moving like this?!” she yells.

“Because you are.” “I am stable!”

She is aggressively not stable.

You circle back, riding slowly beside her now. One hand hovering near the back of her seat without actually touching it just in case. “For someone who flexes about Pilates,” you comment, “your core is suspiciously dogshit.”

"Shut up, Mr. One Try."

And just like the old video on your phone, the first few attempts sucks (First one, which is the current one: Wobble. Second one, Wobble. Third one—yeah, you know how this goes.)

By the tenth time, she's actually doing it. Her legs pedalling a bit more stable than before, her shoulders tense but very determined, and the handlebar less wobbly. You just walk behind her now and push your own bike with one hand, the other still hovering near her seat. And for a moment, it was perfect. She looked confident, focused, and you're very proud of how far she has gone since back then.

And then you finally remembered what happened after the old video cut off. 

A pigeon. Yep. A fucking pigeon.

Shot across the path, wings flapping violently, aiming straight for her face like it is fully locked in to its target.

Karina’s scream was instant, ear-splitting. “NOOOO—!”

She swerved wildly. You lunged, but oops! Too late! She toppled straight into you, and both of you crashed onto the grass in a messy heap. The bike clattered to the side, rolling away like it wanted no part of this mess.

You groaned, blinking up at the sky, only to find Karina sprawled across your chest. Her helmet knocked slightly askew, strands of hair falling into her flushed face. Her hands had fisted in your shirt on instinct, and her wide eyes were still darting around like the pigeon might swoop back for round two.

“…Are you okay?” you asked, trying very hard not to notice how close her lips were to yours (and also clenching your ass to not just laugh at her).

Her grip tightened. “I hate birds.”

Yeah, you can’t stop smiling at her. "I genuinely forgot that the great Yoo Jimin is scared of government drones."

“Shut up,” she muttered, smacking your chest lightly.

But she didn’t move.

And that was the problem. Because lying there with her weight pressing down on you, warmth seeping through your clothes, and her lashes brushing her cheeks as she blinked at you—it was too much. Way too much. She has someone waiting for her at the altar damn it, get yourself together.

You had laughed alone in your airplane seat, without knowing déjà vu works like this…except this time she's older, and so are you.

"Jimin, get up, you're crushing me."

She still doesn't get up immediately — her eyes meet yours, and there's something you can't exactly point out in her gaze, but it feels…serious.

A cyclist passes by and coughs awkwardly, which makes Jimin scramble off you so fast she almost trips again.

"Don't say anything." "Oh, I won’t."

"I will tell everyone you screamed like a bitch." "Right, I wonder who screamed again."

You sit up, rubbing the back of your head, watching her inspect the bike. At this point, Jimin will still be bad at this in the unforeseen future, and of course if you come back again, you will still be the idiot jogging behind her with your hand hovering, ready to catch her.

Look, she's pedalling aga— Ah, fucking hell, she's wobbling again. "YA, JIMIN, DON'T RUN OFF ON YOUR OWN!"

“STOP YELLING, YOU’RE DISTRACTING ME—” and she almost runs towards the lake.

-

The sun dips low behind the trees by the time you two drag yourselves back to the campsite. Your legs feel like someone replaced the bones with wet cement. Between having to chaperone Jimin who kept biking off the paths and throwing yourself off the bungee jumping tower again with her insistence (less terrifying this time, which is both impressive and concerning), your body screams to give it a break.

You collapse onto the foldable camping chair, and it is far more comfier than her couch.

“Don’t sit yet,” she says, already crouching by the fire pit with alarming enthusiasm. “Help me with the wood.”

“I deserve a break.”

“You're going to make a pretty woman do the work?”

You stare at her. “Yes.”

"You are so mean."

"Boo hoo, cry me a river, Jimin."

She ignores you and crouches by the fire pit, arranging the wood with far too much confidence for a girl who nearly crashed into a tree. You just poke at the kindling with a wooden stick that is luckily long enough for you to not get up. The campsite hums softly around you — distant giggles from another tent, the faint clinks of cookware, the crickets warming up, and the whooshing of the gentle wind from behind. The lake reflects the last streaks of oranges in the sky.

Down here, the fire glows a bright orange, and you both fall quiet. It's the first real quiet of the whole time you're with Jimin.

Just the sound of burning wood.

Jimin sits cross-legged, chin resting on her knee. Firelight paints her face in warm gold, shadows dancing along her cheekbones. Her helmet flattened her hair earlier; now it’s messy in a way that makes her look younger. (Or maybe that's just the memory creeping in now.)

She looks tired, but her smile lingers.

"This whole trip was really fun." she starts.

You watch a spark drift upward. “Mhm.” Understatement of the year.

"You, somehow, are still better at almost everything even though you said you don't remember."

You shrug, leaning back on your palms. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

She scoffs. “Boooo.”

Silence folds over you again, thicker this time. The fire pops. You focus on it because looking at her too long feels dangerous tonight. After everything — the biking, the falling, the way she laughed when you both nearly rolled down the grass, not to mention all the past few days spending your time with her — something underneath it all feels… you can't really describe it, but it's surely not the groans and complaints like you did back on the plane.

“Oh.” She reaches for her phone. “I should finally show you my fiancé’s face.”

Your heart palpitates more than you should. "O-oh, sure. Gotta see my fellow Asahi Dry fanatic."

She scrolls through her gallery, thumb hesitating for half a second before stopping. Then she turns the screen toward you. "That's my fiancé."

In the photo, they’re seated at what looks like a brunch café. Sunlight pours through wide windows. He’s leaning slightly forward, smiling. Not too wide, not cocky. Just… steady. His hand is comfortably wrapped around hers across the table.

You sigh out of relief, yet your feet keep shuffling.

"Good look, chill, subtly alcoholic like me." You hand her phone back. "Solid pick, Yoo Jimin."

"Solid?"

“What? You want ‘reinforced concrete’?”

She snorts. “You’re so annoying.” But she's smiling faintly.

You lean back on your palms, staring into the fire.

“He treats you well?” “Yeah.”

“Patient?” “Mhm.”

“Rich?”

She slaps your thigh. "Shut up, you prick."

You chuckle. "Ok, then good job. You picked well."

The words taste strange in your mouth. And you feel like she can tell the bitterness of your tone with how she doesn't respond right away, just staring at the flames instead. After a moment, she speaks again. “He’s… steady.”

You glance at her. “Sounds like he does.” Hafta admitted that.

“He doesn’t panic,” she continues quietly. “Even when things get messy. He just thinks it through. Take responsibility. Don't run.”

Ok, that’s a good man, yes.

“He’s blunt sometimes,” she adds, a faint smile forming. “But not in a bad way. Just… straightforward. And when he decides to do something, he works like crazy until it’s done. Even if it kills him.”

What the heck, please take care of your hea— wait. That’s… familiar.

“He remembers small things,” she continues. “Like what I order. Or when I’m pretending I’m not upset. And he gets annoyed when I skip meals.”

…Hey, you used to do that back during exam periods.

“He’s also not the loud type,” she says. “But when he laughs, it’s real. And when he’s scared, he still jumps anyway.”

She keeps talking, unaware — or maybe even aware. “He doesn’t show off, but he always tries to carry the heavier stuff. And when he leaves, he always promises to update me about his whereabouts to not make me worry.”

Looking at her feels like you’re going to burn instead of looking at the fire pops. This is too ridiculous — coincidences happen. There are thousands of men like that in the world, yeah? Don’t get too full of yourself.

“Well, I don’t see red flags.” Your chuckle is so awkward.

She takes a whole breath. "I thought it would feel clearer."

You refuse to look at her. "What do you mean?"

“Like I’d only see him. Only think about him. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

Right...this doesn’t sound good.

“But it’s not like that.” She laughs softly, but it doesn’t sound amused. “Every time I look at him, there’s… something in the way.”

"…having second thoughts?"

"No." She answers it too quickly. "…ok, maybe."

"Jimin, that is not good."

"No, I do love him a lot. I really do. It's just that every time I look at him, there's something in the way."

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at her, but your inside is on high alert. "In…the way?"

She turns toward you fully. "It's you."

The campsite noise feels farther away now.

“I can’t look at him properly,” she admits. “Not fully. Because part of me keeps wondering what you’re doing. What you’re thinking. Why are you here? I was genuinely confused when your parents told me you're back here. I-I mean, I’m happy that I can see you in person, of course, but why?"

You force a small scoff. “Vacation. Obviously. You’re reading too much into it.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You’re the one that is obvious.”

Your stomach drops slightly. “How so?”

“You always tell me what you’re doing. Even when you don’t want to.” Her voice is calm but steady. “But you didn’t. Not for months. Then suddenly you’re here.”

Damn it. You thought you were smooth. “I just don’t want to talk about work.”

“I know.” Her eyes don’t leave you. “But you are trying to hide it away from me.”

“Jimin,” you say, voice firmer now, “can we not?”

“No.”

“Yoo Jimin.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“Why are you really here?”

-

It was not a pleasant drive back the next day.

-

The moment you step back to her apartment, you know you have to tell her eventually, even though you have been dreading this moment since the plane took off.

After the dream, the reality follows.

You drop your bag by the entrance. It lands with a dull thud against the wooden floor. Jimin follows behind you, dragging the camping equipment in. Your body aches from five days of being outside and pretending you're still eighteen — biking, camping, falling, laughing, bungee jumping, just living life, really. But your body doesn’t get to feel any of that. Because anxiety is overwhelming you.

Jimin moves around the apartment quietly — unpacking, wiping down the cooler, hanging the key. But she doesn’t look at you.

It's fine, you tell yourself. The moment she asks, you tell yourself you will let her know, and she'll understand. Of course she will, it's your best friend.

It’s Yoo Jimin.

The dork who used to put extra candies in your pockets during exam weeks. The girl who sat beside you at cram school until 10 p.m., both of you half-dead over mock exams, then walked home under flickering streetlights. The girl who understands that when you say something blunt, it’s because you don’t know how to say it gently.

You basically live with her throughout your life. She'll get it…she has too.

(Hopefully.)

"Sit down." She says without turning around. "Have some tea."

"Ok."

She sets two mugs down on the table. Steam curls upward between you like a fragile truce. She sits next to you. Too close.

"Why…why did you really come back?"

The question hits harder than you expect. You thought you were ready. You really do. But you weren’t. And you hate how you keep trying to deflect it. “We’re doing this again?”

“Yes.”

“Jimin.”

“Don’t ‘Jimin’ me.”

You rub your face with both hands. “You’re being nosy.”

She laughs once. “Nosy? You flew back in the middle of March. Not summer. Not winter break. March. You never come back in March.”

"Impulsive decision, really."

"You're the last person to make decisions on impulse." She studies your place. "…something happened, didn't it?"

Your heart pounds once. Hard. Okay, this is it. Just say it. She’ll understand. She will understand. She will…understand…Please understand.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "I…um, left."

"Left what?" "The program."

The silence is suffocating. Her expression is not helping in clearing the tension at all - it just freezes, like her brain is buffering.

“You… what?”

“I left,” you repeat. “The PhD.”

Her fingers tighten around her mug.

“You mean… you’re on leave?” “No.”

“You’re transferring?” “No.”

“Then what does ‘left’ mean?”

Your throat feels dry. “It means I dropped out.”

The words feel smaller in the room than they did in your head. You wait, bracing yourself for the version of her you expect — the soft one, the worried one. The one who’ll reach for your hand and ask if you’re okay. Just like back then when you two stayed up revising calculus and she’d nudge your shoulder when you looked too tired, right?

Right?

"Why."

That…sounds more like an accusation than anything.

You blink. “It wasn’t…working out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I–I…” Your chest feels like it's compressing. "I was…burnt out." You begin. “My advisor changed. My project stalled. Funding got complicated. And I was swamped with working and juggling with this program. I—”

“So you quit?”

The sharpness in her tone makes you flinch. It's a far cry from your image of Jimin.

"Jimin, I didn't want to just wake up and quit," you say carefully. "It accumulated and I got  burnt out, you have to understand."

"You? Burnt out? We went through CSAT exams, come on. You’re tougher than this!" That disbelieving laugh of hers makes your stomach twist.

"Even steel bends and snaps under intense pressure!"

"You're the most stubborn person I know even when under pressure." "I’m allowed to feel overwhelmed, Jimin."

"You don't give up just like this." "Apparently, I do."

"You got a full scholarship!" Her voice rises as she stands up abruptly, like what coming out of your mouth is blasphemous. “A. Full. Scholarship! You moved overseas. You get PAID to be overseas. You had such a golden opportunity that everyone in our school couldn't stop talking about. You were doing what we talked about since we were seventeen!”

…you don't know how to feel about that outburst.

“You think I don’t know that?” you shoot back, defensive now. “You think I don’t replay that in my head every night?”

“Well, you should know that you sounds entitled as fuck right now, yeah? Then why would you throw it away?”

Ah, now you know how to feel: anger.

“I didn’t throw it away!” you snap. “It was fucking hard!”

“You didn’t try hard enough, then.”

All your efforts just got ripped in front of you. The demons finally come in full swing and douse you with the worst situation right now. "I didn't try hard enough?"

“You had everything lined up,” she continues. “You were ahead. You were building something.”

"Jimin, I was drowning in everything."

"You should've told me!"

"I don't want to make you worry!"

"Oh, so you just shut the fuck up and don't tell me?" She slams her hand to the counter. "You barely send me updates the past few months. Left me on read. And then you show up here like it's some motherfucking trip back to childhood?!"

How do you even respond to that? Well, you don’t— she just keeps on going.

“You have the past 5 days to tell me. 5 FUCKING DAYS, COME ON.” She aggressively scratches her head. “You could’ve told me the moment you landed. You could’ve told me when we went bungee jumping. You could’ve told me after church. Fucking heck, you could’ve told me during camping!”

“I just don’t know the right words to—”

“You’re just fucking running away! You telling me at the last minute RIGHT NOW is the damn proof!”

You don't realise your tears have been falling for a while now. You thought she would say: Are you okay? But instead it's: Why did you ruin it?

“If I knew you were going to do this,” she spits out, “I should’ve tried harder for that scholarship.”

“Excuse me?” Your head jerks up. “Are you serious right now?”

“You think I didn’t want it?” she fires back. “You think I didn’t want to study architecture abroad too? I worked just as hard as you.”

You know she does. So much. “You were the one who got chosen,” she says, her voice trembling. “So I told myself that’s fine. I’ll be happy for you. You’ll go. I’ll stay. I’ll build my life here, and let you know that I'm fine, that I can stand up after the loss of my dream."

She looks at you directly. "I fucking lived through you, wishing that it was me."

The confession makes your stomach twist.

“Every update you sent — your studio projects, your professors, your exhibitions that you helped, all the contributions for your firm — I was so damn proud of you,” she continues. “I bragged about you. I told people you were brilliant. I was seriously your biggest supporter when people shit talk about you.”

Your throat burns.

"I fucking loved that about you," her voice becomes more ragged. “Your focus. Your drive. How you're standing up to yourself. Even when you were blunt and impossible.”

Loved. Past tense.

“And now you’re telling me you just… gave up?”

Something inside you cracks. “Are you stubborn? I didn’t give up!” you shout. “I was exhausted! I was alone there! Do you know what that’s like?!”

“And I wasn’t alone here?” she fires back.

“Hell the fuck no?! At least you had people! Your family, my family, your friends, our friends!” you argue. “I had no one over there. I had to learn English by myself. I had to adapt to a new culture. I had to get used to new neighbourhood. I couldn’t eat my childhood food on days I crave them. Everyone is smarter and more competitive than me. The professors didn't give a shit if I got no sleep before critic days.”

"Again, you could've told me!"

"And again, I don't want you to see me failing!"

"It's far better than you crawling back like a bitch right now!"

“A BITCH?” your bare feeling spills out. “I missed sleep. I missed hang outs. I worked like a fucking dog. I studied like a fucking madman. I fucking clean the garbage room of the kitchen to get minimum wage. I had panic attacks in studio bathrooms. I lived with eating only one meal at a time. I cry in the corner of the train and feel so fucking embarrassed when stranger asked if I need help!”

She freezes slightly, but she doesn’t soften.

“And you still walked away. You think I don't have it tough? It's just life!”

"You can't just say that…" You wipe your tears. "Even I can break down under intense expectations too!"

“So you drop everything? Just like that?”

“Have you not paying att— It wasn’t ‘just like that.’”

“It looks like that to me!”

Silence crashes down, and then she says it. “I was wondering the whole week if I should introduce you to him in person. But I guess I don’t have to.”

“What?” “My fiance.”

“Why don't you have to?” “I’m too ashamed to.”

The word stuns you. “...Ashamed?”

“Yes. Ashamed to put you in the same room.” “Why the hell would you be ashamed?”

“Because he’s—” She stops. Swallows. “Because he’s everything you’re supposed to be.”

The air sucks out of you. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m being serious.”

“Wow, so you married him because he’s successful,” 

“That’s not—don’t twist my words.”

“You married him because he’s stable, didn’t break, and didn’t disappoint you.”

“Stop.”

“Because he’s me,” you continue, laughing in disbelief, “just more successful. Wow, how shallow, Yoo Jimin.”

“Shut it!”

“You couldn’t have me becoming a failure, right? You fucking show off. I should’ve known that habit hasn’t died out yet.” you push. “You need to keep your face in society, so you found a replacement.”

Her face drains of color. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you laugh bitterly. “You said it yourself. You lived through me. And when I fell short of your dream, you needed someone else to project it onto.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Good that you fucking realise it! Then stop living your life through me!” you shout. “Stop tying your happiness to what I achieve. Stop measuring your own worth against mine!”

The silence is pregnant.

“You don’t get to decide what my marriage is,” she says, trembling.

“And YOU don’t get to decide what my breaking point is.”

She looks at you like she doesn’t recognize you. “I miss the 5 minutes when I don’t know how you’re...like this.”

What…’like this?’  “You’re embarrassed of me, huh.”

She doesn’t deny it, nor try to hide it either.

“You built your life here,” you continue, voice hollow. “Good. I’m proud of you. But stop treating me like a trophy.”

“Oh I'm sure I will. Maybe now I can finally focus on getting married,” she says quietly, “knowing you’re not who I thought you were.”

“How could you…” That hurts. That hurts more than anything else she's said.

You stare at her dead straight. You scream for comfort, you scream for understanding. It's the only reason why you fly back to Korea — knowing that Jimin, of all people, will be empathetic to your struggles living alone. The first lesson of being an architect is to be empathetic right?

Instead, you feel judged and small, and the world around you feels so..shallow.

"You know what, just— get out."

You blink. “Jimin—”

“Get out.” She’s shaking now. “I can’t look at you right now.”

“Are y—” You stand there for a second longer than you should. Waiting. For her to take it back. For her to soften.

She doesn’t. And suddenly you don’t know what is familiar to you anymore.

“Fine.”

What else can you say, or do really, except just grab your clothes from the coffee table? Hastily shove them into your luggage without folding. Your hands shake. Your pride feels like shattered glass in your chest. You don't look at her again, and shut the door behind you.

If even your best friend sees you like this, who else is there…?

-

The bungee jumping tower stopped operating around a year later. 

And you vow to never look back.

[zuhaism]

⊹ ｡˚ 𓂃 ♡ BITTERSWEET FEELINGS ?!

[ navigation ]

pairing : jock!reader x meangirl!jimin

synopsis : you swore on your homies life jimins car wasnt there when you reversed. now you have to face the consequences of being jimins slave for the whole summer

a/n : IM BACK GUYS I FINISHED HIGHSCHOOL WOWOWOWOWOWO. i have a sophia fic cooking up in the oven pls give me motivation to write

the sun rays burns down on the pavement. casting shimmering heat waves off the rows of parked cars infront of the supermarket. the air smells like asphalt and faintly of gasoline. tension in the air so thick it might as well be solid and yet. none of it compares to the suffocating weight in your chest as you stare, in horror, at the very expensive, very sleek, very ruined black car in front of you.

you really didn’t mean to do it.

you swear on your mom’s life you didn’t.

but the horrifying crunch of metal against metal still rings in your ears. vibrating through your bones like the aftershock of an earthquake. your hands are frozen on the wheel, white-knuckled, and your breath catches somewhere between your ribs as you take in the undeniable dent you just gifted this beautiful, angry looking machine.

“oh. oh no. oh my god. i did not just—” you breathe out. stomach twisting in sheer horror. this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to run a quick errand. buy groceries for your mom. go home and continue your harry potter marathon. not this.

“stupid,” you mutter, smacking your forehead with the heel of your palm. “stupid, stupid, stupid—”

before you can even process your next move, the driver’s door swings open with a force that makes you flinch.

yu. fucking. jimin.

the richest kid in school. the kind of rich that makes people whisper behind her back, half in awe, half in resentment.

her dad owns the most luxurious country club in town. which of course, makes her the best golfer in school. not because she loves it, but because she was practically raised on the green. probably holding a club before she could even walk. she walks through the halls like she owns them (and maybe she does).

her head high, expression unreadable, never wasting words on people she doesn’t deem worth her time. she only keeps a tight circle. four friends. untouchable. (though one of them is your partner in chemistry , minjeong whose company you enjoy alot and you dont understand how a soft girl like her is best friends with jimin).

she gets whatever she wants. people trip over themselves to be on her good side. and when they're not? well. she makes them regret it. and right now, judging by the absolute murder in her eyes, you are very much not on her good side.

your brain short-circuits, all logical thought thrown straight out the window. your vision tunnels, your stomach flips, and before you can even register what’s happening, your head tips forward, smacking against the steering wheel.

the horn blares, loud and jarring, slicing through the summer air like a knife.

you jolt upright immediately, blinking fast, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. the world is still spinning, and yet one thing remains painfully clear. you are so, so screwed.

jimin stands there, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on her head, dark hair gleaming in the sunlight like something out of a goddamn magazine. the breeze tousles a few loose strands around her face. but her eyes dark, and burning with barely restrained fury stay locked on the damage, as if she’s willing the dent to disappear through sheer force of her eyes. her top tightly hugs her frame that almost made you pass out again

she exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. the strands slip through her fingers effortlessly, like silk, and it almost distracts you from the murder written all over her expression. almost.

“you have got to be fucking kidding me,” she seethes. voice low. deadly.

her posture is stiff, shoulders squared, one perfectly manicured hand resting on her hip. the subtle shift of her weight onto one leg makes her stance look effortless, like she owns the entire parking lot and by extension, your life.

you, on the other hand, are still frozen in your car like a complete idiot.

“get. out.”

you scramble to obey. nearly getting tangled in your seatbelt in your rush. your sneakers scrape against the pavement as you finally step out. the heat hitting you full force, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of how dry your mouth is.

“okay, okay, before you, um, say anything…, i just wanna say that i deeply regret my actions and—”

“regret?” she scoffs. taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “you wrecked my car, hotshot. i don’t care about your regret. i care about my bumper.”

your nose scrunches. “hotshot?”

jimin tilts her head, mock innocence dripping with venom. “oh, is that not what they call you?”

your jaw clenches. face heating even more than it already was under the sun. “that’s uncalled for.”

“so was your car slamming into mine,” she deadpans.

“technically,” you start, trying desperately to ease the tension, “it’s my bumper that—”

“do not finish that sentence unless you want to die in this parking lot.”

you snap your mouth shut. “right. totally fair.”

jimin pinches the bridge of her nose. her patience clearly wearing thin. the sharp inhale she takes in through her nose is slow, measured, like she’s actively resisting the urge to strangle you.

“do you even have insurance?”

your stomach sinks. “…define insurance?”

the laugh that escapes her is dry, humorless, and a little terrifying. “oh, this is gonna be fun.”

you shift awkwardly on your feet. the asphalt radiating heat through the soles of your shoes. sweat drips down the back of your neck, and you resist the urge to wipe it away, because somehow, looking nervous in front of her feels even worse than actually being nervous.

“sooo… how much are we talkin’?” you try, forcing out a bright, if not completely panicked chuckle. “like, damage-wise? i-i can pay you back. eventually. probably.”

“no. no probably.”

her voice is steel, and when you look up, her arms are crossed again, her nails tapping against her elbow. she’s still looking at you like you just ran over her childhood pet, and it’s making your stomach churn.

“you will pay me back,” she continues, voice calm, controlled. and then, a smirk, slow and wicked, curls onto her lips. “or else.”

your pulse stutters. “or else… what?”

she leans in, just slightly, and suddenly, she’s everywhere. her scent, something expensive and infuriatingly pleasant, wrapping around you like a trap. your breath catches. it’s distracting, the way she moves, the effortless confidence. the quiet kind of power that makes your stomach twist.

“or else you’ll regret ever stepping behind a wheel, sweetheart.”

your mouth goes dry.

jimin is close, too close, and the sun catches on the sharp angles of her face, highlighting the slight arch of her brow, the press of her lips, the way her eyes are practically daring you to push your luck. your fingers twitch at your sides, and you swallow. you don’t know whether to be terrified or intrigued. maybe both.

“give me your number,” the warmth of her breath ghosts over your skin, and your brain short-circuits for a second. her perfume is something delicate yet undeniably expensive, the kind that lingers, the kind that’ll stick to your clothes if you stand here any longer.

you fumble with your phone, fingers clumsy, pulse hammering against your ribs. she watches, amused, and somehow, that makes it worse.

“i’ll text you all the details so get ready for one hell of a summer”

last night, at exactly midnight, an unknown number texted you. right of the bat you knew it was her. she texted you a demented and threatening text you’ve come to expect from her.

“tmrw 9am sharp at the country club. dress accordingly. don’t be late or i’ll make sure you regret ever stepping foot on a basketball court again.”

she knew exactly what she was doing, sending that text just late enough to ruin a good night’s sleep. you woke up dreading the day ahead, and now, you’re actually living it. the frustration settles in again like a second wave, thick and inescapable. you hate the stupid country club. hate the stupid sun burning the back of your neck. hate the stupid heavy golf bag on your shoulder. and jimin

…okay, maybe hate is a strong word.

but considering how smug she looks right now. immaculate as ever in a crisp white polo that fits her perfectly, tucked into an infuriatingly short skirt that only accentuates her toned legs. and goddamn those thighs– you think she deserves at least a little bit of it.

the way the country club aesthetic should be obnoxious but somehow works flawlessly on her only adds to your growing irritation. the neatly pressed uniform, the poised stance, the effortless air of privilege. even the faintest scent of something expensive. probably a perfume that costs more than your debt clings to her like an afterthought.

it's annoying.

she doesn’t even have to try.

jimin shifts her weight slightly, rolling her shoulders back as she adjusts her golf glove with slow, deliberate movements. she does everything with an infuriating sense of ease, like she knows she’s being watched and thrives on it. her fingers flex slightly before she pulls the glove snug, and when she finally turns to look at you, there’s a flicker of something in her gaze—amusement, condescension, curiosity. all neatly wrapped in a bow of insufferable confidence.

"this is actual, real-life torture," you grumble, adjusting the strap of the golf bag for what feels like the hundredth time as you follow her across the pristine green. the weight digs into your shoulder, pressing into already-sore muscles, and you know tomorrow will be hell. "can’t you just, i don’t know, get one of the employees to do this?"

jimin doesn’t even spare you a glance as she steps onto the tee box, stretching her arms above her head in a slow, languid motion. the movement elongates her frame, revealing a glimpse of her toned stomach, muscles flexing subtly under smooth skin. your throat goes dry, warmth creeping up your neck as you try, really try, not to react. you snap your gaze toward the horizon, willing yourself to think of anything else, but the image lingers stubbornly.

jimin, of course, is fully aware. she drops her arms with an easy grace, a knowing look flickering in her eyes before she turns away, the corner of her lips curving just slightly. not quite a smirk, but something close, something taunting. she rolls her wrists, settling into position like nothing happened, like she didn’t just momentarily wreck your focus with a stretch. "the employees," she says smoothly, rolling her wrist as she grips the club, "are not in debt to me for crashing into my car."

you groan, adjusting the heavy golf bag filled with clubs on your shoulder. easing the discomfort "you are never gonna let that go, are you?"

"not until you pay me back. and at the rate you’re going, that might take a while, hotshot." her voice is as sweet as honey but edged with superiority, like she’s savoring every second of your misery.

you clench your jaw. hotshot. again.

"you have to stop calling me that," you mutter, setting the bag down next to the tee box with more force than necessary, the weight making your arms ache.

except jimin isn’t looking at the bag. she’s watching you, the way your muscles shift as you move, the barely concealed strain in your shoulders. there’s something almost delighted in her gaze, like she’s found a new source of entertainment.

"oh? why? does it bother you?" she asks, plucking a driver from the bag with an ease that only irritates you further. the way her toned arms flex with the motion doesn't help either. she knows exactly what she’s doing, and judging by the quirk of her lips, she’s enjoying every second of your discomfort.

you narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. "it’s inaccurate."

she hums, lining up her shot, an infuriating smirk ghosting over her lips. "hmm. i disagree. you think you’re hot shit on the court, don’t you?"

her stance shifts slightly, feet planting firmly into the grass as she squares her shoulders. the way she moves is calculated. each adjustment precise, deliberate. you watch as her fingers curl around the grip, her knuckles flexing slightly as she angles her wrists just so. the air around her feels different in moments like this, a sharp contrast to the casual arrogance she usually wears like a second skin.

before you can respond, she swings. smooth. effortless. perfect.

the club slices through the air with a quiet whisper, and the ball soars down the course, landing dead center on the fairway. jimin straightens, tilting her head as she finally turns to look at you, self-satisfaction radiating from every inch of her.

"well?" she asks, the challenge clear in her voice.

you blink. what was the question again?

you clear your throat, forcing your expression into something unimpressed. "eh. i’ve seen better."

jimin steps closer, and you swear there’s something different in her movements now. something looser, almost playful. she twirls the club in her hands, letting it dig into the ground after catching it again. she rests on one leg as the other twists over another and leaned onto the club. "oh? who?"

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

she smirks. "thought so."

your cheeks heat for some stupid reason, and you quickly turn to grab the golf bag. except you miscalculate the weight, and the sudden shift nearly sends you stumbling forward. you barely catch yourself, muscles straining as you regain control, arms flexing instinctively.

jimin doesn’t say anything.

which is weird. because jimin always has something snarky to say.

when you glance up, you catch her staring. her gaze flickers, just for a second, down to your arms. subtle, almost unnoticeable, but you see it. the faintest parting of her lips, the quick inhale. a hesitation she probably isn’t even aware of.

you blink.

she blinks.

and just like that, her usual sharp expression returns, like she wasn’t just caught red-handed checking you out.

"keep up, caddy," she says coolly, turning on her heel. walking ahead of you

but her voice isn’t as sharp as before. slightly wavering and breathless.

you squint at her.

that was definitely something.

you hoist the golf bag onto your shoulder with a frustrated sigh, muttering under your breath as you follow after her. "this is gonna be the worst summer of my life."

she doesn’t turn around, but you swear you see the tiniest smirk.

the day only got worse from there. as if lugging around a golf bag that felt like it was stuffed with bricks wasn’t enough, you quickly learned that being jimin’s caddy also meant serving as her personal errand runner. every time she hit a ball off-course. which, to your growing dismay, was more often than you expected. she’d wave you off with a casual, “go fetch.”

and so, you trudged through endless patches of rough, waded through ankle-deep ponds, and even had to dig through bushes that seemed personally offended by your presence. at one point, you nearly lost your footing in a muddy ditch, and when you glanced back at jimin for some semblance of pity, she was too busy taking pictures. of you.

she was documenting your suffering.

"you’re actually evil," you huffed, you grumble, wiping a streak of dirt from your cheek with the back of your hand.

jimin forces her expression into something neutral, trying not to squeal at how adorable you look with a streak of dirt near where you just rubbed. ignoring the way her pulse has picked up.

"oh, come on, hotshot. i’m giving you a real athlete’s workout,” her voice comes out smoother than she expects, she can feel a slight waver in her voice. adjusting her visor with a smile that was entirely too pleased seeing you all dirty. she watches you bend down again, muscles flexing under that stupidly tight shirt. the sun clings to your skin, highlighting every sharp dip and defined ridge of your back as you drag another golf ball out of the mud.

before she can think twice she snaps another photo and sends it away into the groupchat. Her camera roll is basically just a collection of you suffering. her fingers hesitate before sending another one. she observed the recent picture; dirt smeared across your sharp jaw, shirt sticking to your back, the messy, tousled way your bangs fall over your forehead.

you look–

she presses her lips together, hard trying to shoo away the tingling feeling in her lower stomach. she swallows, shifting as you shake the ball off, sending tiny droplets flying, some landing on your shirt. the fabric clings a little more, stretched over the plane of your shoulders, and jimin lets out a slow, measured exhale through her nose. gaining her composure. her phone vibrates.

minjeong : omfg is she into women

aeri : BRO THAT BACKK

ningning : jimin why are you not on your knees begging for it

she rolled her eyes at her friends reactions towards the recent picture she sent with a caption of “asshole looking for the money she owes me”

but she isn’t fooling anyone. least of all herself. because when you push yourself up again, wiping sweat off your face with the hem of your shirt, exposing the faintest hint of your stomach, jimin’s stomach flips. she squeezes her thighs together. she needs to get a grip.

“you done gawking?”

her head snaps up. your brows are raised, a smirk playing at your lips as you watch her, amusement flickering in your eyes.

fuck.

"please," she scoffs, shoving her sunglasses back onto her face to hide her cheeks turning red. "don't flatter yourself."

she turns on her heel before she can do something humiliating. like actually drop to her knees.

jimin tells herself she’s just enjoying the entertainment. that’s all this is. watching you struggle under the weight of the golf bag, huffing as you haul clubs around like you’re in a survival challenge, is simply amusing.

but then there’s the way your shoulders flex when you readjust the strap. the way your forearms tighten when you lift a particularly heavy bag. the way your back muscles ripples under your shirt whenever you bend down to grab a stray golf ball.

it keeps the bad thoughts coming

she rolls her wrist, pretending to focus on lining up her next shot, but her mind is elsewhere. on the way you pushed your sleeves up earlier, the way your fingers curled around the soaked golf ball when you pulled it out of the pond. on the way you muttered under your breath, exasperated but still doing what she asked.

she clicks her tongue, shaking off the thought. Ridiculous. still, when you lift the bag onto your shoulder again, jaw set in stubborn determination, she feels something stupid and fluttery in her stomach.

“you better not be slacking back there, hotshot,” she calls out, voice steady, even if she feels anything but.

when you glare at her, eyes full of irritation, she almost forgets to breathe. you mutter something under your breath, probably another complaint about how unfair this whole arrangement is, and jimin should let it slide. she really should. but instead, she glances over just in time to catch the way you roll your shoulders back, shaking out the soreness like you’re on the court, like you’re about to sprint past defenders and sink a perfect shot. it’s so effortless—so natural—that for a second, she isn’t thinking about your debt or your grumbling or how much fun it is to make you suffer.

for a second, she’s just watching you move. her fingers tighten around her club.

“you’re really struggling, huh?” she teases, forcing her tone to stay light, even as something deep in her chest feels a little less steady. “should’ve hit the weight room instead of all that dribbling.”

you scoff, swinging the bag off your shoulder with one smooth motion. “please. you’d collapse if you had to carry this thing for five minutes.”and jimin should roll her eyes. should brush off the remark like she always does. but then you flex your hands, fingers stretching before tightening into a brief fist, veins barely visible against your skin.

her stomach does something weird.

she exhales sharply through her nose, turns away, and focuses very hard on adjusting her glove.

“whatever helps you sleep at night, hotshot.”

when she hears you groan behind her, she smiles to herself. but she doesn’t look back.

doesn’t trust herself to.

as you got ready for bed you read the text sent by the same unknown number from yesterday night. “7:30 sharp at the docks. eat bfr coming. im not feeding you. bring swim wear and a change of clothes.” you groaned loudly trying not to think about what she’ll be doing next.

“no fucking way.”

the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, eyes locked onto the massive yacht bobbing lazily on the crystal-clear water. sunlight bounces off the pristine white exterior, almost blinding, the sheer size of the vessel making your stomach twist with unease.

jimin stands a few feet ahead, completely at ease, like she was born to be here. her sunglasses are perched on top of her head, holding back strands of dark hair that catch in the wind. but that’s not what’s throwing you off.

it’s what she’s wearing.

the bikini is black, tiny, the kind that barely counts as clothing under the oversized white button up. the top ties behind her neck, accentuating the curve of her collarbones, the smooth lines of her shoulders. the bottoms sit high on her hips, the strings digging just enough into her skin to make something tighten low in your stomach.

the button up hanging loose off one shoulder, dipping low enough to tease the shape of her waist. it should make it less distracting, but it does the exact opposite. every time she moves, the material shifts, threatening to slip just enough to reveal more.

the teasing skin peaking from her button up that barely covers anything made something tighten in your lower stomach. you clenched your stomach muscle trying to regain grip of reality.

she finally glances back at you, raising a single brow like you’re being dramatic. “what?”

you blink, dragging your gaze up to her face like you hadn’t just been staring. “this is insane.” you gesture vaguely at the boat, trying to focus. “this is … this is some billionaire level shit. why am i here?”

her lips curl into a smirk, effortless and sharp. "because im not manning the sails this time, and luckily, you’re in debt to me."

before you can shoot back a very creative insult, a new voice cuts in, light, teasing, but with an unmistakable authority. "jimin, don’t be mean to your friend."

you turn just in time to see a woman stepping onto the dock, effortlessly elegant in a white sundress, dark hair twisted into a perfect bun. she moves like she belongs in a high end magazine, every step deliberate, eyes sharp as they take you in. and she looks exactly like how you’d imagine jimin looks like in 30 years.

