˚⋅˖* ⊱❀ YANA ❀⊰ *˖⋅˚

she/her 22

[filmsbyun]

Waltz of Words || Choi Beomgyu

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝘵𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝜊𝑢𝑟: 𝑦𝜊𝑢 𝑠𝜊𝑤 𝘵ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝘵 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝜊𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝜊𝜊𝑚

Your heart and mind seek him for reasons no words could describe — an irony not lost on you, a writer, a weaver of words. And yet, when it comes to him, even you fail to stitch together the language to explain his existence in your life.

⊹₊ wc; 13.2k

Nobleman!Choi Beomgyu x Noblewoman!afab!reader

chapter tags: regency-inspired setting with loosely adapted historical accuracy, heavy slowburn continues, mutual pining reaching concerning levels, they should not be trusted in confined spaces together, forced proximity done wrong in all the right ways, beomgyu is one step away from losing his entire composure (and dignity), taehyun continues to ruin everyone’s peace unintentionally, suggestive tension through proximity and touch (nothing explicit but deeply charged)

warnings: overheard conversation about a young woman’s passing, mc inadvertently (and very much willingly) intercepting information tied to an ongoing investigation

i had to cut the chapter in half because it was becoming far too lengthy WAHAHAHAH i love this chapter a lot btw because i got to torture lord choi <//3 it is proofread but there might still be some errors! i also wanna thank @yvampyr for motivating me to publish another chapter through her constant praises of this series ily yvro

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The ton often mistakes affection for possession. How unfortunate.

For there exists a far rarer form of devotion, one that asks for nothing and seeks no acclaim. It simply delights in seeing another smile and, having achieved such a feat, considers itself richly rewarded.

This author wonders how many hearts have been lost to that particular vice.

The golden ribbon of dawn had just begun its ascent across the horizon. 

Your adrenaline coursed with conspicuous vigour. It had been some time since your blood had carried such brightness through your veins. The act itself was no novelty. You had long since grown adept at slipping beyond the eyes of the aristocrats and at dissolving into thoroughfares where lineage commanded little notice. You had done so countless times.

This morning, however, differed in one irreducible particular. This time, you were not alone. 

In what had once been your private and faintly scandalous indulgence, there would now be Choi Beomgyu’s presence. 

You found yourself pondering how his hand would feel if it closed around yours to steer through a crowded crossing. To traverse markets and narrow lanes beside him unencumbered by titles and unobserved by matrons introduced an element that painted the undertaking brighter.

It felt perilous in ways that had little to do with discovery because this no longer resembled an excursion between like-minded allies. It felt nearer to flight — a departure into a world you would not mind remaining in, so long as he stood within it. 

“You have been smiling since you opened your eyes,” Maya mused, separating the strands of your hair with nimble fingers before weaving them into a single braid. “It is most distracting.”

You lowered your eyes at that, attempting severity and failing to maintain it.  “Must you always chaff me?”

“I say it because it is true,” she replied. “You carry your thoughts so heavily most days. This morning, you do not. I would keep this version of you, if I could.”

Warmth crept higher along your cheeks, unassisted by powder or paint. It appeared so thoroughly that it could fool anyone into assuming you had done some touch up.

“Perhaps I have grown soft,” you said quietly. You folded your hands in your lap, then unfolded them again. “It is not foolish, I hope?”

“Foolish?” Maya stepped around you and lifted your chin, studying your face with open affection. “No, my lady. It is human.” 

You allowed a small smile. Maya returned it to you brightly. She returned to secure the braid at the nape of your neck and coiled it into a modest knot, fastening the final pin. 

“There! Entirely unremarkable. Which, for once, is precisely the aim,” she beamed.

You rose and adjusted the bodice, drawing the laces taut and tying them. The fabric lay plain against you; no ornament distracted from the simplicity of the attire for the obvious part. You regarded your reflection only briefly before your gaze fell again.

“Maya.”

“Yes, my lady?”

It was a bit ironic how you — a weaver of words — failed to weave the very words upon your tongue when it came to Beomgyu. Your delayed attempt at speech formation did not go unnoticed by her. Instead of urging you, Maya waited.

You took a deep breath, then let it out. “I have always walked alone in these paths of mine. I have never had anyone take a genuine interest in the pursuits that occupy my mind, nor have I encountered one who regards the world as I do.” — but in the end, words did end up flowing naturally, and talking about him always brings upon a real smile on your lips.

Maya’s features softened. She took your hands before you could withdraw them and enclosed them within her own. “What troubles you?” she asked.

“I find that I want him there,” you confessed. When you lifted your eyes, hesitation tempered your expression. “More than I should, perhaps. Is it wrong to desire his company so much?”

Maya exhaled fondly. She rubbed her thumbs across your knuckles, as though warming them from cold. “My lady, there is no fault in wanting the presence of someone who makes your heart lighter,” she answered, giving your hands a gentle squeeze.

“I know,” you whispered.

“You have denied yourself companionship for long enough. You may keep a little joy for your own sake,” she continued, adjusting the fall of your shawl over your shoulders. “Go to him. See what becomes of it.”

They were mere words, but the brightness in your heart turned incandescent with joy upon hearing them. You rose from the chair and drew her into an embrace. Her hands pressed warmly against your back. The contact steadied your breathing.

“I shall be back soon,” you murmured near her ear, tightening your hold for a brief moment before stepping back.

“You shall return content,” she replied, patting your arm once and releasing you. “And you shall tell me whether he proved worthy of that smile.”

Beyond the window, dawn had grown brighter; the estate would soon stir in earnest. You turned toward the door and carried that warmth with you.

The old butler, Mr. Austen had long ceased to be merely a servant within the household; he occupied a station closer to stewardship. Beyond Maya, there existed no other soul to whom you entrusted your more unconventional enterprises.

It was he who had priorly secured a carriage — which was not one of yours or bore a crest that might betray affiliation. He had given an impression to the hired coachman that one of the attendants required conveyance to the church situated at the far end of town. The explanation met with no skepticism.  

When the appointed hour arrived, you descended the side staircase with your bonnet drawn low to obscure the greater part of your face. Mr. Austen assisted you into the carriage with care that bordered upon paternal instinct. Throughout the journey, no passerby gave the carriage a second glance. To them, it bore the insignificance of countless others that traversed the thoroughfare each day. 

By the time the church spire came into view beyond the clustered rooftops, your passage had been accomplished without incident. The carriage drew to a halt near the back wall, removed from the main square where foot traffic gathered in scarce number. Mr. Austen descended first, then turned to offer his hand once more.

You accepted it and stepped down upon the cobbled ground, lifting your skirts to avoid the damp between the stones. Once clear of the carriage, you reached up and adjusted your bonnet, ensuring it cast sufficient shadow across your features.

“Mr. Austen,” you said warmly, “I ought to thank you more properly. You always assist me, even when my requests are troublesome.”

He regarded you from beneath brows that had grown more expressive with age. “If I complained every time you made life difficult, I should have no breath left for anything else.”

You startled into a laugh. “So you admit I am troublesome!”

Mr. Austen’s smile was concealed under this grey mustache, but the crinkles around his eyes were an evident of it. It in return lifted the apples of your cheeks.

“I jest,” he said. “Though I must admit with pride that you have inherited both your parent’s resolve for greater pursuits.”

You tilted your head and allowed a hint of levity to enter your voice. “I keep wondering how you have not grown weary of me, or insisted to betray my secrets in the interest of your own tranquillity.”

At this, he exhaled through his nose and removed one glove, lifting his hand to rest briefly upon your head. The gesture was gentle.

“Betray you?” he said, lowering his voice in a parental rebuking tone. “I have served this household since before you could form a sentence. I carried you through those corridors when you could not walk. I have bandaged your knees and hidden your broken teacups. Do you suppose I would begin betraying you now?” 

“When you list it so plainly, I sound incorrigible.” Your smile softened. 

“You were an energetic child,” he corrected, drawing his glove back on. “You are now an energetic young lady. I know your mind. I know when you act with purpose.”

You lowered your gaze. “Even so, I must try your patience.”

“You try nothing of the sort,” he answered. His gaze moved past you toward the narrow street that curved away from the church. “Take care while you are out there. Keep to the streets we discussed and return by the hour agreed upon.”

“I shall.” You inclined your head in acknowledgment.

He stepped back to allow you passage toward the entrance, yet his eyes remained upon you until you reached the shelter of the stone archway. Only then did he withdraw to the carriage.

No passerby occupied the lane that led to the churchyard at this hour. The structure had endured many seasons without devoted care; ivy gripped the outer stonework, and long green climbers wound their way along cracked mortar and weathered arches. Moss had gathered between the flagstones of the path. 

You crossed the yard with brisk steps, gathering the edge of your skirt so it would not brush the damp growth along the wall. The wooden gate yielded beneath your hands with a subdued groan. You slipped inside and drew it back into place behind you, the iron latch settling with a hollow echo that traversed through the small vestibule.

The church received you in tempered light. Tall windows of stained glass admitted slender shafts of colour that descended across the rows of aged pews and wandered over the stone floor. Dust stirred faintly in the air where the sunlight touched it.

The hush within bore the solemnity of a place accustomed to confessions declared with trembling breaths and parting words spoken with tearful eyes. A sanctuary for lovers brought together by fate and here, beneath these very windows, they had stood hand in hand to bind their futures together before witness and blessing.

Within that broad expanse, he sat several rows ahead with a book in his hands. The stillness surrounding him gave the impression that he had been waiting for some time. You hadn’t taken three steps before he turned his head.

His gaze found you.

It was a wonder he did not drop the book, or how he had managed to preserve even the outward appearance of a gentleman. Nearly every rational thought had abandoned him, leaving only a tumult of sensation that defied decorum.

He could not reconcile the image before him with the world he occupied. There existed no refinement of language that could render you into adequate description within his mind. It was a theft from fortune itself that he should be granted this sight of you — heaven sent — in a place that had borne vows of eternity.

How undeserving he was, and yet how impossibly fortunate, to know you at all. To have encountered you in this lifetime was a miracle he could scarcely bear to acknowledge without trembling. He, who had done nothing to earn such grace, found himself granted it all the same.

He pressed the book shut with his thumb and set it aside upon the bench without once glancing away. Rising soon after, he remained where he stood and did not dare step forward to meet you. Any further claim upon your presence might verge upon excess.

The path you walked on had seen brides being led forward beneath veils.

You reached up and untied the ribbons beneath your chin, slipping the bonnet free and lowering it to your side. Filtered sunlight brushed across your features; you were unaware of the devastation your simple gesture wrought upon the man who watched.

With no witness but the silent church and its ancient walls, Choi Beomgyu found himself wholly, helplessly, and madly in awe of you.

Meanwhile, each step along the aisle was taken with a steadiness that belied the faint quickening beneath your ribs. Once standing before him, your lips parted in an aberrantly shy greeting.

“Hi.” — the greeting emerged so softly that it scarcely disturbed the hush surrounding you.

He forgot every prepared greeting he had carried with him into the church. He had spent the better part of the morning considering what he might say upon seeing you again but none of it survived.

"Hi,” he returned after a short moment. He stepped forward a pace, the faintest tremor betraying the effort it took to hold himself upright. “Did you have a safe journey here? I hope it was not troublesome to avoid the eyes."

You laughed, a delicate sound that rolled through the air and set his heart skittering. 

“This is hardly my first venture of the sort, Lord Choi,” you said, a trace of mirth touching your lips. “You needn’t worry on my behalf.”

He pressed his lips together, his eyes closing briefly as he recalled the forgotten detail. He inclined his head in a gesture that carried apology — one that seamlessly delivered that he had disciplined himself for even daring to dismiss something from his mind about you.

“Yes—yes, of course.” His voice softened, almost conceding the ground with care. “Forgive me. I remember now that you have done this many times before.”

Your smile deepened. “Apology accepted.”

You moved together toward the rear of the church where there was a door set behind the last row of pews. He reached ahead of you to pull it open, then stepped aside to let you pass through first. The faint freshness of the season’s turn kissed the skin beneath your eyes. 

A slim path stretched ahead, bordered by overgrown hedges and low-hanging branches that filtered the daylight into shifting patches upon the ground. Beomgyu lifted one hand to guide a stray branch away from your path before letting it fall back into place. He walked beside you, though never too near. You wished he did.