"she's not my friend, mother," jimin corrects smoothly, adjusting her sunglasses. "she's my employee." smirking smugly as her mother grimaces at her oldest daughter. you shoot her a glare. "wow. charming as ever."

jimin’s mother merely smiles, amused. by how you handled her moody daughter. "well, employee or not, she's a guest today. come on, everyone's waiting on the boat."

you have no choice but to follow, your arm brushing against jimin’s as you step onto the yacht. the contact is brief, barely anything, but it makes your skin prickle, your senses hyper-aware of her proximity.

jimin isn't sure why she thought today would be easy.

it should be. she should be enjoying herself sailing with her family, soaking up the sun, watching you struggle to keep up. enjoying the sounds of your misery.

but instead, she’s distracted.

you’re sitting on the edge of the boat, legs stretched out, the ocean breeze playing with your hair. jimin watches, unable to help herself.

it’s not the muscles that have her staring, the muscles that she could vividly see from your white blouse that clings to your back, not really. it’s the way you move. the way your fingers work at the sleeves of your t-shirt, rolling them up with an absentminded ease, knotting the fabric at your elbows like it’s second nature. the way the sun clings to your skin, highlighting the gentle slopes of your arms, the curve of your shoulders. she doesn’t fail to notice the way your forearm muscles tightens as you fix your sleeve.

when you reach up to wipe at your forehead, a loose strand of hair falls into your face. you don’t notice at first, too busy squinting at something in the distance. then, with the smallest furrow of your brows, you shake your head just enough to make it shift, the motion unintentional, frustratingly endearing. and slightly domestic.

jimin’s chest tightens.

you’re adorable. ridiculously cute— no. stop it no shes not. she’s an asshole. she’s a stupid prick that crashed into your car.

and then you laugh quietly, mostly to yourself, like you just remembered something funny. the sound is soft, barely carried by the wind, but jimin feels it like a physical thing, like it reaches out and tugs at something deep inside her.

jimin looks away immediately, but it doesn’t help. because even when she’s not looking at you, she can still hear you—your quiet laughter, the soft hum you make under your breath as you stretch out your arms, the way you mutter something to yourself like you’re having a conversation in your own head.

she scowls. you’re so... you. completely unaware of the way you pull people in, make them want to lean closer, watch a little longer. it’s infuriating.

her fingers tighten around the railing. get a grip, jimin. but it’s hard when you keep doing things like scrunching your nose in concentration, tilting your head like a confused puppy at the sails above, or biting your lip in thought. completely unaware that someone is watching you, studying you.

and maybe that’s what’s getting to her the most.

it’s not the muscles, not the way you look, not even the way you carry yourself. it’s the way you exist, so utterly and completely in your own world. so unguarded. jimin doesn’t do unguarded. she doesn’t do soft, doesn’t do the kind of feelings that make your stomach twist and your throat feel tight. she does casual. she teases and flirts and doesn’t get attached.

she clears her throat, flexing her fingers before curling them into fists. she needs to do something—anything—to snap herself out of it.

“you’re gawking,” a voice beside her says, amused.

jimin stiffens. “am not.”

hanni, leaning lazily against the railing, tilts her head with the smuggest expression. “right. because you totally weren’t just staring like you forgot how to blink.” jimin scoffs, shoving her sunglasses onto her face with too much force. “you’re delusional.”

“and you’re in denial.”

jimin ignores her, choosing to focus on the water instead. the waves are steady, predictable, easy to think about. not like what she’s feeling in her chest. when she sees you dangling your feet from the yacht.

but hanni isn’t done.

“you know,” she hums, rocking onto the balls of her feet, “if you keep looking at her like that, someone might get the wrong idea.”

jimin doesn’t turn. “there is no idea to get.” she says firmly.

hanni grins. “sure. whatever you say, unnie.”

you shouldn't be enjoying this. well technically the hard labour hasn’t started yet. so you’re trying to enjoy the open water and much needed fresh air before jimin makes you her slave again. it feels nice.

"you seem to be having fun," jimin remarks, stepping up beside you. breaking the silence. here we go you thought. after ignoring her little sisters’ teasing. or, talk, you didn’t hear what they talked about but jimin looked pretty riled up after what hanni said. she’s decided to interrupt your peace and make your day worse.

you shrug, stretching your arms above your head with a dramatic sigh. "what can i say? i thrive in any environment." you said as you placed both arms beside letting it fall lazily. leaning on it. you blink your eyes open, glancing at her. her sunglasses are perched high on her nose, shielding her gaze, but you can still feel her looking. observing you.

her lips twitch, as if amused. "you nearly died on the green yesterday."

"yeah, well." you shift arms as you drawl out, shooting her a lopsided grin. "i'm an adaptable person."

there’s a beat of silence, but not the peaceful kind. it’s charged, stretching between you like a live wire. jimin’s head tilts ever so slightly, her gaze sweeping over you in a way that’s too slow, too deliberate. it makes your skin prickle, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

"apparently."

something about the way she says it makes your pulse jump. you shift under her scrutiny, suddenly too warm.her sunglasses may hide her eyes, but the smirk curling at the corner of her lips betrays her. it’s not just amused. it’s knowing, like she’s already several steps ahead of you in whatever game she’s playing. you shift, suddenly aware of how warm your skin feels. not from the sun, but from her unwavering attention.

"why are you looking at me like that?" you ask, voice coming out less steady than you wanted.

jimin doesn’t answer right away. instead, she steps in, just enough that the scent of her expensive perfume. fresh and citrusy, but with a sharp undertone wraps around you. she leans in, just slightly, just enough to test the space between you.

"like what?" she asks, voice lilting, teasing.

your voice stuck in your throat. you swallow.

"like you’re plotting my demise." you reply, forcing yourself to hold your ground.

her smirk deepens. she reaches up, adjusting her sunglasses with two fingers, and you catch a glimpse of her eyes beneath them. dark, glinting with something unreadable. "maybe i am."

the way she says it, low and smooth, sends an unwelcome shiver down your spine. you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your heartbeat picks up. "so much for enjoying the breeze."

jimin hums, dragging a slow gaze down the length of you before flicking it back up, lazy and considering. she taps a finger against her chin, as if in deep thought, before her lips curl into something far too smug.

"since you're so adaptable," she says, gesturing toward the rigging with an air of faux innocence, "you can help with the sails."

you groan, trudging over. she watches you come closer, arms crossed, lips curling ever so slightly.

she is not looking at your arms again.

she’s not.

the moment jimin smirked at you and told you to help with the sails, you should’ve known you were about to be thrown into another situation where you had no idea what you were doing. you squint at the ropes in your hands, then at the towering mast, then at the intricate mess of rigging all around. why are there so many ropes?

"you look confused," jimin says, standing just a little too close behind you.

"i am confused," you reply. "this is, like, rich people knowledge. i don’t know how to do any of this."

she huffs out a laugh. it almost sounds melodic in your ears. "rich people knowledge?"

"yes." you tug experimentally at one of the ropes, watching it pull at something above. "why do you even know how to do this? you’re not a pirate."

"my father made me learn when i was younger," she says. "he said that if we were going to own a yacht, we should at least know how to use it properly."

you snort. "wow. tragic backstory."

"just shut up and let me teach you," she mutters, stepping in closer.

you open your mouth to protest, but then her hands find yours.

your brain short-circuits.

her touch is soft– unexpectedly so. but firm, her fingers pressing lightly against yours, guiding them over the rope with practiced ease. her skin is cool against your own, which feels too warm all of a sudden, heat blooming along your knuckles, creeping up your arms. you swear its the burning sun right above you.

she leans in slightly, voice lower now that she’s right beside you. "you need to loop it like this. if you tie it too loose, the sail won’t hold. too tight, and you’ll mess up the balance."

you nod, but it’s a lie. you barely register what she’s saying.

because she’s close. close enough that her shoulder brushes against yours, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her perfume mixed with the salt of the ocean. the warmth of her breath ghosts over your skin as she exhales, sending a shiver trailing down your spine.

your fingers twitch under hers. "right. got it," you manage, though your voice is slightly higher than usual. jimin chuckles low, quiet, right near your ear. your stomach flips. she’s enjoying this. you can tell. and judging by the smug curve of her lips when you glance at her, she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

you fumble with the ropes when she moves away as the wind picks up and before you know it, the rope slips through your fingers like water. the sail jerks violently in response, the sudden shift sending a sharp ripple through the boat.

"Shit-" you let out.

jimin moves fast, instinct kicking in as she reaches for the rigging to correct your mistake. but in the process, she miscalculates and her foot catches against yours that made her stumble.

and then, so do you.

your back slams against the side of the boat, the wooden railing pressing into your spine as you suck in a sharp breath. the impact sends a jolt through your body, momentarily stunning you, but your instincts take over before you can think. one hand grabs onto the railing for support, while the other finds jimin’s waist, fingers tightening reflexively around the fabric of her shirt where you can subtly feel her curves.

she stumbles into you fully, her body pressing flush against yours.

your heart stutters.

at the same time, jimin’s arm slings over your shoulder in a desperate attempt to steady herself, the warmth of her palm seeping through your long sleeves swim suit where she grips your biceps. her other hand is splayed against your arm, fingers digging in just enough for you to feel the faint press of her nails.

and suddenly, you’re close.

too close. you could feel the curves of her body against you. and how small she is in yor arms.

her body is warm, the scent of salt and sunscreen clinging to her skin. you can feel the way she breathes, chest rising and falling against yours. every small shift sends a spark of awareness shooting down your spine, your pulse hammering in your ears as the realization sinks in.

jimin is practically in your arms and she isn’t moving. neither are you.

her sunglasses slip down her nose from the movement, revealing her eyes for the first time today. deep brown, glinting under the sun, flickering with something you can’t quite read.

your breath catches in your throat. she looks so beautiful.

the ocean breeze swirls around you, but all you can feel is the heat radiating from her skin. your fingers twitch at her waist, hyper-aware of the way the fabric of her shirt feels beneath your palm, the slight give of her small body against yours. and the way you could subtly feel some of her skin against your swim wear.

jimin’s grip on your shoulder tightens, her jaw clenched, lips parted like she’s trying to find the right words. but none come. you dont know whats going through her mind but you knew for sure she isn’t moving when you saw how her eyes flickered to your lips. somehow it made your heart flutter.

you could feel her leaning into you slightly.

and then—

"are you two gonna kiss or what?"

the words cut through the moment like a gunshot.

you jerk back, nearly losing your footing, barely managing to catch yourself before you go overboard. while jimin’s reaction is immediate. her head whips around so fast her visor nearly flies off, her expression shifting from surprise to outright murderous in the blink of an eye.

"seriously?" she snaps.

hanni, standing a few feet away, leans against the railing with the smuggest grin you’ve ever seen. jimin groans, yanking herself out of your grasp, face scrunched in exasperation. you, on the other hand, are still stuck processing what just happened, trying to ignore the way your pulse is hammering in your ears. and how you miss the closeness between you two.

after jimin left you to man the sails alone while she went to cool off, you actually got pretty good at it. her dad even threw in some pointers, guiding you through the ropes. literally. by now, you had a decent handle on things, adjusting the sails without fumbling, reading the wind like it was second nature. the boat had drifted far from shore, the coastline long gone, replaced by nothing but open water stretching endlessly in every direction.

"you can slow down here, y/n," jimin’s dad called from behind you as you pulled at the ropes, adjusting the sails to ease the boat to a gentler pace. you heard him shift, standing to get a better look at the sea. "your friend’s a natural, jimin. almost better than you!" his voice carried a teasing lilt.

you glanced toward where jimin sat, catching the way her expression twisted in surprise, then in pure irritation. she scoffed, rolling her eyes before mumbling something you couldn’t quite catch under her breath.

you smirked, triumphant, meeting her gaze.

she narrowed her eyes. then, she raised her hand and flipped you off. unhinged woman. your smirk faltered. rude.

but before you could retaliate, jimin moved. without hesitation, she stood, reaching for the buttons of her white shirt. and then she pulled it off.

your brain short-circuited.

the world around you dimmed, the sound of the ocean fading into white noise as your eyes locked onto the sight in front of you. jimin, standing tall against the backdrop of the sea, the late afternoon sun catching on her skin, making her glow.

she wore a dark bikini underneath, the contrast against her pale sun-kissed skin. her collarbones, sharp and delicate, dipped into smooth shoulders. her toned stomach tensed slightly as she tossed her shirt aside, the movement effortless, like she’d done this a thousand times before.

you were gawking.

full-on, shamelessly gawking.

your brain screamed at you to stop staring, trying to maintain your pride. but your body refused to cooperate. your grip on the ropes slackened slightly, fingers numb as your heart threw itself against your ribs.

jimin caught the look on your face and smirked.

"what?" she teased, tilting her head slightly, the picture of nonchalance. "you act like you’ve never seen someone undress before."

you opened your mouth.whether to respond or gasp for air, you weren’t sure. but nothing came out.

jimin grinned, pleased with herself, before turning toward the edge of the boat. with one quick motion, she dove into the water, leaving you standing there, still reeling, heat creeping up your neck.

you blinked.

then, as if snapping out of a trance, you stumble forward, rushing to the railing. “i—i have!” the words rush out too fast, tripping over themselves, your voice cracking at the end. you cringe.

jimin flicked her hair back as water drips from her lashes. she treads the water effortlessly, blinking up at you with an infuriatingly amused expression. “oh?” her tone is light, teasing, but there’s something smug underneath it, something that makes your stomach twist. “sure doesn’t sound like it.”

your grip on the railing tightens, knuckles paling. “what—i—" you struggle to form a coherent thought, already feeling your face burning. “i have! plenty of times! so many times!”

her giggles spills into the air, bright and carefree, and it does something to you makes your heart stutter, your skin prickle with warmth. she tilts her head back, still treading water, the sun catching in her damp hair. “right, sure. totally convincing.”

you scowl, shifting on your feet, jaw tightening. “it’s true! i’ve seen—” you pause, realizing too late that you have absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding even more embarrassing. “—a lot. like, more than you. probably.”

jimin raises a brow, cocking her head. “oh? who?”

your stomach twists into a knot, your brain sending red flags. screaming at you to abort mission immediately. you clear your throat, straightening up, forcing a casual shrug. “no,” you say, too quickly. “that’s private information.”

jimin watches you for a beat, her lips twitching like she’s holding back another laugh. then she smirks, shaking her head. “uh-huh. totally not a virgin.”

“i’m not!” you blurt, leaning forward slightly, the desperation in your voice betraying you.

her grin only widens, eyes twinkling with mischief as she sways in the water. “whatever helps you sleep at night, captain.”

you groan, dropping your head against the railing in defeat as she swims off, still laughing, while you try to cooldown after the embarrassing encounter.

“y/n! jump in!” you heard hanni yell from behind you. as you lift your head up you saw her lining up to jump in. she jumped in with a big splash. droplets sprayed onto the deck. jimin’s mom called out “hanni be careful!”

your gaze shifts slightly, catching sight of jimin a few feet away, floating on her back with her eyes closed, her dark hair fanning out around her like ink in the water. her skin glistens under the sun, droplets clinging to her collarbones, trailing down the curve of her neck. you sighed, your body got hot after the embarrassing encounter and also seeing jimin swim. you needed to cool down. you exhale sharply, shaking yourself out of it. if you stay up here any longer, you’ll combust.

you roll your shoulders back, determined to regain at least a fraction of your dignity, and then you jumped. the moment you hit the water, a sharp chill runs through you, sending a jolt up your spine. it’s refreshing, the kind of coolness that makes your skin tingle, but it’s a relief from the heat that had been burning through you moments ago.

you resurface with a gasp, shaking water from your face, and when you blink the droplets away, the first thing you see is jimin.

she’s closer now. much closer.

your breath catches as she treads the water effortlessly, dark strands of wet hair clinging to her cheeks. the sun reflects off the droplets on her skin, making them glisten like tiny diamonds. she studies you, her gaze flickering over your face with a glint of something unreadable.

“not bad,” she hums, tilting her head slightly.

you scoff, trying to ignore the way your skin prickles under her gaze. “i’d say the same for you, but you practically belly-flopped.”

jimin rolls her eyes, a smirk playing at her lips. you turn to swim away, but just as you do water hit your back. splash. you freeze. the feeling of cold water hits your back, sending a shiver up your spine.you turn back around slowly, and there she is half-smirking, half-feigning innocence, fingers still dripping from where she flicked water at you.

“did you just—?”

before you can finish your sentence, another splash comes at you, bigger this time, sending water cascading over your face. you sputter, wiping at your eyes, and jimin bursts out laughing, the sound rich and full, like wind chimes in the summer breeze.

thats it.

with no hesitation, you lunge forward, sweeping your hand through the water to send a wave right at her. she squeals, ducking just a second too late, and now it’s her turn to be dripping wet.

before you can react, she lunges toward you, fingers skimming along your arm as she tries to dunk you under. practically drowning you. instinctively, you grab her waist, attempting to shove her away, but the water betrays you both. it makes everything weightless, the waves crashing between your bodies pulling both of your boddies together. bodies tangling and shifting without control.

somehow, amongst the struggle, her arms end up draped over your shoulders, and your hands—god, your hands—find purchase at her waist again, fingers pressing into the bare skin beneath the hem of her swimsuit.

for a moment, neither of you move.

you can feel her breath against your face, warm despite the cool water surrounding you. the soft rhythm of her chest rising and falling against yours. the way her fingers tighten, just slightly, curling over the nape of your neck.

her eyes flicker up to meet yours deep brown, like melted chocolate, like something you could get lost in if you weren’t careful. they shift lower for a split second, down to your lips, before darting back up again.

your heart slams against your ribs. it looks like shes about to kiss you. a little voice in your head hoping she would and you swear the world tilts. or maybe it’s just the waves.

jimin blinks once, twice, her lashes damp and heavy with water, before her expression shifts. something playful flickers back into her eyes, her lips twitching.

and then, she shoves you under.

you barely have time to yelp before water fills your ears, muffling the sound of her laughter. when you break the surface again, gasping for air, she’s already swimming away, shooting you a look over her shoulder that’s equal parts smug and daring.

“too slow,” she calls out.

you push your wet hair back, panting, watching her retreating figure with something caught between disbelief and something else entirely. something warmer.

you remember the way her fingers curled at the nape of your neck. the way her breath fanned against your lips. the way, for a split second, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

you shake your head, forcing a scoff, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still erratic. this is jimin. jimin. the same girl who flipped you off an hour ago, who smirked as she stripped off her shirt just to get a reaction out of you.

nothing about this is different. you assure yourself. and yet, as you watch her swim away, her laughter still echoing in your ears, you can’t shake the feeling that something bloom in your chest.

[seeunsoon-deactivated20260426]

hello author <3 uhh before i get on with my request i just want say your stories give a sense of fresh air. Most writers these days just write smut and your stories really make me bawl my eyes out and smile . i love that there are writers like you still out there. pls continue to keep writing and never leave us author-nim ;-;

(request) angst and fluff (make it good ending i dont wanna cry no more)

Aespa Karina x male reader

Plot: karina is the most popular girl in school and y/n is the nerd. Karina gets dared to ask y/n out on a date then after a few dates she starts to develop feelings but y/n finds out it was a dare and starts ignoring her. she regrets everything shes done and tries to fix it

DARE?

AESPA Karina X Male Reader

-----

The hallways of Seonghwa High were a battlefield of hormones and hierarchies, where popularity wasn't just a perk—it was armor. And at the top of the food chain sat Karina, or Yu Jimin to the teachers who still called roll like we were in middle school. She glided through the corridors like she owned them, which, in a way, she did. Long black hair that caught the fluorescent lights just right, a smile that could disarm a detention slip, and an effortless cool that made even the strictest math teacher crack a joke. Everyone wanted a piece of her—guys asking for her notes (which were basically gold), girls orbiting her lunch table like planets around a sun. She wasn't mean about it, not really. Just... untouchable.

You, on the other hand, were the ghost in the machine. Y/N, the kid with the perpetually rumpled backpack stuffed with dog-eared sci-fi novels and a graphing calculator that had seen more action than your social life. You kept your head down, weaving through the chaos of slamming lockers and whispered gossip, aiming straight for the back row of AP Physics. It was safer there, tucked behind a stack of textbooks, where the world couldn't quite reach you. Sure, you had friends—two, to be exact: Minho, the debate club weirdo who argued with vending machines, and Jiwoo, who lived for indie bands and conspiracy theories. But popularity? That was for people who didn't mind the spotlight scorching their skin.

That Monday morning, you were nursing a lukewarm coffee from the vending machine, dodging a group of soccer jocks hyping up their weekend conquests, when you first noticed her looking your way. Karina. Not at you, exactly—more like through you, her eyes scanning the hall like she was picking out a playlist. She was laughing at something her best friend, Aeri, had said, her head thrown back in that way that made half the freshmen trip over their own feet. You blinked, shook it off, and buried yourself deeper into your notes on quantum entanglement. Because why the hell would she ever look at you?

Lunch was the usual ritual: you, Minho, and Jiwoo crammed at the corner table by the window, the one with the sticky ketchup stains that no one bothered to clean. Minho was ranting about how the school board was "suppressing free thought" by banning graphic novels from the library, while Jiwoo scrolled TikTok, occasionally shoving her phone in your face to show you some glitchy animation of cats plotting world domination.

"Dude, you're zoning out again," Minho said, flicking a fry at you. It bounced off your forehead and landed in your lap. "What's got you all quantum and entangled today?"

You shrugged, picking at your sandwich. "Just... thinking about the physics test. And how I'd rather be anywhere else."

Jiwoo snorted, not looking up from her screen. "Bold of you to assume anywhere else isn't worse. Remember that time we tried crashing the art club? Yeah, never again."

You chuckled, but your eyes drifted—unbidden—to the center of the cafeteria. Karina's table was a circus: laughter spilling over like champagne, trays of half-eaten food pushed aside for impromptu photo shoots. She was in the middle of it, gesturing wildly as she told a story, her voice carrying just enough to make you strain to hear. Something about a disastrous group project where someone—probably one of the theater kids—had accidentally set off the fire alarm with a smoke machine. The whole table erupted, and she caught your eye for a split second. Or maybe she didn't. Hallucination from lack of sleep, you decided.

By Friday, the week had blurred into a haze of equations and avoided eye contact. You were packing up after last period, your locker a fortress of crumpled worksheets and a faded poster of the periodic table, when the air shifted. Like the pressure dropping before a storm. You glanced up, and there she was—Karina, leaning against the locker next to yours, arms crossed over her school blazer like she hadn't just materialized out of thin air.

"Hey," she said, her voice casual, like you'd been chatting all semester. Up close, she smelled like vanilla and something sharper, like fresh laundry mixed with ambition. Her eyes—dark, sharp, with that effortless liner—locked onto yours without a hint of the hesitation you felt crawling up your spine.

You froze, backpack half-zipped, a pencil rolling forgotten onto the floor. "Uh... hi? Did I... drop something of yours?"

She laughed, a soft sound that hit you like a rogue wave. "No, nothing like that. Just... Y/N, right? From physics?"

Your brain short-circuited. How did she know your name? "Yeah. That's me. The one who actually shows up to class."

"Guilty as charged," she said, tilting her head. "Listen, this might sound random, but... do you want to grab coffee sometime? Like, this weekend?"

The hallway noise faded to a dull roar. Coffee. With Karina. You, the guy who once spent a whole Saturday reorganizing his comic collection alphabetically. Was this a prank? A bet? Your mind raced through every rom-com trope you'd ever devoured, landing squarely on "setup for humiliation."

But she was looking at you—really looking, with that half-smile that made your stomach twist. "I mean, if you're busy—"

"No!" The word tumbled out too fast, too eager. You cleared your throat, forcing nonchalance. "I mean, yeah. Coffee sounds... great. Saturday?"

Her smile widened, genuine enough to make you second-guess your cynicism. "Perfect. Text me? I grabbed your number from the class group chat." She pulled out her phone, already typing, and yours buzzed a second later with a simple Hey, it's Karina :).

As she walked away, hips swaying just enough to turn heads, you stood there like an idiot, staring at the screen. Minho was going to lose his shit.

-----

Saturday arrived with a drizzle that turned the city streets into a watercolor blur. You paced your room, second-guessing every outfit choice like it was a final exam. Jeans? Too casual. The button-up your mom bought for "that family dinner you never go to"? Too try-hard. You settled on a hoodie over a plain tee—the one with the subtle Star Wars logo that only nerds would notice—and sneakers that had seen better days. "It's just coffee," you muttered to your reflection. "Not a coronation."

The café was a hole-in-the-wall spot downtown, the kind with mismatched chairs and baristas who pierced every visible surface. You'd picked it because it was low-key, tucked away from the trendy chains where influencers posed with their lattes. Neutral ground. Safe.

You arrived ten minutes early, claiming a corner table by the window, nursing a black coffee that tasted like regret. Five minutes to go—your phone buzzed. Running 2 mins late, traffic's a bitch. Save me a seat?

A bitch. Karina, queen of Seonghwa High, swearing in a text like she was just another girl dodging potholes. You smiled despite yourself, typing back a quick Already got the throne warmed up.

She burst through the door two minutes later, shaking rain from her hair like a golden retriever, her oversized jacket slung over one arm. Underneath, she wore a cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans that hugged her like they were custom-made. Effortless. Radiant. Your throat went dry.

"Sorry," she said, sliding into the seat across from you, her cheeks flushed from the chill. "Seoul traffic on a rainy day is basically emotional terrorism. What're you having?"

"Black coffee. Boring, I know." You shrugged, trying to play it cool while your pulse hammered like a bass drum.

She grinned, leaning forward on her elbows. "Boring? Nah, that's efficient. Me? I'll take a vanilla latte with an extra shot—because why suffer alone?" She flagged down the barista with a wave that somehow made the whole counter staff perk up. "Make it two, actually. On me."

You blinked. "You don't have to—"

"Too late, it's done." She winked, and damn if it didn't send a spark straight to your chest. "So, Y/N. Tell me something I don't know about you. Beyond the physics whiz rep."

The question caught you off guard, like she'd lobbed a curveball in a game you didn't know you were playing. You stirred your coffee absently, buying time. "Uh... okay. I build models. Like, old-school ones—spaceships, mostly. From kits. It's dumb, but it clears my head."

Her eyes lit up, not with pity or the polite nod you'd braced for, but actual interest. "No way. Like, detailed ones? With the tiny engines and all?"

"Yeah. Took me three months to get the Millennium Falcon right last year. The hyperdrive alone—"

"Wait, you did the hyperdrive? That's the tricky part!" She leaned in closer, her latte forgotten as the barista set it down. "I tried one once, a basic TIE fighter, but I glued my fingers together before I even started the wings. Total disaster."

You laughed, the sound surprising you both. "Amateur mistake. Rule one: never trust superglue on a humid day."

From there, it snowballed. She asked about your favorite Star Wars theory (the sequels were a crime against cinema, you both agreed), and you found out she was obsessed with old horror flicks—the cheesier, the better. "Nothing beats that scene in The Thing where the dog just... explodes into tentacles," she said, mimicking the chaos with wild hand gestures that nearly knocked over her cup. "Pure nightmare fuel."

You countered with your take on Alien, how the xenomorph was basically the ultimate metaphor for unchecked corporate greed. She nodded along, chin in hand, like you were dropping TED Talk gold instead of rambling about fictional monsters. The rain picked up outside, drumming against the window like applause, but neither of you noticed. Time slipped—forty minutes turned into an hour, then two. Her laughs came easier, yours less guarded. For the first time in forever, you weren't the side character in your own story.

As you both stepped out into the downpour, sharing a too-small umbrella she'd grabbed from the café stand, she bumped your shoulder lightly. "This was fun, Y/N. Like, unexpectedly fun. We should do it again."

Your heart stuttered. "Yeah? I'd like that."

She smiled, raindrops catching on her lashes like stars. "Good. Text me when?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Deal." And with a quick hug—warm, vanilla-scented, gone too soon—she dashed to her bus stop, leaving you standing there, soaked and stupidly grinning.

Back home, sprawled on your bed with your phone glowing in the dark, you replayed it all. The way she'd listened, really listened, when you geeked out about warp drives. The spark in her eyes when you teased her about her "terrible" taste in rom-coms (she defended To All the Boys like it was her religion). It felt... real. Dangerous, maybe, but real.

What you didn't know—what you couldn't have known—was that across town, in a brightly lit bedroom plastered with polaroids and fairy lights, Karina was staring at her ceiling, phone clutched to her chest. Her friends' group chat was blowing up: How'd the dare go? Spill!! Aeri had demanded, followed by a string of eggplant emojis from the others.

She typed back a quick It was... whatever. Got the pics? But as she hit send, her mind wandered back to your laugh, the way you'd blushed when she called your model-building "badass." Shit. This was supposed to be a joke. A quick ego boost for the weekend. So why did she already want to text you goodnight?

-----

The second date snuck up on you like a plot twist. Monday at school, Karina cornered you by your locker again—this time with a conspiratorial grin and a crumpled flyer for the local arcade. "Ever beaten the claw machine? Because I need backup. It's haunted, I swear."

You raised an eyebrow, but the challenge in her voice was too good to resist. "Haunted? That's just physics—leverage and probability."

"Prove it, nerd." She poked your arm, and just like that, you were in.

The arcade was a neon-lit chaos of beeps and cheers, the air thick with popcorn grease and the faint tang of spilled soda. You arrived first again, quarters jingling in your pocket like loose change from another life. She showed up in ripped jeans and a band tee (Nirvana—unexpected, but hot as hell), her hair tied back in a messy ponytail that made her look younger, less untouchable.

"Alright, challenger," she said, linking her arm through yours without preamble. "That pink bunny in the third machine? It's mine. Or the machine's evil spirit owes me."

You snorted, feeding quarters into the slot. "Evil spirit, huh? More like shitty rigging. Watch—angle the claw at eleven o'clock, drop it slow."

The first try: miss. She groaned dramatically, slumping against your shoulder. "See? Cursed!"

"Patience," you said, adjusting her hand on the joystick. Your fingers brushed—electric, accidental—and neither of you pulled away. Second try: snag. Third: drop. But on the fourth, it clamped, lifted, and... plop. The bunny tumbled into the chute.

She squealed—actual squeal—grabbing it like a trophy and hugging you around the neck. "You're a wizard! My hero!"

The word hero lingered, warm in your chest, as you both wandered to the air hockey table. She was ruthless, hips bumping the sides to throw off your shots, trash-talking with a grin that could melt steel. "Come on, Y/N, is that all you've got? My grandma hits harder!"

"Fuck off," you laughed, slapping the puck past her defense. "Your grandma probably built this table."

By the time you called it—two hours later, stuffed with greasy fries and high scores etched in your memory—she was leaning against the exit door, bunny tucked under her arm. "Okay, fine. You're officially my arcade partner now. Third date: your pick."

Third date. The words hung there, casual as confetti. "Deal. But next time, I'm picking something less... possessed."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft. "Whatever you say, hero."

That night, as you lay awake replaying her laugh echoing over the arcade din, Karina was across the city, sprawled on Aeri's bed during their weekly "debrief" sleepover. The room smelled like nail polish and takeout pizza, fairy lights twinkling like judgmental stars.

"So?" Aeri prodded, painting her toenails electric blue. "Dare update: how many dates 'til you bail? He's cute in a lost puppy way, but come on—nerd alert."

Karina picked at a pepperoni, forcing a laugh. "It's not that deep. Just... killing time."

But even as she said it, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Your text: Bunny secured. What's its name? She smiled despite herself, typing back Sir Fluffington von Claw. Night, hero.

Aeri caught the grin. "Wait, you're actually texting him? Jimin, this was a dare. Not a slow-burn fanfic."

"I know," Karina snapped, sharper than she meant. She softened it with a shrug. "It's fun, okay? Harmless."

But as the lights dimmed and Aeri's snores filled the room, Karina stared at her ceiling again. Harmless? Then why did her chest ache at the thought of it ending? Why did she already dread the punchline?

Little did she know, the universe had a twisted sense of timing. And it was about to drop the curtain.

-----

The third date was supposed to be the one that sealed it. You'd picked the planetarium—low-stakes, your turf, a place where the stars could do the talking when words got too tangled. Karina had texted you the night before: Can't wait. Wear something spacey? You'd chuckled, digging out an old NASA tee from the back of your closet, the one with the faded rocket launch graphic. It felt like progress, like maybe this was veering off the rom-com script into something real. Something yours.

But Wednesday afternoon, two days before the stars were set to align, everything imploded in the span of a whispered conversation you weren't meant to hear.

School let out in a stampede of backpacks and belled laughter, the kind that echoed off the lockers like gunfire. You were lingering by the vending machines near the east wing—procrastinating, really, because Minho had ditched debate practice to "protest the cafeteria meatloaf" (his words), and Jiwoo was buried in a group project that involved way too many sticky notes. Your phone buzzed in your pocket: Karina, with a quick Hey, you free after school? Quick coffee run? You smiled despite the knot in your gut from earlier—some asshole in English had called you "Rocket Boy" after overhearing you ramble about black holes in class. Whatever. You'd text her back yes, because saying no to her lately felt like denying gravity.

That's when you heard it. Her voice, clear as a bell, filtering through the half-open door of the girls' lounge—a glorified storage closet with vending machines and ratty couches where the popular crowd claimed squat after hours. You weren't eavesdropping, not intentionally. You were just... there, fumbling for a soda quarter, when the door creaked wider on its shitty hinges.

"...and then he actually got the bunny on the fourth try. Like, who the fuck does that?" Karina's laugh rang out, light and bubbly, the same one that had made your chest ache during air hockey. But now it twisted something inside you, sharp and unfamiliar.

Aeri's voice cut in, smug as ever. "No shit? The nerd pulled through? Okay, points for commitment. But come on, Jimin—how far are you taking this dare? It's been, what, three dates? You're basically a pro at this point."

Your hand froze on the vending machine button. Dare. The word landed like a sucker punch, sucking the air from your lungs. You pressed yourself against the wall, heart slamming against your ribs, praying the hum of the fluorescents would drown it out. But no—Karina's reply came soft, almost conspiratorial, laced with that effortless charm that had reeled you in.

"Girl, it's easier than I thought. Remember how awkward he was at first? Stammering like a broken robot? But yeah, I played it cool, asked about his dumb spaceship models, and boom—he's hooked. Texting me goodnight with bunny names and shit. It's almost too good."

The lounge erupted in giggles—high-pitched, merciless. Someone—probably Yizhuo, the one with the bleached tips—chimed in: "Screenshots or it didn't happen! Did you get a kiss yet? Bet he'd melt into a puddle."

"Not yet," Karina said, and you could picture her smirk, that tilt of her head that made everything seem like a game. "But the planetarium this weekend? Prime setup. Fool him into thinking it's real, then ghost. Easy A for the dare."

Your soda can clattered to the floor, forgotten, fizzing angrily against the tiles. Fool him. You. The word echoed in your skull, a vicious loop that drowned out the rest of their chatter—the plans for some party, the casual roast of another teacher's outfit. Fool him into thinking it's real. Every memory flashed back in brutal HD: her laugh at the café, the brush of her fingers on the joystick, the way she'd called you "hero" like it meant something. Lies. All of it, a slow-burn con job, and you'd lapped it up like the pathetic mark you were.

Nausea clawed up your throat, hot and bitter. You bolted before they could spill out, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as you shoved through the exit doors into the gray afternoon. The cold air hit you like a slap, but it didn't numb the burn in your chest—the kind that felt like your ribs were caving in, splintering under the weight of your own stupidity. How could you not see it? The queen bee slumming it with the nerd for kicks. A dare. And you'd fallen for it, hard. Texted her constellations last night, for fuck's sake, because she said she liked the stars.

By the time you made it home, the hurt had calcified into something colder, sharper. Anger, maybe, but mostly shame. Confront her? Storm back to that lounge and call her out in front of her hyena pack? No. That'd just feed the fire—turn you into the punchline, the desperate loser who thought he had a shot. "Oh, look, the nerd's crying over his fake girlfriend." You'd be a meme by morning, whispered about in every hallway. Better to swallow it, let it fester quietly. Fade out like you always did. Pretend it never happened.

Your phone buzzed again as you collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling cracks like they held answers. You ignoring me? What's up? You deleted the draft reply three times before settling on: Family stuff came up. Rain check? Vague. Believable. A lie to match hers.

Across town, Karina pocketed her phone with a frown, the lounge chatter fading into white noise. Family stuff. Sure. But as she slung her bag over her shoulder, waving goodbye to the girls, a weird twinge settled in her gut. Not guilt—not yet. Just... off. Like she'd miscued a line in a play she didn't know she was starring in.