“After a short while, a man will pass here with his cart. We will join him and reach the town without a hitch,” he explained, glancing down the road ahead.

You tilted your head, curiosity brightening your features. "Are you friends with this man, Lord Choi?"

"He has been the one to get me in and out of town during these escapes of mine." His gaze carried a secretive fondness. The next moment, however, he gave you a look. “Though I must warn you, he sometimes let his tongue outrun his wit.”

You hummed, eyes tracing the patterns of sunlight through the branches. The faint stir of leaves above lent a softness to the moment. “It is lovely , isn’t it, Lord Choi?” you said after a pause, “to have friends who look out for you so, without question.”

You thought of Maya, and of Mr. Austen — whose loyalty had never once wavered despite the liberties you so often took. It was indeed the greatest gift in knowing that one was not alone in one’s ventures, however ill-advised they might appear to others. You were comforted to know that Beomgyu was not solitary in his wanderings; that beyond the confines of expectation, he too was sustained by hands willing to guide and guard his passage.

“You need not call me that.”

During the passing silence between you, in which the sound of your footsteps mingled with the whispering leaves — his low voice tickled your ears. The sensation travelled all the way down to your arms, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps whose reason of origin were too specific to be blamed upon the morning breeze.

Your feet slowed of their own volition. “Whatever do you mean?”

“‘Lord Choi’,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You do not need to keep using the title with me.”

“And what should I call you, then?” you jested, the question light upon your tongue. “Mr. Choi?”

That drew a different look from him. The smile that curved his lips deepened, and he held your gaze with a gravity that pulled at your senses. He allowed the meaning of his words to settle — and understanding came to you in a gradual unfoldment.

"Oh," you murmured, the single syllable tasting of revelation.

“We are not within society’s bounds here. If you continue to address me so, it may draw notice.” He wished to hear his name from you alone — stripped of rank and shaped only by your voice, entirely kept apart from every other claim upon him. It seemed, in that moment, an unnecessary barrier — one he could not bring himself to tolerate. “Use my name.”

You held your gaze on him, feeling a giddiness unfurl within your chest that made your pulse reckless. He was looking at you with expectation, a tender touch of patience, awaiting the very thing your heart ached to give. Your breath caught in a minuscule falter before you turned your face aside, conceding the moment without granting it its full due.

“You ask for liberties, Lord—” The title slipped out of habit; you halted, then amended with care, “—then I should expect the same from you, should I not?”

Beomgyu smiled in full, no withholding. “You may always expect from me what your heart permits, and far more besides.” — then he said your name.

He stepped closer in thought, if not in body, his words bending the social rules only to fold entirely around you. 

You had grown so accustomed to hearing him say “my lady” to address you that the notion of your own name claimed by his voice had never crossed your mind. Now, confronted with your title’s absence, you found yourself wholly unprepared. Would it be improper to coax him to repeat your name? Though you doubted whether you could ever request it again without succumbing into a breathless whisper. 

“Oi! Choi Beomgyu!”

You turned in tandem. An old man was approaching you with a slow, rolling gait on a haycart. 

“Didnt expect you to show up today!” he called, squinting at Beomgyu beneath the brim of his worn hat. “Thought you’d lost your nerve this time.”

“I gave you my word, uncle Park,” Beomgyu replied, stepping nearer as the cart drew close for him to lay a hand upon its side. His fingers closed around the wooden rail, steadying the slight jolt as the horse was brought to a halt. “You might consider granting me a measure of patience.”

“Patience?” Uncle Park barked, striking the side of the cart with a resounding slap. “You vanish for weeks on end and return with talk of patience? I ought to charge you interest for every day you kept me waiting.”

“Come now, do not begin reciting my faults before I have even greeted you properly,” Beomgyu drawled. The tilt of his mouth carried a trace of mischief that seemed ill-matched with the poise he otherwise wore. “You would have me condemned before I could attempt a defence.”

The change may have been miniscule but it did not escape your notice. It was, you thought, a sight to behold — to witness him thus.

“Well now, and who might this be?” The old man’s attention veered from Beomgyu with abrupt curiosity. He regarded you with frank appraisal before his brows rose and his grin widened into something altogether knowing. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and found yourself a sweetheart. Took you long enough, boy. I thought you meant to wander alone till your bones gave out.”

Oh, it was another sight to behold — to see such a bright shade of red adorning his face.

“No—no, you’ve mistaken it entirely,” Beomgyu spluttered, the denial arriving with such haste that it threatened coherence. “She is—we are acquainted. A friend.”

Uncle Park’s expression did not alter in the slightest. He let out a low hum, drawing the sound out as his gaze passed between you both again. He was unconvinced in the most evident manner.

“A friend, is it?” he repeated with skepticism. “Well, a friend with the look of her, I’ll grant you’ve done well for yourself.”

A trace of pity found its way through you for him. So you stepped forward before Beomgyu could further knot himself in needless explanation. Inclining your head in greeting, you offered Uncle Park a civility he had not anticipated.

“Good day, sir,” you said, hands gathered neatly before you. “We remain indebted for your assistance.”

He blinked with bafflement. Then he let out a small chuckle, scratching at his jaw. “No debt worth speaking of. Any friend of his is welcome enough.”

“I have heard you have been aiding him in reaching town,” you said once settled upon the cart’s wooden bed, Beomgyu following close behind. “Though I begin to suspect I have been introduced into a history far more elaborate than I was warned of.”

Beomgyu released a breath through his nose, turning his head aside as he ran a hand through his hair as though it might restore some fragment of dignity. “You have been warned sufficiently,” he muttered, though his glance betrayed a flicker of reluctant humour. “It is not my fault you chose to ignore it.”

“Was I now?” you returned, the question light but you were evidently chaffing.

“Warned?” Uncle Park echoed, taking up the reins and guiding the horse forward. “Now that is a detail I should very much like to hear. What, pray tell, have you been saying about me, boy?”

“Nothing that would survive your hearing,” Beomgyu replied without missing a beat, though the faint colour rising along the line of his cheek rendered the retort less convincing than he might have wished. 

Uncle Park released a loud laugh, head tipping back in delight as the horse gave a mild flick of its ear in response. “Ah, so you do possess a tongue when pressed!”

You turned your gaze upon Beomgyu then, interest brightening your expression as the exchange had offered you a private amusement worth savoring. “It seems I had formed a rather different impression,” you said, lightly. 

Beomgyu’s gaze narrowed with a flash of protest that did not quite disguise the reluctant curve threatening his mouth. “You can change your opinion of me if you want,” he returned. “But I would advise against placing too much faith in this man’s testimony.”

“Dangerous counsel,” Uncle Park interjected. “Encouraging a lady to doubt me at our very first meeting. You’ll have her convinced I am a scoundrel before I’ve even had the chance to prove it.”

“I suspect that you would require no encouragement at all in that regard,” you replied, your tone turning pleasantly contemplative.

A stunned beat passed over the air punctuated only by the sounds of the hooves. Not long after, the old man threw his head back and laughed again, wholly delighted. 

“Oh, I like her,” he declared, pointing a crooked finger in your direction. “You’ve brought me someone with sense, Beomgyu. That alone earns you forgiveness for your many disappearances.”

“I am relieved my standing has been restored on such merciful terms,” Beomgyu said dryly.

Uncle Park clicked his tongue, casting him a sideways look. “But do not grow complacent. A man who makes promises and neglects them is of little use to anyone, least of all himself.”

The remark had teeth underneath the jovial tone which altered the look in Beomgyu’s eyes. As much as it was miniscule, it was still perceptible. There was little room left for defence when the accusation aligned too closely with his own assessment of past conduct. For a brief stretch of thought, he allowed no rebuttal to form but his fingers tightened against the rail’s rough grain before he inclined his head.

“I am here now,” he said. 

The words were few, but they carried an undercurrent of finality that admitted no further censure.

Uncle Park stared for a passing moment, the remnants of his earlier levity giving way to a more considered regard. He gave a short nod and returned his attention to the road. 

“Aye,” he conceded. “That you are.”

You offered no interruption through it. There were conversations that did not belong to you, and you possessed enough discernment to leave them undisturbed. 

The wind had found its way into Beomgyu’s hair and tousled it in the most wild manner; a stray leaf remained stuck near his temple. Wordlessly, you reached forward and removed it, and upon feeling your touch on his skin, Beomgyu relaxed as he faced you. 

You lifted the leaf between your fingers, a faint smile touching your mouth as you held it out for him to see. He did not need to know that it had served as your excuse to touch him and to offer a moment of solace. He remembered your words of affirmations from the riverside. They were called forth with little effort, softening whatever had remained of the previous exchange. He said nothing.

From the front, uncle Park glanced back once more, his grin returning in full force. “You’ll have to tell me her name, at least,” he called. “Can’t keep calling her ‘friend’ all the way to town.”

Beomgyu’s expression tightened into a reluctant frown. “You may mind the road, and leave the rest to me.”

“Aye, I’ll mind it well enough,” the man replied, though satisfaction coloured his tone. “But I’ve eyes, boy. And I know what I see.”

The cart drew to a halt at the edge of the town, where the worn road gave way to a livelier thoroughfare beyond. Beomgyu descended first and his hand rose in instinctive assistance — though he paused just short of presumption, allowing you the choice of accepting it.

A soft laugh slipped from you, touched with fond exasperation as you accepted his offer. Even now, he held himself apart, careful to grant you space you had never asked him to keep. You had never objected to his hand — had, in truth, found yourself inclined to accept it whenever it was offered. 

You were more than willing to take his and only his hand.

Uncle Park watched the exchange with unabashed interest. Once you had offered your thanks and moved ahead, he turned toward Beomgyu with a pointed sound of disapproval.

“A friend, he says,” he remarked, shaking his head. “If that is friendship, I should like to see what he calls devotion.”

Beomgyu shot him a look that might have served as a warning in any other circumstance. Here, it merely provoked further delight.

After bidding him farewell, the two of you moved toward the town proper. What awaited you upon entry bore little resemblance to the subdued bustle you had anticipated. 

Colour adorned every visible corner and banners stretched between buildings in bright swathes, fabric stirred by the passing air; lanterns hung in careful rows, their glass catching the sunrays in fractured gleams. Myriads of laughter carried through the streets with a buoyancy that stirred even the most indifferent passerby.

“Have we arrived in the midst of some celebration?” you asked, gaze moving from one detail to the next before looking up at him. “Were you aware of this?”

His expression was shaped by honest surprise. “I had no knowledge of it,” he said, almost to himself, before his features eased and a smile found its place. “Still, it is rather fortunate. We should make use of it while we are here.”

He lifted his arm toward you in invitation.

You looked at the gesture, then at him. Had it truly slipped his consideration that any display of formality in such a place might draw unwelcome attention, when he had been so insistent elsewhere that you abandon it and call him by his name? Surely, it would not hurt to return a fraction of that boldness now, simply to see whether it might touch him the same way it had undone you.

You placed your hand into his, bypassing the offered formality entirely. His breath faltered.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice so that it reached him alone. “We cannot follow etiquette here, can we?” you murmured, tilting your head in a small indication toward the passing crowd. 

The words were meticulously delivered with a soft provocation that sought him out and held him there. Beomgyu exhaled, the sound uneven before he gathered himself, his fingers closing more securely around yours. It was no longer tentative in their claim. You beamed. 

“You have not yet eaten, have you?” he asked. “There is a place ahead I would like to show you. Their breakfast is worth the visit.”

Beomgyu led you through an alley tucked between bustling storefronts until the sight of a weathered wooden sign drew recognition from you. You had visited this establishment more times than you could count during your private excursions through the town. Little about it had changed since then. 

The old matriarch still presided over the shop with formidable vitality, directing her children and grandchildren from behind the counter while pots simmered and trays passed rapidly from hand to hand. Age had touched her hair and the bend of her back, though not a single soul beneath that roof appeared foolish enough to mistake her for frail.

The entire household erupted into a chorus of greeting the moment Beomgyu stepped through the doorway.

“Mum, Choi Beomgyu came back!”

“You finally remembered us?”

“Sit down before your face grows any thinner!”