-----

The drift started small, like a radio losing frequency—static creeping in, words garbling until the signal was gone. Thursday morning, you spotted her in the hallway between first and second period, leaning against a locker with that effortless poise, scrolling her phone while Aeri ranted about some influencer's latest scandal. Your path crossed hers inevitably; the school wasn't that big, and avoidance felt like admitting defeat.

She looked up as you approached, her face lighting up in that way that used to make your knees weak. "Y/N! Hey, about yesterday—everything okay?"

You forced a nod, keeping your eyes on your shoelaces, the frayed edge of your backpack strap—anything but her. "Yeah, just... busy. Mom needed help with groceries after school. You know how it is."

Her brow furrowed, just a flicker, but she played it off with a smile. "Totally. But the planetarium's still on, right? I was thinking we could grab those shitty hot dogs from the concession stand after. You know, the ones that taste like regret?"

The casualness of it stung, like salt in a fresh wound. Regret. Yeah, you knew all about that. "Uh, actually... change of plans. Jiwoo's got this project due, and I'm her ride. Group stuff, you get it."

She blinked, the smile faltering for a beat. "Oh. Right. No biggie. Text me later?"

"Sure." You sidestepped, melting into the crowd before she could press. Your heart hammered the whole way to calculus, a traitorous drumbeat that screamed coward with every step. But better this than the alternative—better the slow fade than the explosive crash.

By lunch, the excuses were stacking up like unread notifications. Your phone lit up under the cafeteria table: Missed you in the hall. What's with the ghosting? You stared at it, thumb hovering, the words blurring through the haze of hurt. Missed you. Bullshit. Or maybe not—maybe that was the worst part, the sliver of doubt that whispered maybe some of it had been real. But no. You'd heard her. Fool him. You typed back: Just slammed with homework. Physics is kicking my ass. Talk soon?

Minho clocked it immediately, snatching a fry from your untouched tray. "Dude, you're moping harder than when they canceled The Expanse season six. Spill—who died?"

You forced a laugh, brittle as dry leaves. "Nobody. Just... tired."

Jiwoo eyed you over her sketchbook, pencil paused mid-doodle of a dystopian skyline. "Liar. This about Karina? You two were all gooey last week. What, she finally wise up and realize you're a walking spoiler alert for rom-coms?"

"Something like that," you muttered, shoving your phone face-down. The hurt pulsed under your skin, a constant throb that made every bite of food taste like ash. You replayed the lounge conversation on loop—their laughs, her easy admission. It's easier than I thought. God, you'd been so fucking easy. Gullible. The kind of guy who built models of ships that never crashed, but here you were, wrecked anyway.

Friday blurred by in a fog of deliberate distance. In physics, you switched seats to the front row, burying yourself in notes while she shot you puzzled glances from across the room. After class, she caught you at the door, her voice tentative for the first time—none of that queen-bee confidence, just a girl with worry creasing her perfect brows.

"Y/N, wait up. You okay? You've been... weird all week."

You adjusted your backpack, avoiding her eyes like they were solar flares. "I'm good. Just focused. Exams coming up, right? Gotta grind."

She stepped closer, close enough that you caught the vanilla again, a ghost of the café that twisted the knife deeper. "Yeah, but... we had plans. The stars? Remember?"

The word stars hung there, mocking. You'd texted her a constellation map two nights ago, labeled with dumb jokes about her being the brightest point. Now it felt like evidence in a trial you were losing. "Shit, sorry—forgot to mention. Minho dragged me to this comic con thing last minute. Nerd pilgrimage, you know?"

Her laugh was forced, a shadow of the real one. "Right. Comic con. Cool. Have fun, I guess."

You nodded, throat tight, and slipped away before the lie could choke you. By the time you hit the parking lot, the weight of it all pressed down— the hurt blooming into something hollow, an emptiness that echoed with every step. You weren't just avoiding her; you were erasing her, one excuse at a time. And fuck, it hurt worse than the truth. Because deep down, buried under the betrayal, you missed her too. The way she'd listen to your rants without glazing over, the spark in her eyes when you surprised her. But that was the con, wasn't it? The perfect illusion.

Meanwhile, across the quad, Karina watched you go, her arms wrapped tight around her waist like she could hold herself together. The lounge echo still lingered in her mind—Aeri's dare, the casual cruelty of it all—but now it soured on her tongue. Weird all week. Yeah, no shit. She'd been dodging her own friends' texts about the "next phase," blowing off their party invites with half-assed excuses. Because every time she thought about ghosting you, about turning this into the punchline, her stomach knotted up like she'd swallowed glass.

That night, alone in her room with the fairy lights dimmed low, she scrolled through your texts—the bunny name, the star map, that stupid Night, hero she'd sent without thinking. Her thumb hovered over the call button, pulse racing. Just call him, she thought. Explain. Say it started as a dare but... fuck, but what? That it wasn't a lie anymore? That she caught herself doodling your initials in her notebook margins, replaying your laugh like a favorite track on repeat?

She hit dial before she could chicken out, the ringtone slicing through the quiet like an accusation. One ring. Two. Voicemail. "Hey, it's Y/N—leave a message, or don't. Whatever floats your spaceship."

A choked laugh escaped her, but it dissolved into a sigh. "Hey... it's me. Karina. Just... checking in. Miss talking to you, I guess. Call me back? Please?" She hung up, tossing the phone aside like it burned. Miss talking to you. Understatement of the century. She missed the way you'd challenge her on movie plots, the quiet confidence that snuck out when you thought no one was watching. Missed you. And as she curled under the covers, the dare felt like chains—stupid, self-inflicted chains she suddenly, desperately, wanted to break.

But you? Your voicemail notification glowed in the dark of your room, unread. Unheard. Because listening would crack the walls you'd built, and you weren't ready to let the flood in. Not yet. The hurt was too raw, the fear of looking like a fool too sharp. So you let it sit there, a silent grenade, while the distance stretched wider, pulling you both into the void.

Little did you know, on the other side of that void, Karina was already reaching—fingers outstretched, heart pounding—for a way to pull you back.

-----

The plan crystallized over a sleepless weekend, forged in the quiet fury of deleted texts and half-hearted homework. You weren't the yelling type—never had been. Anger was a luxury for people who didn't mind the fallout, and you'd spent too many years perfecting the art of quiet retreat to blow it now. No, this needed precision. A scalpel, not a sledgehammer. Something to make her feel the weight without turning you into the villain of your own story.

The recording had been a fluke, really. That Thursday after the lounge bombshell, you'd lingered longer than you should have, phone clutched in your pocket like a talisman. The door had swung wider on a draft, and you'd hit record on instinct—paranoia, maybe, or some buried need for proof that this wasn't just your imagination unraveling. Her voice, clear and cutting: It's easier than I thought... boom, he's hooked. The arcade date, reduced to a punchline. Texting me goodnight with bunny names and shit. You'd listened to it once, twice, until the words etched into your brain like acid. Then you'd saved it, a digital scar, waiting for the right moment.

Monday hit like a hangover—gray skies pressing down on the school roof, the hallways buzzing with that post-weekend haze. You spotted her during lunch, alone for once, perched on the edge of a picnic table outside the cafeteria doors. No entourage today; Aeri was home sick, and the rest had scattered to their cliques. Perfect. Isolated. Vulnerable.

You approached with your tray balanced in one hand, the other shoved deep in your pocket around your phone. She looked up as your shadow fell over her, her face a mix of hope and wariness—eyes brightening like she thought this was a truce.

"Y/N," she said, scooting over to make space, her voice soft around the edges. "Sit? I've been... yeah. Looking for you."

You set the tray down, the plastic clattering louder than it should have. Sat, but not close—close enough to see the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her fingers twisted the hem of her sweater like she was unraveling. "Looking for me, huh? That's new."

She winced, but pushed on, words tumbling out in a rush she'd probably rehearsed. "Listen, I know I've been weird. And you've been... distant. But it's not what you think. Or—fuck, maybe it is, but not anymore. It started stupid, okay? A dare from the girls. Dumb peer pressure shit. Ask out the nerd, see if I could pull it off. But then... then it wasn't. The coffee, the arcade, the way you talk about stars like they're old friends? I didn't fake that. I—"

"Love me?" You finished it for her, voice flat, even. No edge, no venom. Just the truth hanging there, naked and cold. Her mouth snapped shut, eyes widening like you'd slapped her. Caught off guard, just like you'd planned. The queen bee, speechless.

She swallowed hard, nodding once, fierce. "Yeah. I love you. Truly. It snuck up on me, Y/N. I didn't see it coming, but it's real. Please, just—"

You pulled out your phone, thumbing the screen awake before she could finish. No preamble. Just hit play. Her voice filled the space between you, tinny through the speaker but unmistakable: ...played it cool, asked about his dumb spaceship models, and boom—he's hooked. It's almost too good.

The color drained from her face, slow and stark, like ink bleeding into water. She stared at the phone like it was a loaded gun, her lips parting on a silent gasp. The recording looped to the end—Fool him into thinking it's real—and you stopped it, pocketing the device with deliberate calm. The courtyard noise faded to a hum: distant laughter, a basketball thumping against pavement. No one watching. No audience for the fallout.

"Y/N, I—" She reached for your arm, but you shifted just out of touch, and her hand fell limp between you. Tears welled, but she blinked them back, voice cracking like thin ice. "That was before. Before I knew. I was an idiot, okay? Scared of looking soft, playing the part everyone expects. But you... you saw me. Not the Karina everyone wants, the one who has it all figured out. You made me want to be real. Please, believe me. I love you."

The words landed heavy, sincere in a way that twisted the knife deeper. You could see it—the regret carving lines into her face, the way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for a storm. Part of you—the part that still remembered vanilla and arcade cheers—wanted to believe her. Wanted to pull her close and call it even. But the hurt was a wall, thick and unyielding, built brick by brick from every lie she'd spun.

You met her eyes, steady. No yell. No storm. Just quiet, cutting truth. "If you love me, Karina... try harder. Fool me more. Make me believe it this time."

She froze, breath hitching. "What?"

"You heard me." You stood, tray in hand, the uneaten sandwich mocking you both. "You were good at it before. The laughs, the texts, the way you'd lean in like I mattered. Do better. Or don't. Your call."

You walked away then, leaving her there on the bench—alone, exposed, the queen stripped bare. Her whisper chased you—"Y/N, wait"—but you didn't. Not anger, not cruelty. Just self-preservation, wrapped in a challenge she couldn't ignore.

Behind you, Karina buried her face in her hands, the tears finally spilling hot and unchecked. Fool him more. The words echoed, a gauntlet thrown. And for the first time, the dare felt like the easy part.

-----

The days that followed were a tightrope walk—Karina on one side, teetering with every desperate step, you on the other, balanced on the edge of doubt. You didn't ghost her outright; that would make you the asshole, and you weren't about to become the jerk in this mess. No, you stayed open—texts answered with single words, smiles in the hall that didn't quite reach your eyes. Self-aware now, like you'd swallowed a truth serum that turned every gesture into a puzzle piece. Was this real, or another layer of the con? You'd watch, wait, let her prove it. Because deep down, buried under the scar tissue, you wanted her to succeed. Wanted to believe in the girl who'd laughed at your hyperdrive rants, not the one who'd mocked them.

She started small, tentative—like testing the ice before stepping out. Tuesday after physics, she slipped a note into your locker: a crumpled sketch of the Millennium Falcon, wings taped together with what looked like superglue residue. Tried again. Still sucks. But for you? Worth the band-aids. -K No emojis, no flair. Just her handwriting, messy and earnest, the kind that spoke of late nights and second tries.

You stared at it during lunch, Minho peering over your shoulder with a raised brow. "Secret admirer? Or is this the Karina plot twist we've all been waiting for?"

You folded it carefully, tucking it into your notebook. "Something like that." No details—your hurt was private, the kind you didn't unpack over cafeteria slop. But the note? It lingered, a quiet crack in your armor. She'd remembered the story, the glue disaster. Effort, or echo?

By Wednesday, she escalated—public, but not showy. The hallway between classes was a gauntlet of stares and whispers, but there she was, waiting by your locker again, backpack slung low like she didn't care about the optics. Aeri hovered a few feet back, arms crossed, but Karina waved her off with a sharp "Give us space, yeah?"—her voice carrying that edge, the one that brooked no bullshit.

When you approached, she held out a paper bag, grease-stained and warm. "Peace offering. Or... whatever. Your mom mentioned you like those spicy chicken wraps from the truck downtown. Figured you'd skip lunch again if I didn't intervene."

You blinked, taking it slowly. Your mom? She'd called your house? The thought sent a weird flutter through your chest—intrusive, intimate, the kind of move that screamed vulnerability. "You... talked to my mom?"

She shrugged, but her cheeks pinked under the fluorescent glare. "Yeah. Told her I was worried about you. She thinks I'm sweet, by the way. Said you could use someone who doesn't let you hide in your books all the time." A pause, her eyes searching yours. "She's right, you know. I miss that—seeing you light up about shit that matters to you."

The bag felt heavy in your hand, not from the food, but from the weight of it all. Trick, or truth? You could spot the patterns now: the way her friends shot her side-eyes, like she was betraying the script. The faint tremor in her fingers as she adjusted her bag strap. She was trying—harder than before, shedding the polish for something raw.

"Thanks," you said, voice even. No warmth, but no ice. "Appreciate it."

She nodded, biting her lip. "Anytime. Or... most times. If you'll let me."

You watched her go, weaving through the crowd that parted for her like always. But today, she didn't glide—she shuffled a little, shoulders tight, like the stares burned. Willing to look less than perfect. For you.

Thursday brought the rain again, turning the after-school bus stop into a soggy limbo. You were huddled under the overhang, hood up, scrolling memes to kill time when she appeared—umbrella in one hand, a battered thermos in the other. No makeup, hair frizzing in the humidity, her jeans splashed with what looked like mud from a puddle dodge.

"Hot chocolate," she said, thrusting the thermos at you like a shield. "Extra marshmallows. Because fuck the diet—it's miserable out here."

You took it, the warmth seeping through the metal, chasing the chill. "You didn't have to—"

"I know." She stepped under the overhang, close but not crowding, rain dripping from her umbrella in steady plinks. "But I wanted to. Look, Y/N... that recording? It haunts me. Every word. I was scared, okay? Scared of feeling something real when everyone expects me to be the girl who doesn't. But you? You're not a dare. You're the part of me I didn't know I needed—the one who makes me want to build stupid models and lose at air hockey just to hear you laugh."

Her voice cracked on the last word, eyes shiny but steady. No tears this time—just raw, unfiltered Karina, the kind that didn't perform for an audience. You sipped the chocolate, sweet and too hot, burning your tongue in the best way. Trick? Maybe. But the mud on her jeans, the frizz she didn't fix, the way she shivered without complaining... it felt like surrender. Like she was willing to be the loser in this equation, splashed and imperfect, just to stand there with you.

"I see you trying," you said finally, handing the thermos back half-empty. "It's... noted."

She smiled then—small, tentative, like dawn breaking through clouds. "Good. Because I'm not stopping. Fool you? Nah. I'm trying to show you the truth this time."

The bus rumbled up, doors hissing open. You boarded first, pausing at the top step. "Keep going, then. I'm listening."

Friday capped it—a gesture that hit like a gut punch, the kind that blurred the line between effort and ache. Debate club wrapped late, the room emptying into the dimming gym lights, and there you were, packing up notes on rhetorical fallacies, when the door creaked. Karina, alone, in a hoodie two sizes too big (yours? No, couldn't be—wait, yeah, the one you'd left at the arcade that first night, forgotten in the rain).

She held it out, sheepish. "Found this in my laundry. Smells like you—coffee and that cologne you pretend not to wear." A beat, then softer: "Wear it to the planetarium? If... if you still want to go. Just us. No dares, no games. I promise."

You took the hoodie, the fabric soft from her wash, carrying a faint trace of vanilla now—hers mingling with yours. The offer hung there, stars unspoken. You'd canceled it in your head weeks ago, but now? With her standing there, hoodie-handed and hopeful, looking every bit the girl who'd trade her crown for a quiet night under the dome?

"Maybe," you said, pulling it on. It fit like an apology. "Text me the time."

Her grin broke wide, lighting the room. "Deal."

As she left, you lingered, fingers tracing the hem. Self-aware, yeah—you saw the moves, the calculated vulnerability. But fuck, you also saw her. The way she'd ditched her friends' lunch table to brave the rain, the superglue scars on her sketch. She was becoming the loser for you—splashed jeans, frizzy hair, public pleas that chipped at her untouchable rep. And in the quiet of that emptying room, doubt cracked just a little wider. Maybe this time, the fool wasn't you. Maybe it was both of you, reaching across the void, hoping the other would catch.

-----

The planetarium loomed on the horizon like a fragile truce—Saturday night, under the dome's artificial stars, where words could dissolve into constellations and maybe, just maybe, you'd let the walls drop a little further. But Friday had other plans, the kind that slithered in on whispers and side-eyes, turning the school into a pressure cooker of petty vendettas. Karina's friends—her so-called inner circle, the ones who'd egged on the dare like it was a group project—had been simmering since her shift. Aeri's texts had gone unanswered for days, Yizhuo's Instagram stories laced with passive-aggressive memes about "fake friends and faker crushes." They saw her drifting, saw the queen bee buzzing around the nerd instead of her hive, and it pissed them off. Loyalty, they called it. Revenge, you knew.

You felt it building all morning, that electric hum in the air like static before lightning. Hallways thicker with stares, clusters of whispers that parted when you passed. By lunch, it hit critical mass. The cafeteria was a zoo as usual—trays clanging, laughter spiking over the drone of the AC—but today, the center table felt like a stage, spotlit by the fluorescent glare. Karina's crew held court there: Aeri at the head, sharp-eyed and smirking, flanked by Yizhuo and a couple of hangers-on whose names you could never keep straight. Summer, maybe? The one with the nose ring. And Ning, the wildcard who laughed too loud at everything.

You were at your usual corner with Minho and Jiwoo, picking at a sad excuse for pasta, when Aeri's voice cut through the din like a siren. "Oh, look who's gracing us with his presence. The dare of the century himself!"

Heads turned—casual at first, then sharper, like sharks scenting blood. You froze mid-fork, sauce dripping onto your tray. Minho choked on his soda, sputtering, "What the fuck did she just—"

Jiwoo shushed him, eyes wide, but you? You just set your fork down. Slow. Deliberate. The recording burned in your pocket like a live wire, but you didn't need it. Not yet. You'd been waiting for this, the other shoe dropping in a hailstorm.

Aeri stood, tray abandoned, sauntering over like she owned the linoleum. The table followed her lead, a pack mentality that made your skin crawl. Yizhuo hung back a step, smirking into her phone, already live-streaming the takedown for clout. "Hey, Y/N," Aeri drawled, loud enough for the adjacent tables to lean in. "Or should I say, Mr. Hooked? Bet you thought you were special, huh? Texting Karina bunny names and star maps like some lovesick puppy. Newsflash: it was a dare. Whole thing. She asked you out on a bet—see if the ice queen could slum it with the science fair reject. And damn, you fell for it hard."

The cafeteria hushed in waves, a ripple of gasps and stifled snickers spreading like oil on water. Summer snorted, covering her mouth too late. "Pics or it didn't happen, right? Oh wait—she's got 'em. The arcade? Total setup. You grabbing that stuffed bunny like a champ? Iconic loser energy."

Your pulse thrummed steady, no spike, no panic. You'd heard worse—in your head, on loop, every night since the lounge. This? This was just the public service announcement, the grand reveal for an audience that didn't matter. You met Aeri's eyes, calm as a dead sea. "Dare, huh? Yeah. I know."

The words landed flat, but they detonated anyway. Aeri blinked, smirk faltering like a glitch. "What?"

"I know," you repeated, voice even, laced with that quiet edge you'd honed in debate club—the one that dismantled arguments without raising a decibel. "Overheard you all in the lounge. Word for word. The 'dumb spaceship models,' the 'fool him' bit. Cute, really. Amateur hour."

The table behind you erupted in murmurs—"He knew?" "No way."—but you didn't break eye contact. Yizhuo lowered her phone, the live feed forgotten, her grin souring into confusion. "Wait, so you're... what? Playing along? That's pathetic."

"Pathetic?" You tilted your head, almost amused. The hurt was there, buried deep, but this? This was armor. "Nah. That's called self-respect. You think exposing a dare makes me the fool? Try again. It just makes you look desperate."

Aeri's face twisted, cheeks flushing under the liner she probably reapplied between classes. "Fuck you, nerd. You think you're hot shit now? Karina's just pity-fucking your ego—"

"Enough." The word sliced through like a whipcrack, and there she was—Karina, bursting from the kitchen doors like she'd been summoned by the chaos. Tray in hand, but abandoned mid-stride, clattering to the floor forgotten. Her eyes blazed, not the cool queen fire, but something feral, protective—a mama bear with claws out. She shoved past Summer, planting herself between you and the pack, shoulders squared like a shield.

Aeri whirled, incredulous. "Jimin? What the hell? We're just telling him the truth—"

"The truth?" Karina's laugh was bitter, sharp as shattered glass. She stepped closer to Aeri, voice dropping to a venomous hiss that carried anyway. "Your truth? The one where you bet me a hundred bucks I couldn't ask out a guy without treating him like shit? Yeah, I remember. And you know what? It was the stupidest fucking thing I ever did. Because Y/N? He's not a dare. He's not a joke. He's the only one here who sees me—really sees me—without expecting a performance."

The cafeteria had gone tomb-silent now, forks hovering, breaths held. Yizhuo shifted uncomfortably, pocketing her phone. "Come on, Jimin, it's not that serious. We were just messing—"

"Messing around?" Karina rounded on her, eyes flashing. "You think humiliating him is fun? Posting it online like it's content? Fuck that. And fuck you for thinking I'd let you drag him through your bullshit just because I grew a spine and chose better." She turned to the rest of the table, voice rising like a tide. "Any of you. If you can't handle me being happy—really happy, not your performative crap—then stay the hell away. We're done."

Summer muttered something under her breath—"Drama queen"—but Aeri just stared, mouth agape, the pack fracturing in real time. Whispers erupted as Karina grabbed your arm, not gentle, but fierce—clinging like you'd vanish if she let go. Her fingers dug in, warm and trembling, anchoring you both in the storm's eye.

"Come on," she murmured, low for your ears only, as she tugged you toward the exit. "Not worth the air they breathe."

You let her lead, the cafeteria's eyes boring into your back like lasers. Minho whooped from your table—"Get it, Rocket Boy!"—and Jiwoo flashed a thumbs-up, but the rest blurred into white noise. Karina didn't stop until you hit the hallway, the doors swinging shut behind you like a guillotine. Then she whirled, still clinging—arms wrapping around your waist now, face buried in your shoulder, her breath hot and ragged against your hoodie.

"Shit," she whispered, voice muffled, body pressed close enough you could feel her heartbeat rabbiting. "I'm sorry. They're assholes, but I should've shut that down sooner. I just... I can't lose you over their stupid game."

You hesitated, arms hovering before settling on her back—light, testing. The cling was new, vulnerable; the Karina who'd glide untouchable now molding to you like you'd always fit. Vanilla and rain from the morning drizzle clung to her hair, grounding you. "You didn't lose me," you said, honest despite the scar. "Knew it already, remember? But that... back there? That was something."

She pulled back just enough to look up, eyes glassy but fierce, cheeks flushed from the confrontation. "Yeah? Good. Because I'm not faking this part." And then, impulsive as a shooting star, she rose on her toes—clung tighter, one hand fisting your hoodie—and pressed her lips to your cheek. Soft, lingering, a brand that seared warmer than anger. Not a stage kiss, not for show; just her, staking claim in the empty hall, lips brushing stubble and skin like a promise.

You froze, breath catching, the spot tingling long after she pulled away. Her grin was sheepish, but unapologetic—eyes sparkling with that mix of nerves and fire. "For luck. Or... whatever. Planetarium tomorrow? Still on?"

The bell rang then, shrill and intrusive, shattering the bubble. Students spilled from classrooms, but she didn't let go—not fully—her hand sliding down to lace fingers with yours as you both headed to class. "Yeah," you said, squeezing back despite yourself. "Still on."

The rest of the day blurred—whispers chasing you like shadows, Aeri's glare burning holes from across the quad—but Karina stuck close. Notes passed in history (a doodle of a claw machine devouring her friends, labeled Karma's got teeth), a brush of her shoulder in the hall, her laugh cutting through the tension when you cracked a lame quantum joke. Protective didn't cover it; she was a force field, deflecting stares with glares that could curdle milk, clinging in subtle ways—a hand on your elbow during passing periods, her backpack bumping yours like an orbit.

By dismissal, the school's grapevine had twisted the tale: Karina ditching her crew for the nerd, a full-on cafeteria smackdown. Your phone buzzed nonstop—Minho's memes, Jiwoo's excited texts (She's ride-or-die now? Spill!), even a wary ping from an unknown number (probably Yizhuo, testing waters). But you ignored them, focused on the girl beside you at the bus stop, her head on your shoulder as rain pattered the overhang.

"You didn't have to go nuclear back there," you said quietly, arm slipping around her waist—tentative, but there. "Could've let it slide."

She snorted, nuzzling closer, the cling turning cozy in the chill. "Nah. They crossed a line. And you? You're worth nuking bridges for." A pause, her fingers tracing patterns on your knee. "Besides... feels good. Being on your side for once."

The bus pulled up, but neither moved right away. Her cheek kiss lingered in your mind, a spark that warmed the doubt's chill. Self-aware still—you saw the gestures, weighed them against the past—but damn if her defense didn't tip the scales. She wasn't fooling anymore; she was fighting. For you. And as you both boarded, her hand in yours, the void between you shrank just a little more.

Saturday's stars waited, but tonight? Tonight felt like its own constellation—two points aligning, messy and bright, against the dark.

-----

The planetarium smelled like polished wood and stale popcorn, a domed sanctuary where the outside world dissolved into projected galaxies. You'd arrived early—habit, nerves—hoodie zipped against the AC bite, the one she'd washed and returned, still carrying her scent like a secret. Tickets in hand, you claimed seats in the back row, the kind with extra legroom for the awkward sprawl of first real dates post-drama.

She showed five minutes late, breathless from the dash across the parking lot, hair windswept and cheeks pink. No makeup armor today—just gloss and a grin that lit the dim foyer. "Sorry—bus was a nightmare. But I brought reinforcements." She held up a crinkled bag of those regret-hot dogs from the concession, steam curling out like a peace flag. "Figured we'd need fuel for the big bang."

You chuckled, taking the bag, the normalcy of it easing the knot in your chest. "Bold choice. Last time I had one of these, I questioned all life decisions."

"Same." She linked her arm through yours as the usher waved you in, clinging light but sure—like it was the most natural thing, post-cafeteria fallout be damned. The dome hummed to life around you, seats reclining into starry oblivion, the narrator's voice a soothing baritone droning about nebulae and supernovas.

Halfway through—Milky Way swirling overhead like cotton candy on steroids—she shifted closer, her knee bumping yours. "This okay?" Whispered, tentative, her hand finding yours in the dark. No grand gesture, just fingers intertwining, thumb stroking your knuckle like a Morse code apology.

"Yeah," you murmured back, squeezing. The cling from yesterday echoed here—protective, affectionate, a quiet claim. "More than."

The show blurred after that: black holes sucking light, pulsars flashing like heartbeats. But her commentary stole the spotlight—whispers about how the Orion Nebula looked like a cosmic bruise, or how she'd kill to pilot a ship through the Pillars of Creation. You countered with facts you'd hoarded like treasures—the math behind red shifts, the eerie silence of vacuum—and she listened, head on your shoulder now, laughs muffled against your sleeve.

Post-show, the dome emptied slow, couples lingering under the fading stars. She didn't let go—clung as you both wandered the exhibit hall, her free hand gesturing wildly at a holographic solar system. "See? That's why I need you around. You're the one who makes this shit make sense."

You pulled her to a stop by a display of meteorites, rough and ancient under glass. "And you're the one who makes it fun. Even when it's... complicated."

Her eyes softened, the cling turning earnest as she stepped into your space—close enough for vanilla to overwhelm the popcorn haze. "Complicated's okay. As long as it's us." Then, softer: "Thank you. For giving me a shot to fix this. I know I don't deserve it, but—"

"You do," you cut in, surprising yourself. The cheek kiss from yesterday burned fresh, a bridge you'd half-crossed. "You're trying. That's more than enough."

She beamed, rising again—lips brushing your cheek once more, lingering longer this time, a spark that jumped straight to your core. "Good. Because I'm all in, Y/N. Dare or no dare."

Outside, under real stars peeking through city haze, you walked her to the bus stop—hands linked, steps synced. The hurt lingered, a faint scar, but her defense, her cling, her unfiltered fire? It was rewriting the story. One constellation at a time.

Little did you know, across town, Aeri's group chat was fracturing—apologies pinged, bridges tentatively mended. But Karina? She was done with the hive. Her orbit was yours now, and the pull felt irreversible.

-----

The week after the planetarium felt like emerging from a nebula—hazy at first, then sharpening into something brilliant and vast. School, once a minefield of whispers and wary glances, softened around the edges. Aeri's crew had splintered: a half-hearted apology group chat from Yizhuo (ignored by Karina), Summer switching tables at lunch like a defector, and Aeri herself slinking into radio silence, her glare dulled by the realization that the queen had flown the coop. No one dared mock you openly anymore—not with Karina's cafeteria takedown fresh in every memory bank. But more than the quiet, it was her. Karina, orbiting closer every day, turning the mundane into magic with a glance, a touch, a laugh that felt like home.

Monday morning set the tone. You were fumbling with your locker, backpack spilling half its contents in a cascade of notes and a rogue pencil that rolled underfoot, when her voice cut through the hallway din like sunlight. "Need a hand, hero? Or should I call in reinforcements?"

She was there, leaning against the adjacent locker, a paper coffee cup extended like a scepter. Vanilla latte for her, black with a splash of cream for you—exactly how you'd grumbled about it tasting best during one of your late-night texts. Her hair was loose today, catching the light in soft waves, and she wore that cropped sweater from your first coffee run, like a nod to the beginning they were rewriting.

You took the cup, fingers brushing hers—warm, deliberate, sending that familiar spark up your arm. "You memorized my order? Stalker level: expert."

She grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly as she helped shove books back into the chaos. "Guilty. But hey, it's efficient. And it means I get to start your day with caffeine instead of chaos." Her hand lingered on yours for a beat, squeezing once before pulling away—subtle, but enough to make your chest hum.

By lunch, the shift was seismic. Minho and Jiwoo had claimed your corner table as usual, but today it expanded—Karina sliding in beside you without fanfare, tray balanced with fries she immediately pushed your way. "Steal one. I got extra—payback for the hot dogs that nearly killed us."

Minho's eyes bugged out, fork pausing mid-air. "Holy shit, is this real life? The Karina Yu in our nerd bunker? Alert the presses."

Jiwoo leaned forward, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "I like her already. Fries are the universal language of peace treaties."

Karina laughed, that full, unguarded sound that still caught you off guard, and popped a fry into her mouth. "What can I say? Your table has better vibes. No drama, just... actual conversations." She shot you a sideways glance, eyes twinkling. "Plus, Y/N promised to explain that black hole theory again. The one where time stops? Mind blown."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't hide the smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you stop calling it 'the time-freeze vortex.' It's event horizon, Karina."

"Potato, po-tah-to." She nudged your knee under the table, her foot hooking lightly around your ankle—a secret anchor in the chatter. Minho dove into a rant about conspiracy theories (Jiwoo egging him on), and Karina jumped in seamlessly, debating wormholes like she'd minored in astrophysics. By the end of the period, Minho was declaring her "honorary nerd," and Jiwoo was sketching a cartoon of the four of you as space explorers—Karina as the fearless captain, you as the wise navigator.

As the bell rang, she lingered, helping you gather trays. "This okay? Hanging with your crew? I don't want to... invade."

You paused in the doorway, turning to face her—close enough to count the faint freckles across her nose from that one sunny arcade afternoon. "Invade? Nah. Feels right. Like you were always supposed to be here."

Her cheeks flushed, soft pink, and she leaned in—quick, sweet—pressing a kiss to your cheek, right there in the bustling hall. No hiding, no hesitation. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

The afternoons blurred into a rhythm of small sweetnesses. Tuesday: a shared umbrella walk to the bus stop after rain-slicked detention (hers for talking back in English; yours for "excessive doodling" in margins). She clung to your arm the whole way, splashing through puddles on purpose, her laughter bubbling up like fizzy soda when you pretended to grumble. "Admit it," she teased, shaking droplets from her hair onto your shoulder. "You love the chaos."

"Only if it comes with you," you shot back, and the way her eyes softened made the words feel like truth, not flirtation.

Wednesday: notes in your locker evolved into treasures—a Polaroid from the planetarium (you both mid-laugh under the dome's glow, her head on your shoulder), taped with a sticky note: Our constellation. Yours & mine. -K. You tucked it into your wallet, a talisman against the fading doubts.

By Thursday, the recording—the digital ghost that had haunted you—felt like ancient history. You sat on your bed after homework, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the delete icon. Her voice played one last time, tinny and distant: Fool him... But now? It echoed hollow, overshadowed by the real her—the one who'd defended you with fire, who'd memorized your coffee order, who'd turned your corner table into our table. You hit delete, the file vanishing like a popped bubble. Trust wasn't blind anymore; it was earned, star by star. And damn if she hadn't filled the sky.

Friday capped it with a bang—or rather, a quiet pop of confetti. Karina cornered you after last period, eyes sparkling with mischief as she dragged you to the rooftop access (a "forbidden" spot she'd sweet-talked the janitor into overlooking). The view was pure Seoul sprawl—skyscrapers twinkling against the dusk, the Han River a silver ribbon below. She'd set up a makeshift picnic: blanket from her car, takeout from that downtown truck (spicy wraps, no regrets), and a thermos of hot chocolate laced with marshmallows that stuck to your fingers like glue.

"Sit," she commanded, patting the blanket with exaggerated royalty. "Your queen demands a summit."

You dropped down beside her, legs dangling over the edge, the city hum a soothing underscore. "Queen, huh? Thought you abdicated for nerd privileges."

She snorted, handing you a wrap. "Demoted, not abdicated. Still got perks—like rooftop dates without the hassle of reservations." She leaned back on her elbows, wrap half-eaten, watching the sky deepen to indigo. "This okay? I know it's been... a lot. The drama, the clingy me. But I just... I don't want to miss a second."

You set your food aside, turning to her fully—the way the fading light gilded her profile, turning sharp edges soft. "Clingy? Karina, that's the best part. And the drama? Water under the bridge. Or stars in the sky. Whatever metaphor fits."

She laughed, but it tapered into something vulnerable, her hand finding yours across the blanket. Fingers laced, natural as breathing. "You know, that dare... it was the luckiest mistake I ever made. Because it led here. To you. The guy who builds models and quotes Alien like poetry. I love that. I love... you."

The words hung, simple and seismic, no grand gestures—just her, eyes steady, thumb tracing circles on your knuckle. Your heart stuttered, but not from fear—from fullness, the kind that overflowed quiet and warm.

"I love you too," you said, the confession slipping out easy, like it had been waiting in the wings. No fanfare, just truth. You tugged her closer, her head fitting perfectly against your shoulder as the first stars pricked the velvet dark. "Dares and all. Mostly the after."

She nuzzled in, content sigh vibrating against you. "Mostly the after. Deal."

The rooftop held you both as night deepened—wraps forgotten, hot chocolate shared sip by sip, stories spilling like constellations. She confessed her secret horror movie marathon plans (starting with The Thing, naturally), you admitted to a half-finished model of the Enterprise hidden in your closet. Laughter wove through it all, soft and sustaining, her free hand doodling absent hearts on your palm.

When the chill crept in, you draped your hoodie over her shoulders—hers now, officially—and walked her home under streetlights that mimicked the dome. At her door, she turned, rising on toes for a proper kiss—not cheek this time, but lips: gentle, lingering, tasting of chocolate and promise. Sweet, unhurried, the kind that said we have time.

"Night, hero," she whispered against your mouth, grin sleepy and bright.

"Night, captain." You watched her slip inside, the door clicking soft, before turning for home—heart light, steps sure.

-----

Months later, the school year wound down like a gentle exhale—exams conquered, caps tossed, the world opening wider. You and Karina? Solid. Orbiting effortless now, a binary star system that drew its own gravity.

Summer brought lazy afternoons at that hole-in-the-wall café, where she'd challenge you to claw machine rematches (she won once, crowing victory with a stuffed alien she named "Y/N's Ego"). Evenings were stargazing on her balcony, blanket forts against the city glow, her head in your lap as you traced constellations with your finger—Orion for her fire, Cassiopeia for your quiet strength.

Friends merged seamlessly: Minho and Jiwoo adopted her into game nights (she dominated Monopoly, ruthlessly bankrupting you all), while Karina dragged you to indie horror fests, her hand squeezing yours during jump scares, whispers of "Told you the tentacles were epic" breaking the tension.

Fall semester hit with freshman orientations looming—her art school dreams, your engineering path—but distance? Just a train ride away. "We'll make new constellations," she'd say, clinging in the airport hug that first drop-off weekend, her kiss a bookmark on the page.

And on quiet nights, when doubt's echo tried to whisper, you'd pull out that wallet Polaroid—faded now, but vivid in memory. Proof of the after. Of her laugh in the dome, her defense in the cafeteria, her "I love you" on the rooftop. Foolish? Maybe once. But now? Just love—fluffy, sweet, and utterly, starlit real.

As the city lights twinkled below your dorm window that first night apart, your phone buzzed: Miss you already. Send a star pic? Love you, hero. 💫

You snapped the view—city mimicking the sky—and hit send. Right back. Love you more, captain. To the stars?

Her reply: Always.

And just like that, the universe felt a little less vast.

-----

[lara4eclipze]

— 𝓨our backburner

— ( 🪼 ) cause maybe you'll finally choose me after you've had more time

megan skiendiel x fem reader, angst, backburner!reader, swearing, comfort, doomed lesbian reader, toxic megan, wc [?], tags listed below

you met megan during the pandemic, she was definitely very different — during the time megan jumped from one relationship to another, you always told her it might hurt someone and it always did

yet, what you failed to realize is your growing infatuation with the girl — she quite literally been with you throughout every era of your life, but you knew that megan did not like you in that way, you were just her soulmate — platonically

until it happened — megan was wasted that night, you had just picked her up from the club — which by the way she didn't tell anyone about, she looked beautiful her eyes hazy and her makeup faded, you wished you could see this megan every day even if it meant just as a friend

"y/n..~, i love youu" megan slurred out — her eyes trained on you as you drove both of you back, your heart dropped god was it just because whe was drunk? or did she really mean it

"i love you too," you murmur back till she falls asleep in the passenger seat, you knew it'll be hard to escape now — to escape the feeling

the cycle started, megan was now with you everyday clinging to you much more which warmed your heart — yet why was it always when shes in between breakups?

megan would always run to you and tell you how better you treat her but when her ex calls her she folds and leaves you immediately, you never payed it any mind, all you wanted was her to be with you

you always knew you were never the first choice for the girl, but what hurt you is how obvious she made it, you settled for less and always got whats coming

it repeated for months, megan will only talk to you when she was in a cool off situation then the minute their good she'll leave you in the dust

"when are we gonna stop doing this?" you asked megan as she laid her head on your lap, you two were watching some movie long forgotten

"what do you mean?" megan asks, her tone was like she got caught or felt guilty nonetheless you knew she wasn't

"i feel stupid megan, I'll be here always but why can't you see me? ill do anything for you" you stammer your words as tears start to blur your eyes, "why do i feel like this, fuck" you mumble

yet as you start to feel like everything is going wrong megan holds your hands, kissing your cheeks softly, "i always see you y/n, i love you now" she says

"yeah and in a few weeks, you won't" you replied, "that's not true, you know that y/n" megan snorts her grip on your hands tightening

"i love you more than anyone" megan follows softening her voice, you knew you'd always fall for her schemes, and here you are falling for it again, "believe me"

you knew it's too late to turn back and tell the girl that you're tired of this—of being her backburner— but you couldn't lie, you never felt alive till you were her backburner

you stare at megan, taking your time to take in her features, her whisker dimples and her sweet smile, cause in a week or so she'll fade away

and you haven't learned your lesson, you still love the girl that hurts you more than anyone, but also knew you more than everyone

"are you still with me?" you ask timidly — megan replies softly "yes, love", "good" you follow

the endearing name melted your heart, an hour later you have long forgotten the conversation and pretended that you didn't care, didn't care that your not her first choice and will never be the first choice

maybe she'll finally choose you after she'd had more time

but for now, she's your first option — and maybe forever she will be the one who owns your heart

[ducktoo]

Rent-a-friend

Client 11: Kim Gaeul

Tags: Fluff

(5.3k words)

You signed up to Rent-a-friend out of boredom. It's as simple as that.

….nah. That’s not quite right. It went more like this:

You'd been staring at the same corner of your apartment for weeks, organising your big bottles of acrylics while thinking about absolutely nothing and everything at once. You barely made it for competitions, and your bills pile up incessantly.. Your canvases sales took a toll due to supply and demand, barely keeping you afloat (something about modern art that you refuse to follow), and pessimistic thoughts clouded your mind when you were alone in your apartment. That's when you heard some murmurs from your friends. "Bro, Rent-a-friend." They advertised, "You hang out, and you get money. Simple, eh?" and "Stop clinging to the past, man. Maybe you can find someone else here."

It is so fucking ridiculous, right? What kind of people will just pay you to just….hang out? Just exist in someone else's days without actual commitment? But with a few more nags, you sign up belatedly. Curiosity and desperation really does make a hell of a cocktail.

Which is how you ended up here. In the middle of your messy studio. 

As a painter, working with acrylic tends to let the medium have its way of getting everywhere if you let it be — plastic sheets taped to the floor, accidental paint smears dried onto the wall, neglected brushes soaked in cloudy unchanged water. With one hand braced against the wood, you are currently scrubbing at a stubborn streak of beige on the table.

And right in the middle of it, the bell rings. Oh look, your client has arrived.

Pushing yourself up, you quickly trudge towards the kitchen sink and rinse your hands until the paint fades. Looking down at yourself, all that greets you is a concoction of madness — a wrinkled and paint-splattered shirt, and an even more paint-splattered old pair of jeans. You run your fingers through your hair, putting not much thought into it as you push the strands back. Your face freshens up with a quick rinse, ignoring the tired eyes. Yeah, good enough.

It stops being good enough the second you open the damn door.

The guest is a girl who stands a little too straight, most likely trying to match up to your height (she probably remembers your profile). White cardigan that is definitely bigger than her petite frame, she clutches her tote bag close to her chest. She has this long and luscious black hair that she lets down freely, but you catch a glimpse of a hair tie on her wrist. Her eyes then flick up, meeting yours for a moment, before giving you a warm smile.

"Hi," she says hesitantly. "I'm Gaeul. I, uh….I booked for the rent-a-friend service."

Wow, she really has quite a soft and gentle voice. But you are certain that she is anything but weak. Careful sounds more like the right term, which is fair.

Regardless, you step aside. "You're at the right place. Come in."

"Oh- okay." She slips past you, already apologising under her breath even though she hasn't bumped into anything. She takes her shoes off neatly, and lines them up against the wall next to your paint-covered slippers that are anything but neat. And of course, like any other client, Gaeul has her gaze drifting immediately to the mess you're still in the middle of cleaning up.

"Wow, you actually paint?" "I wouldn't put it on my profile if I don't."

She hums quietly, eyes darting to the scattered brushes, the canvases leaning against the wall, and then the mess that definitely shatters the vivid imagery of an artist. Her attention lingers on the small canvases mounted neatly, mundane objects, fruits, a woman sitting on a chair, then back to the mess.

You gesture her towards the table instead. "Have a seat."

She sits on the edge of the chair at first, but then decides to scoot in properly when she realises how silly she looks. You sit across from her (duh. This isn't an escort service, what the hell) and slid the contract to her.

"I'll explain it first," you clear your throat. "I assume it will be better to hear it from me directly than just through DMs. You can read it if you want as I talk."

She looks relieved immediately. "Appreciate your consideration."

'No worries." you give her an assuring smile. "So, first and foremost, you are renting me as your company." Your voice is clear yet casual. "The transaction applies only face-to-face. So that includes hanging out, drinking, whatever you want to try, as long as it's legal, doesn't cross boundaries, and hurts no one." You point at the clauses on the paper. "The max is seven days. It doesn't have to be consecutive, nor do you have to use all of them."

She nods slowly, eyes fixed on you.

"But don't worry, messaging and calling are free, frankly because it is too annoying to quantify those. So you can send me memes, reels, or complaints at 2 a.m., that's fair game."

Her lips twitch. "That's…good to know."

You keep on explaining every little detail in the contract — no obligations after the contract ends, you are simply just there to accompany her, not setting her straight. Luckily, she listens attentively, nods at the right moments, and asking questions that tell you she read the website twice.

"And the…item?" she gets quite hesitant.

"Ah, so about that," You scratch your head as you smile sheepishly. "Something not exactly valuable but with some high emotional value. I can assure you that it is nothing nefarious."

She hesitates (which is understandable), then opens her bag. Her fingers move automatically, digging through everything inside, displaying them on the table — lipstick, lip balm, the forgotten snack, and more. But then she stops rummaging, looking at the hair tie on her wrist. She removes it from her and then places it on the table carefully.

"I use it all the time, well because I have long hair, but also—" she reasons herself a tad too quickly. "Whenever I work. When I need to focus. I don't know…to feel confident, maybe?"

You glance at it. The hair tie is slightly stretched. And soft from use.

"I'll take it." And you hear the exhale from her like she has been holding her breath for so long. You give her a pen. She signs. Her hands are steady.

And the ink dries. Just like the uncleaned streak of beige on the table.

-

Gaeul is an angel at first glance. Soft voice. Polite smile. Harmless energy. Then she grins, and somehow it scares the shit out of you.

Let’s rewind. 

You’re currently walking with her. She holds herself a little too straight, fingers constantly fiddling with the strap of her tote bag. Her eyes dart around the street, alert, like she’s mapping out an escape route in case this whole thing turns out to be a scam. It’s almost endearing, if not painfully obvious. So…you decide to break the ice, searching for a decent one in your head. 'So…what do you do for work?"

Ok, you already know. Background checks exist for a reason. But you don’t want this hang out to be just as awkward as your first time in a relationshi—

“I work in retail,” she replies. “Sales assistant. Clothing store.”

Phew. Something to work with.

She goes on about her days at work, that every morning she always wears her tight black skirt and matching waistcoat (she looks really cute when she shows you the photo) to spend the day serving customers and working behind the till. She admits she was lucky to get the job six months after graduating from junior college.

“The store’s nice,” she adds quickly.

But then she exhales.

“It was the only offer I got,” she admits. “After so many rejections, I just… accepted it immediately. Even though it was in Seoul.”

She tells you that she lives quite far away from Seoul. It is admittingly funny to see her cheeks puffing up when she rants about the nearest convenience store being a fifteen-minute drive away, and even that is just one lonely shop all by itself on a main road. Magazines always go on sale a few days later than they do anywhere else. There are no cinemas or fashion stores. Nothing she could call a restaurant either; the closest things are the small local diners with set menus.

To sum up her little rant: dying of boredom. Which is far more relatable than someone you have spent your late teens with. And hence she's here now. In Seoul. Renting you.

"So…" you try to sound casual, "what made you actually look this up?"

Gaeul gives you a sigh. "Well…I don't have anyone who I can just try things with. I mean, I have friends here, obviously. But they would definitely judge me for doing things out of character. I’m not exactly that close with them." She glances at you, probably testing whether you'll judge her. "So I was quite relieved that you guys' service is providing someone who isn't going to tell me off."

To be fair, you might judge in your head, but you don’t tell her that. "Well, that's what we do."

She laughs softly (albeit a bit embarrassed) and then tugs at a strand of hair before tucking it behind her ear. "Although, it is still quite weird, talking to someone I basically hired."

"It's supposed to feel weird, I don't blame you." you chuckle. "Kind of like you're wondering when you’ll get the character you want in a gacha game. Half of the thrill is seeing whether it will be a terrific pull or a terrible pull."

"…huh?" "Don't worry about it."

You walk in silence for a few moments (because that was so cringe). The faint sound of crows laughs at you. The air smells like hazy afternoon rain and warm asphalt. People pass by, each of them moving like they already know where they’re headed.

"So," you clear your throat. "I can assume this is the first time you're renting a friend?"

She shakes her head. "No, I did book a few before, actually. I was desperate to find something, I guess. I was nervous, and…uh, bored." She bites her lips. "Curiosity too. I don't want to stay in this routine forever. I mean, it's fine, I'm fine. I'm happy that the job is fine, but…"

"You don't want to just turn old and grey in your work uniform?"

"…huh, that's a witty way of saying it."  "I do have my thunder. Thank you, Gaeul."

She smiles. "So…" she stretches out her world. "you're willing to follow me to do whatever dumb stuff I want?"

"For seven days." You inadvertently lift the corner of your mouth up. "We do whatever you want to try."

And you do indeed.

First stop? A photo booth. You know, one of those pop-up ones tucked between restaurants, with pastel curtains and stickers slapped everywhere. You barely have time to protest before she's already dragging you into it (reasons: just because). The photos come out poorly framed and awkward. One picture, you're mid-blink. In another, you made a terrible joke that made Gaeul laugh so hard her head tilted out of frame.

"Gosh, why did you make me duck my head?!" "Don't blame my joke, come on!"

Accessories stall is the next stop. She tries on sunglasses that are far too big for her face. A bucket hat that she immediately rejects. Hair ties she picks up one by one and, for reasons unknown, starts trying on you instead.

“Wait what th— I barely have any hair to tie?” “Shush, it’s funny.”

You just let her be since it’s easier than questioning it.

Down a few streets later, she buys a drink she's never had before. A dessert she's unsure about. She insists on trying your order and lets you try hers without hesitation. Some items fit both your tastes, but some aren't so great that Gaeul pushes them away for you to finish it.

The little moments do hit you quietly in your heart. Something about the small detours. The ‘fuck it we ball’ approach in trying everything. Rewinds you back when you are still with 'her', and you always wonder if she manages to get more free time for herself.

But you don't get to linger on the thoughts as Gaeul slows down at a particular block.

Her eyes lock onto a sign ahead and you follow her gaze. The restaurant sits wedged between a phone repair shop and a convenience store. The sign is loud and modern, adorned with bold letters that promise a tad too much confidence. "Mystery Curry Challenge here! Free if you finish!" You read the bold letters, and then the smaller text below. "Special Flavour only. Wait, special how?"

She presses her lips together, suppressing a laugh. "Well they say it is shitty."

"That's never a good sign."

You push the door open. A small bell jingles overhead, a bit too cheerful for the unknown flavour ahead that you are about to taste. Inside, it's bright and loud — . LED warm lighting, Gen Z music, tables packed close together. A giant screen on the wall loops promotional videos, and something about challenges.

The waitress looks at you two. "Are you guys here for the challenge?"

Gaeul hesitates, then nods. "Yes, for two, please."

You're led to a long communal table. Gaeul sits across from you, smoothing her skirt, then tying her hair up without even thinking about it.

You blink. “When did you get another hair tie?”

She just shrugs.

"Also, why is everyone watching us?" "Well, we're talking about this infamous challenge, can't blame them."

"…Ok you’re right."

The plates arrive on sleek black trays, and the curry looks…intentional (and that is polite, for you). Thick and glossy, with the texture that is very wrong. The smell hits a second later, and it smells bitter, spicy, and oh yeah, very wrong. And guess what? The staff member cheerfully advertises them as poop-flavoured curry. 

Ugh. It is literally shitty.

Gaeul leans forward slightly. "Gosh, it smells worse up close."

"At least this will do numbers on Tiktok." You fight the urges to gag.

When the staff member puts their hand on the small timer and lets you know when to start, you both pick up the spoons.

"See you on the other side, Gaeul." "See you too."

The timer clicks. You take a bite.

It is so shit.

Not even joking, it is so bad.

It's the kind of bad that feels so deliberate. With each bite, you are so flabbergasted at the fact that no one stops during the brainstorming process to think: Why? Seriously? Who the fuck would think of this abomination?

To describe the taste in whatever words you can conjure up, the first hit is…bitter? It's not a good kind, either, it's a weird mix of cocoa powder combined with bitter melon (wow, genius observation right there) from what you can point out. Then comes the spice slap to your face, which Gaeul points out it is coming from minced chicken, yam, and the motherfucking fish guts. What? How does she even know what fish guts taste like? Oh don't even start about how the aftertaste creeps in immediately, with the rush of the curry powder crouching from the back, and proceeds to cling and linger to the back of your throat.

Tl;dr: It's dense. Stagnant. Worse than wet cardboard simmered with whatever they can find in the trash can.

And it looks like Gaeul is not taking it well either, even though she suggested this place. Across from you, she goes completely still. Spoon hovering mid-air. A mouthful filling up her cheeks, eyes wide with most likely regret. A single syllable escapes from her, "Oh", and that sums up the whole experience. As expected, someone nearly laughs, a phone camera tilts your way, but both your focuses are on how to survive the literal shitshow in your mouth.

She takes another bite. "I can't believe this isn't a safety hazard."

“Well,” you croak, “it attracts curious idiots like us.”

You don't finish it. Well, neither of you does. The free meal sounds tempting, but sanity is far more valuable. Eventually, she sets her spoon down too, laughing, eyes watering, even.

'I'm sorry I dragged you into this." Gaeul claps her hand, apologising.

"D-don't worry about it." You cough, the lingering taste of shit staining your throat. "But I might break the rules and judge you for whatever you're cooking up next."

She laughs it off and smacks you on the shoulder.

-

"You ate literal shit?"

Sakura's voice crackles through your phone, loud enough to fill the quiet hum of your apartment. You pause mid-stroke, acrylic hovering just above the canvas. A muddy brown smear already stains the corner, which is unintentional yet fitting to the conversation.

"Poop flavoured, Sakura," you correct, as if that remedies things. "Poop flavoured."

"Tomayto, tomahto, same shit," she fires back immediately. You can hear her scoffing, probably pacing around, or whatever she is doing (most likely gaming). "Why would you do that voluntarily?"

"...I get paid to do it?" "You're not that broke, damn it."

You smile, eyes drifting back to the half-finished painting, but it's not anything concrete yet so far— still shapes and blobs.

"So," Sakura continues, her voice picking up a more curious tone, "what's she like? The girl who convinced you to eat shit."

"Please don't say shit, far out. I’m about to get PTSD with how many times you repeat that word." You groan. "And her name's Gaeul. She works at the retail store three streets away. Doesn't like the city but hates the inconvenience of the countryside more."

"That sounds….tiring." "Guess so, yeah."

You dab more paint onto the canvas, dragging it forward. "Interesting girl, though. Cute face, small, having unexpected yet funny points about her."

"Yeah, eating shit really is a charming point." "Sakura."

"Anyway, is she better than that girl you used to—" "Shut it, Kkura."

Her annoying ass is still the same as when you first met…by accident.

It was a day out at the café, a drink on the side and staring at the front page of Rent-a-friend on your laptop. You could've done this at home at the comfort of privacy, but free wifi was too tempting. You snort at the slogan: "Accompanying services. Friendships without the need to impress.", yet your hands are busy flying across the keyboard and filling up the application.

You should've noticed how Sakura was eyeing your screen from the next table. "Is that…Rent-a-friend?"

You almost dropped your drink halfway through. "Were you spying on me?"

"You're in public, that's on you."

You were so ready to snap, until she tilted her phone towards you and would you look at that, the exact same page, already half-filled. "Hey, I need money too, and this sounds tempting."

Somehow, you two ended up sitting together and helping each other out filling the forms. Comparing details. Laughing at certain application questions. Two strangers bonding over mutual financial ruin and curiosity, pretty much. Now she's your coworker, the one who knows you well enough to roast the living shit out of you.

"So…" Sakura drags out the word, "How long until she asks you to eat something worse?"

As if summoned, the phone buzzes loudly on the table. You check at the screen, and it's an incoming Facetime from Gaeul.

“Oh?” she says. “Speak of the devil.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“Don’t die,” she replies. “Or worse, don’t eat more shit. Let me know at the end if she is better than you-know-who~”

You hang up and swipe to answer Gaeul. The screen fills with motion immediately. The camera shakes, accompanied by loud clangs — metal against ceramic, something sliding aggressively across a counter, and Gaeul groans at something. Probably something bad.

"Hiya Gaeul," you peer into the screen. "Why does it sound like a mess?"

"I'm cooking." "Oh damn."

She shifts the phone, and her kitchen comes into view. Clean. Modern. Clearly unused. She reaches up and ties her hair without even thinking. Again.

"Oooh, nice. Whatcha making?"

"The poop-flavoured curry."

"Wait, why?" You drop your brush. "I mean, it's funny as hell, but why?"

She keeps stirring the pot with her wooden spoon. "It tastes really bad—”

“Truly bad.” 

“...and I just want to understand how it goes that wrong…and maybe see if I can make it good."

"Gosh, now that is a challenge." You pick up your brush from the ground and clean it up. "I sure hope you can find the pot at the end of the rainbow."

"I don't remember the contract saying you can use sarcasm." "Jeez, forgive me, Miss Gaeul."

You two laugh for a moment before resuming your respective activities while on call — you with another brush stroke on the canvas, mixing the blues and greens, while Gaeul pours the blended bitter melon down to the pot, stirring the (admittingly atrocious) contents. She tells you that she searched for the recipe online — the curry originated from this experimental restaurant in Japan. And as you two expected, the recipe calls for onion, carrot, minced chicken, bitter gourd, cocoa powder, Japanese green gentian tea (for more bitterness, because why not), the damn fish gut, and curry powder. Of course, you two aren’t sure if it is one ingredient that fucks it all, or the combination of all of them that is the cause. But for a lack of better phrase: pretty much a shitty combination.

It feels natural, you realised, about the situation right now. Just doing your own things, and Gaeul doing hers, connected only by a phone call. You've had clients before, sure, with plenty of conversations. But this back-and-forth feels new. Probably because it is something you longed to do with ‘her’ back then. Instead, all you get is rushed calls, unanswered messages, always too busy, always somewhere else, and always promising later until it's not. 

And yet you still cling to the thought that she still thinks about you at rare chances.

The call goes on. You can hear the knife thudding unevenly. She tries the first option today for improvement — a combination of honey and natural sugar. You're halfway through the distressing call before she puts it in.

It's not that hard to picture her expression from the noise that follows.

-

She doesn't give up after that night. Or the next. Or the other next. (Why….?)

The whole fiasco slips naturally into your days with her, wedging between walking aimlessly through the city, sitting on convenience store steps after her shifts, and sometimes asking you interesting questions that rivals the topic of "do we have one butt or two butts?". Sometimes face-to-face, and sometimes through calls that stretch out till late night because neither of you hangs up.

And another quality to learn from her is that she is persistent. No wonder she has big dreams.

"Okay," she exhales one afternoon. "I reduced the cocoa powder."

"And…?" "Bad idea, the cocoa powder made it more bearable."

Another day, another call.

"I replaced the melon with apple this time."

"Wait, why?"

"Sweetness of the apples is better than bitter melon, you think?"

"Uhuh…sure…" your squint. "And?"

"…did not help at all. It still tastes like shit."

You laugh so hard you almost knock over the jar of muddied water.

She reports everything in detail, and soaks every single bit up, because you're way too deep into this very important matter. Too bitter. Too sweet. Sometimes she tells you about a weird aftertaste that is akin to coconut lotion. Sometimes she scrunches her nose and makes you listen to her gag. Other times you see her stop herself, spoon hovering mid-air.

By the 7th, and final, allowable day in person, she texts you when you're pulling out the pans for dinner.

Gaeul:

Can you come over tonight? I made food for you as a thank you.

Huh. It does warm your heart a little.

When you arrive at her place, the smell that greets you the moment the door opens is — oh god. Putrid sounds too light to describe, it overrides the thought that this is your first proper look at her place beyond the video calls. Small. Cozy. The timber patterned vinyl panel contrasts with the white wall. And, yep, the smell brings you right back to the situation.

In the middle of the warzone was Gaeul with her hair already tied up, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. On the table is a pair of plates of curry. Wait, no, two pairs?

Ah shit, poop-flavoured curry.

"I made four in total." she announced. "One with the remedy I thought it's the best, and one exactly like the restaurant."   

"You're insane." "And we're having one each."

"You're beyond insane." "Yep."

You sit at the chair while she cleans up the kitchen — wiping the counter, and throwing and soaking the used pots in the sink. You, on the other hand, can only stare at the identical plates in front of you and freeze, unsure if it's the visual or the smell that comes to knock on your funeral.

Fuck, you forgot to write your will before you left home.

"Ready?" Gaeul hands you your spoon and sits across you.

"Fuck it, we ball, I guess…?"

"Pff. See you on the other side."

You both take a bite. One from the original plate, and one from the improved.

It is so shit, still. Both of them. Like not even joking, it's still so bad. Ok, but the two versions are slightly different, sure. But it feels far more insulting, knowing the efforts that went into this.

Gaeul, across from you, freezes mid-chew. She swallows slowly, and in a very disgusted way. "…Holy shit."

"Literal shit, indeed. You cooked this, may I tell you."

"Don't remind me!" she protests weakly, tasting both plates again, hoping that maybe the second time will be kinder to her. The way her shoulder slumps down tells you everything.

You put your spoon down, still feeling the after effects. "Hey."

She looks up, cheeks as red as a tomato.

"It's good, you know?" You gesture at the plates. "That you're able to question how you can improve yourself and take your time AND putting effort into it. Look at this? You made literal shit?"

She stares at you for a second. Then she lets out a loud and genuine laugh, head tipping forward and not even covering her mouth. "Ya! You're so awful!"

"You're the awful one here! You made me eat this!"

You don't finish the curry. Neither of you does, because it will be a death sentence if you both continue. Gaeul pokes at hers once more with a spoon, blubbing out if different ratios will help, or swapping the stock instead, or removing some ingredients. You, however, just beg for her to stop.

The conversation afterwards becomes more mundane. Gaeul tells you about customers today who already know what they want but still ask for advice. About how one of the two fluorescent lights above her reception desk fused and annoyed her. You tell her about these painting commissions for your frequent customer from a well-off family with a background in ballet that goes back for quite a long time. But then the conversation takes a U-turn back to the damn fucking curry again, and you two can only laugh at the inevitable.

"Let's not make this curry again, Gaeul." "Don't worry, I will slap myself if I do again."

She smiles at you, fingers fidgeting with a few strands of her hairs. "So…um…" her voice is casual, "if…after this, would you maybe want to hang out again? Not—" she rushes on, "not like with the contract, I mean. Just—"

It really doesn't take a genius to see it. You can see it. Clear as day. Especially how she sheepishly looks away. But the memories still chain you back to the past and cling to a sliver of hope that you knew would not happen, yet you still cling onto it like a madman.

And so, you start. "Gaeul."

She looks up.

"You're great," you say honestly. "I had fun with you, I really do."

Her shoulders relax.

"But," you continue, choosing your words carefully. "I'm not really in a place fo—" you sigh, realising that beating around the bush won't do, especially for Gaeul. "Truth to be told, I'm still hung up on my ex. It's hard to forget your first love, you know?"

And you just end at that.

"Oh," she exhales. You can see the disappointment flashing on her face, but she reins it in almost immediately. She nods. "Yeah. That's understandable."

"Sorry about that."

"No, don't worry." she smiles again. "I like guys who are honest."

You stand to leave not long after helping her clean up (and a mutual gagging at the plates later). She walks you to the door, hands tucked into her sleeves.

"Thank you," she says again, standing behind you. "For taking up my request. For not judging me. And for eating with me."

"Trauma bonding," you give her a thumbs up. That gives her a good laugh.

"I'll probably still message and call you. If that's okay…good friend."

You chuckle. "Anytime, good friend."

-

The apartment is quiet as you open the door. Just another night.

You wash your hands first, because the curry smell still clings faintly. The sink gurgles, water running over your knuckles, until it finally goes clear. Only then do you return to the corner of the room where your nearly finished canvas waits.

And the hair tie rests beside it. Plain, black, and slightly stretched out from overuse. It is halfway through the painting that you come to appreci– ah no, notice the softness to it, the one that comes from being pulled and released a hundred times a day, wrapped around a wrist, twisted into place without thought. Yet it is that same mundane object that can lift Gaeul’s spirit and determination up that easily. You wonder if it does anything to yours for a brief moment…or at all.

You shake the thought off and pick up the large brush to resume the painting.

Firstly, the background — just the beige wall behind the hair tie. Nothing extravagant. Nothing loud. You let your wrist loose and allow the strokes to go whatever. A simple loop at first, and then you pause to add a brown to the paint mix. Darker tones this time. Shadows behind the object. You give it a few more layers until it is adequate enough.

Next, the thinner brush.

The bristles drag gently across the pencil outline, leaving clear ridges behind. You keep on layering, one after another, until you can't see the white underneath the grey layers. You add a few faint highlights where the light would catch. Your fingers smudge the edge absentmindedly, blending while you can still feel the wetness of the paint. You never chase perfection anymore — because that’s her habit, and it cost you too much once. Even thinking about her name feels dangerous, too much like opening Pandora's box. So you just kept it shut and let the apartment stay quiet.

The phone beside you lit up. Seems like a message from Gaeul: Thanks for the past few days, good friend. Love to hang out with you even after today :)

Fuck, the guilt hits immediately. You still vividly remember how her voice dropped when you told her straight on that you weren’t really available for anything more. No excuses about the contract nor any other convenient lie. Hell, you didn’t even tell her who you were still hung up on, only that you were. And most of all, you hate how relieved you felt when she just accepted it without asking for more.

You step back when the last stroke lands. 

The painting of her hair tie is done.

Your phone lights up again. No, not Gaeul again, and certainly not ‘her’. Never ‘her’. Just notifications waiting to be cleared, or Sakura shit talking about her clients again, or someone has placed an order for your painting or another client has been assigned to you just as usual. You will look at it, confirm it, and prepare contracts for another assignment as usual. To just move on with life.

But for tonight, you just stare at the finished painting, and remember the shitty curry, wallowing in your old memories once more, and a girl named Gaeul who tried her best.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note:

Woooo time to kickstart the series with IVE's resident gremblin, Gaeul! This series comes to be from me reading a book named "What You Are Looking For Is in the Library" by Michiko Aoyama. It's such a heartwarming book and I recommend you to check it out later.

Writing a series is definitely much more difficult than my usual things, but I'm excited to see where Rent-a-friend goes. Special thank you to @okaylikeschaewon for greenlighting the idea and give me suggestions, and also appreciate both @autumnyacorn and @mysonesecret for betareading <3

If you have seen the Rules page, you noticed that there is a mystery person. Have fun guessing guys, I wonder how long will it take to get the correct answer lol.

(HINT: 4th Gen Idol)

Anyway, thank you for reading! Love yall ducklings~ See ya in Part 2!

[ducktoo]

A life's worth

Aespa's Ningning x M!Reader

Note: we are starting 2026 with a melodrama fic, gang. I promise after this we're back to our regularly scheduled fluff-fest.

This is a homage to the manga "Three days of happiness" by Miaki Sugaru and the book "Norwegian Wood" by Haruki Murakami. Please give plenty of love to the original sources, I promise they are such great reads and definitely worth your time.

Wishing everyone good health, good luck, and plenty of time with ur loved ones. <3

TW: handholding

(11k words)

Seoul feels different when you have dust in your pocket — oh wait, no. Actually, only you feel different. 

To rephrase that, Seoul hasn't changed at all. It’s still loud, still fast, still flooded with strangers who know where they’re going and most likely figured out their lives. You’re the one who is not. Hollowed out. Like the city shoves you into one of its sidewalk cracks.

One of your 2 dead-end jobs finished two weeks ago. "Budget cuts," they said, which you definitely were sure was a euphemism for "you look too tired and we can't risk you do dumb shit." Since then, life has been a loop of trying to not be fired from your only other job, scrambling for leftover job openings, and looking to collapse to bed at the end of the day.

And tonight is the last straw.

You're standing in a dingy pawnshop, your breath fogging up the scratched display case. In your hands, the only thing you own that has any monetary and personal value left in you that you told yourself you’d never let go of — a camera.

Not a fancy one, not even modern. Just old, scratched at the corners, a little dented from that one time you dropped it on the subway stairs. (Wasn't exactly a fun time being paranoid whether the drop ruins the inner electronics or whatever, counting the allowances you had left back then for repair or replacement.) But it didn’t matter — it was yours. A reminder that once, a long time ago, you had dreams, something that you love to take extra attentive care to, something that defines you, something that made you feel like life is not so shitty.

The fuckwit of the pawn shop guy didn't even bother looking at you when he took it.

"One hundred thousand won," he grunts.

"…that's it?"  Your voice was small.

"That's it." He repeats. "Take it or you can get your camera back."

You stare at it one last time. The weight of every memory pressed in your palms. You're so angry, but more so because of how low the number is. Hunger wins, truly. Pride is fucking useless when your stomach is empty.

You step back outside with a plastic bag full of instant food and the crushing feeling that you just sold a piece of yourself for a handful of calories. The neon lights flicker above you — pink, blue, white — almost mocking, like even the signs laugh at you. The pavement is damp under your shoes. A cold breeze cuts through your thin jacket. You end up sitting on the curb, the city rushing past you like you’re not even here. You rip open a triangular kimbap like it’s the last rope keeping you alive. Your fingers shake, maybe from the cold, or maybe because reality is finally catching up.

That’s when you hear the creak of a door. An old man shuffles out from the store next door. He’s wearing a cardigan that probably lived a full life before you were born, and he walks with a cane that taps unevenly against the ground. His eyes, way too sharp for someone his age, land on you immediately.

“Looks like you led a difficult life, young man.” he says. Zero hesitation. Zero sugarcoating.

You swallow your mouthful of microwaved rice. “…Thanks. I wasn’t sure if it was obvious enough.”

He squints at your dinner. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“Broke?”

You let out a humourless laugh, showing him the packet of microwaved food you’re eating. Damn this guy is very blunt. “Very.”

He taps his cane against your knee twice, like he’s knocking on wood. “Then sell your lifespan.”

What the fuck is he saying?

He jerks his chin toward the main road. “Three blocks down. Beat-down sign. Looks abandoned. Don’t worry, it’s not.”

You stare at him, waiting for the punchline or a "surprise, motherfucker". An awkward minute later, and he still gives none. Wow, he ain't joking.

“They buy lifespan,” he continues casually, like he’s talking about selling old phones. “Time. Health. Whatever you’ve got. Pay in cash. Good rates, usually.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Are you—are you messing with me?”

He shrugs. “Want money or not? Up to you, young man.” He doesn’t wait for your reply. Just shuffles back inside his store like he hasn’t just said something insane.

You sit there, staring at the pavement, your cold fingers crushing the empty kimbap wrapper. It sounds ridiculous. Stupid. Impossible. But so is living off 80,200 won for the rest of the week. So is the idea that something good might happen to you ever again.

“Three blocks down, huh…” you mutter, standing up. Desperation makes people curious. Curiosity makes people reckless. And tonight, you’re both.

And that old fart was not lying about the place.

A narrow building squeezed between a nail salon buzzing with UV lamps and a rice cake shop closing for the night. The well-beaten door creaks open even though there’s no breeze. The sign above the door lives longer than you at this point with all the missing letters and faded symbols. You step inside, and the air that greets you is thick with dust and incense. Like the metallic scent of an unplugged machine that hasn’t woken up in years. A bell chimes overhead, and the sound brittle, like it hasn't been rung in years.

Behind the counter sits a girl. Maybe your age. No way a girl your age is willingly working in a place like this. Sharp-eyed. Expression unreadable. You look at the nametag on her shirt (Ning...ning? Chinese?). She looks at you the way someone might look at a clock they’ve already memorized — already calculating exactly how long you’ll last. 

“Time, health, or lifespan?” she says. Not a question. But a line that she might have been sick of repeating for ages.

You try to find your voice. “I… yeah. Lifespan, please.”

 "Ok…" She looks at you for a moment before looking back to her screen. "That will take about…3 hours."

You step back outside to kill time, allowing the city to swallow you whole again. Somewhere along the walk, you remember a particular morality lesson back in elementary. You've been told that life is something that can't be replaced, and that it's more valuable than anything. Your old teacher gave out a hypothetical question about what if you assign per-year value to your lifespan. Some kids already theorised with ridiculous numbers, some were already yelling about the ethics of even mentioning it, and the class clown joked about how low the value of his life can be. Of course, the teacher concluded that there was "no right answer".

But a right answer sort of exists. You just have to reach your thirties to find it.

You end up on a park bench, staring at nothing in particular. Out of pure boredom (and maybe masochism) you start guessing. Potentially, Thirty-three million? Maybe? Should be a more modest guess than back then. Three hundred million if the universe was feeling generous? Hell, three billion if miracles still existed and you cope hard enough?

"Ok, here's your result."

The hum of the printer fills the room, vibrating faintly through the floor, through the counter, through your chest. A sheet of paper slides out. She takes it with two fingers, glances over briefly, then places it in front of you.

3,000,000 won.

You blink. Once. Twice. Wow, per-year, huh. This is actually pretty good. Potentially, if you live for eighty more years, that will be 240 million won. That does sound like a provocative deal. Optimism begins to fill your mind. This is enough for rent. Enough for food. Maybe even to stabilise things during this short time. But a life surely doesn't actually equal the allowable balance to take for a house loan right? Although, you thought you shouldn't try to bargain. Beggars can't be choosers.

You're about to nod, then she speaks again. "Concerning your per-year value, you were given the bare minimum of 100,000 won."

Your head jerks up. Wait, what the fuck?

"And as you have thirty years and three months remaining, you will be able to leave here with up to 300,000 won."

…huh? What? 300,000 won?

"Sorry, the minimum?"

"Yes."

On paper, right there, is your result. This damn pathetic figure in black ink, is your worth. Not even fucking close to any guess you give. Not thirty-three million. Not three hundred million. Not even in the same universe.

300,000 fucking won.