One of the younger boys abandoned his errand entirely to throw his arms around Beomgyu’s middle, nearly causing him to stumble backward with startled laughter spilling from his mouth. An older woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a basket of bread and clicked her tongue at him before cupping his cheek in both hands, scolding him for his long absence while her eyes shone with unconcealed affection. 

It was one matter to know Beomgyu as you did. It was another matter entirely to witness the traces he left behind within the lives of others. 

What stood before you was not simply a man who was well-liked, but a man who had left impressions upon people so deeply fond that they reached for him — actually reached for him — with happiness made visible on their faces. This was something you had no tidy word for, which meant it was, in all likelihood, the truest thing about him. Looking at him made the brightness in your heart alight with joy.

The family ushered the two of you toward a crowded table beside several townspeople midway through their breakfast. There was more food than you can reasonably eat as they jumped at the opportunity to feed you when they noticed Beomgyu brought you along. Fresh bread still warm from the oven, butter softened beneath the morning heat, roasted potatoes seasoned generously with herbs, thick stew fragrant enough to draw sighs from nearby tables — the varieties only kept increasing.  

“Please,” you finally laughed after another bowl was placed before you. “Surely there are others here who must also eat.”

Every attempt to refuse additional servings was met with scandalised disbelief. You had easily eaten to the comfortable limit of your capacity and settled back with the satisfaction of a meal properly honoured. Beomgyu leaned forward at your side and studied your expression with poorly concealed anticipation.

“Well?” he asked. “Was bringing you here a wise decision?”

You exhaled contentedly and brushed a stray crumb from your fingertips. “Very wise. This reminds me of meals back home. There is far more soul within food prepared this way.” Your gaze wandered briefly toward the rear counter where kettles released curling streams of steam into the air, and said, almost to yourself, "I wonder if they carry tea." 

"They do," said Beomgyu, and paused in a way that told you the sentence was not yet finished. "Though I find myself compelled to ask something first. Have you ever had coffee ground fresh and prepared with any degree of honest care for the result?"

You raised your brows to show you were thoroughly interested in the subject. “Do you consider yourself an authority on the matter?”

“I consider myself tragically burdened with superior taste.”

A laugh escaped you. “I prefer tea,” you admitted, affording him the candour the question merited. “Though I have had coffee on occasion and found it perfectly—”

"Agreeable?" he supplied.

You rested your chin briefly upon your hand, smiling. "Is that not sufficient?"

Without another word, he rose and extended his hand toward you. There existed an eager brightness about him then, one that stirred immediate curiosity within your chest.

“Come,” he said. “Allow me the opportunity to change your opinion.”

 You placed your hand into his and permitted him to lead you toward the back portion of the establishment where shelves lined with jars and tins occupied the walls. The younger women there greeted him with visible delight before moving aside to grant him access to the preparation space, clearly accustomed to this intrusion.

“Do you do this often?” you asked while watching him roll the sleeves of his shirt slightly higher. 

The fabric gave way to forearms exposing elegant lines and the faint rise of veins beneath golden skin. It took you a while to tear your gaze away before you forced yourself to follow the movement of his hands instead. 

“Often enough that they have stopped questioning it,” he answered, sounding rather pleased with himself as he reached for a bag of beans. 

“I cannot decide,” you said, stepping closer to the counter and folding your hands behind your back, “whether that reflects well upon your skill or poorly upon their judgment.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, and pressed a look of mock grievance into his expression. “You wound me before I have even begun.” 

The remark drew another soft laugh from you. He turned away shortly after, though not before you caught the fleeting brightness crossing his features.

“Shall I be of any help?” you asked, leaning lightly against the counter’s edge.

Beomgyu set the grinder down and turned fully toward you, raising his brows in consideration. He then snuck a glance briefly toward the woman at the far end of the room before motioning toward the stool set with a tilt of his head, the corners of his mouth already betraying him.

“My lady,” he said, lowering his voice into a murmur meant for you alone, “only needs to sit pretty for me.”

For one treacherous instant, your mind abandoned you entirely. 

You lowered yourself onto the stool with far more composure than you truly possessed, one hand curling against the edge of the wooden seat. A small lopsided smile touched your mouth in spite of every effort to contain it. 

My lady only needs to sit pretty for me. Such shameless words, spoken beneath his breath. 

The remark had already entered your chest with ruinous effect, carrying that infuriating mixture of sweetness and confidence he seemed capable of summoning so deftly whenever he chose to turn his attention wholly upon you. He just created a dangerously intimate air.

You turned your face away under the pretence of examining the shelves beside you, though the aim proved entirely futile once you caught sight of him again from the corner of your vision. The faint curve still threatening his mouth from your reaction alone conspired against your attempt at indifference with astonishing success. Beomgyu looked thoroughly pleased by his own effect upon you.

He selected the beans himself, inspecting them with surprising care before pouring them into the grinder. Morning light poured through the nearby window and scattered across him in fractured bands of gold, catching against the dark fall of his hair when he moved around. The rich fragrance of freshly ground coffee slowly wafted through the room, enveloping you little by little while Beomgyu continued his work with visible fondness for the task itself. 

Watching him in such a setting — attention devoted wholly toward preparing a simple cup of coffee for you — awakened a longing you scarcely recognised. It was not excitement, nor infatuation, nor any of the foolish sentiments novels delighted in exalting. It was the sudden desire to preserve the moment exactly as it was and return to it whenever the world became unkind. 

Beomgyu added milk and sugar only after pausing to ask how you preferred it, and when you answered that you trusted his judgement, his fingers faltered briefly against the spoon. You pretended not to notice. He pretended equally hard.

Then, at last, he poured the hot liquid into a cup and set it before you. The anticipation upon his face nearly made you laugh. You lifted the porcelain carefully and took your first sip.

The coffee carried none of the bitterness you had long associated with it; instead there came a depth to the flavour that unfolded gradually upon the tongue, mellowed by sweetness and softened further by the warmth of milk he had added for you. It filled you from within in a manner strangely comforting. 

"Oh," you said.

It was not your most eloquent expression of sentiment. It was, however, entirely sincere.

"Well?" Beomgyu asked softly. 

You stared down into the cup for another moment before looking back at him with open astonishment. “Lord Choi, this is extraordinary.”

Relief flooded his features so swiftly that you nearly laughed again. “Is that approval I hear?”