You feel lightheaded. “Can I… ask about the standards?” you manage, gripping the edge of the counter so you don’t slide to the floor.

The girl gives a reluctant sigh. "The detailed evaluations are carried out by a separate consulting body, so I don't know the specific. But…" She glances at you once more. "If you really want to know, it's happiness, actualisation, and contribution."

“…Right.” Those are some very big words you absolutely do not want to hear right now, but you still nod.

"In simpler terms, the calculation is based on your past and current present. The value of your remaining years is…how happy a life it is, how it makes others happier, how many dreams are achieved, how much it contributes to society, and so on and so forth." Her voice fades into background noise. Because all you hear is the translation echoing in your head: Your life is worth jack shit.

“Three million,” you repeat, numb. “Not even per decade.”

She doesn’t say a word.

“Not even per fucking century,” you laugh weakly, barely audible.

Just the hum of the machine that decided you’re essentially worthless. She taps again. “Again, ten thousand yen per year, if you choose to sell. Fixed exchange rate.”

You stare at your reflection in the glass. Tired eyes. Hope drained. A life that the machine has already written off. “How many years do you want to sell?” she asks.

You don’t think, because what do you suppose to think, really. “All the way until the last three months.”

Her fingers pause. “Are you sure?”

Three months. Ninety days. The rest of your life is reduced to 3 calendar pages. “…It’s fine,” you whisper. “It’s more than I expected.”

Then she prints the money.

-

You don't remember the walk home. But you remembered how it felt. Cold. The envelope in your coat pocket — thick, heavier, and colder than anything you've carried in months. Your leg dragged an invisible weight behind you. Everything feels muted. Every thought dragged.

Thirty years. Gone. Evaporated in the span of one signature and one dead-eyed confirmation from a girl who barely blinked. And for what? For fucking what? An average monthly cost of living. 

What a fantastic life you’re having.

By the time you reach your apartment building, your fingers are stiff, your jaw is locked, and your breath is one long trembling thread. (You were this close to snap). Your key jams. Once. Twice. The door swings open on the third try. And the darkness inside feels heavier than usual, thick enough to touch. The kind that clings to the corners like wet fabric. You step in, close the door behind you, and just… stand there.

The envelope is still in your hand. You should put it down. Count the money. Check if it’s real. Do something.

But you just…can't. Really can't. LIke, is there even a point? Your heart is bounding so loudly you feel it in your gums, with each thud begging to escape this reality by tearing its way out of your chest. Eventually your hand moves on autopilot and drops the envelope onto your small, scratch-marked table. It lands with a dull, weighty thud, heavier than it should be, and more surreal than anything you’ve ever held.

The lights flicker on when you hit the switch, casting your apartment in a sickly yellow glow. The place looks like it always does — unwashed mugs in the sink, clothes draped over the back of the couch, a calendar on the wall still stuck on last month. It all looks the same, which it should be (there's literally nothing to rob). Yet it feels so damn foreign, like you just trespassed inside a life that begins to slip away from you. Still, you drag yourself to the table and sink into the chair that creaks so damn fucking loud, complaining about the worthless weight of your remaining life. You bury your hands in your face, and try to think. Breath. Reorganise the jumbled thoughts in your tired mind.

Yeah, you fail.

A knock shatters the quiet, and your head snaps up. Nobody knocks on your door, your phone barely pings anymore, and you haven't had a visitor since…who knows, you can't even remember. But then the knock comes again. "Who is it…" Your voice comes out thin, scraped raw. You force yourself up, one step at the time, as if you're walking through the thick mud. Your hand reaches for the doorknob, hesitating for a second, and then you open it.

She's standing there. The girl from the store. Ningning.

Still with that damn expression — flat, unreadable, vaguely bored, as if she's looking at another box on her checklist. But she dressed differently. Normal, unsettlingly normal. A loose cream hoodie hangs off one shoulder, soft crunchie bundled at her wrists. Faded jeans, ripped at the knee. White sneakers with a little scuff on the side like she ran here. A small handbag slung over her shoulder. She looks like any other functional twenty-something years old wandering Hongdae at night.

“Your place is… small,” she says, stepping over a stack of laundry without breaking stride. There’s no insult in her tone. But no compliment either. Just a blunt observation delivered with the tiniest tilt of her head, as if the size of your apartment personally inconveniences her.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You’re still 70% stunned and 30% screaming internally. She notices your frozen stance by the door and sighs under her breath. Tiny, annoyed, subtle. Like you've already exhausted her a few minutes in.

"How long are you going to stand there?" she asks without looking back, pulling her sleeve up just enough to tap her phone on her hand. "You look like you got doused in the face."

"…well I DO feel like I just got doused in the face."

"Is that your excuse?" "For what?"

"For being a slow fuck." She flicks her eyes up at you, clearly judging. "You know, you could've at least put the money somewhere safe."

You glance at the envelope still lying on your table, way too casually placed for the weight it carries. “Oh,” you mumble. “Right. I… uh… forgot.”

And another sigh from her as she crosses her arms, hoodie fabric bunching at her elbows, and leans against your counter like she's getting ready to her new role of watching wet paint dry for three months. "What?" Brutally blunt.

You jolt slightly.  “N-nothing. I just wasn’t expecting you to show up here.”

She crosses her arms, unimpressed. “You sold thirty years of your lifespan,” she says. “Did you think we would just let you wander around unsupervised? You’re a high-risk contract now.”

“Right… sorry?”

“Don’t even.” She sighs through her nose, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Just don’t make my job shittier than it is.”

"Right, sorry. Again."

"Ugh, anyway, boundary check." she touched the screen. "Making sure you don't step too far outside the monitoring radius."

"Radius?"

"Three metres," she clicked her tongue, "Basically we have to stay within that range or your heart will stop. Like, instantly."

You blink at her, and she blinks back, completely unfazed. "So please, for the love of god, don't make me drag your deadass back to the HQ," She snickers, not even trying to hide the annoyance in her tone. "I have enough paperwork as it is."

A chill crawls across your spine. "Is that a joke or…" your voice turns shaky "or are you just…like…that?"

She tilts her head. "Well, which answer do you want to hear?"

"..um, neither?" "Pick one, then."

Wow, she is very helpful, for sure. 

You can only exhale, rubbing your face with both hands. "Ok, then why are you here?"

Ningning walks around your table, casually opening one of your drawers and closing it again with a single glance inside. Of course, not without a look of quiet disappointment crossing her face. “Clause 18-C,” she says. “Monitors must observe clients, such as you, who reduce their remaining lifespan to under one hundred days.”

The saliva in your throat got more heavy as you tried to process. "What do you mean…observe?" You're just gonna watch me breathe?"

Any more words out of your mouth and she might throw out slurs instead of more instructions. "No. I'm going to sit here and make sure you don't do stupid shit."

"O-okay…" You nodded. "Anything else?"

"And," she continues, as if reading from a script on her phone "I'll mainly document any emotional, behavioural, or cognitive anomalies as we go."

What else can you say, really?  "That's a fancy way of saying babysitting."

Ningning’s expression doesn’t change, but her nose scrunches just a little. Offended, even. “Please refer to my official title as 'observer', thank you.”

"That doesn't help at all."

She crosses her arms again, expression even more sharpening than before. "It's meant to be more accurate."

You fall down to the couch, running a hand through your hair as you are trying to ground yourself at the revelation. "So…this is it, huh. You're here. Now. I suppose."

"For the next three months, yes."

Hearing it again doesn't soothe your nerves at all. "And…af-after that?"

"Well," she exhales, a tone as flat as an automated message, "my role ends at the beginning of your final three days."

"And after..?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "…I don't know. Never get to stick around the ending."

She doesn't say it directly. Yet your heart still drops straight into your stomach. Even worse that she delivered it like a weather broadcast. You. Gone. Three Months. No shit, your whole body curls inward, collapsing under the enormity of it. And just like that, your last three months have begun.

-

The first few days? Worse than suffocation.

Every morning since then, you wake up being reminded in the back of your head that you just sold your thirty years. And then your apartment looks wrong once more. Your socks on the floor. Your toothbrush is leaning sideways in its cup. The calendar on the wall that is already useless now. And Ningning is always there with that same expression. Her eyes are a mix of boredom and duty as she follows you within the three metres of your radius. The boundary never breaks. Not at all. Not even once.

At first, you try to pretend you are fine. As if normalcy is something you can still have. You clean, and fucking hell, do you clean — sweeping the floor until the coating comes off, scrubbing the sink until it squeaks, wiping your cupboard and fold clothes you haven't worn in months. Ningning watches from the couch, legs tucked under her, chin resting in her palm. She seems unbothered, doesn't comment about your antics unless you are close to being away from the allowable distance. By then, her voice cuts sharp through the air.

"Boundary."

You step back immediately, and your stomach twists. You nod without speaking, and she doesn't nod back.

By the third day, the chores start running out, and you are reorganising little things on pure autopilot now. Rearranging pens, refolding shirts already folded, wiping down the same shelf five times until the dust just doesn't want to be there anymore. The thick envelope on the table is still sitting there collecting dust in your peripheral. The proof of your lifespan, condensed into paper, and the sight of it alone makes you want to hurl.

Of course, Ningning sees it all, and she didn't even hide her expressions. Sometimes she sighs, sometimes she tilts her head, and sometimes she just narrows her eyes, calculating how many times you are about to go through another existential crisis today. In the evenings, she sits cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone as if the whole situation is mundane. You don't know if she sleeps. You don't know if she eats. You don't know anything, really. You just wash the same plate again.

And the week passes like this. Then two. Then three. And the whole fucking time, Ningning is always like this. As if your slow unravelling is far too familiar, even when you try to break the ice with the small talks.

"So…uh…you like alcohol?"

She looks up at you. "…Is this how you cope?"

"N-no, it's just- nevermind…"

She shrugs. "Well, sometimes, moderately. But don't make it weird."

The weight doesn't go away. If anything, it presses heavier on your ribs as the days stack up behind you. Your brain keeps looping through every mistake you make. Every decision. Every fork in the road where you swore you'd make something of yourself and…didn't.  And every single moment, her attention is always on you. Her eyes are as observant as ever even when her face gives nothing beyond a slight sigh. The more it drags on, the more you become numb to her usual mood. Her sighs. Her blunt little comments. The taps of her nails against her phone. It goes on for about a month before your inner turmoil eats you alive.

And all it took was a night. The apartment (that no longer feels like yours anymore) shrinks around you. You rinse a mug on the rack that you haven't even used, watching the water running over ceramic like it is more impactful than your remaining time.

"Get yourself together, for crying out loud. Do something else." She says plainly from behind, getting a cup of water.

"…Is it that obvious?"

"I can see it even if you're out of the boundary."

You put the mug down slowly. The water keeps running. Neither of you moves. And then, with a desperation to make sense of everything, you ask. "Ningning…what exactly do you do? Really?"

She lifts one eyebrow, putting the cup down the counter. "I told you already. I observe."

"You've said that already, but at least tell me what it means." You rub your palms together, grounding yourself. "All you do is sit there, watch me, and barely talk. You know everything I do like a fucking book. What the fuck does any of that mean?"

She looks at you for a moment. Pity? Annoyance? Who knows, but she answered anyway. "So… I'm a near-omniscient observer."

The words hit you strangely. Too big. Too foreign. And too much to swallow that you have to repeat. "What the fuck does th–" 

Her voice is painfully calm. " I have access to your entire life trajectory."

"Right. And that includes my—"

"Past, present, and the future that would’ve happened if you hadn't sold your lifespan. Yep. I said it before." She deadpanned. "…happiness, actualisation, and contribution. All in the database."

“So even—” “—even the reason you beat yourself up to this day.”

You stay still. Completely still. It still feels far too terrifying just like the first time, feeling skinned alive.

"W-what would.." Your lungs manage to gasp for air. "What would happen if I kept my years…?"

As usual, Ningning doesn't even look up from the phone as she scrolls through. Still the same unimpressed face, same deadpan blink, still the nonchalant attitude. She shifts her weight to one leg. "Do you want the summary or the full report? If you don’t sell your lifespan?"

"Does it even matter..?"

She exhales, a metaphor for "you ask for this", before flicking her wrist to the screen. And she begins reading.

“Well, the start is boring. You wake up tomorrow at 8:47 a.m. after snoozing three alarms. You eat leftover fried rice. You complain about how cold the apartment is.” She gestures vaguely. “Then for the next few years… it’s pretty standard. Work, sleep, eat, exist. You don’t do anything terrible. You don’t do anything impressive either.”

You blink. "That's…quite normal."

She continues anyway. “Your forties? Still normal. You keep trying new hobbies, but you drop them after like two weeks. Gym membership, wasted. You even try baking once and almost start a fire.” She scrolls. “Don’t worry. No one gets hurt. Except the fucking kitchen.”

You frown. "That was not a funny joke."

"Sure, sure." Her tone stays flat, but her eyes shift ever so slightly. Annoyed, like she can’t believe she has to narrate the downfall of your adult life. “Mid-forties onward, you start slowing down. Not because you want to, but because you’re tired. All the time. You keep telling yourself you’ll get it together ‘next month’ or ‘after this week,’ but the weeks keep stacking.” She scrolls again, faster, as if the data drags her down too. “You stop seeing friends. First because everyone’s busy. Then because you’re embarrassed to tell them nothing’s been happening in your life. Calls get shorter. Messages become ‘I’ll reply later.’ Then you don’t.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, but the words hit like a punch. Maybe too strong, because you feel it in your gut. “Then you got into a fight with a drunkard to the point you have to be admitted to the hospital. And it kind of continues like that as you succumb to alcoholism. ” She tilts her head at the data, squinting like she can't believe this shit, “Far out, your apartment will only be filled with emptied beer bottles at this point.”

You stare at her. “Are you serious?”

She shrugs, not even apologetic. “Hey. Don’t blame me. I’m just reading the chart.”

Then she scrolls deeper, slower, the glow of the screen washing over her face as her tone drops. “And near the end… you get stuck in this loop. Wake up tired. Work in multiple jobs that barely pay you enough no matter where you go. Come home absolutely tired. No savings because you spent all on alcohol and hospital bills. Tell yourself you’ll change tomorrow but you don’t. Shitty life, really. No friends, no families, and no bitches.”

The room shrinks even smaller, as if it hasn’t been for the past month. The air? The actual space? Who the fuck knows. But you feel so tiny at the actuality of your remaining life for like the nth time that you are expected to be accustomed to it, to be frank.

“…Do I ever get better?”

She turns off the screen. "…I can't tell you that. For your own sake." And that act of mercy stabs you deeper than if she actually says it.

-

You don't remember falling asleep. Just the vague sensation of lying on your mattress on the floor, staring at the cracks of your ceiling until your eyes burned. Ningning shifts on the couch every now and then like a bored cat. The morning comes and nothing feels different. Still as screwed. Still as lost as the first day. But this time there is this dull certainty in your bones. A finality of how you are completely fucked.

And if that's true, if everything is set in stone for you, especially the final two months…

What the hell is stopping you? From doing something, anything?

You blink at the ceiling.

Oh. You’re going to die soon anyway. It feels so wrong in your mouth and your head, but the idea keeps going. You might as well do the things you have been putting off. The things you whisper to yourself you have no time for. Don’t deserve to have. Couldn’t afford to. Except now you can. Money is not exactly an issue —well, you feel like it’s not enough for the trade off, but at this moment, it is more than enough. You have nothing left to lose.

…Oh. Wow.

The sheer absurdity of that thought alone makes your chest feel tight, but your body moves anyway, rushing towards the table with a pen and a notebook you haven’t touched in years. It opens stiffly, like something that forgot it could be useful. Ningning watches from her spot on the couch, hair messy, hoodie slightly crooked, looking exactly as unimpressed as she did last night.

“What’s that?” she asks, voice gravel-soft from disuse, eyes barely lifting.

“A list,” you say.

Her brows twitch. “Of your regrets? You’d need more pages.”

"The fuck, no. A bucket list.”

She blinks once. Then twice. Then sighs so loudly it sounds rehearsed. “Wow. We’re at that stage already.”

You roll your eyes and start writing anyway, the envelope of your life's worth lays next to your hand. It’s clumsy at first. Like learning to walk again.

Eat a really good meal. Maybe something fancy. Visit somewhere new, like a museum. Do things I kept putting off, like going to the gym consistently. Actually take initiative and meet with friends, apologising to those who you have wronged. Things that you want to do (Of course, not harming anyone’s way.) Your handwriting wobbles, can't really tell if it's determination or dread. Probably both. But the envelope feels like actual gold now.

Ningning shifts, pulling one knee up to her chest as she peers lazily over the top of the couch. "Damn, you are dead set on this."

"What else am I supposed to do? Rot to death?"

"I mean, you have been doing that for years." So casually cruel, this girl.

You throw a pen at her. But it feels light, just like the start to a new chapter in your final months of your life.  You don't see it, but you can hear a light chuckle from her. It's small and rare, but it's an indicator of your improvement.

When you finally stand, notebook and the envelope tucked under your arm, she follows automatically, with matching steps without thinking, and stopping when you stop. You don't expect her to follow you, but then you remembered the whole distance limitation. Right. That's a dilemma. But Ningning still follows anyway. She could've complained, but she just gave you a shrug. Maybe she, too, wanted some sunlights. "And stuffy, too." She adds.

Usually, the walk outdoors is mundane, bland even. Why wouldn't it be? All you really do these days is drag your weight to your old part time job for a measly equivalent of a TV dinner from a full day of work. Now? The air still smells faintly of old newspapers tacked too long in corners, mixed with the sharp and artificial cleanliness of cheap detergent. Somewhere down the hall, a radio murmurs through a wall you are too tired to figure out. The flickering ceiling light buzzes as usual. Your footsteps echo more than you usually thought. Each one feels so damn loud, maybe the building will remember you exist again. You descend the stairs slowly. The railing is cold and chipped where decades of hands have worn it down. Then you reach the main entrance. The door swings open, and the sunlight pours in like Pandora's box. It hits your face head-on, your eyes sting instantly, vision washing white at the edges.

Wow, so the day doesn't always feel like living under dimbulbs and half-drawn curtains at all.

The quiet street outside greets you first. Your eyes finally hovers at the scenery instead of the pavement your feet are walking on for once. Narrow, lined with low buildings that lean slightly inward. Laundry hangs from second-floor windows and swaying lazily in the breeze. The air smells different here, too. Dust and asphalt warmed by the sun. The waffling smell of fresh bread from the bakery downtown that you just remembered.

As the both of you move farther down the street, the quiet begins to thin. The sounds layer gradually with more footsteps, more engines, more voices. A convenience store door slides open and shut. A couple laughs too loudly as they pass. The scent of street food creeps in, old and spice and goodness. And by the time you reach the busier road, overwhelming sounds far too light to describe so. Cars rush past in tight streams. Horns blaring impatiently. Neon signs hum faintly even in daylight. People brush by you, shoulders bumping, lives colliding for half a second before separating forever.

It's…louder than you expected. Wow. 

You finally check your notebook. First dot point: get a proper meal. A darn expensive one. You always walk past this hot pot restaurant every time you take your path to work. Every dull path you take, this damn place always colour your world with a glimmer of hope.

Steam rolls up from every table like low-hanging clouds as you push the door, carrying the smell of broth and spice and something savoury that makes you salivate. Plates clatter. People laugh too loudly. You overhear someone arguing passionately about whether beef or lamb cooks faster. It's overwhelming, for sure. The table is cramped. The pot in the centre bubbles gently, split down the middle, with one side pale and mild, and the other red and angry (courtesy of Ningning who ordered the set). You sit stiffly, hands folded on your lap, and watch the steam curl upward like it might bite you.

Ningning drops into the seat across from you, already pulling chopsticks apart with practiced ease and quite a judging gaze. "You never had hot pot?"

"Uhhh…No?"

She stops her hand. "You're telling me you lived in Seoul this long and never once—"

"I didn't really…go out, you know" you mutter.

She stares at you for a brief moment, before dipping her chopsticks into the broth. "Relax, you cook the food. Then you eat it. Too easy."

"….uhh sure. I hope I don't die."

She snorts. “Stop being a pussy and eat spicy food.”

Plates start arriving. Thinly sliced meat, mushrooms, leafy greens, fish balls you don't recognise. Ningning arranges them nonchalantly, and slides some toward you, while keeping others close to herself. "You can start with this," she says, nudging a plate of beef your way. "Don't just dump everything in."

You hesitate, then copy her movements, lowering the meat into the bubbling clear broth. It disappears almost immediately, pale pink turning brown in seconds.

"Um…how long?"

"Around five to six." She blows the meat on her chopsticks. "Any longer and it will taste shit."

You count under your breath. Fish it out. Drop it into your bowl like it's something precious. And you stare at it.

"…well?" She prompts. And you take a bite. It's…warm. Not just temperature-wise. The broth and flavour clings to the meat, rich and comforting, soaking into your tongue. You chew slowly, eyes widening before you can stop yourself. "Oh, wow…"

Ningning watches you. "Yeah," she said. "Told ya."

You eat another piece. Then another. And then another. It's simple, but it is so indulgent, like something you denied yourself without realising how much you wanted it.

"…Wow, this is good." You muffle.

"Obviously."

"No, I mean…" you swallowed the piece of meat, trying to find the right word to explain. "It's nice, you know…Eating like this."

"With someone?" she finishes, popping a piece of meat into her mouth.

You freeze. "Yea…with someone."

Funnily enough, she doesn't tease you for it, or scowl at you as usual. Just dips more vegetables into the broth instead. "Hot pot's meant to be shared. Cooking and eating it alone kind of defeats the whole darn point."

You're unsure if your inside warms up because of that or the food.

-

The camera comes back to your hand like it never left.

Its weight settles into your palm just like before — thumb on the option button, index on the shutter button, and the rest support the camera body as your palm grips the handle. It feels familiar, grounding, filled with memory. For the second, you just stare at it. The scuffed edge near the lens. The tiny scratch you made years ago when you tripped on uneven pavement. A month feels far too long without it, how could you imagine life without this again?

Ningning stands to your left with her arms crossed, hoodie loose, gaze flicking from the camera to your face. She said something about it is common human behaviour to buy back emotionally significant items after selling them for cash.

"You're so good at ruining moments." "Just contextualising, don't mind me." 

She doesn't stop you when you put the camera back into its own bag and sling the strap around your shoulder, however.

The sunlight still feels sharp and loud. Seoul moves as usual. Buses groaning, footsteps overlapping, and people brushing past you again. Nothing changed. Well, except your camera that came back.

"You're smiling." "I am?"

She hums. "Huh."

You lift the camera instinctively, then lower again, suddenly unsure.

"What. You forgot how?" "No, I just don't know what I want to take."

She exhales sharply as she steps ahead of you, and plants herself right in your sight. "Well, start with what's in front of you."

"What? You?'

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm just being too kind, right now." She doesn't move. And not wanting to get on her grumpy side again, you raise your camera.

The street stretches out behind Ningning, late afternoon light slanting low between buildings, dust floating lazily in the air, and traffic softened. A row of old storefronts sits across the road, their signs half-faded, colours sun-bleached. A convenience store neon flickers weakly despite still being bright out. It is so damn painfully mundane, yet it feels so important. Probably because this is the first time you take pictures of a person, especially a girl.

Ningning stands in the foreground, completely out of place and yet perfectly anchored there. The outfit she picked today, with the oversized jacket, flowy dress, and worn sneakers, makes her less…near-omniscient. She still has that sharpness and bored look on her since the first meeting, but it feels more like that grumpy girl-next-door neighbour you have known for years.

And yes, she notices you hesitating. 'What?"

"Gimme a second." "If you're trying to get a candid shot, it's a shitty job."

"Just, hold on, fucking hell."

You adjust the focus. The lens whirs softly as it hunts, then settles. Ningning sharpens into clarity while the background softens just enough, and the street blurs into a wash of warm greys and muted colour. The world behind her reduced to texture instead of noise. Your index finger hovers over the shutter. For a second, the camera focuses, and the details enhanced. It captures the way sunlight catches the edge of her hair, outlining her head in a faint halo that as of this point she does not deserve yet. The slight crease between her brows that never quite goes away, even when she's relaxed. The way her weight rests on one leg, posture casual.

"You gonna take it or just stare?"

You almost laugh.

Anyway, you lower your stance and angle the shot so the street lines draw toward her. The railings, road markings, shadows all subtly pointing inward. The pawn shop sign looms off to the side, out of focus but legible enough. Just a proof of where you sold this camera, and where you reclaimed your old self back, albeit slowly.  And a proof of a certain grumpy girl.

You breathe in. Then. A shutter. It snaps shut with a crisp, decisive sound.

Ningning flinches half a second too late. "Ya–"

You don't look at the screen immediately and just stand there, camera still raised, and pulse thudding in your ears.

"You actually took it." "Yeah."

'Why?"

You finally lower the camera. "Well…you were there. And you told me to."

"Jeesus, don't just listen to a girl willingly." "Well, it does come out good."

She clicks her tongue but doesn’t push further and leans in, just enough to peek at the display. Her shoulder almost brushes yours. The photo loads, and Ningning doesn't react at first. But then you notice how her lower lashes glisten. It's subtle. You'd miss it if you blinked, or you didn't already know her default expression well enough (to the point of getting sick of it) when something is off. Her mouth opens like she's about to retort, but then she closes it.

"Huh." That's it. Just one sound. Barely a word. And then another one. "Tch."

She straightens abruptly and steps back. "That angle makes me look short." She clears her throat.

"That's what you got from this?"

"And the lighting's uneven." She quickly points. "Should've adjusted the exposure or something. I look like a ghost."

"You were literally tearing up, should we talk about that?"

"I was not," She snaps. "Something went into my eyes."

"How convenient when I took a bad pic."

"Yep. Exactly."

She went silent for a moment until she added, "Delete it later if you want. Doesn't matter."

Why would you delete it, anyway.

-

The bookstore smells like old paper and dust.

A bell chimes when you step in. The place is narrow, shelves packed tightly together, spines pressed shoulder to shoulder. Handwritten recommendation cards stick out at odd angles. A sigh crooked at the corner: Don't sit in the philosophy section.

"This store reorganise last year," Ningning says casually. "But they still arrange the same stuff. Fiction left, non-fiction right, and the textbooks shoved wherever."

"Have you been here before?"

"No." She walks anyway without hesitation. And your hands lift the camera subconsciously as she stops near the novel section. You see her fingers hovering over spines, eyes scanning titles faster than anyone reasonably should. Then she reaches out and pulls a particular book.

"Norwegian Wood?" Your index pressed the shutter button before you realise the book title. "Holy crap, I haven't seen it in ages."

"I know" She tosses it lightly and you barely catch it with your other hand and your chest. "It's your favourite book."

You freeze. "You know that?"

She clicks her tongue, the corner of her mouth goes up slightly. "Near-omniscient observer. Hello?"

And then she grabs another book, this time a textbook about literature, and pushes it into your arms. "This one, you surprisingly finish it despite always cursing at it at 2am."

"That's really specific." "Mm. This is when you still have the drive to chase your goal."

You swallow as she turns away, clearly done with the conversation. Somehow, it becomes your cue to take more photos. Through the lens, she gets more quiet. Smaller movements. A tilt of her head as she reads a blurb. Snap. The way her fingers tap twice against a spine before rejecting it. Snap. How she leans slightly closer to the shelf, lips moving just enough to suggest she's skimming faster than the text allows. Snap.

She looks….annoyingly normal….Snap.

You catch her mid-reach this time, arm extended, the sleeve sliding down her wrist. The shot is slightly crooked, but it feels right and honest. You take another one when her reflection warped faintly in the convex mirror near the ceiling. Her standing in the aisle, blocked momentarily by a passerby, half-obscured like she's phasing in and out of this life, just like your life right now.

Eventually, she notices. "Enjoying capturing me doing nothing?"

"It’s candid." "Gosh, you're so fucking cringe."

"You told me to not be a sad potato." you shrug, "here I am."

"Tch. You really are more annoying than I thought."

"Beats me mopping around like the first month, right?"

That earned a rare chuckle from her. "Wow, look at you. Talking back now." And she looks at you. Really look at you. The camera in your right hand. The books stacked against your chest. The way you feel more alive right now than last month. "…do what you want."

You smile back. Fully now. With a huff, she turns back to the shelf, and you take more photos of her. Mostly imperfect. Slightly blurred. But just like before, you aren't deleting any of them at all.

-

Weeks pass in a way that contradicts both slow and fast.

The list lives on a torn page taped to the fridge, corners beginning to curl. Some items are crossed out neatly at first, such as the hot pot and getting the camera. Others are circled, rewritten, argued over. Work out, clubbing, karaoke, all those things. Ningning becomes more hands on with the list — adding clarifications, crossing out redundancies, writing "dumb move" in red markers when you try something stupid.

You do more than you ever have. You eat meals that require more than boiling water. You take photos until your memory card fills, then delete the bad ones without mercy (with her help). You stand on bridges at night and let the city breathe around you. You laugh fully, and startled by the sound like it doesn’t belong to you. Of course, Ningning might still judge you from the side, but she did join in a moment later.

One day, however, a particular box on the list looms over you. Dreading to go is an understatement. You remember how your hand trembles when writing it out loud and clear onto the paper. Ningning didn't stop you, however. "You should do that."

You followed her index finger pointing towards that same line. "That one?"

"Yes." "I was saving it for later."

"Later is running out."

So you go.

It's overcast when you visit the cemetery, and quieter than you would like to. It's more so muted, like turning down the volume nub down to zero. The air is quite damp, carrying the smell of wet grass and old stone.

You stop at the gate. And your feet refuse to move.

Ningning halts behind you automatically, almost colliding into your back. She doesn't comment. Doesn't urge you forward. Her hands fumble at her hoodie sleeves, eyes scanning over your shoulder. She has seen your file. She knows. But she didn't want to intrude more than she already had.

With a heavy exhale, you step pass the gate. Gravel crunches under your shoes. Each step feels heavy, weighting in the fact that you chose to come here. You're no longer putting it off. You're following the path you thought you no longer remember. Left at the crooked pine. Right where the ground dips slightly. Third row in. You slow down before you even see her name, the weight behind you gets heavier each step.

And then you're there.

Her grave is too simple. For someone who used to giggle too loudly, take up too much space, talk about the future like it would happen. The stone is clean, the letters sharp and unweather. The grave keeper has been taking care of it, thankfully. Fresh flowers sit at the base (probably from her parents), their colours muted under the grey sky. Your mind wanders back to the classroom windows. How the light used to slant in during late afternoons, dust floating lazily like it didn’t know anything was wrong. You remember her desk by the aisle. How she’d tap her pen when she was nervous. How she laughed too loudly sometimes, like she was trying to convince herself first.

Your throat closes and stands there. "Hey, Minjeong-ah." You finally say. "Sorry…for taking this long to see you."

The apology isn't specific. It never has been. Sorry for not noticing sooner. Sorry for thinking she was just tired. Sorry for reading her messages hours late and thinking you will reply after dinner. Sorry for not being there for her when she was at her worst. Sorry for carrying it like guilt that eats through your present.

You crouch down, knees protesting, and set the bag you brought beside the flowers. Inside is something small you found while ticking off the list. A snack she used to steal from your bag without asking. You place it there carefully, like it matters. "It's dumb," you say quietly. "But you will yap too much if I don't bring it."

Your lips twitch unconsciously. It doesn’t last.

“I…uh….sold my camera,” you add, staring at the stone. “Then I bought it back. You’d call me an idiot for that. You always nag about how I made things harder than they needed to be.” Your voice wobbles. “and…um…I wish I listened more.”

Behind you, gravel shifts softly. Ningning has moved to just standing behind you. She doesn’t look at the grave directly. Her gaze stays on you, sharp but gentle, cataloguing every tremor in your shoulders, every pause in your breathing. You don't turn around, but you are more than glad that she is here with you.

"I don't know what I'm doing with what's left of my life," you half-admit. "But I'm trying. I swear I am."

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves overhead. A few petals shift at the base of the stone. You straighten slowly, legs unsteady, and bow your head. "I'll…come back sooner next time, Jeong-ah." you promise. "I won't disappear again."

When you step back, Ningning is still behind you. Her expression hasn't changed, but her gaze is less sharp, enough to let you room to breathe. She says nothing, but somehow it's the best form of comfort for her.

"Should we go back?"

Back at the oh-so-familiar-apartment, you kick your shoes off by the door and stand there for a second too long just like the first day. But this time instead of shock, the stillness comes from exhaustion. You set down the camera on the table. Next to the envelope that has been thinning down bits by bits. Ningning closes the door behind her, and the click echoing softly through the space. For once, she doesn't immediately take her usual spot. No couch. No leaning against the counter with her arms crossed as usual. She just stands there and stares at the fridge. At the list. The paper is wrinkled now. Smudged. Crossed out items too much. Ticks on the left side. Only a few lines remain uncrossed. And the bottom page looks quite lonely.

"…Hey."

The word sounds so strange coming from her. You look up from where you're sitting. "Yeah?"

"You have soju in the house?"

You blink. "I think so..?" "Wanna drink together?"

"Pff" Safe to say, you are flabbergasted. "Sure."

You don't know when the table feels like the centre of the room, but you are both there. Sitting across from each other. The downlight above flickers once, then steadies, casting a warm, amber glow that shrinks the space down. Smaller. Safer. On the table still has the camera and the envelope, but now accompanied with a bottle of soju and two glasses. The green glass is cold against your palm. You twist the cap, pour carefully, the clear liquid catching the light as it fills the first glass, then the second. You push one glass toward her, and she accepts it without hesitation.

A small clink, and the stinging alcohol burns through your throat. Ningning doesn't drink yet. She stares into her glass instead, watching the surface ripple faintly as her fingers tighten around it. Like she’s studying something at the bottom. Or bracing herself.

"I never told you why I took this job." She exhales through her nose, then finally lifts the glass and takes a sip. "I also sold part of my lifespan."

"You fucking what now?"

She sets the glass down, fingers lingering around it longer than necessary, like she needs the cold to anchor herself. “Years ago,” she says. “My mother had medical debt. Cancer. Expensive treatments. Interest stacked on top of interest. Collectors started showing up.”

You don’t dare to say anything.

"When she died…" Ningning sighs. "I'm the only one who takes all of that shit with me. They were literally at my throat. And I barely just started my part time job."

“So you…” You trail off. Finishing the sentence feels wrong. Instead, you reach for the bottle and pour more into her glass.

"Pretty much." She downs the content once more before continuing. "Myself as collateral. Sold enough years to pay back most of it."

“And this job is… what,” you ask quietly, “repayment?”

“Indenture,” she corrects immediately.

She pours herself another drink, throat working as she swallows, jaw tightening as the alcohol hits.  "Every completed assignment chips away at what I owe. Finish enough of them, and," She shrugs. "I break even, probably."

"How long is left?" "3 years."

You stare at her. The envelope on the table suddenly feels obscene. "No wonder you hate it."

Her gaze flicks up to you quickly. And then she looks away again. "It was such a shitshow seeing people waste their time. I despise seeing them panic at the end when they have treated their life like a quick cash grab. And I hate that I understand them."

The silence kicks in, albeit not uncomfortable. Outside, a car passes. Someone laughs, probably from the passerby. The world still keeps going.

"You know what the worst part is?"

You shake your head.

"It is surprisingly easy to just not give a shit," she says. "Treat everyone like a case. Detachment is the way to survive this job." Her eyes drift to the camera. Then to the envelope besides it. And then to the list.

"And then you happened."

You let out a chuckle. "Ok that is funny."

"Shut it." She shoots you a look. "Well, you weren't special on paper. Your results are still bad. I thought you were going to another checklist like I know of." And she sighs. "Instead, you start doing these things, like buying back that stupid camera and taking photos, albeit shitty ones. And then visiting your dead friend's grave you avoided for years." Her voice dips. "Living like every day fucking matters."

That somehow warms up your chest.

“And the longer I watched,” she continues, “the more it fucking hurt.” She swallows. “Because it reminded me that I didn’t sell my years because I don't give a shit about my life. I sold them because I don't want Mom's debt to spiral too much."

The flickering light buzzes softly overhead. "I forgot that I want to live too. I really envy you, you know that?"

You notice the shin in her eyes, and the way the last few words that left her mouth felt so raw. She notices you looking at her and scoffs, immediately raising her empty glass.

"Don't look at me like that, dummy."

You pour another serving of soju for her. "I haven't said anything yet."

She huffs, then drinks. And the silence that follows feels far more comforting than it is supposed to be.

-

"Absolutely not. Hell no."

You turn to her from the bucket list. Most of it is crossed out now, filled with messy lines and inks. Unfulfilled checkpoints become fewer and fewer. "What do you mean absolutely not?"

Ningning stands next to you with her arms crossed, staring at the paper alongside you. Her expression still has that familiar flatness that usually means she is about to roast the living shit out of you. "Handholding," she reads aloud. "And also, get a girlfriend. Like hell you can achieve that with less than a month left."

"Hey, I'm dying soon," you protest. "I'm allowed to be as cringy as I want."

She snorts. "Yeah nah, you have been cringe even before this, buster."

"How nice of you." "Don't pick up my sarcasm."

"You literally just called me cringe. Also, you let me visit Minjeong’s grave, yet I can’t do this?"