“Approval?” You chuckled softly before taking another sip, savouring it without the slightest attempt to disguise your delight. “I think you may have altered the course of my life.”

The younger woman arranging cups nearby covered her smile behind her hand at your reaction, though you scarcely noticed her. Your attention was held by the rich taste of coffee, which had far more depth than any of the ones you had previously endured out of courtesy during formal visits and social calls.

“I am glad it is to your liking,” he replied, watching you with such transparent fondness that it became difficult to look anywhere else for long. “You sounded displeased by bitterness, so I thought—” 

“No, you do not understand,” you continued, stepping closer without realizing it. “I have never tasted coffee this good before. I shall return home intolerably dissatisfied with everyone who attempts to prepare a cup thereafter.” 

“I would gladly make it for you myself,” he answered at once. 

You looked at him and found that he had, at some point, abandoned any pretence of attending to his own cup. He was watching you — had been watching you — so thoroughly gratified by the simple fact of your reaction that it surpassed, by some considerable distance, anything you might have readied yourself to receive. He looked at you the way a person looks at something they have long wished to share with someone, who has at last been granted the occasion.

"You are not even drinking yours," you observed, glancing pointedly at his cup. 

"No," he agreed, without a shade of contrition.

“You won’t be able to enjoy it once it loses its warmth.”

“Watching you enjoy yours appears to satisfy me far more.”

You smiled into the rim of the cup before lowering it again, entirely incapable of concealing your pleasure. 

And standing within that humble little kitchen, surrounded by roasted coffee and morning sunlight, Beomgyu found himself thinking that he would willingly spend every remaining day of his life chasing that look upon your face if only to witness it again.

The remainder of the morning passed beneath a gentler pace. 

You stayed far longer than either of you had planned, seated near the open window enjoying the cool breeze as you carried on conversations. At some point, Beomgyu suggested venturing further into town while the festivities still endured. Before your departure, you asked the elderly shopkeeper what precisely the occasion celebrated.

Spring, she had told you warmly. Renewal. The casting away of winter’s dreariness in favour of brighter days ahead.

You found the sentiment rather lovely.

The town had grown even more animated with the advancing afternoon. Children darted between merchants with sugared fruits clutched in their hands while musicians occupied crowded corners with fiddles and drums, their melodies spilling through the streets amidst merchants calling out to passing patrons. The crowd of people pressed nearer with every turn through the market, enough that Beomgyu’s hand remained securely around yours from the moment you stepped back into the thoroughfare.

You noticed that he no longer appeared startled by the contact.

In truth, it was you who kept drawing nearer whenever the crowd thickened while the two of you wound between stalls laden with flowers and embroidered ribbons. Every now and then a vendor would greet Beomgyu by name, and each greeting only deepened your fascination with the life he possessed beyond society and scholarly distinction. 

You kept getting reminded how beneath the open sky and amongst townsfolk who adored him without reservation, he appeared touched by a brightness that made him painfully beautiful to behold.

“You are very loved here,” you remarked softly after yet another merchant pressed free sweets into his hands despite his protests.

Beomgyu glanced toward you, faint embarrassment touching his features. “They are merely generous people.”

“No,” you replied, tightening your hand around his. “They are generous to you.”

Deeper colour touched the tips of his ears immediately thereafter, though salvation arrived in the form of a nearby fruit stall before either of you could dwell within the aftermath for too long. 

“Wait here,” he murmured.

You watched him exchange a few coins with the vendor before returning moments later with a pear resting within his palm; golden-skinned and ripened beneath the season’s warmth to the point where droplets of juice already gathered near the stem. He wiped the fruit against the sleeve of his shirt and held it toward you expectantly.

“For you.”

You looked from the pear to his face, then smiled slowly before inclining your head forward and biting directly into the fruit while he still held it.

The skin broke beneath your teeth with a soft crack. Sweetness flooded your mouth instantly, rich and sun-warmed, and a thin trail of juice slipped carelessly down your chin before you could stop it. A startled laugh escaped you at that.

“Oh, that is wonderful—”

You lifted your hand toward your chin, though he caught your wrist gently before you could wipe the juice away yourself. His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip in one slow motion, collecting the droplet there before releasing you entirely.

“Sweet, isn’t it?” he asked, voice lowered by a tenderness that rendered your pulse uneven. 

You could only nod.

Then, still holding your gaze, he lifted the pear and bit into the very place your mouth had touched. 

You blinked as your breath caught so abruptly at the sight that it did not escape Beomgyu’s notice, the corner of his mouth curving faintly around another bite.

“You appear scandalised, my lady,” he mused.

“You are behaving scandalously,” you returned, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed any attempt at reproach.

Right then, a burst of applause erupted from somewhere farther down the street, followed almost immediately by the lively sweep of fiddles and tambourines. The interruption arrived with merciful timing. You turned toward the source of the commotion while several townsfolk hurried past in excitement, and Beomgyu released a soft breath through his nose that suggested he, too, recognised salvation when it presented itself. 

“Let us go,” he said, glancing back at you over his shoulder and catching your hand. “I wish to see what has gathered such enthusiasm.”

The street opened into a bustling square awash with performers and festival-goers. Everyone clapped along to the music surrounding them, skirts swirling across cobblestones as partners spun one another beneath the bright spring afternoon. Whenever a step went poorly, the offender merely laughed harder before beginning again.

Everyone appeared so radiant in their carefreeness. You could not stop smiling as you watched.

Beomgyu watched you instead of watching them. “Do you like it?”

“How could I not?” you replied, gaze wandering across the square. “There is far more life here than within half the ballrooms I have attended.”

He hummed, crossing his arms. “Nobody here cares whether their footwork impresses a duchess.”

You laughed, gosh — how many times had he already made you laugh today? Beomgyu relished every second of that sound before extending his hand toward you.

“Come here.”

Your brows lifted instantly, taking his hand. “That is hardly a proper invitation.”

“You refused my last proper invitation,” he reminded you, stepping closer. “I saw little benefit in repeating myself.” 

Memory returned at his words; the winter ball from weeks prior, the hand he had offered then with the hopes of a waltz with you. You hadn’t indulged him back then. Instead you had given a vague promise of next time. 