"Don’t even." She sighs. "Anyway, how are you going to get a girlfriend? With who? For how long? Do you want a trial period?"

"Well…I mean," You become meek. "I thought I would get to experience it…once."

Her stern pose softens up, but barely. You've gotten good at noticing her tells. She probably remembers your entire life on her phone.

"Ah right…sorry." "Don't be."

For a moment, she doesn't say anything. No snark, commentary, or whatsoever. You also just stand there next to her, sweating as hell of how to break the ice.

"Still," she mutters eventually. "You really committed to this loner character."

That gets you snorting. "Far out, Ningning. So mean."

"Be honoured that you get to be shit talked by me." She retorts back. Yet, her gaze is fixed on your hands instead, with the way your fingers keep fidgeting, rubbing against each other like they're desperate for something yet not finding it. So then she scoots closer to you, well, just a little. You can feel her shoulder brushes against yours, probably an accident. Who knows? But you stiffens up immediately, with every nerve lighting up like you've been caught doing something terrible.

"Chill, far out." She says. "I ain't beating you up."

"Yet."

She nudges you lightly on the shoulder before scooting over again. This time it is definitely not accidental. Your arms are almost touching now, with your shirt hem grazing hers. Your heart begins to do that stupid thing where it just fucking forgets how to beat properly. Your fingers twitch, too, curling inward.

"When will you knock the whole "freeze on the spot" thing off already?" "Hey, I don't get this much practice, come on."

"Yeah. I know."

You can feel the warmth from her side now, the faint scent of detergent and citrus you don't dare to ask. Your hand hangs uselessly at your side, fingers twitching like they’re debating whether to run or reach. She watches them once more

“God,” she sighs quietly. “You’re really bad at this.”

“Sorry?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she lets her hand drop too. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers brush the back of yours, a touch light enough that you almost think you imagined it. She pauses as you inhale sharply. Doesn’t pull away, either. Then, gently, like she’s approaching a skittish animal, she nudges her fingers against yours again. This time she stays, and her pinky hooks around yours.

"…you ok with this?” Her voice is the softest you have ever heard.

You nod too fast. "Y-yeah. Yeah. It's…yeah."

She huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah, thought so."

She slides her fingers fully into yours, slow and careful, giving you time to freak out if you need to. When you don’t pull away, with your hand instinctively curling around hers, she settles there, satisfied. It makes you feel so tight, and warm…and terrifying.

"This is weird." "No it's not."

You glance at her. She's still looking at the list, with her still composed expression, as if this is not a big deal. But then her thumb moves just once, brushing lightly over your knuckle. On purpose.

"You're doing this on purpose now."

You can feel the smugness from her. "What? Holding your hand?" 

"No, teaching me."

"Well, someone has too." She chuckles. "You're hopeless as hell."

Her grip tightens a tad more, feeling more reassuring. Her thumb strokes your knuckle once again, slow and careful. You're so damn busy panicking, fully aware of the way your heart keeps on racing, how your palm is warm and damp, how your brain keeps telling you to don't fuck it up, that you were oblivious of how her ears gone pink…or the faint flush creeping up her cheeks, or the way her lips press together. Well, until you risk your life for a glance at her, anyway.

"…Are you," you start slowly, "blushing?"

Her head snaps toward you. "No."

"That was fucking fast." "I'm not."

"Your ears are red." "They're always red."

"Yeah, nah." "You're imagining things."

You let out a small grin, and then wider as the realisation sinks in. "So I'm not the only one freaking out."

You can see her jaw tightens up. "Shut up."

"This is really amusing, Miss Observer."

Her eyes flick to you with that familiar sharpness. "Aren't you having fun?"

"Can't you blame me?" You say. "This is the first time I've ever had leverage."

"Fucking hell." She clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed (and probably embarrassed) and squeezes your hand harder. You can hear her muttering about not getting cocky, yet she doesn't let go. And well, neither do you.

And it… becomes the new normal for the next two weeks. Her fingers stay threaded with yours when you step away from the window, when you grab your jacket, when you fumble for your keys. Even outside, in the night market, she walks beside you now, shoulder brushing yours with every step. Sometimes, she swings your joined hands slightly, absent-minded. Sometimes she forgets and walks too fast, then slows when you lag behind. You don't comment on it, and neither does she. It feels too comfortable to tell her off.

(Well, no comment is a lie, you two argue quite a lot about how you just want to spend on a shit ton of skewers, while hands are still interlocking to each other.)

At the grocery store, you two are both shopping for necessities (milk, instant noodles, eggs, etc.) but pause when you see the total climbing, fully realising how light the envelope has gotten. Of course, Ningning notices and replaces it with a cheaper brand, then another, then another. You just let her do mental math faster than you ever could, not realising the smile creeping up to you.

"I know I'm gorgeous, but stop staring." She says without looking.

On the walk home, you pass the same convenience store where you used to stand alone, counting coins, and pretending you weren’t calculating how many days you could stretch them. Now you walk past it with her complaining about how slow you are, tugging you away from a puddle, bumping your shoulder like it’s habit. Like a nagging girlfriend with a happy boyfriend. It just feels very domestic, and you don't know what to feel as the end approaches.

The montage blurs after that.

Late night ramen at the tiny table and her stealing your chopsticks. Laundry runs where she smacks your back about your way of folding shirts. Her dragging you to a stationary shop "just to look," then buying film for your camera anyway. You two arguing about pretty much anything (brands, routes, whether pineapple pizza is the worst shit ever, such and such.), and it all ends the same way, with her rolling her eyes, you laughing, and neither of you letting go.

And slowly, the envelope empties.

You count what's left one night when she's still in the shower. Enough for groceries. A tad more outings if you're careful, but not enough for more extravagant stuff. You slide the money back where it belongs, and the guilt creeps into your chest.

She's given you time, perspective, and the most happiness you have ever gotten. Yet, she is still paying off her own life, year by year, and contract by contract. And one thought settles in your mind: How do you repay someone who taught you how to live, when you're running out of time?

-

Her phone vibrates against the table.

Ningning barely stirs at first. She's half-buried in your blanket, with one arm flung where you were supposed to be, her eyes still heavy with sleep. For a few seconds she just lies there, listening to the familiar sounds of the apartment — the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic, the radiator clicking like it always does when morning creeps. Then the vibration comes again. She frowns and reaches for her phone, thumbs swiping out of muscle memory more than anything. "Assignment update…" she murmurs. "Client monitoring is no longer required."

Her eyes widen as the last word escapes. Client monitoring. No longer required. This only happens for one reason.

“No,” she mutters, sitting up too fast. The blanket slides off her shoulders. “No, no—”

She swings her legs off the bed, and hastily scans the apartment. The kitchen is empty. The bathroom door is open. Your shoes are gone. That alone makes her heart spike. "Ya!" She yells. "This isn't funny, you fuckwit!"

No answer.

The radius warning doesn't flare. No alarm. No instant death. That alone makes everything worse. Ningning scratches her head, trying to figure out possibilities when she notices something peculiar on the table.

A letter. A printed photo of her back when you first reacquired your camera back. And an envelope that is suspiciously similar to the one you got, but it’s far too thick.

She approaches slowly, trying to keep everything from breaking down. Her trembling fingers hover over the paper before finally grabs it, knuckles whitening as she unfolds the letter. “Hiya, Ningning,” Her voices shaky as she read, “Fuck your’hiya’, you idiot…”, and then it goes:

You're probably mad already. Or annoyed. Or both. That's fair. You can yell at me later at my grave. I didn't want you to wake up and argue with me. You will definitely scold me for doing such a dumb thing. Sorry about that.

Please hear me out first. It has been on my mind for like the past 2 weeks, and I just want to say everything I want to say to you.

So, my first impression of you is…that you were a stuck up bitch. Okay, not just a stuck up bitch. The biggest one I know of.

Yep. I was dreading how I would survive the last 3 months with you as my observer. You were very rude, very mean, very much reminds me of those stuck up girls back in high school. Every time I went to bed I felt like it was a blessing because then I didn't have to be fully aware of how intimidating your gazes were. You give no shit about people's feelings, and just say it bluntly.

Well, that was my first impression, anyway.

But then I get to know you, like the real you… or at least the you for the past 2 months and a bit. Well, tsundere might be a cringy term to use, but I see you as someone who is actually kind despite not showing it. I mean, you don't have to teach me how to eat hot pot, let me take photos of you, rediscovering old places, yet you do it. It really does fill up the hole of loneliness that I…honestly, really missed it. 

Thank you back then for just letting me grieve silently at the grave, and it means a lot. The handholding too…but let's not talk about that because it’s embarrassing as hell. Thank you for opening up to me about the whole debt thing. I know you weren't planning to spill that all out in the first place, but I'm honoured that I'm trustworthy enough for you to share something that heavy. It's incredibly kind of you to do something to help your mum, even though she is not there to see you. But please know that it takes a kind heart to do so.

I remember back when this whole thing started, you said something about how you have to observe me all the way until the last 3 days left. Well…I may or may not have sold the remaining time I have left. I kept on wondering if it is possible, so I may or may not have called whoever was working last night when you were sleeping (through your phone, oops). After much explanation, they say that it's possible, and you won't believe the total sum.

240 million won.

Can't you fucking believe it? I almost drop your phone when I hear the numbers. But again, by the time you read this, I won't be alive to use all this anyway. Sooooo, I hope you can use it for me. Ah right, it is the main reason why I do this. Two weeks isn't much, I know that already, but they assure me that you will be free from this job with three more years of work. Basically enough for you to clear your debt, and a new starting point sooner. You once said you despise watching people waste their lives and panic at the end. To be fair, it’s fucking scary purely at the thought of this choice, but I just want to do something at least as a repayment.

I don't think I said it out loud to you, but the last 3 months have been the happiest and most memorable I have ever lived. You made it feel like I have a very long time friend I never knew I wanted.

So please, please, use the envelope next to this letter for yourself. And don't go back to hating life just because I won't be there for you to shit talk me again. You sold your years because you wanted your mom to stop suffering, so I give you mine to let you know that your choice is the right one.

I…don't know what comes next for you, Ningning. I'm not a near-omniscient observer like you. But I know you will do great. Even if it gets quite messy and takes time. But I know you will live long enough to complain about it, and long enough to fall in love with someone who deserves you.

All I'm asking is that, sometimes, whenever you drink soju, just get an extra glass and pour it for me, and remember that someone once thought your kindness and bitchiness was worth the thirty years I have sold.

Thank you for staying with me.

Thank you for holding my hand.

Thank you for being there for me.

Please live on for me.

Thank you, Ning.

(p.s. Guess alcoholism is not how my life is finished, lol.)

[majorblinks]

triple dog dare (ive wonyoung)

(male reader, prompt for & much love to suchsweetstories, 6k words)

A year to the day since the last time you saw her face:

You run into Jang Wonyoung in the alley behind a seedy bar.

“Hey,” you say, and stop short. 

“Hey,” Wonyoung says. She’s wearing a black dress, thin straps, hem falling past her knees. She doesn’t even look surprised to see you. Only coughs around the cigarette she’s smoking.

“I was actually just about to call you.” 

“Were you?” Her voice, when unforced, is always different than you expect. Low and rich and full. 

“Yeah,” you say. It’s ludicrous, running into her tonight. Like something more divine than coincidence. “I was. Happy birthday.” 

Wonyoung stares at you.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t say that to me.” 

It doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. Jang Wonyoung is the same as she always is. Ice-cold. No dimples. No smile. All that glossy excessive hair. Those unseeing, unblinking large round doll eyes, reflective sheen like they’re encased in plastic. She looks beautiful. She looks like a ghost. She looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks, sickly and skeletal in the moonlight. She looks like no one you could ever love.

“Wonyoung,” you say. “Come home with me.”

She takes another drag. You shouldn’t smoke, you think of telling her; come on, you’re killing yourself. But you’d never say that. You’re not in the business of hurting her and you never have been. Plus it’s her twenty-fifth birthday and there’s only so much cruelty a girl can take, even a girl like her. 

It doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. Everything between you two is still as spectacularly fucked up as it’s always been. 

“Fuck you,” Wonyoung says. And then she takes your hand. 

-

You and Wonyoung have no reason to know each other. But:

“This is my table.” 

It’s seven years ago and the first time you meet is in college, when you’re waiting in an on-campus coffee shop and look up from your laptop and there’s this girl standing above you with her arms crossed, looking somewhat mutinous. “I’m sorry?” you say. 

“This is my table.” No pleasantries. Actually tapping her foot at you in her prissy little ballet flat. “I sit here every time I come here.”

“Uh,” you say. 

“So move,” says the girl, flatly. 

“Um-” 

“My God, Wonyoung, are you already torturing him?” 

The switch in mood is immediate, an impossible glimpse of summer sun in mid-winter blizzard. An Yujin walks up with her dimples and tight jeans and dazzling smile and throws an arm around the girl’s stiff, slender shoulders. The effect she has on you just by walking into a room is physical. You relax the second she throws that smile your way. 

“Oh,” says the girl. Looks from Yujin to you. Her expression shifts even colder, as if to compensate. But just like you, her posture relaxes too. “So he’s one of yours?” 

You splutter. “One of-” 

“Shush.” Yujin smacks a kiss to the girl’s cheek. “Ignore her,” she says to you. “This is Wonyoung, my best friend. And - yes, she’s always this much of a sweetheart.” Then she grins, throws a hand out to you in a flourish. “Wonyoung, this is the guy I’m going to marry when I turn thirty.” 

“I’m her boyfriend,” you supply. “Nice to meet you.” 

Wonyoung’s face contorts like she’s just eaten something very sour. She gives you a rather unimpressed once-over, from your hair to your shoes. You’re halfway convinced that she’s about to chew you out like a mean girl from a movie. But all she says is: “Thirty? Like, exactly? You don’t want to get married earlier?”

“I’m not going to get married in my twenties like a fucking child bride,” says Yujin, appalled. “I’m way too pretty to squander my youth like that.” 

Horrifically this makes both you and Wonyoung laugh. You glance her way; she wrinkles her pert, perfect nose, disgruntled to have something in common with you. 

“Thanks for saving me a seat,” Yujin says, cheerfully oblivious or very good at faking it, and plops herself down right next to you.

Somehow you all end up sharing the table for the next two hours. Obviously Wonyoung doesn’t say another word to you that isn’t snide and you roll your eyes every time she tosses that long glossy curtain of hair. But you keep having these moments where you glance up and your gazes connect, where you catch each other with mirroring grins, where she goes to kick Yujin under the table at the same time you reach for her hand. It’s uncanny and horrible. She looks at Yujin the exact same way you do; quickly it becomes clear that this is kind of the root of the problem. But it’s just kid stuff, this instant rivalry. It’s college and you’re a stupid teenager and she’s a heinous bitch. You don’t look at Jang Wonyoung and think: We’re going to know each other forever. 

But that’s exactly what you do. 

-

About how you met An Yujin: 

You were taking the same two PM lecture. You both sat in the back of the class. You turned to the side on the very first day and saw bangs and bright eyes and dimples and a low-cut top and a thousand-watt smile. Hi, the girl said. Her hair was up. You couldn’t stop staring at the column of her throat. Hi, you said, dumbly. The smile got wider. Then she said: You’re really cute. Why don’t I know you? Ten minutes later you were skipping class to make out in the bathroom. A week later you were dating. I don’t believe in taking things slow, Yujin said that Saturday, following you into your shitty dorm room wearing shorts so tiny it should qualify as public indecency. She’d made you laugh and then sucked your soul out through your dick and then made you laugh again. Naturally you have come to the conclusion that you have miraculously stumbled across the love of your life. But she holds your hand and kisses your mouth and steals all your clothes and fucks you half to death and tells everyone who’ll listen that she’s marrying you so at least you’re pretty sure it’s mutual. 

“Oh, wow,” says Wonyoung, when she hears you tell this story. “Been there.” 

You gape at her for a second. Then say: “Which part?” 

“Definitely the part where she fell in love with me after I gave her the best head of her life,” says Yujin. 

“No,” says Wonyoung, frostily, color rising in her cheeks. “Shut up. Obviously not that. We’ve never - whatever. I meant the…” Here she mimics you: “Why don’t I know you?” 

“Right.” You say. You shoot a sidelong glance at Yujin, who looks very pleased with herself. Flash of both dimples and most of her teeth. “That how she got you, too?” 

“Pretty much,” agrees Wonyoung. “Seventh grade. She sat right next to me in class and said: You’re too pretty for me to not know you.” Wonyoung makes her voice nasal and smarmy with the impression, gives an exasperated little eye-roll after. But there’s a tilt to her mouth that makes you think that line worked exactly the way it was supposed to. “Best friends ever since.”

“Is this what you do?” you say to Yujin, whose smile has gone so wide her eyes are nearly shut. “You just walk up to people and decide they belong to you?”

Except these days you’ve learned to know her, so you already know the answer. Oddly enough you’ve sort of learned to know Wonyoung, too. It’s weird but the months pass and the three of you hang out every week, almost every day. You skip more classes than you attend and pretend you’re studying together just to end up talking for hours and go to terrible frat parties and spend your weekends getting high in their dorm room until Yujin’s half in your lap and Wonyoung’s ice-princess face has split open in real unguarded laughter. When she looks at you in those moments it’s almost like you’re friends. But then she sees you looking and her expression goes cold and you’re certain you never will be. 

“Yep,” chirps Yujin, leans in, kisses you. Pulls back with victory in her eyes. “Now you’re mine forever.”

“Alright,” you say, smiling. “I think I can be okay with that.” 

-

She breaks up with you that spring. 

She was really very nice about it in the moment, too. Said all the right things like she was reading from a playbook, held your hand to soften the blow. Her bangs were falling into her eyes and you went to brush them away before you remembered you were no longer allowed to. She sighed and said: It’s not you, it’s me. But coming out of her mouth it sounded like brave and earnest honesty instead of the world’s worst cliché. What happened to being yours forever? you wanted to say, and didn’t. Like she’d heard it anyway, Yujin smiled sadly. So sympathetic and sorry. I’m sorry things have to be like this, she told you. I never meant to break your heart. But you stared at those dimples and you knew better. Does it really matter if I left you? that smile said. You still belong to me.

Is there any way we can still be friends? Yujin asked, blinking up at you hopefully. 

Of course, you said, sick with love for her. Always. 

“Damn,” says Wonyoung, when she hears the news. She’s doing that thing where she makes her voice higher than it actually is, as if the princess-like benevolence will cover all the sarcasm. “Tough break. I really thought you guys were in it for the long haul.”

“We’re better off as friends,” you say. “Just like you and her, right? Friends.”

Wonyoung’s doll eyes narrow to slits. You watch her fingers twitch, each nail painted pink like viscera. But all she says is, “Right,” voice still sugar-sweet, and somehow turns away without strangling you. 

And, well. Probably you’ll hate each other's guts forever. Probably she’ll murder you some other time. But you’re Yujin’s two favorite people in the world - that’s a tie that won’t break easily. Like being handcuffed to Wonyoung’s bony little wrist, thrashing so hard against the link between you that it leaves you both with bruises. 

Or scars, one day, if you keep this up. But you’ll just have to wait and see. 

-

A comprehensive list of your most significant memories involving An Yujin and Jang Wonyoung:

1. Freshman year finals week, the three of you holed up in the twenty-four-hour study room in the library until you accidentally fell asleep. Somehow you had all melted together on the floor like some misshapen, multi-headed body; Wonyoung was leaning against your shoulder; Yujin was kind of sprawled across both of your laps. Guys, you said, which startled Wonyoung awake. What are you… she began, peeved to be touching you, obviously about to throw some sort of fit. But then she saw that Yujin was still knocked out cold and paused. Wonyoung’s face was still puffy with sleep, mascara flaking off beneath her eyes. It was the first time you had ever seen her look less than perfect. Eventually Wonyoung said: Don’t wake her up. Then she spent the better part of an hour pressed against your side, sifting a hand through Yujin’s hair. Thing is, you probably knew Wonyoung was in love with Yujin before then. But that was the moment you were finally sure. 

2. Sophomore year Yujin dated some guy who thought she hung the moon, which was the kind of worship that can really only end one way: him storming out of Yujin’s dorm and running straight into you and Wonyoung and snapping: I don’t know how you put up with her - that girl is seriously fucked up. Then he started talking shit about her to anyone who would listen. So one night you and Wonyoung and Yujin went out to the parking lot and destroyed her ex’s car. More accurately: you and Wonyoung destroyed his car while Yujin sat on the curb and cheered you on. Whatever. You were all pretty drunk. Here’s what you remember: Yujin’s wicked grin, moonlight pooling in the cup of her collarbone. Wonyoung, wearing a miniskirt and hair tied up in some complicated updo. She was so ridiculous and girlish and vain, even then: leather gloves and lip gloss as she dug a knife into some asshole’s tires. She caught you staring and scowled at you, like she was waiting for you to finish the job. So you glared back and you did. Spectating from her spot on the curb, Yujin laughed and laughed. I fucking love you guys, she hollered, and you believed her. You had never seen her happier and maybe never would.

3. Junior year Yujin started drinking a lot, and often, and destructively, to the point that you and Wonyoung began staying sober at parties just to look after her. But there was this one night where you were so tired of playing babysitter to the girl who broke your heart that you got drunk yourself and started flirting with some girl who was not nearly as gorgeous or complex or exhilarating or infuriating as An Yujin. Which was okay. Preferable, actually. But then just as you started kissing her Wonyoung stomped up to you and bodily ripped you off this girl with strength she summoned from God-knows-where and demanded to know where Yujin was. I don’t know, you said. You don’t know? she repeated, the high panicked pitch of her voice unfeigned for once. And that’s how you knew it was bad. So you two tore the place apart looking for her and eventually found Yujin locked in the upstairs bathroom. She was crying hysterically, blubbering nonsense. You were willing to step out, let her cool off. But Wonyoung knelt by the door. Please, she said. Her face was pale and tight with fear. Please open the door. I just need to know you’re okay. Tell me you’re okay. She stayed like that for twenty minutes until Yujin flung open the door and threw her body into Wonyoung’s arms, tears apparently forgotten. Wonyoung shut her eyes. As she hugged Yujin back you could see that she was trembling all over. After you’d both gotten her home and into bed Wonyoung yelled at you for a long time, for being a fucking idiot, for letting Yujin get so drunk, for leaving her alone, God, fuck, don’t you know you can’t leave her alone like that? Then she’d sunk to her knees outside of Yujin’s bedroom door and put her face in her hands and took in a deep, long breath. It’s just, she said, very quietly. There was this one night. In high school. She got so drunk, and I found her on the roof, and she was saying all these things - and then Wonyoung cut herself off. Shook her head very quickly. It doesn’t matter, she said. I worry because I have a good reason to. I’ve seen what she’s capable of. 

4. Senior year you discovered Wonyoung was kind of weird about sex. You shouldn’t have ever known this. You wouldn’t have ever known this except that Wonyoung started hooking up with one of her TAs and subsequently began showing up with bruises everywhere: wrists and neck, inner thighs in her frilly skirts, ankles and thin forearms and knees. So one day you pulled her aside and said: Look, if anyone’s hurting you… But Wonyoung only stared at you blankly. Then nearly smiled. Oh, she said. No one’s doing anything to me that I didn’t beg for. Which was - fine. It was fine. Actually the thing that bothered you most about this was that Yujin was the same way. When you were dating her it had always kind of freaked you out, how hard she wanted to be hit. So one day you were talking with Yujin and Yujin made some crass joke about Wonyoung and her bruises and you just went: Why does she do it? Almost immediately Yujin replied: Because she hates herself. Obviously this shocked you. What? you said. Wonyoung? No. Why would you think that? And Yujin grinned at you with all her teeth and said: Take a wild guess.

5. Graduation, when Yujin wrapped her arms around you and Wonyoung and gave you both sloppy gross kisses on your cheeks and said: Not to be fucking disgusting right now, but you guys are going to be my best friends forever and ever and ever. You and Wonyoung groaned and complained: Yujin, ugh, that is fucking disgusting. Yeah, well, said Yujin, carefree and lovely, so high she’d never come down: Aren’t we all? And right then you met Wonyoung’s eyes and secretly thought the two of you would love An Yujin for the rest of your lives. 

6. Three years ago, on Wonyoung’s twenty-second birthday, when you got the call.

-

There’s this one conversation the three of you have, drunk at the top level of a parking garage: 

“How do you wanna go?” 

Yujin’s leaning over the railing, wind in her hair. You and Wonyoung are on either side of her and trying very hard not to stare. But it’s a beautiful night and she’s got her head tipped back to the night sky and she’s smiling, dimples and all. You and Wonyoung look for so long at her that you accidentally make eye contact, just past the slope of Yujin’s nose. Probably Wonyoung’s wasted, or you are, and you’re seeing things. Because for a second you swear she almost smiles at you. 

“Something painless,” Wonyoung says. It’s funny because she has a constellation of bruises on her collarbone right now, courtesy of her regular TA hook-up. You’ve never known her as a girl to shy away from pain. “Like - I just go to sleep and I never wake up. I don’t want to be afraid. That’d be the worst part.” 

You look back at the moon, full and high in the sky. Say: “I agree, actually.” 

“Ew,” says Wonyoung. She’s definitely smiling now; you can hear it in her voice. “Get your own way to die.” 

“I think,” Yujin says. She’s speaking very softly. When you turn to her you see her eyes are closed, like she’s somewhere else entirely. “I’d want it to be exciting. Theatrical.” You watch the swanlike line of that beautiful throat bare itself to the stars. “A blaze of glory. You know me.” 

“You have major issues,” says Wonyoung. But she’s laughing, and you’re so close to graduation and the endless golden possibility of the rest of your lives, and that one horrible night from junior year feels very far away. “Good luck with that blaze of glory.” 

“Baby, I’m not blazing alone,” says Yujin, seriously, which sends you and Wonyoung into hysterics. “You guys know I’m taking you two down with me, right? If I’m going, you’re going.”

You and Wonyoung switch from giggling to protesting heavily about this - come on, you two say, talking over each other, except Wonyoung’s too drunk to fake her little princess voice so she’s sort of steamrolling you entirely and you’re reaching around Yujin to shove her in the shoulder, unfortunately totally in sync, variations on the same playful complaint: Yujin, God, leave us out of your fucking drama. We love you, you know we do. But let us live. 

But then Yujin turns and breaks into a smile so stunning it brings both you and Wonyoung into complete silence. 

“Please,” says Yujin, airily. “Like you could ever live without me.” 

-

Three years ago, on Wonyoung’s twenty-second birthday, when you get the call:

“Hey,” you say. “What’s up? You never call me.”

But there’s a sudden and terrible unease creeping up your spine; a feeling like someone is breathing down the back of your neck. Because it’s true. Wonyoung never calls you. Unless it’s about-

“Yujin,” chokes out Wonyoung, in this horrible, sobbing gasp. “Yujin, she - she-“

She never gets the words out. But somehow you just know.

-

The day of the funeral-

You don’t want to talk about the funeral. 

-

Somehow the world doesn’t stop turning. Months pass, then years. You try to move on and be normal. You get a job. You make new friends. You try to date people. You want to be as honest as you can. But there’s not really a delicate way to say that the girl you loved hung herself from her ceiling fan when you were twenty-two. So mostly you just don’t talk about it at all. 

But it’s like an inevitability. Like they can all smell something tragic and wrong on you, taste the thick weight of grief in your mouth. Eventually all your girlfriends get skittish, suspicious. They don’t leave you. They want to figure you out. Going through your drawers, guessing at your passcode, scrolling through your texts. Confronting you at the end of the line: Who’s that girl in your camera roll, smiling at the lens? Who’s that girl you keep calling who never picks up the phone?

The truth always comes out, in the end. She was my favorite person in the world. She died. She’s gone. 

Even the aftermath is the same. The big shocked eyes. The: Oh, I’m so sorry. The polite, perfunctory condolences, drawing you into their arms. And then, later, to all their friends: Well, I think he might be too sad, too damaged; I catch him wandering in circles around the apartment like he’s looking for something he’s lost. He says her name in his sleep. He wakes up crying. He’s too much; he’s in no place to love or be loved, and might not be for a long, long time. Yeah, I guess he’s a good guy, real nice, real sweet, but I’m leaving him - some things are just too heavy for anyone to handle.

“I don’t know why you bother trying,” Wonyoung says. “No one will ever understand you anymore.”

It’s her twenty-fourth birthday. You’re sitting on the hood of your car, sharing a cigarette. You’re not holding hands so much as you’re holding her wrist in your lap, tracing the clasp of the charm bracelet Yujin gave her when they were fifteen. Yujin had a matching one, too. They’d buried her in it. At her funeral you’d stared transfixed at that glint of gold and remembered how it used to warm with the heat of her skin and how strange it was that if you touched it in that moment it would be just as cold as she was now, would be forever. You never once looked at her face. 

You thumb the twinkling charms of Wonyoung’s bracelet. You’ve seen other guys tug her around by this wrist hard enough to bruise. But you only lift her hand to your mouth and press a kiss to the soft pale center of her palm. 

“You will,” you say. “You do.”

-

A comprehensive list of people you have spoken to about the day An Yujin died:

1. The guy who lived next door to Yujin. He’d been the one to call the cops first, actually. All the noise had woken him up. The screaming, he said. Her friend, the one who found her - she just wouldn’t stop screaming.

2. Yujin’s parents. But only very briefly. They always liked Wonyoung more than you.

3. The old lady who saw you standing on the curb, staring up at Yujin’s bedroom window. She lived across the street. Apparently she’d lived there Yujin’s whole life. Well, she told you, sighing with a shake of her head. It’s a tragedy, certainly. But we knew that one wasn’t long for this world. She wasn’t all there. She was always very fragile. Very reckless. All those hospital stays. You know she tried to kill herself before? Parents called the police and everything; terrible racket at two AM. You know she got drunk and crashed her car into that tree in our front yard? We didn’t blame her. We thought: Oh, poor girl. Everyone knew she was troubled. Plus, our lawn looks much nicer without the tree. God, sweetheart, I’m sorry for bringing up the tree. You lost much more than a silly tree. That’s horrible. That’s heartbreaking. You loved her, didn’t you? You loved her?*

4. Wonyoung. For a long time you kept having this same conversation about that night. Just tell me, you were always saying, I don’t understand, you just saw her, you were just with her, how could this have happened? Wonyoung must have heard an accusation in there somewhere because one day she turned to you and said: I don’t know what you want me to say. She was already dead when I found her. I tried. I did everything I could. I had her skin underneath my fingernails. I begged to fucking God. I couldn’t save her.**

(*Right, you said, staring up at that dark window, that childhood bedroom, the last place to feel her breathe. Yujin’s whole life. Beginning to end. She’d never even make it to twenty-two. I loved her.)

(**Don’t look at me like that, Wonyoung said. You couldn’t have saved her either.)

-

The day of the funeral-

You and Wonyoung decide that you’re going to go together. So in the morning you show up at her place. 

Even now she’s inhumanly beautiful. Exquisite, really. Without makeup her doll eyes look wider than ever, underlined by bruiselike marks of exhaustion. She’s wearing this dress. Black, thin straps, clinging to her tiny waist, hanging past her knees. Her hair shines and cascades and never ends. For some reason you can’t stop looking at the sharp point of her left shoulder. Once someone had grown a bad habit of sinking their teeth into that shoulder, back in college. You never truly knew who. Only had a suspicion. Only saw the marks that lingered for days afterwards. The same little cuts reopened, over and over. You can’t believe she was left unscarred. You stare at her for a long while. 

When you look up to her face, she’s staring back at you. 

“Hey,” Wonyoung says, doll eyes gleaming with tears. 

For a moment it’s as though you share a brain, and maybe a body too, fitting yourselves into the same coffin, dirt in your eyes and mouths and noses and lungs, suffocating as one. Involuntarily in sync in your train of thought, the way you always have been. This is it. Things will never be okay ever again. It’s the end of the world and the only thing we ever loved on this whole miserable planet put a noose around her neck and abandoned us. It’s just you and me, now. You and me. 

“Hey,” you say. The link between you two as binding as it ever was. Or stronger, now that it’s the only thing that’s left. 

Maybe that’s why you end up in her bed. 

-

It’s terrible and torturous and hot and wet and messy and nowhere near as gentle as it should be. You fuck her like you’re trying to forget the ghost in the room, or maybe like you’re trying to summon her back to life, start the seance, make a spirit board out of her body. Hands sliding over her sharp ribs, concave stomach, pulling someone else’s postmortem from the sharp protrusion of bone. You sink your teeth into that perfect shoulder like you can taste whoever did it before you. Blood and sweat and soil over a grave. Indents of a phantom’s incisors. Wonyoung makes a horrible choked sound in the back of her throat. She pulls you off her shoulder, takes your hand, brings it up past her tummy and little tits and unbruised neck. Drags your palm over her face. Presses your thumb into her cheekbone. You dwarf her, you do. You could smother her. You could do something you can never take back. 

“Hit me,” Wonyoung rasps out. 

“No.” She’s dripping around your cock. “No.” 

“You want to. You - you blame me.” The words come out in fitful little gasps. Halting like the stutter of your hips and the wet pulse of her cunt, like she’s trying to push you out, like she’s trying to keep you inside her forever, to replace whatever’s gone missing, to fill an impossible void. “For not saving her.” She won’t break eye contact. She won’t blink. “You think - you - you think it was my fault.” 

“I don’t. I don’t.” 

“You’re right, you know. It was my fault.”

“Wonyoung, shut up, stop talking-” 

“Just hit me. I deserve it.” You can’t stand it. You can’t stand her. Big doll eyes and little doll mouth open and red and wet like a wound. “Hit me. Hit me, hit me, hit me-” 

You’re shaking when you wrench yourself out and away from her, lurching back, leaving her body there on the bed, teeth marks in her shoulder, slick down her thighs, heaving for air. You clutch your arms to your chest like a frightened child. You put your hands somewhere they could never hurt her. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. Your voice sounds strange. You don’t know when you started crying. “And I’d never hurt you.” 

She stares up at you with true and desperate hate in her expression, unmoving, dark hair spread out beneath her like a burial ground. So pale and brittle and cold and cadaverous. She could be the dead girl in the room, the eternal haunting. She could be the beautiful thing they’re about to bury in the dirt.

“You’re a fucking coward,” Wonyoung says. And then she begins to sob.

-

She puts her black dress back on and you get in the driver’s seat of your car. You go to the funeral together. You don’t speak. You stand all the way in the back and see Yujin in her casket and watch her parents fall apart. 

Wonyoung reaches out and takes your hand, and doesn’t let it go for a very long time.

-

A comprehensive list of everything that happened on the day An Yujin died:

1. Wonyoung and Yujin got into a fight. 

2. It was the summer after graduation and you had driven down to their hometown to go to their birthday party. It was just Wonyoung’s birthday, technically, but they always celebrated their birthdays together - they’d done it since they turned thirteen and fourteen, one right after the other. They used to show you pictures, their two little faces and one birthday cake, Yujin’s dimples and Wonyoung’s doll eyes all lit up by candles. Except this year, just before the party, they’d apparently gotten into this huge fight. No one knew what it was about, just that it was bad enough to make them spend their entire birthday party on opposite sides of the room, staunchly ignoring each other. A big deal. But you knew they’d be okay, obviously. You were their best friend and had seen more of them together than anyone at this party so you were confident being the voice of reason. They’ll be fine, you kept telling everyone. They’ll make up. They can’t stay mad at each other forever. You were certain of this because at some point during college you’d once caught Wonyoung stumbling out of her dorm on the verge of tears, wearing Yujin’s shirt with bite marks on her shoulder, Yujin shouting something taunting and catty and cruel after her, and you realized in that moment that Yujin had probably broken Wonyoung’s heart a million times over, much worse than she’d ever broken yours. Even then they were always okay. Always. Give it an hour. Give it a day. Look, come on, guys, you said, tomorrow is Yujin’s birthday. They’re always together. They’ll always be together. They’ll be alright. 

3. That night, as you were leaving the party, Wonyoung pulled you aside and said to you, quietly: We’ll fix it in the morning.

4. That night, as you were leaving the party, Yujin wrapped you in a hug and kissed your cheek sloppily and said: Ugh, get off of me, loser. Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t miss me too much. Well, maybe miss me a little. Oh, shut up. You love me. Bye. 

-

Now, three years to the day since the girl you both loved died:

It’s her twenty-fifth birthday, so Wonyoung smokes her cigarettes out the passenger side window of your car and lets you take her home. You talk about the messes you’ve made of your lives. You slip off her black dress and kiss her sharp shoulder. You’re real sweet to her, when you fuck her. So sweet that after you make her cum Wonyoung looks up at you with tears in her eyes and says: “I wish that you’d just hurt me.”

“I know,” you say, quietly. “But I won’t.”

And when she kisses you, you think she knows you meant it when you said you never will. 

-

In the morning, you pick up a cake and flowers and drive out to the cemetery.

Wonyoung leans down and kisses the headstone. “Happy birthday,” she whispers.

You sit in the grass by the grave and share thick slices of cake. Wonyoung takes large, gluttonous bites and spits each of them out into a napkin instead of swallowing. Your stomach curdles in revolt. You think of her cigarettes. You think that Jang Wonyoung is always kind of killing herself, a slow and excruciating descent into being the girl in the open casket with a golden bracelet that you’ll never be able to forget. You could say something poetic and poignant about this cemetery, about the agony of burying her body beside the girl you both loved, about not being able to lose her, too. You can’t leave me, you could tell her. You can’t go where she went. You’re my best friend. You’re my last safe place. I need you here with me. 

“That’s fucking disgusting,” you say, instead. 

Wonyoung smiles, shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, well,” she says, playing along. She remembers. She always remembers. There’s frosting on her chin. “Aren’t we all?”

You think of wiping the frosting off with your thumb. You think of doing a lot of things. You smile back at her and hope it’s enough. 

-

(One last significant memory, just for the road: 

It’s your sophomore year of college. You and Wonyoung are together at a party. You’re both mad at Yujin; you can’t remember why. But she’s in some guy’s lap on the couch and you and Wonyoung are both drunk and miserable in the corner and pretending not to stare at her. You’re ignoring each other, mostly. Except then there’s this moment where Wonyoung takes a step and stumbles in her stupid prim Mary Jane heels and you reach out and place a hand on her back to steady her. It’d be totally fine except for the fact that her shirt’s cropped and her hair’s up and your fingers graze bare skin, the notches in her spine. Electric and instantaneous. Wonyoung’s posture snaps impossibly straighter.

“Sorry,” you say. But Wonyoung puts a dainty finger to your elbow and keeps you there. 

“You and me,” she says. 

“What?”

Wonyoung turns to you. In her heels she almost matches you in height. She’s not looking at your face so much as your throat, studying the work of muscle as you swallow. You’re not looking at anything but the lip gloss on her mouth. 

“You and me,” she says, except this time you understand her entirely. “She’d lose it. Because she thinks we belong to her.” 

“Right,” you say. The obvious goes unsaid: We do belong to her. “Okay. So-” 

You don’t pull her close so much as you fall together, a clumsy chain reaction of movements. Your hands and that tiny waist. Her wrists draped around your neck. Bracelet pressed against your skin, an exact match to the one on the girl across the room, watching you. 

Wonyoung whispers, “Kiss me.” 

So you do. 

It’s a curious, tentative thing. Like it’s the first time either of you two have ever kissed anyone. Shy, awkward, careful, exploratory. Sweet. You never thought she’d be so sweet. Probably because you’ve spent the last year and a half with you two at each other’s throats half the time, you facing down her ice-princess voice and pout and perpetually rolling eyes. Near six feet tall and bulletproof, this one. Except now you’re cupping her little face in your hands and feeling her tremble against your mouth and she’s nothing like you thought she was. She’s just a girl. She’s just so small. Everyone who’d ever touched her has probably hurt her in one way or another, on purpose or by accident. Even - well. You won’t know this until later but Yujin will be furious about this, in that manic, vicious, smiling way of hers; she’ll take shots at you for weeks before she cools off. Say a lot of things about being left behind, used and disposed of. Oh, she’ll say, grinning and dimpled, voice serrated, I get it; you’re tired of me, bored of me. I’ll leave you two alone, then. Have fun. No, I understand: you guys don’t need me anymore. And you and Wonyoung will know she’s being unfair and immature and manipulative and reassure her anyway - that’s just what you do when you love somebody. An Yujin, you’ll tell her, over and over. You know we’ll always need you. 

But for now, there’s only this. Her lip gloss and your mouth. Perfume sweet like summer fruit. Fragile cheekbones beneath your thumbs that could shatter as easy as glass. 

Wonyoung pulls back, and says: “That was weird.” 

You don’t say a word. You stare at those big doll eyes. The breathless rise and fall of her chest. For the first and last time in your life, you think: I could love you, if you’d let me. 

“Extremely weird,” you say, after a long moment. 

She nods once, licks her lips, leaves your arms. And then you never talk about it again.)

-

Sprawled on the grass in the afternoon light, Wonyoung tells you she doesn’t need you to drive her back from the cemetery. “I’ll walk,” she says. “My place is close enough. And it’s a nice day.”

You stand. Across Yujin’s grave sits a vase of sunflowers, their faces all turned towards the sky. “You’ll be okay?” 

The sun shines so brightly that you have to shield your eyes as you look down at her. It’s the first day of September. Soon the turning leaves and the wind and the fog and the rain will creep in and steal what’s left of the summer. Everything changes, eventually; everyone leaves and dies and moves on. But for now the girl you thought you could never love sits in the sunlight with the ghost you thought you always would, just like they did when they were kids, twelve and thirteen, eighteen and nineteen, twenty-five and twenty-one forever. It’s sort of funny. Sometimes the link between you and Wonyoung feels less like handcuffs and more like a lifeline. Sometimes you can still hear Yujin’s voice saying: If I’m going, you’re going. But against all odds you’re still here. For however long it lasts. You’re here. 

Wonyoung smiles. “Probably not,” she says. “But I’ll live.” 

-

<3

[ducktoo]

31/08

IVE's Wonyoung x M!Reader

Note: I'm not even joking, this is the hardest fic I have ever written. Half because of expectations, and half because how tf I continue this XD

Anyway, appreciate @wonyology and @autumnyacorn for the proofreads. Thanks @kwilquib for the starting quote just like for part 1. Thanks to @toshyun for the emotional support. And uhh a genuine thank you for everyone who have been so patient for part 2. Wanna end this year with a bang, so extra pressure indeed.

I hope this fic lives up to Part 1. And I hope this is the good ending this time. TT

Final fic of 2025! Thank you everyone!

(11k word. The longest ever.)

"Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately,…" 

Fuck, another one. 

That makes…seven this week. Or maybe eight. Or twenty. Who the fuck knows, you've stopped counting anyway. It’s been like a year or so since you graduated, and it's leading up to February.

You stare blankly at the email, the words blurring together after seeing that same phrase far too many times in the past month. The polite rejection, the generic HR signature, the sterile tone. All of it feels like salt rubbed into a wound that never quite heals. You drag the cursor to the trash icon and click without hesitation, your laptop screen reflecting the exhaustion etched on your face.

The money might have found you a more decent place to live, yet you know it will run out at any time soon. The fluorescent light above flickers, mocking your sorry ass. The calendar on the wall hasn't been flipped since November last year. The air smells faintly of instant noodles and stale coffee.

The laughter of your damn stuck up university peers echoes in your head — probably about their new jobs, no doubt. Everyone seems to have something lined up, no shit because of who they know or who their parents know. Top notch finance firms, consulting agencies, even a couple landing high paying roles overseas. Hell, they already started comparing salaries for fuck’s sake.

You? Just an endless loop of "Application Sent" and "Unfortunately".

That's the real world, isn't it? You followed the traditional route that every parent insists is "the right route". High grades, good presentations, exceptional capstone projects. But you didn't have a rich relative or a last name that shakes the world. Otherwise, you would’ve enjoyed life already. 

Instead, you get to watch everyone flaunting their golden spoons. Like that rich kid who brags about taking girls to Japan every Valentine’s day just because. Or the guy who (maybe, definitely) has a thing for men, judging by the number of dates he flexed from Thailand on Insta. Or that obnoxious transfer guy in your Accounting class who kept bitching about his 150th run on some game (Silk? Silk something?) in a thick Aussie accent with a voice that absolutely did not match his baby face.

Whatever, dreaming is a luxury. And you have none of it, as usual.

Scrolling through job listings has become an act of masochism at this point. "mid-tier business analyst,", "junior consultant," "entry-level associate." You apply to all of them, tailoring each resume, writing each cover like it matters. 

It doesn't. You're just another name in the Excel cell to them.

One evening, however, as the sun dips below the horizon and paints the walls of your room in that dull orange hue, a particular email caught your eyes.

Subject: You're invited for an interview. Jang Co., Ltd.

You freeze.

Jang. That name. That logo. Gold serif letters, the same one printed on the folders in her bag that she carried to lectures. The same one on the car that used to pick her up (and you at one time in her life) outside the gates.

You scrolled through the message.

“Dear Applicant,

We are pleased to invite you to an interview at Jang Co., Ltd. for the position of Junior Analyst under the Financial Planning Division…”

You just sat there for a while, staring. Rub your eyes and stare again. Your first thought is that it must be a mistake. Your second is that you should decline. But the third thought, the one that lingers, is simple.

A job is a fucking job.

So you click "Accept".

-

Monday arrives with the kind of stale morning chill only city offices have. Unlike the bustling Seoul street behind you, the marble lobby of the Jang Corporation main branch is far too clean, and too symmetrical. Everything smells like money — polished glass, imported coffee beans, leather seats, even the faint scent of lilies in the corner vase that you won't be able to repay even with your organs on the black market. 

You adjusted your tie and approached the front desk. Properly ironed. Neatly knotted. A tad more on the expensive side. Guess money spent well. Hopefully.

"Hi, good morning," Your voice steady. "I'm here for the Junior Financial Analyst interview."

The receptionist, impeccably dressed, looked through the list before seeing your name. "Hello. I see your name. Please take the elevator to the 8th floor. Someone from HR will meet you."

You bowed to her and walked to the elevator. Although your heart beats just a bit faster when you see your reflection in the elevator doors. Fixing the stray hairs that refused to stay down. Focusing on the micro-crease on your white shirt. You look…ordinary. Suit's not tailored, shoes scuffed, and the resume neatly printed after fixing it multiple times.

Still, you breathe out. "It's just a fucking interview," you whisper. "Nothing more."

What you don't see, several floors higher, is an office with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. A woman is leaning back in her chair, a tablet propped in front of her. And on the screen: a live feed from the HR interview room.

You. Sitting awkwardly in front of three panellists, fiddling with a pen.

A soft laugh escapes her lips as she shakes her head. "Fucking hell, they would've fired you already, idiot." Clearly amused.

Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail. A crisp white blouse and beige blazer. No longer the stuck up college student who used to show up to lectures five minutes late, iced Americano in hand, Chanel bag in the other, claiming it was "networking".

She reaches for the canned coffee on her desk. The same dirt-cheap brand you drink. The one that now also hers. She still grimaces at the first sip…then takes another anyway.

Back in the interview room, you straighten yourself in your seat as the panel begins.

"Okay then," one of the older managers started, adjusting his glasses, with this smile of a thousand suns (or a thousand ‘sol’, funny you), "can you walk us through how you create a financial plan or long-term projection?"

You speak, voice clear. Maybe too clear. "In my capstone project, I built a three-year financial forecast for a retail chain expanding into cities like Daejeon, Busan, and Incheon.” The saliva wells up in your throat. “I modeled revenue growth using market penetration curves, forecasted operating expenses across new regions, and constructed a projected cash flow. I learned this through a short internship at a mid-tier consultancy, as you can see in my resume." 

Mid-tier consultancy, your fucking ass. Totally not the “internship” you only got because of a damn dating contract.

Still, the panel scribbles notes. The HR rep watches you like a shark, testing your composure (you almost “qwivered” at the gaze). “How do you approach building an annual budget if historical spending is inconsistent?”

Remember. Take a moment. Swallow your saliva. Then reply.

"Well my approach is that." Breathe. "I’d clarify which costs are fixed and which are discretionary," Nice jargon you weave in there. “If historical data is inconsistent, I would normalize outliers, identify what’s structural versus what’s one-off, then rebuild the budget using driver-based forecasting.” Too long of a sentence. Almost out of breath. Fuck. 

On the floor above, she watches attentively. Under her breath: “Ugh…it feels like he’s still teaching me.” but her smile says otherwise.

Another panel member leans forward (His head shaped suspiciously like an acorn, and you tried not to stare). "Suppose we’re entering a downturn. The board or CEO Jang orders all divisions to reduce next year’s projected spending by 8%, but essential projects must continue. How would you reallocate the budget?"

Ignoring the way you flinched at the name, you exhale slowly. The pen spinning between your fingers before you answer. “I’d start with scenario planning. That will be to build base, best, and worst-case models." You took another breath. "Then I’d evaluate the ROI of all ongoing projects, categorize them in ‘Must-Continue’, ‘Conditional’, and ‘Low-Priority’."

“Interes—”

“And then from there, I’d protect high-ROI projects, cut discretionary spending, renegotiate vendor contracts, and create contingency buffers depending on the downturn severity.”

Oh. You accidentally cut him off mid-sentence.

Shit.

The panel exchanges looks. Even the shark-lookalike HR rep looks…mildly impressed? Eh? What?

…Well then. With nothing else to say and unable to clear the awkwardness, you could only fold your hands. The silence stretches. Then the older manager clears his throat. “Thank you. That will be all."

You could only nod, stand, shake hands, and walk out. 

Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been better. But you definitely fucked up the ending.

What you’ll never see, on the upper floor, the same woman watching your interview lets the feed fade to black. She lets the tablet down, with a small, involuntary smile pulling at her lips. Soft. Touched with nostalgia she doesn’t acknowledge.

Too many red flags, honestly, for her standard. You stuttered. Blunt as hell. Spun your pen more than hell. But then her eyes drift to the empty coffee can on her desk, and her fingers trace the cold ring it left.

She turns to her desktop. Types a message. And hits send.

"Nice to see you again, my shitty boyfriend." She added, under her breath.

-

Would you look at that? You are back here again at Jang Corp, two weeks later. 

The place still gleams as the first time you step in. The air smells faintly of lilies and money, a scent you still not quite get used to. Conversations in the hallways are hushed, like everyone's afraid of making the wrong kind of noise. Hell, even the printers hum politely.

Except this time, there's one difference. An ID tag hangs over your shirt.

Confetti. Congrats. You're officially not-unemployed. 

Somehow. 

Some-fucking-how.

Anyway, you have been assigned to the Financial Planning Division. 31st floor, as their newest hire. Your tasks are simple enough: updating quarterly budget trackers, reconciling expense reports from different departments, preparing variance summaries for senior team members' presentations. Just usual lackey tasks.

Conversations in the elevator are also its own ritual. Polite and rehearsed. "Good morning," "How was the weekend," "Busy day ahead, I assume?" — all said with the same monotonous rhythm, yet your brain kept on screaming to be out of these small talks.. 

You are aware they tried to welcome you. There is this guy named Tosh (you didn’t even ask for his name) who kept inviting you to grab some grub together. Another guy who might have overshared about his wife who studies child psychology. And then this guy who keeps talking about different boxes. Interesting people, sure, but you stopped them just before the "friend" stage. 

"Too suffocating, those golden spoon fuckers,” she once said. "I prefer your boring ass instead."

You bite back a smile before it can form.

Still, you get used to it quickly throughout the first two months. You know how to blend in, when to keep your head down, when to stay silent. Well, except for that one time a conglomerate's daughter decided you’d make a good “boyfriend.” But let’s not open that wound again. 

Regardless, you didn't complain. Business as usual.

But at days, while staring down to the busy Seoul street below, your brain subconsciously rewinded back to when she used to complain about these things that made her say "you fucking serious?". The same impromptu tutoring nights you’d drilled into her back then, when she sat beside you, half-listening, half-pouting, asking if “fixed costs” were something you could fix with money. Other times, flashbacks of how her notes became more tidied up and structured exactly like yours popped up in your mind. 

Now here you are, doing the same thing in her family’s empire, this time for a pay check. Fat one, too.

The only difference is, she's not here.

Yeah…still no sight of her yet. 

Which is good. 

…Hopefully.

-

It’s a random mid-morning during your second month.

You're seated near the end of a long workstation, shoulders a bit tense, eyes glued to the monitor. The blue glow of the screen reflects off your face as you scroll through another spreadsheet. As you think, your pen absentmindedly between your fingers (three twirls, catch, three twirls, catch). 

Just like her.

Anyway, you should’ve paid your surroundings better. Because someone noticed you. Someone is watching you.

The executive elevator opens quietly, and the atmosphere shifts as usual when someone with high caliber steps out. Backs straighten, conversations taper into silence, and the air thickens with that strange mixture of formality and fear.

She steps out.

Her pace is steady, presence a quiet command, heading to a briefing with the directors and general manager about timeline issues with their partners. Her expression is composed. Not in the cliché way of a girl walking in with confidence, but in the literal sense that everyone working there seemed to straighten the second she stepped in. 

And then she…stops.

You don’t notice the way her hell freezes mid-step. You don’t notice her gaze locking onto you through the sea of coworkers and associates. You’re way too focused on fixing whatever mess is in front of you.

Her lips part, an instinctive breath caught in her chest. The old version of her would’ve yelled out your name already. Anything to get your attention like an owner calling for her pet. But for a fleeting moment, the boardroom, the directors, the company — all of it fades.

All she sees is you.

Then her mind drifts.

Those nights in your apartment, with you hunched over your laptop at your tiny dining table looking at spreadsheets, and her sitting beside you while chewing the Haribo she bought for herself loudly (and for you too, but she didn't want to admit it). You complained about cash flow models while she whispered gossip about her world — the kind that made you roll your eyes but laugh anyway. She can still hear that laugh, low and unwilling, the kind you’d hide behind a sigh.

That faint warmth hits her dead centre. And it burns.

By the time the partners arrived, her assistant politely nudged her. "Miss Jang, we are ready."

“Right,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Straightening her blazer, she forces her mask of composure back on and walks away without a glance more.

-

The first time you two see each other again, face to face, is in your third month.

By then, the pristine halls and greetings had blended into white noise, and you’ve grown used to it (or tried to). Work was repetitive, sure, but you still put your 100% in. You showed up, gave it all, and went home when no more work had been assigned. Icing on the cake, even before the skyline turned the gradient of sunset.

You are good. Maybe too good. And what people say is true. Don't be too good at work, or you suffer. 

Why? Because your manager (yes, the acorn-looking guy) stopped you one day as you walked to your spot and: "Tag with me for today. Conference Room 4A. For strategy briefing with directors. No stress, you will be there for observation…since you have good potential."

Right. Sure. Experiences.

You straighten your tie, take your seat next to your manager near the back of the sleek glass-walled room. The air-conditioning is too cold, the silence is too sharp. You glance down through the empty notepad, half calming yourself down at the thought of sharing the same space with the other senior associates, half praying that 'she' won't be here.

The door opens. 

Right. Things never go your way, as usual.

She walks in late, of course she does.

Tailored pastel blue suit. White blouse. Minimal makeup. Hair tied in a sleek ponytail that sways like it knows its own authority. Her heels click across the marble floor like a metronome of control. 

CEO Jang's daughter.

Your employer.

Jang Wonyoung. 

…and nothing more.

You rise instinctively along with the other senior associates. She doesn't even look at you, but you know she’s aware. "Sit." She announced, flipping through the files her secretary handed her. Her tone is clipped and professional. But that tiny pause before she said it was enough to sting.

You sit. The meeting begins.

And of course, she’s everything the press ever romanticized: sharp, articulate, competent. She doesn’t hesitate to speak over directors twice her age — why would she? She’s the CEO’s daughter. Every word lands cleanly. Every counterpoint is calculated. She throws around numbers, projections, and timelines like she owns the building (well, she does). 

You almost forgot that this was the same spoiled girl who once called you at 2am while you were sleeping to explain what a 'cost breakdown' was. The same girl who, back then, always rolled her eyes and mumbled random curses while you taught her in the VIP lounge of a Gangnam club because she wouldn’t stop spamming your phone. And the same girl who once preferred your apartment rather than at a high end estate because “…you actually listen.”

You immediately shut the memory down before it can sting any deeper.

When the meeting ends, you're so ready to bolt and get back to your humble corner, before her voice cuts through the shuffle of chairs.

"New hire, I need a word."

The directors and your manager glance between the two of you. Some curious, some cautious, before filing out of the room.

The door shuts. 

And only you two were left.

You couldn't dare to look back at her. From the seniority, and from the memories that might surge back up.

And her opening line wasn’t a greeting.

"Before you ask," she says, sliding her blazer sleeve up slightly, "yes, I'm the one who arranged your hiring."

Your pulse skips. Then you remember the interview. Yes, all the stammering, the pen flipping, the smile of the panel members who looked oddly amused. It all makes sense now. There was no fucking chance you would’ve made it. 

(Nepotism at its finest.)

There’s that familiar tilt of her chin once again, the faint smugness that used to drive you insane, and the snarky tone that used to be yours alone. “A thank you is not needed, but you’re fucking welcome.”

You inhale sharply, clearly distasted at her antics. "Didn't ask for your charity…Director Jang."

Her eyes twitched at the formality. Her lips a ghost of a smile. "Great. I need someone competent." Her eyes flickered briefly. Maybe too fast, too brief, before she adds. "And I know you like being hired, not owned. Right?"

Hired, not owned.

It's meant to sting, to be playful. But her voice is anything but. She's trying to sound smug, but somehow you hear the tiny crack just like she had that day, right before she laid down her bare feelings in front of you.

Still, you clench your jaw. You aren’t falling for that again. Not anymore. "You really haven't changed."

"Well." Her lips part slightly, then close. "Neither have you."

For a brief second, the silence between you two feels heavier than any words could be. The last moment still runs in the back of your mind. Her voice breaking, the tears she tried to hide, the words you threw like knives to protect yourself.

Then you notice it.

A small, silver pen clipped neatly against her breast pocket. Unbranded. Familiar. Like the one you left for her. 

It was the same one you left next to her. The gift you left in a small box beside her untouched latte and half-crushed can of coffee. The metal catches the light just enough for you to recognise every dent, every scratch near the clip.

Your throat tightens. "You're still…using the pen."

Wonyoung glances down briefly, almost like she forgot it was even there. Then, she shrugs, “Well, it still fucking works.”

It’s nothing. It’s just an answer. Blunt, practical, maybe a little too arrogant. But the way her thumb lingers on the clip for half a second too long, the way she doesn’t tuck it away, and how she doesn’t even look at you when she says it. 

It says more than she does.

But you don’t say anything. You just nod once, politely bow, and leave. You don’t look back, and you don’t trust yourself to.

-

The weeks blur. The fourth month smudges.

Not in a soul-crushing way, surprisingly. More so of how everything folds into the same shade of grey until you can't tell Tuesday from Thursday anymore. 

Wake up. Shower. Put on the same tailored office clothes placed neatly in your closet (probably from one of her family’s preferred tailors). Then commute. Sit. Work. Work. Work. Work. Pretend not to hear coworkers trying to make conversations or overshare. Leave. Rinse and repeat.

The routine itself is so rigid that even your footsteps feel rehearsed. Desk. Quarterly forecasts. Still fixing out other's spreadsheets. Numbers. More spreadsheets. Emails. Like a well-oiled cog in a gigantic well-polished machine.

People learn quickly that you're polite enough to approach but difficult to pry open. Of course, you warm up (slightly) and still respond to small talk with gentle nods and short answers, maybe a small smile here and there. But again, neutral is the key. You give nothing beyond what is needed away and keep every boundary clean. 

You knew the consequences, after all. And yet, avoiding her feels impossible. 

(Well… it is her family's empire. Thinking otherwise would be naïve.)

Sometimes you catch Wonyoung’s reflection among the glasses. Her silhouette passing behind you, tall and composed.  Other times you hear her voice drifting across the floor — calm but cold, slicing through like a diamond blade. On rare occasions you catch her walking outside with partners and senior associates, presumedly for a work lunch at a high-end restaurant down the street.

You never speak to Wonyoung outside the necessities. Not a greeting. Not a nod. 

Nothing.

But she's everywhere.

And every time you go to the convenience store nearby on your break, you hesitate over that same canned coffee. Bitter, cheap, unnecessary. Starbucks is literally next door. You earn enough now. You can buy something smoother, lighter, warmer. But your hand still closes around the aluminium can.

You questioned if it was out of habit. Or the memories you kept on clinging to. Either way, you force the rest down. 

But…somewhere behind these pristine walls, she watches. Wonyoung watches you.

More than she should.

She knows she shouldn’t. She knows she’s supposed to keep focus where it belongs. On the associates. The partnerships. On quarterly projections. On the empire she's meant to inherit. But her composure always falters, by a bit, when it comes to you.

You've changed. And she sees it more clearly than anyone.

The messy-hair student who she hired as her fake boyfriend is gone. Now? You speak calmer. You dress cleaner. Your tone in meetings is polite, measured, lacking the bluntness you always shout at her.

"Sir, if I may clarify, the financial figures in the third quarter projection contradict the earlier data by approximately 4%. I've highlighted the inconsistencies on these pages here."

Never rude. Never insolent. Just straight to the point.

She catches herself watching you too long, longer than she should. Then she walked away, ignoring the blushes on her cheeks.

Days later, while in a lobby, when she strides her way towards the VIP elevator, she catches you on the phone in the lobby. Maybe on break, judging how you were holding a half-eaten sandwich.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” you say, gentle but firm. “The market analysis still supports this projection. I’ll include external verification if you’d like to double-check it.”

She stood there a bit too long, eyes gravitated towards you. You sound confident. Grounded. Just like the way you taught her with the content, but without the tone she became accustomed to. A tone she realizes, with a quiet sting, that she longs for.

Her fingers curl lightly around the strap of her bag, and then her heels continue forward, clicking briskly as she disappears into the executive elevator.

-

They don’t even give you time to breathe these next few weeks. Or she. It’s probably Wonyoung.

Seriously, every morning starts with invitations (verbal or email) that you have to accept. Messages that are as dry as the crumpled leaves on the ground from your manager. Something along the line of “Meeting at 10:00 AM.”

And every time, without fail, you walk in and Wonyoung is already there.

Leg-crossed, back perfectly straight, pen tucked neatly into the breast pocket of her blazer (your pen). At this point, it is always there to crack your walls.

As soon as you settle into the seat between her and your manager (of course, what a privilege), she slides you a sideways glance. Not even a greeting, just a smug tilt of her lips, as if she likes how she can toy with you once more. Maybe. Who the hell knows what she can do?

The meeting starts, and it’s just the usual marketing projections, more potentially partnership concerns, those things that should’ve got you bored out of your mind this early into your new career. 

But your mind is hyper-vigilant next to Wonyoung. She is still like what you remembered when she was next to you. Tall, warm, composed. She takes notes in short, neat strokes (oh, kind of looking like your notes), and you hate how you keep noticing the way the pen shifts against the fabric of her pocket as she moves.

“Stop staring, idiot.” She murmurs under her breath, her hand still busy jotting down.

“Hm? Sorry?” You zone back in, clearly trying to get your composure back.

“You’re so obvious.” 

You force your eyes to stay glued to the presentation, ignoring the way she let out a quiet snicker that makes your spine shiver.

Later, in another meeting (apparently, you love being in meetings too much), she does it again. Still beside you. Still taking notes. Still pretending she isn’t fully aware that her antics are too effective in deteriorating your composure.

You’re trying to focus on the comparison between the two projections from a senior associate when you feel it. Her heel taps lightly on your shoe under the table. Not a press nor a light tap. Enough to know that her presence is on your feet. On you.

A warning? A tease? A power play?

Who the fuck knows.

At one point, when a director asks for your opinion on a logistic issue (Why the hell did he ask you? Isn’t this supposed to be just you sitting in for experience?), you tried to open your mouth but then you caught Wonyoung’s mouth at the corner of your vision.

“Say the wrong shit and see what happens, dummy.”

You swallow. Damn it, you thought it stopped back then. “I think the schedule can be streamlined if we—”

“I agree,” Wonyoung voices out, interrupting you as if she suggested the idea. And of course these higher ups only pay attention to her. 

You know it. You know she knows it. And you hate that she enjoys this way too fucking much.

(It is strangely comforting, but you don’t dare to give eight cents more about it.)

-

Late nights still creep into your routine before you even notice. 

You tell yourself it’s just part of adjusting, especially after those long ass meetings one after another. Longer projects, heavier workloads, another stack of balance sheets that somehow contradict themselves no matter how many times you redo the calculations. They pay you well, so might as well do the work well.

Except it spirals. Work piling up, deadlines bundled together, and staying late becomes the norm. Night after night, your head down, sleeves rolled up, pen spinning between your fingers out of old habit. 

"How the fuck are these numbers right…" you mutter at some point. "Wonder if Wonyoung still hates calculating this shit…"

The moment her name leaves your lips, you freeze. It’s been a month or so since that confrontation. Yet, years since you last called her name out loud.

Wonyoung.

…damn it.

Your eyes wince. Your jaw tightens. You hate how natural it comes out. How easily her name rolls off your tongue as if she's still abiding by the contract. With you. Next to you.

But she's not. And she will never be. You can't afford to let her be anywhere near your mind. Especially during quiet nights, or any nights.

So you check your phone. 

A quick break, you tell yourself, because your eyes are burning from all the numbers. Just a scroll through notifications, maybe a bit on Insta, anything that isn’t just pure decimal point or variance percentage. But muscle memory betrays you. You’re already in your chat list. And of course, her name is still pinned at the top. 

Jang Wonyoung. Crown emoji next to her name.

Those messages that should’ve been gone years ago. Right after she abandoned you. Right after the contract ends. Right after you walked out of the cafe. But deleting them feels like erasing a part of yourself. Anyway, you sigh, more irritated than usual, and tap the screen with the intention of finally deleting it for good. 

But the moment the window opens, your pulse spikes.

At the bottom of the chat, right above the keyboard, there is a grey bubble loading into existence. Typing…

Your breath stutters. You sit up straighter than before. Your fingers curl against your palm. The office feels far too small and too quiet than before.

She’s typing. Actually typing.

…What the fuck are you supposed to do? You can only stare at the stupid bubble as if it didn’t just crack your composure. Like one message can literally break every single wall you have been painstakingly rebuilt these last few years.

(Also, she should know that you are online right? Right?)

The bubble continues. She might be writing a long one. This girl always types in full sentences back then. Then the bubble vanishes. Nothing sent.

You blink. Wait. Maybe she meant to text someone else. Or she finally notices that you are online.

Three seconds later, the bubble returns.

Typing.

Typing.

Typing.

Then gone again. 

You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling faintly as your brain conjures any possible reasons she might text you this late. And the next logical thought is that you have no fucking clue if you want or terrified to see a message right now.

The bubble flickers a third time. Stays a little longer, too. Then it disappears yet again.

And this time, it doesn’t come back. 

Leaving you with a chat history last texted a few years ago, and the faint reflection of your own tired face on the screen. Leaving you with the distasteful squeeze in your chest. Leaving you with the hesitation to delete her chat once again. Even more so.

Because this time, you might see that damn grey bubble reappear. And she might say something.

(Wonyoung: "You're still working? Don't overdo it."

She deletes it. And types again:

Wonyoung: "Is the work too tough? You want me to less-"

Delete. She tries a third time.

Wonyoung: "Have you eaten?"

Delete. Delete. Delete.)

-

You have always known rumors move faster in a money-driven world than money itself.

It spreads first in the elevator. Two other people. Presumedly from another department. Something about a potential long-term partnership. Something about Kang Corporation. Something about their representative visiting more frequently. And then one adds, speculatively: "I heard he's particularly fond of Director Jang."

You ignore it. Or pretend to. But your reflection in the steel elevator door doesn't look that convinced.

By the next day, the rumor turns into confirmation. Upper management announces a collaborative project with another big conglomerate in Korea. It would've been nothing to you if only your acorn-lookalike manager didn't tap you on the shoulder with a rare grin.

“You’re coming with us to the joint meetings,” he says. “Higher-ups want sharp, young talent in the room.”

You only have yourself to blame. 

Five months in, and somehow you’ve built a reputation. The young talent who picks up complex tasks quickly. The young talent who catches inconsistencies even senior associates miss. The young talent with a “lucky” opportunity to be in meetings with big shots. The young talent everyone quietly agrees has potential. You should be proud, being a young talent. Head high, even. 

Instead, that title feels more like another leash around your neck. Begrudgingly, you force out a polite answer. "Of course, sir. I'll prepare the files."

It isn't until later, while waiting for another round of spreadsheets to do its thing, that curiosity gets the best out of you. Quickly, you search up the name that has been floating around all morning.

Kang Corporation. 

Kang Jihoo.

Yep. Of course. 

He looks exactly how a man born into golden spoons is expected to be. Immaculate suit. Clean, defined features. The type of smile that comes from knowing the world bends lightly in your direction. If you had to guess, he’s the kind of person who’s been called a prodigy since childhood, the kind who went to the “right” schools, who never had to worry about paying the rent due in 3 days while the bank account screams $31.08 to your face every night.

You immediately close the tab. You have to, before self-deprecation eats you away. 

Work awaits you. Very important work.

Such as in another meeting with her once more. At this point, your blood cells scream to get out at the silhouette of her alone. Sure, the room was full (and suffocating, to add), but everyone else dissolved into static. Your eyes are only looking at Wonyoung, who sits across from Kang Jihoo. Posture perfect, expression calm and professional. She tilts her head slightly as he speaks to her, listening with that poised attentiveness. Sharp, focused, and elegant without effort.

You take your seat on the back end next to your manager this time (of course, after bowing to all the senior associates), folder in hand, and your thumping pulse irritates you with how loud it was. Remembering her, she would probably eating herself alive inside just by interacting motherfucking rich assholes just like hi-

No. No, actually. 

She looks at him. Not at you. Not a glance. Not even in the glass reflection.

She only looks at him. That gaze. You definitely know that one.

The one like those days in your apartment.

…what?

Tsk. It's stupid to feel anything about that, you tell yourself. Jealousy? No, that’s so ridiculous. That would imply you still care, and you have been insisting that you don’t. It’s fine. Completely fine. You’re totally fine.

Annoyance? …some…what. Or maybe it's just the way she used to fall on you so easily that makes her absence feel so heavy now. You tell yourself it’s not a big deal. Not bothered. Totally. You’re not sitting here just wondering why her laughs are softer around him, or why she leans in just so slightly when he speaks. Hell no, you aren’t paying attention to how comfortable he is around her already. Of course not.

Whatever it is, it sits under your multitudes of thoughts that you refuse to dig up. Acknowledging it means you haven’t moved on. You have. Yes. Maybe.

Anyway, you do what you always do — stay in your lane. Perfectly. People murmur praise from the opposite side of the table, your manager gives an approving nod, but every compliment seems to roll off you and land somewhere near them instead. The spotlight stays firmly on Wonyoung and Kang Jihoo, conversations orbiting around the two of them like they're the sun and moon, everyone else the star, and you the rock that got thrown off to Pluto.

Still, you bow, smile politely, and swallow it all down. The sooner this is done, the sooner you can get out.

But then things get…unprecedented. Yeah, that word sounds about right. Unprecedented. 

Whenever your work is mentioned — project figures, the detailed financial report, the cross check between different company values — you start to notice how Wonyoung keeps on pointing at you.

“Those quarterly projections were completed by him, actually.” 

“He refined the data models on the last update. Please check his revisions, manager.” 

“He’s the one who caught the inconsistencies.” 

Along those lines.

Huh.

You thought she was just being thorough. But then it happens again. And again. And again. Unlike those previous meetings where she messes with you. You should be happy that your work and effort is in the spotlight, but all you feel is pity thrown into your face. Anger clouds your train of thought, but you…you couldn't give a shit.

You're not some helpless college kid that needs to be fed with fake compliments or pity money. Surely not. You're not a prop that she can use for her act and to toy around. You persevere. You work hard. 

So why. 

Why? 

Just the actual fuck why? Is she still talking like the leash around your neck still on her hand?

You don't know if it was you sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. Or just had something wrong the day before. But when she was negotiating about the capital ratio (or trying to show off her oh-so-intelligence again, you presumed), something inside you snapped.

You lift your head and go off rails before you can hit the brake.

“Director Jang,” you say, voice level enough to sound emotionless, “may I clarify something?”

She pauses mid-sentence. Her gaze flicks toward you. “Yes?”

You swallow. You hate that your chest tightens just because she’s looking at you. But you force the professionalism back into your spine.

“With all due respect, the capital ratio you’re proposing doesn’t align with the updated volatility model,” you say. “If we maintain a 60–40 structure, the long-term liquidity risk shifts disproportionately to both companies after the fourth fiscal year.”

Kang Jihoo leans forward, brows raised with curiosity. “Interesting…in what way?”

You nod toward the packet.

“Page seventeen, sir. The recalculated ROI projections indicate that a 55–45 split offers a more stable yield curve. It minimizes potential drawdown on both sides, especially if market conditions tighten.”

It can happen anyway. Her analysis isn’t wrong. Just incomplete. You tried to rationalise yourself.

But the undertone of anger comes out stronger than you wanted, and that makes the room still.

Wonyoung picks up the report. "Those numbers weren't in the last draft."

"They were submitted this morning. There were some discrepancies between the numbers." You reply, maintaining that polite, infuriatingly respectful tone you've mastered these last few months, but your lungs were suffocating. "My apologies…for the late update."

Her jaw tenses. "And you're telling me we revise the capital split this late in the negotiation?"

"I'm suggesting," you correct, pinching yourself on the thigh under the table, "that the long-term risk exposure is worth addressing while both parties are still open to adjustments. Just a precaution."

She counters. “With a 55–45 structure, our partner here assumes increased administrative responsibility. That may not align with the operational framework they outlined. The proposal needs to reflect their preferred structure as much as ours.”

You counter again. “Yes, but the projected gain offsets the operational load. Both companies benefit from the risk symmetry in the revised model.”