Since the formal approach failed last time, this was Beomgyu trying a different one now. 

Your smile curved slowly afterward. “You remember that?”

“I remember nearly everything regarding you.”

You felt comfort in knowing that your passing remarks did not vanish into the ether when spoken to him. He appeared intent upon remembering you.

Appreciation had always existed as a distant and complicated thing within your life; admired beauty invited possession, admired intelligence invited challenge, admired status invited ambition. You were desired endlessly, yet so few had ever looked upon you with genuine regard for the woman standing before them rather than the advantages attached to her name.

To be cherished without demand had remained foreign to you for far too long.

With Beomgyu, that foreignness dissolved so naturally that you could no longer recall its absence. He simply looked at you as though your happiness alone possessed the capacity to enrich his world. Somewhere along the way, affection had ceased feeling like a bargain awaiting its price. In his company, it arrived freely and remained freely given. The wariness that had accompanied tenderness for so many years found itself slipping away piece by piece until trusting him felt no more difficult than turning your face toward sunlight.

Your gaze drifted back toward the dancers circling the square, your smile softening faintly at the sight of them.

“I am not certain I could do that,” you admitted after a moment, watching one particularly exuberant couple stumble into laughter after missing several steps entirely.

Beomgyu followed your line of sight before turning back toward you with raised brows. “You believe yourself incapable of moving in a circle?”

“No!” you laughed. “I meant—the dance steps. I do not know the steps.”

A low laugh escaped him. Beomgyu stepped closer and lifted your joined hands between you, giving them one small encouraging sway to the music drifting through the square.

“You need not know the dance,” he said. “As I have said, nobody here does.”

“That is hardly reassuring.”

“It should be.” His smile deepened. “Look around you.”

You did. 

A little girl stood atop her father’s boots several feet away while he guided her through clumsy turns. Of course it was not perfect, but they were happy. Nearby, two elderly women clapped along to the melody without even attempting the steps, and one poor gentleman had nearly collided into a flower cart moments prior only to receive applause for the effort.

The entire square overflowed with joy untouched by embarrassment. That was the radiance you had admired just moments prior. Your uncertainty had no moment to resurface after that. 

Beomgyu gave your hand another gentle pull. "All you need to do is follow my lead."

He began simply at first, coaxing you into the beat of the music without surrendering fully to the dance. One step. Then another. A turn barely deserving of the name while he guided your movements with slow encouragement.

“There,” he murmured once you managed the timing correctly. “You are already succeeding.”

You gave a sardonic roll of your eyes, chuckling. "You need not lie."

“I am being truthful.” He smiled. 

Gradually, laughter found you again. It slipped free without reservation each time you missed a step and Beomgyu caught you before you could stumble into disaster, and every burst of mirth from your lips appeared to affect him profoundly that he basked in his own delight. 

All of a sudden, he stopped altogether and winked. Before you realised his intention, Beomgyu drew you fully into the dancing circle.

A startled laugh escaped you immediately when he spun you beneath his arm, your free hand catching against his shoulder for balance. “Lord Choi—”

“Hush,” he murmured, pulling you nearer amidst the swirl of dancers before leaning close enough that his breath brushed against your ear. “No titles today.” 

The intimacy of his voice sent a shiver licking up down your spine. You bit your lip because you weren't sure what you would have said anyway. You weren't sure you were capable of forming language at all right now. So you let him lead you through the dance, pretending his words hadn’t set flames through your veins.

There existed no graceful structure to the dance itself. It took several attempts before you found the tempo hidden within the music, and even then you frequently stepped where you ought not, though neither of you cared in the slightest. The mixed informality made the moment far more intimate than any waltz performed beneath chandeliers could have achieved. 

Breathlessness overtook you quickly beneath the exhilaration of movement and music, your chest rising rapidly while delight coursed through you with almost intoxicating force. Your skirts swept against his legs whenever he drew you nearer, and every time laughter escaped your lips, Beomgyu felt an absurd desire to gather the sound and keep it. 

You had not realised joy could feel so boundless.

Strands of your hair had loosened from their arrangement during the dance, and when the wind carried them across your face, Beomgyu tucked them gently behind your ear. It was such a small act of care, easily forgotten by anyone else. But you found yourself wishing for the moment to lengthen, if only by a few heartbeats more. 

The earlier exuberance surrounding the square had mellowed into a slower melody carried by violin strings, while pairs gradually abandoned spirited turns in favour of swaying movements beneath the lanterns now glowing overhead. Your pulse had yet to recover from the dance, and every muscle protested pleasantly from exertion.

His gaze dipped toward your hands and remained there for a brief moment before returning to you. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted one of your hands and guided it upward toward his shoulder. Then the other followed, his touch so gentle that you almost melted beneath the tenderness of it. When your arms settled loosely around his neck, Beomgyu did not hold you immediately afterward.

His eyes searched yours, the remaining space between you diminishing inch by inch under the sway of music. He simply wished for your willingness to meet his own, restrained only by the final thread of permission he sought from you before surrendering himself fully to the moment.

By then, you had begun to understand him far too well. 

Your smile was his answer — and Beomgyu’s breath visibly faltered at the sight of it.

His hands settled at your waist at last, and the movement carried such care that it nearly distracted you from the realization that he had drawn you closer. Amid the slow turning of dancers around you, your awareness became occupied by one curious detail. 

Beomgyu looked almost dazed by you. 

His thumb moved faintly against the fabric gathered at your waist while your fingers brushed against the hair at the nape of his neck, and for several precious moments neither of you spoke at all. Words would only diminish it. Slow dancing, wearing smiles of soft wonderment of two souls discovering, perhaps in a long, long while, how lovely it felt to be cherished without fear. 

By the time the sun had begun its gradual descent across the western hills, the jubilance of the festival no longer possessed the feverish exuberance that had greeted your arrival that morning. 

You spent the remaining time with Beomgyu visiting through dockside markets where fishermen shouted over one another beside crates of silver-scaled catches still glistening beneath the sun, and through narrow craftsmen rows crowded with pottery, embroidery, and tiny carved trinkets suspended from strings overhead. Eventually the clamour of it receded behind the two of you altogether.