“And what about the leverage thresholds? The internal caps won’t—”

“They will,” you say, angrily, matter-of-factly, “If we redistribute the amortization schedule across the secondary phase, both caps stay intact. I included the recalibrated curves in the appendix. Please check.”

The room goes dead silent. 

And Kang Jihoo, oblivious or maybe amused by the tension, leans back and chuckles.

“Please excuse my humour, but you two argue like an old married couple.”

Wonyoung freezes. Your head drops immediately, eyes on the table, mortifying heat crawling up your neck.

The meeting moves on eventually, though your brain barely registers the rest. Your pulse is still hammering from the way she looked at you. Was it an annoyance? Was it a genuine hurt? You don't know. And you don't want to know.

When the conference room empties, you try to slip out unnoticed like before. And just like last time, she stops you the moment your foot steps onto the hallway.

"Follow me."

“Bu–”

‘Right now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument — not here, not with your manager watching nervously from behind. You trail her to a quiet corner near the side corridor, far from the elevators and far from Kang Jihoo’s amused stare.

The door closes behind the two of you with a soft but accusing click.

"For fucks sake," she hisses, voice low, "don't do that shit in front of others again. We're not back in college anymore. What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Your brain should tell you to breathe, to stay composed, to be the professional you've been for years, especially when with her. But all logic evaporates (as always) the moment her pearly eyes lock onto yours. 

"Well…,” you grip your knuckle, “don't fucking treat me like I'm some dumbass who needs your praises every time you mention my work."

Her brows lift, shocked and annoyed. "Wh–What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I was giving you credit.”

“Oh yeah? Credit point or credit card?” you mutter, allowing your usual snark to slip back into your tone now that the two of you are alone. “Because I feel just like your used objects again. All to make you feel mighty and proud.”

"Are you seriously being a petty little bitch right now?"

"Of course you see me that way." You scoff. "Blaming on me while totally acting like a fucking saint."

"Oh my fucking god." She breathes out, clearly frustrated. "You act like a fucking child right now, you know that?"

"Says you, you fucking spoiled brat." Your voice raised. "You don't get to pull me back into your life, acting like nothing ever happened, and correct me just because you can for all these years."

What are you saying?

"Well,” She trembles. “You work for me right now. So just don’t be so…fucking hostile."

"Oh wow, are you offended, Your Highness?" Stop. "If you are not satisfied with my attitude, then fucking kick me then." Your mouth kept on firing back, the logic waving from afar. But your brain keeps telling you to stop. Just stop, for fucks sake. "I would love to be fired right now than knowing that I get hired because we used to be a FUCKING thing!"

The words come out colder and harsher than you intended. You know it was true. She knew it was too. You both know. But you didn't want to bring it out. 

But it did.

The result? A silence that cuts deeper than her words. It lasted too long. When she finally speaks, her voice is thin. Soft. Tired. Defeated.

"You know I can't…"

You think it's just more of her usual entitlement that you got used to. The spoiled brat stubbornness. The persistence to have things her way. 

It shouldn't hurt you. Not at all. But when you see the way she stares at you — wounded, glassy, raw.

Your heart wrenches more than it should. 

You don't respond. Just walk away, back straight, expression neutral. You did that before. It should work. But your hands won't stop shaking until you are several floors down.

The rest of the day is a blur of unfocused spreadsheets and half-read emails. Your mind keeps replaying her expression. Maybe she was affected by this too, or maybe she was not. Because you aren’t being invited (‘forced’ sounds more appropriate) into meetings afterwards. And because she looks quite fine next to Kang Jihoo as they walk through the hallway a few days later. Maybe. Fine. She looks normal, even. Yeah.

But that one argument turns into one bad day. Then a bad week. Then a month where neither of you can look at the other without remembering the hallway, the sting of your words, and the way hers sounded almost like a plea.

You both say nothing. You don't dare to, and neither will she. Probably.

-

A particular day in August.

You thought it’s another day at work. Another day of you ignoring the whole argument in that closed room. And another day of gaslighting yourself that you shouldn’t feel anything when seeing the two of them together. Just simply burying those thoughts under the lobby full of co-workers and higher ups as usual. Suffering through a chronic case of socialising. Finally get into your desk and—

Oh look. You have urgent mail. 

Hm?

You clicked on it. Formal header. Company stamp. And far too many capital letters.

“You are cordially invited to the Annual Jang Corp. Gala, hosted by Director Jang Wonyoung.”

…are you serious right now?

You stare at it long enough before the screen goes to sleep. Of fucking course. An event for the successful partnership that plastered everywhere in the digital world. Another event of corporate patting each other's back. Another night of people bootlicking again. You almost spat out when your cursor hovered the brief paragraph about "celebrating a successful partnership with Kang Corporation."

You were this close (this damn close) to deleting it before your eyes caught on the date of the event.

August 31. Her birthday. Wonyoung’s. 

Your mind instantly flashes back to that scene at the café vividly, still. The final meet up. The pen you gave her. It was around this day that you ended the charade and walked away from her. The sound of the door bell chimed as you walked out, dragging your feet unconsciously — just like her. And the muffled sobs from her that dissipate as you get away.

Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe out of guilt.

Or maybe it's that stupid, stubborn part of you that still believes she still looks at you the way she used to. When you two are away from the world. Alone. Shoulder to shoulder.

"Fine…" you mutter. "Just this night."

You don't know why you said that, but you almost didn’t go. Saying it was easier than actually going. The idea of stepping into a ballroom filled with people who wear watches worth more than your monthly paycheck makes you want to hurl. But on the day, you spend twenty minutes staring into your closet until you pull out one particular suit. The one Wonyoung meticulously prepared for you back at the first meeting with her parents. A shirt that had seen too many washes, a blazer with one loose thread, and shoes that squeaked if you pressed too hard on the heel. 

You put it on, and it is tighter than you remembered. Broad shoulders that didn't exist back then. A chest that strains the button a little more than you'd like. But you tug the collar anyway and head out. Whatever. Good enough.

By the time you reach the hotel lobby, you're regretting everything. Once again. You thought you got used to it, but yet still scrunched your eyes at the polished marble, huge floral arrangements, chandeliers so bright they could burn your retina. 

Still, you blend in. Or tried to.

But everything here reeks of her. 

Wasn't this the same as the first time you and Wonyoung officially met each other? Still marble floors, still the chandeliers dripping crystals, still a string quartet in the corner— the kind of environment where even the air was and still is expensive. Just like now, those fuckfaces back then dressed like they’re auditioning for the young billionaire heir role, and you remembered praying your ass off that no one notices that your shirt has a frayed cuff.

But again, that was back then, you tell yourself. When you are a broke student try not to sweat through your shirt while biting through the humiliation of being their laughing stock. Now, you're a corporate employee trying not to sweat through your shirt. Alone. 

Some fucking growth you got there.

The massive banner overhead reads: Annual Jang Corp. Gala. And under it, in smaller gold script: Celebrating Director Jang’s Birthday.

You stare at it with a blank face. “…How extravagant.”

And then it happens. The same way it did years ago. The room reacts instantly at the clacking of her heels just like a replay. Heads turn. Voices lower.

She’s still radiant in a way that makes the room tilt. Every step, every glance, it’s like she was choreographed for perfection. Diamond earrings brush her jawline, her sleek black dress flows like liquid, and the casual flick of her hair that still has more grace than your entire existence. Heads turn. Conversations falter. She’s still Jang Wonyoung. Still the girl you remembered. Still the girl who doesn’t have to try. 

And beside her walks Kang Jihoo. His suit matches hers. Black. Sharp. Red tie. Exactly the sort of pairing tabloids would foam at their mouths over.

Your jaw locks before you could realise.

She descends the stairs gracefully with Kang Jihoo, chin lifted, smile poised. The usual you, the snarky and hateful you from back then, would've rambled about how it didn't matter. She wasn't your type. Too polished, too unreachable, too unbothered.

But you do know. Very well. Like how her left hand twitched barely as the hungry hungry hippos of executives engulf the couple.

“Director Jang, congratulations!”

“Miss Jang, stunning dress tonight!”

“May I say, your team was phenomenal.”

She smiles, charming, polite, and perfect. But you see it in her expression: the strain behind her perfect smile, the boredom hiding in her eyes. She might've masked it far better than that day, yet you can still notice it. Subtly.

As she glances across a room, her eyes land on you. Fleetingly. Quietly. Almost accidentally. At you. It only lingers for a second. Or half a second. Before she hides it behind a sip of champagne, her mask slips right back in. 

You tried to not give a shit. She didn't give a care, you assume. But deep down, you wish you were wrong.

-

Eventually, the host steps up the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our young Director and the main organiser of today's event, Miss Jang Wonyoung."

Applause spreads like a wave as she walks to the podium. Chin lifted, back straight, a portrait of composure painted in black silk and shimmering gold light. Unfortunately, you catch the tiny tells. How she grips a bit too tight on the podium. How she holds just a fraction too long. How her first breath has a bit of that tremor.

(Again, if you weren't watching her closely, you would've missed it too. But you didn't.)

The string quartet quiets down. Conversations taper off into a hush. And every eye in the ballroom turns toward her. She smiles, of course, just like every time you see her on digital media. But her voice when it comes out is nothing curated nor prepared. It was genuine.

"Good evening everyone."

The crowd around you murmurs back a polite greeting.

"Before anything, I would like to thank you all for attending tonight's gala." She begins, tone steady but gentler than usual. "This past year has been a challenging one, for sure. Full of changes, risks, and unexpected opportunities."

Her haze travels across the room. Slowly, carefully. Making sure that every table feels like she's talking to them personally. She learned that from her father, of course you know. But the sincerity tonight?

All hers.

“And thanks to the hard work of our teams, and the dedication of our partners…” She inclines her head toward Kang Jihoo, who smiles confidently back at her. “…we are again able to accomplish something far greater than just a business collaboration. We built something that will last.”

Polite applause echoes. And she waits for it to fade. You noticed her fingers curl once against the podium. Again. Steadying herself, maybe, before continuing.

“I also want to thank my father,” she says, “for entrusting me with the opportunity to grow, learn, and… occasionally fail.”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. Her lips twitch with a tiny and honest smile.

“Mr. Kang,” she continues, “again, thank you for your partnership and your patience. You made this entire process much smoother than it could’ve been.”

He nods, flashing that effortless, golden boy grin.

Then her shoulders lower just a bit. Enough that you can see the girl behind the mask. The one who sat next to you on the table telling gossip about her world. The one who leaned onto your shoulder and affected you in so many ways you didn't know how.

And her next words almost got you wavering.

“I’ve…probably spent years surrounded by people who helped me become who I am,” she says. “People who taught me things no textbook ever could. Who challenged me, pushed me, supported me… and who didn’t let me give up when I wanted to.”

Your throat tightens without warning.

Her eyes sweep the room again. You keep your gaze on your glass, but you feel it, the moment she finds you.

A pause. A very long pause.

“Some of them are here tonight,” she says, voice dipping into something almost nostalgic. “And some of them… probably wish they weren’t.”

The crowd laughs. She only smiles. Her gaze lingers toward your direction. One heartbeat too long. As if she wanted to say "I mean that." Don't react, you tell yourself. Don't fucking react. Don't let her see the way your chest twists.

“But regardless,” she exhales slowly before going for the finish, “all of them shaped me into the person standing here today. So… truly. Thank you.”

Her voice softens at the end. Her words sound so fragile and raw that it hits you harder than any elegance she displayed tonight. The ballroom erupts in applause. People cheer. Kang Jihoo claps with a confident smile. Her eyes lower a moment as she steps back from the podium with an exhale. It feels far too subtle. Too cathartic. 

Yet you still stand there, gripping the hem of your suit tightly, and can't help but wonder what was that breath really about.

Or who that 'thank you' was meant to reach.

-

The venue melts into a hum of voices once her speech ends. Laughter, clinking glasses, more networking sharks circling in groups of three or four.

And you? Ready to vanish into the crowd the way you’ve perfected since joining the company. Head low. Steps quiet. No trace left behind.

You almost make it to the exit. Almost. For the third time, you got stopped once more before you could sneak out. (Let’s just give up at this point. Fucking hell.)

The head of HR stands in front of you. "Hey, Director Jang would like to see you."

Your stomach drops. "Did I…Did I do something?"

"She said that you'd know."

You freeze. You absolutely have no fucking clue. But you nod anyway, because what else can you do? Run? Again?

Your steps feel heavier as you climb the staircase, the hum of the party fading behind you until only the faint jazz reaches the upper hall. The balcony suite door is slightly opened, a sliver of warm light spilling into the dark corridor.

You push it open. And the world seems to quiet instantly. As if this moment is off the record. 

The upper balcony stretches out in gold and black, city lights painting faint reflections across the glass railing. She stands there alone, framed by the skyline, hair lifted slightly by the night breeze, dress swaying softly. She doesn't turn when she hears your footsteps, but you can see the way her shoulders stiffen. Just barely.

"…You're late, jackass." Wonyoung murmurs.

"Didn't know I was invited." you reply, forcing levity you don't quite feel.

A soft scoff. "You always are, idiot."

You step beside her, leaning on the same railing, careful to keep a respectful distance… even though the faint perfume clinging to her dress pulls at every old memory. The skyline stretches out before you both, glittering like a thousand unspoken things.

"Good fucking job on taking on such a big role, by the way." You say quietly.

"Mhm." Her grip tightens slightly on the railing. "Still feels weird as hell."

“I can tell.” You reach inside your suit and pull out a small canned coffee. A symbol of you two. What once was there.

"Happy birthday…Wonyoung. Sorry I didn't….prepare anything proper."

Her eyes widened. For the first time that night, her composure cracks with each breath. "You still remember."

"You made it very damn hard to forget."

A soft, breathy laugh escapes her. The kind you didn’t think existed anymore. She takes the can, her fingers brushing yours — warm, hesitant, familiar. The contact lasts a second too long. She sets it down on the railing, then inhales sharply as if preparing for something.

“Jihoo and I aren’t a thing,” she says suddenly. "...Just to let you know. I suppose"

You blink. “…o…kay? That is quite an info.”

“Mhm. He’s into this daughter of the owner of a Japanese corp instead.” Wonyoung let out a quiet laugh. “Asa, or something? I don’t fucking know.”

“Oh. Uh—fucking hell, what a piece of info, huh. Good for him…?”

She huffs, amused but tense, eyes flicking sideways. You’re too slow to realize she’s watching your reaction.

“Why… telling me that?” you ask quietly.

She sidesteps gracefully, ignoring your question. “Do you…hate me?”

The words float out of her like something she dwelled on for years. 

You had to think for a solid minute. "Hate is…a strong word."

“But accurate?”

“I-uh…” You chose your word carefully. The night air is cold in your lungs as you slowly inhale. “I…hate your world. The money. The image. How everyone looks at me like I don’t belong here. How it ruined…” You stop. You can’t finish it. You can’t say—

But her voice drops to the softest whisper.

“It’s still here. We’re still here. Us.”

The word punches something deep inside your chest. 

You turn away slightly, jaw tightened. "You could be with anyone, Wonyoung. Anyone in there." You look to the door that leads down to the venue. "Someone polished. Someone with a title. Someone who knows which fork to use at dinner. Someone that is…worthy to be next to you."

"I don't want them. Any of them."

"Then who the fuck you want then?!" 

You didn’t mean to snap. You didn’t mean to spit out the bitterness. But it sounds more like excuses at this point. "You want the guy who almost ruined the partnership just because he couldn't fucking stand how you and Kang Jihoo look at each other? Or the guy who had to rely on purely nepotism just to get this job? Or the guy who had to fucking…" 

Your throat closes. Your fist curls.

"…suck it up and be a contractual boyfriend? I'm not part of the one percent, Jang Wonyoung. Never was! And I never will!"

Her breath stutters. "I…I just want you."

You could only give a quiet scoff.

"Why?” Your voice cracks, exhausted. “The FUCK why?" Unsure from arguing, or from all the self deprecation, or the guilt of leaving her alone throughout these years. "I burned the fucking bridge already. I can't give you what you deserve. Just…let us go. Let us die."

She slowly lifts the can. Her thumb tracing the rim as if grounding herself on the only real thing she has left of her own world. The world with you. 

"I can't. I missed you." Her voice. So small. It nearly disappears into the night.

And you feel like your lungs caved in. "...Don't do this to me. Don't give me any fucking hope, Wonyoung. Please."

“I really do miss you,” she says, harsher this time — as if forcing the words through every wall you built since the day she abandoned you. “I miss us. What we could’ve been if I wasn’t stupid. If I wasn’t scared. If I didn’t just fucking run away. If—”

"Jang Wonyoung—"

“And if I have to say it a thousand fucking times, I fucking will,” she pushes, her voice growing more frantic, the cracks more obvious. “Hell, if I have to get on my knees and beg—”

You flinch. “What are you doing? Stop.”

She steps closer. Too close. “I’ll take care of everything, ok?” she pleads. “You don’t have to struggle. I’ll get you a good position here. I’ll pay off your debts. Everything. I’ll—”

"Stop, Wonyoung." You bite the word out, harsher than you wanted.

But she keeps going. "I'll buy you a good place. A car. Whatever the fuck you want. Hell, better if you move in with me, right? No need to worry about rent, bills, or—”

"Wonyoung-ah." 

Your voice cuts through the air like a blade. And she freezes.

"Stop trying to buy me. Please. I'm sick of it."

Her lip trembles. “I’m not— I just— I don’t fucking know what else to do to make you stay.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” you say, voice breaking. “You should be with someone who already fits in your life. Someone your father would be actually proud of you to be with. Someone with a title that actually matches yours. Someone who doesn’t show up at a gala wearing a suit that his partner's family has to pay for...” 

Your throat closes.

“...and someone that you don't have to lie to the world.”

She steps even closer to you, blocking your escape. Her eyes shimmering too brightly under the balcony lights.

"Please, I just want you."

"Don’t–just—don’t do this, please." You shake your head, refusing her entirely. "You ran away once. How can I just….suppose to trust you again? That you won't just— won’t just run away once more?"

It hurts her more than if you actually had slapped her. Her hands tremble as it reaches for yours.

"Please," she pleaded. "Just fucking trust me, I'm begging you. Ple—"

"I can't," you swat her hand away, even as something inside you cracks wide open. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I just can’t. Not again."

"Please."

“I can’t— Not anoth—”

“please…”

Her voice shatters.

And when you finally look up, her lower lip trembles. Her breathing stutters. And the shine in her eyes swells until it spills over, one tear slipping down the edge of her cheek like it had been waiting months for permission to fall.

“I don’t even fucking know what else—“

Then another. She covers her mouth.

Then she crumbles. 

Her shoulders collapse inward, as if the weight of everything she's carried — the company, the expectations, the façade, the guilt that fucked both of you, the loneliness afterward— suddenly drops all at one.

And the wall of resolve you have been building for far too long collapses. 

Because you remember. Vividly.

Of how she strangled her sobs, too frightened to let you see her fall apart. How she bellowed her true and sincere feelings to you in the cafe that etched into your mind (I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried!). How you just walked out, leaving a girl absolutely shattered because of you.

Watching her crumble the same way, watching her try to keep breathing through the panic, the guilt, and the grief, you realise you can’t do it again.

Not from this. Not from her. Anymore.

So you just…move. Move, for fucks sake. 

Your hands reach for her waist, steadying her as she loses her balance, and she folds into you with a sharp, broken inhale. The kind people make when they are bottled up far too long. Her entire body shakes as she collapses against your chest. Not a gentle tremble. But a full body, uncontrollable shudder, with her breath jerking in uneven, painful little gasps that hit your collarbone one after another.

Her fingers clutch your suit, gripping hard enough that the fabric bunches under her hands. She's not hugging you. She's clinging to you. Desperately. As if she's terrified it will happen again. Afraid that you'll disappear like before if she loosen. Even for just a second.

You wrap your arms around her, tightening instinctively. Her hair brushes your chin, soft and cold from the night air. Your palm glides up and down her back, slow and steady, trying to calm the way she trembles.

"Wonyoung-ah…" Your voice cracks as you whisper her name.

She tries to answer. Really tries. But the way you call her name so softly. Warm. Endearing. Dreamlike. Her words dissolve into a choking sob. Her shoulders convulse under your hands.  Every breath she takes stumbles, breaking apart halfway like her lungs forget how to hold air.

And then, your own tears come.

You don't even realise at first. It's just the burn behind your eyes, the tightness in your throat, and the way your jaw clenches to keep yourself sane. But when one tear slips down and lands on her hair, you feel it. All of it.

“I'm sorry *hic* I'm sorry, I can’t—” she gasps, voice shaking violently. “I can’t fucking lose you again. I'm sorr—”

"I'm sorry too. Fuck, I'm so sorry, Wonyoung-ah." you breathe, even though you’re wiping your face against her shoulder because you’re crying too hard to lift your head.

She leans into you harder, pushing her forehead into the crook of your neck like she's trying to hide from the entire world. Her whole frame trembles even more. Every sob wracking through her as if her ribs can't hold it in.

And the more she breaks, the more you do too. Her fingers slide further up your back, gripping your suit in desperate, uneven fists. Your breath hitches against her hair. And the world below fades into blur.

…It was after 10 minutes that she ran out of tears. Her body finally stills.

"It's….it’s officially September." She looked up at you, voice hoarse and raw, as if the words scraped out of her chest.

You let out a wet laugh. The kind that's half-sob, half-sigh, as you brush her tears away from her cheeks.

"Your birthday's over," You murmur. "You cried through the whole fucking end of it."

“S-shut it…” She tries to laugh, but it comes out broken. Soft. Shaking. But still beautiful. Still very much her. And still very much… only for you.

"Guess I got my wish anyway," she whispers.

"And what was that…birthday girl?"

Her eyes glisten, swollen and red from crying. But her tiny, trembling smile...

"To see you again."

The words hit too close. Too fucking close. Her hand comes up to your cheek, her fingers trembling wildly. Almost hesitant, afraid that you will swat her away once more. Will run away once more.

But you don't.

The two of you lean in without really thinking, the distance shrinking slowly, painfully, beautifully, and then panic hits you in one sharp burst. Your breath stutters. Your lips freeze halfway. Your brain goes blank the second your noses almost touch. And your hands become awkward around her.

Shit. You have no fucking clue how to kiss.

"Wonyoung-ah, I…uh…I never…done this. We never did this back then. I don’t— I don’t know how—”

She lets out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. Half frustrated. Half fond.

Then she groans. Groans. "For— For fucks sake, you seriously ruining our moment by saying that?!"

"Hey, you can't blame me!" You yelp. "I'm just being very honest right no—”

“Damn it,” she mutters, grabbing a fistful of your collar. “S-shut up and kiss me already, my shitty boyfriend.”

Before you can react, her hand moves down to your collar and tugs you down into her. The breath gets punched out of your lungs.

Your lips crash against hers. Clumsy, unpractised, absolutely unprepared. But she doesn’t seem to give a fuck. She cups the back of your neck, guiding you, deepening the kiss with the kind of fierce certainty you could never fake. Her other hand flattens over your chest, feeling the wild rhythm of your heartbeat.

You kiss her back. Hesitant at first, then with growing urgency as the world around you blurs into nothing but her warmth and your shaking breaths.

The kiss deepens and becomes slower, heavier, heartbreakingly tender. Her tears mix with yours between kisses, salty and warm.

When she breaks away, her forehead rests against yours, both of you still shaking from the aftermath.

“Stay,” she whispers. Her breathing is warm and uneven. “Please.”

“…Here?” you murmur, though you already know what she means.

“With me.” Her voice cracks again. “No contracts. No conditions. Just…no more fucking nonsense. I just want you. Please.”

You swallow, the last of your resistance dissolving under the weight of her trembling hands. Her glassy tears. Her honest pleas. And only the debris of your walls remained. 

“…Okay.”

This time, you stay.

[yunaerizz]

SEQUEL TO THE PEAKEST PEAK OF ALL PEAK IS EVEN PEAKIER! I LOVE THIS AUTHOR SO DAMN MUCH

[ihankaji]

SWEET LIKE CHOCOLATE ♡ 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 ──── WONYOUNG 𖦹

𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, YOU’RE NOT SURE IF Wonyoung is just being overly nice or if there’s something more behind her actions—but there’s one thing you are certain of: everyone around you insists there has to be a hidden meaning behind all those chocolate bars she keeps giving you. Each one comes with a random little message scribbled on the wrapper, and no matter how much you try to brush it off, it’s getting harder to ignore everyone else’s comments. ♡ 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍

✸ co-worker ! wonyoung x gn ! reader ⌇ co-workers / friends to …? + fluff 𓋰 reader being somewhat oblivious / in denial and wony is just a very (emphasis on VERY) down bad lovergirl ❤︎ ── 26OO WORDS

ON THE ( 🍫 ) WRAPPER, IT SAYS ──── this is for gg request anon !! as stated before, thank you for requesting for ggs as it’s been a while! i truly hope this is to your liking ^_^

IN ANY WORK PLACE, WORDS TRAVEL FAST—whether you wanted to hear the rumors or not. And when it comes to Jang Wonyoung, everyone seems to have formed their own opinions.

They say she’s confident. Reserved. Too busy to even think about a love life.

But those assumptions never quite held up when it came to how she acted around you. Sure, she could be confident, but she was also unexpectedly bubbly—radiating a warmth that didn’t match the usual image people painted for her to be. And perhaps most surprising of all, she seemed genuinely interested in you—or at least, that’s what everyone else keeps saying.

It’s what everyone firmly believes—because really, how could those sides of Wonyoung only surface when you’re around?

Along with this, you weren’t completely clueless either. At times, there are moments where people’s insistence gets to your head. Even if you managed to block out some of people’s words, there were still a few moments that genuinely caught you off guard.

Take your first day, for example. Out of everyone, it was Wonyoung who greeted you with the most enthusiasm. It was unexpected, almost strange, given that the two of you had never met before. Still, it was a warm welcome—one that stood out and made a lasting impression, especially as you tried to adjust to an entirely new work environment.

As time passed at work, you naturally found yourself gravitating toward your own group of friends—people who shared your pace, your humor, your way of thinking. So, it made sense that you and Wonyoung never grew particularly close. The two of you never really had one-on-one moments, and as a result, you never felt like you truly knew her on a deeper, more personal level.

Still, she always acknowledged you. Whether it was during meetings or just in passing, Wonyoung never failed to meet your gaze with a smile, often accompanied by a few words of small talk. Sometimes, she’d even linger by your cubicle, striking up a casual conversation that didn’t feel so casual after a while.

And then, slowly, there would be more signs. Signs, to others, that don’t always appear as completely platonic.

Wonyoung’s old cubicle, which used to be all the way across the room, was suddenly the one next to yours. It wasn’t just a coincidence to your co-workers. According to Yujin, Wonyoung was the type who would never ask to switch cubicles, no matter the circumstances. Yet, here she was—closer than ever.

Before you knew it, she was appearing more often within your friend group, blending in seamlessly, as if she’d always been part of the circle. Group hangouts became smaller until eventually, it was just the two of you spending time together. And while it didn’t feel completely out of place—Wonyoung did seem to get along with everyone—you couldn’t ignore the fact that she was choosing you more than others.

Not that you minded. You didn’t hate her company, after all.

And most notably—if not the most talked about—were the chocolate bars.

It all began on Valentine’s Day. Wonyoung had casually handed you a chocolate bar, claiming she got one for everyone. But when you glanced around the office, no one else seemed to have received anything, let alone a chocolate like yours.

You smiled, of course. One, because it was a sweet gesture in the spirit of the yearly holiday, and two, because it just so happened to be a chocolate you genuinely loved. A small, thoughtful moment—but one that oddly stuck. After that, Wonyoung made it a habit. That same white-wrapped chocolate bar began appearing on your desk regularly, always before the start of the workday.

But, nothing wrong with a little sweet treat, right?

That’s what you told yourself—until the blank wrapping paper started coming with scribbled messages. The thing was that Wonyoung never acted any differently. Still that same bubbly, cheerful version of herself as she slid the chocolate your way, not even offering a moment to explain.

At first, it started all normal. They were the typical words that would cheer your mood or make you crack a small smile.

You’re Amazing!

Keep it Up!

You’re Doing Great.

Then, it would only continue to get more… forward.

I can’t help but smile when I look at you.

You light up a room simply by your entrance.

There’s no one like you.

You’re perfect.

At this point, you’d have to be delusional if you didn’t think it meant anything. Yet somehow, despite the obvious signs, you still found yourself spiraling—wondering if you were reading too much into it, questioning your sanity.

Yujin insists you're not losing your mind. But still... you can't help but wonder.

Wonyoung is just a nice girl. That’s all to it.

You told yourself the same thing every day—convincing yourself, over and over, even as the messages on the chocolate bars began to read like full-blown love letters. The cute (and admittedly distracting) hearts and smiley faces she doodled next to them didn’t help your case, either.

But the more you tried to brush it off, the more others—mainly Yujin—started to think you were flat-out rejecting Wonyoung.

“Are you seriously going to keep ignoring this?” Yujin asked, strolling up to your cubicle during break time. She grabbed a spare chair and plopped down, resting her arm on your desk and leaning her face against her palm while watching you wrap up an email.

“Avoid what?” you asked, your tone flat as your fingers tapped quickly against the keyboard, brow furrowed in focus.

“This,” she said, gesturing toward the chocolate bar sitting neatly at the edge of your desk. You barely glanced at it before flipping it over, hiding the message. But Yujin snatched it up before you could finish pretending it didn’t exist.

“‘I can’t help but get lost in your eyes.’ Seriously, Y/N?” she read aloud with dramatic emphasis. “That still doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“She’s just… nice,” you mumbled, a little too forcefully, the typing beneath your fingers growing noticeably louder for a beat before settling back to normal. “A little too nice.”

Yujin let out a sigh—one filled with secondhand frustration and a hint of disappointment, like she was watching a tragic love story unfold in real-time.

“She doesn’t get me chocolate bars everyday… and she's not writing that to everyone,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I swear, Wonyoung couldn’t be more obvious if she tried. You seriously need to stop breaking this poor girl’s heart without even meaning to.”

“You think silence means anything to her?” you sighed, finally hitting send on the email. With a heavy exhale, you spun in your chair to face Yujin, wearing the same deadpan expression that screamed hopelessness. “If anything, it only seems to encourage her.”

“That’s because you look at her like you’re in love with her, you idiot,” Yujin snapped, jabbing a finger into your shoulder.

“I do not,” you said defensively, moving back slightly.

“Keep lying to yourself, Y/N,” she muttered with a frown. “It’s kind of your thing at this point. You see a pretty girl, malfunction immediately, and come up to the conclusion of her being ‘too nice.’”

“Yeah, because not every interaction has to be romantic,” you scoffed, reaching for your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “It’s not always advised to assume someone’s interested, anyway. That kind of mindset gets people hurt in the long run.”

Yujin hurried to fall in step beside you as you exited the office, the two of you heading toward your usual lunch spot. But unlike you, she wasn’t ready to drop the conversation just yet. Not when she’d been rooting for this from the start. Not when she knew Wonyoung meant more to you than you were willing to admit.

“So then,” she said suddenly, eyes narrowing as if she had just cracked the code, “why don’t you get her something in return?”

You slowed down slightly, blinking as you tried to make sense of her words.

Yujin's eyes had a slight glimmer, wondering if she had finally landed one of her words to actually become considered by you.

She had to keep it up.

“She’s been getting you all these things lately, so, might as well give back a chocolate bar she’d always get you and write your own message on it?”

“That’s stupid, Yujin,” you said, immediately trying to shut down the idea.

“You never considered it as stupid when Wonyoung does it for you,” Yujin shot back, her voice laced with smugness. You went quiet. Because, well… she had a point. And it wasn’t one you could argue.

“I wouldn’t even know what to write,” you muttered, reaching for any excuse to back out before this spiraled further. If you didn’t shut it down now, you knew Yujin would turn this into something that she had to make sure it happened.

“Then I can help you!”

“And then you’re going to portray me as some lovesick fool and get me into even more trouble,” you said. “Not in a million years, Yujin.”

“Oh come on!” Yujin tugs at your arm, trying to convince you. “It’s either that you write a message yourself or you let me write some cringey message that may or may not be the ‘make or break’ deal for you both!”

You shot her a weird glance, eyeing at her wide smile, knowing she truly backed you into a corner.

“Will you… watch me write it?” you slowly questioned.

“Huh. I wasn’t planning to,” she mused, tapping her chin. “But now that you mention it? I should!”

You let out a long, pained groan. “That’s literally the worst thing you could say.”

“Hey, I have to make sure you actually write something! And who knows, my advice could be really good,” Yujin said as she nudged you in the arm.

“You’re only going to set me up, I know you.”

“You’d only know once you get to writing!” Yujin giggled, now linking her arm through yours. “Now, let’s quickly get lunch and have you confess to the love of your life!”

“Don’t even start,” your voice filled with dread.

“If anything, I can even draw the little hearts if your hands start shaking! You need everything to be perfect for a girl like Jang Wonyoung, you know.”

“Yujin!”

Wonyoung sighed, shoulders slumped slightly as she finally stepped out of the meeting room, the door clicking shut behind her. It hadn’t even been a stressful meeting—if anything, it gave her a decent break from her usual routine. But none of that really mattered.

What did matter was that she missed having lunch with you.

Wonyoung couldn’t pinpoint when this became such a big deal. Maybe it was the butterflies in her stomach whenever you laughed. Maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you were focused. Or maybe, just maybe, it was simply you. That was more than reason enough for her.

You would think anyone would have given up by now, but with her, she is a persistent one. Not having a clear answer is enough motivation to continue going after the person that has always caught her eye.

She dug into her bag with a quiet grumble, fishing for her phone as she walked toward her desk. When she checked the time, her heart sank. You’d be heading back to work in just five minutes. Not enough time to sit with you. Not enough time to hear your voice. Not enough time to give you that chocolate bar with another message she’d rewritten countless times in her notebook before deciding on the final version on the actual wrapper.

And as much as she tried not to dwell on it, she hated missing a day.

Without focusing too much on the lost opportunity for the day, Wonyoung immediately scanned around the room. Not much to her surprise, you were already at your desk, facing your glowing computer screen. Simply by your back alone, her heart couldn’t help but skip a beat.

Even if she missed lunch, she could still see you.

She picked up her pace slightly, making her way to her desk across from yours and dropping into her seat just a little louder than usual—just enough to make her presence known. Maybe you’d glance her way. Maybe you wouldn’t.

But it didn’t matter, since she could always try again tomorrow.

“Hi Y/N!” Wonyoung said, her voice much sweeter than intended. She was hoping you’d greet her as warmly as she did. You did say ‘hello’ back, but just more quieter and less energetic–like you usually would have.

Wonyoung set her bag on the table and slipped into her seat, only to pause at the sight of something sitting neatly on her desk.

A flipped chocolate bar.

Her brows furrowed. Did I forget to give this today?

That didn’t make sense—she never forgot. Sure, her sleep schedule had been wrecked lately, but even then, she’d always remember your chocolate. It was her thing.

Still, she reached for it, ready to tuck it away in her bag, until her eyes caught something in bold black ink on the wrapper.

She blinked.

Do you like me?

Wonyoung is extremely confused. She continued to stare at it for a second longer, knowing that it was the same kind she’d always get for you. It was obviously the same brand, but this was definitely not her handwriting.

She peeked around, looking to see if anyone would have written this to play a trick on her. But then, from the corner of her vision, Wonyoung caught the quickest glance from you—and how fast you looked away once your eyes met.

Oh.

That’s when it finally clicked for her.

Her fingers curled tighter around the chocolate bar, face quickly warming as a wide grin broke through. A laugh, small and muffled behind her hand, bubbled out of her.

You gave her that chocolate bar.

With a message. A message that sure as hell looked a lot like a confession.

Maybe, missing lunch wouldn’t be so bad after all. It would’ve given you just enough time to recreate this thoughtful action–with just enough space for you to leave something without her catching you doing it. And honestly, this might be one of her luckiest days yet.

Giggles aside, it was now her turn.

Without a break, Wonyoung quickly rummaged through her own bag, grabbing a chocolate bar.

Same brand. Blank wrapper–that wouldn’t last long.

She reached for a black sharpie and wrote down something fast, her movements clearly filled with excitement.

It didn’t take long for the usual sliding of the chocolate to reach you. You didn’t want to look too fast, but your curiosity—and the pounding of your heart—won out. With much anticipation and an unusual pounding in your heart, you peeked at the wrapping at last.

I like you more than I can imagine.

Your head lifted. She was already grinning.

And somehow, you were smiling too.

You didn’t know exactly where this would lead once your shifts ended—but something had definitely changed. This time, it was a sign that was extremely obvious and one that you didn’t want to ignore.

Maybe Yujin really was a genius—despite her ridiculous plans and all. For once, you were glad she pushed you further than what you expected.

Because if there was one thing you could believe, out of all the rumors and passing gossip around the office, it would be this:

Wonyoung was hopelessly, unmistakably, head over heels for you.

And lucky you—

You happen to feel the same exact way.

‘💬’ ─── ummm if you guys liked this… go ahead and send any requests you’d like for gg/bg groups/idols 🤍 even if the groups aren’t found on my masterlist, you can always ask and you may get something from me ^^