The road drew the two of you away from the town’s centre, where sound gave way to open air and the press of bodies thinned into scattered footsteps along the edges of quieter lanes. Wild grass leaned in from either side of the path, and trees rose in loose clusters overhead, their branches shifting with the passing breeze. Beyond them stretched rolling fields bathed in molten gold, and farther still stood distant hills softened beneath a pale spring haze. 

You were content purely to walk beside one another while your footsteps scattered softly across the dirt road beneath.

"You know," you said, nudging a loose stone from the path with the tip of your shoe, "I was convinced this town was rather charming before today." 

The remark caught him, and he glanced toward you with a small furrow between his brows — genuinely concerned, turning the words over as though searching them for whatever had soured your opinion. “Before today?” he repeated. “That sounds suspiciously ominous.”

You merely continued walking.

“My lady,” he pressed, falling half a step closer, “have I somehow managed to diminish the reputation of this town within a single afternoon? That would be a devastating indictment of my abilities as a guide.”

A smile threatened at the corner of your mouth.

“I was biased,” you informed him with impeccable seriousness. “It appears considerably more charming when viewed beside you.” 

You had all the time to enjoy your success before it became plainly evident upon his face. Beomgyu laughed — which was a short, fractured sound and he turned his face partially away, rubbing the back of his neck while doing a remarkably poor job of concealing how flustered he was. 

"You," he said, still laughing beneath his breath, "live up to your reputation as a weaver of words, my lady." 

You had spent the better part of the day subjected to Choi Beomgyu's relentless talent for rendering you speechless. Witnessing the favour returned proved deeply gratifying. 

With the most earnest expression you could produce, said, "I meant it." 

He released a breath through a helpless smile as he looked briefly skyward in what appeared to be a wordless appeal for fortitude. 

"Thank you," you said, after a moment, "for showing me your world." 

Beomgyu lowered his gaze back to you, and his expression gentled almost imperceptibly. He let you talk instead of sharing his words.

“I only now realise that I never truly allowed myself to exist among these people during my visits here.” A faint laugh escaped you then, touched by self-awareness more than embarrassment. “I observed them endlessly. Their joys, their griefs, the indignities they endured—I carried all of it home and turned it into ink upon paper. Yet I remained apart from them all the while.”

The breeze swept loose strands of hair across your cheek. You tucked them back absentmindedly, turning toward him as you did. 

“Today felt different.” Your smile softened. “So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for bringing me here and teaching me how to live within moments such as these.”

“You say as if I accomplished a great feat,” he said at last, exhaling a faint laugh. “I merely wished to spend time with you. The fact that you enjoyed yourself already feels reward enough.” 

Your smile deepened at that, coaxing him to mirror it. He was so, so helpless. 

“How long have you been coming here?” you asked. “The people seem remarkably attached to you. That grandmother nearly pushed her own grandson aside to embrace you.”

A reluctant grin crossed his face. “I suspect she likes me more than her grandson.”

“Oh, she absolutely does.”

Looking at him stirred another thought within you. Beomgyu had only returned from his studies abroad the previous autumn. Barely months had elapsed since he first appeared within your world, and yet he moved through these streets with an affection so thoroughly at home in him that it seemed to predate his arrival entirely. You wondered whether this attachment had begun only recently or whether the inclination toward places such as these had lived within him far earlier than you realised.

“It truly has not been very long,” he admitted. “Do you remember when I told you I used to teach children?”

You nodded.

“After returning here, as you already know, I found society rather…” He paused briefly, searching for a charitable description before abandoning the attempt altogether. “Suffocating.” 

You let out an utterly unidentified sound — a snort — behind your palm before clearing your throat. With a lingering smile, you passed him a little, “Sorry.” 

“I knew you would understand, my like-minded ally.” The title rolled from his tongue with unconcealed pleasure. “One can only survive gentlemen reciting dreadful poetry and debating inheritance disputes for so many evenings before seeking refuge elsewhere.” 

You hummed, indulging him with a very serious nod. “So this became your refuge?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He glanced toward the distant fields. “I began spending time here whenever obligations allowed it. One visit became several. Eventually the people stopped treating me as an outsider and started forcing food into my hands whenever I appeared.”

“That explains breakfast.”

“You have not yet witnessed Mrs. Han during winter.”

“But how did you even find the time?” you asked in wonder, still smiling. “You tutored my brother, attended every social gathering the ladies insisted upon, and somehow still managed to build an entirely separate existence beyond all of it.”

At this, Beomgyu cast you a sidelong glance touched by boyish satisfaction.

“I had my ways.”

You slowed your steps before narrowing your eyes at him. “That sounds suspiciously evasive.”

“Does it?” His smile widened further. “I had hoped it sounded mysterious.” 

“You sound incriminating.”

Beomgyu laughed, lowering his head — and you found yourself thinking that perhaps no place in the world had ever suited Choi Beomgyu half so beautifully as this one.

The two of you had barely reached the narrower end of the path when an elderly shopkeeper peeked out halfway through the doorway of a cramped little bookshop. “Beomgyu? S’that you, son?” His spectacles slipped low along his nose as he called toward Beomgyu in relief. “Come look at this for me before I lose what remains of my eyesight.” 

Beomgyu glanced toward the worn pages being waved impatiently through the air before turning to you with an apologetic smile.

“I shall only be a moment.”

You looked past him toward the shaded area beside the shop where ivy climbed the old stone walls in thick cascades, the cobblestones dappled beneath the sway of overhanging branches. You decided staying here would serve you far better than following him. 

“Go ahead,” you said. “I will wait here.”

He studied you for another second regardless. He was entirely unwilling to depart without making certain you truly did not mind, before finally relenting and stepping into the shop at the old man’s urging.

Left alone, you wandered farther into the lane at a leisurely pace, fingers brushing lightly across the ivy as your gaze traveled absently across the sunlit road ahead. It was then that a fragment of conversation drifted toward you from farther beyond the bend.

“…found her body only days ago, they say.”

It caused a drop so sudden at the pit of your stomach that you stood motionless for a moment. Your attention honed instantly. 

Two older men stood down the adjoining path with baskets hanging from their arms, their voices subdued beneath the rustling of leaves. They seemed unaware of your presence.

“They found her near the riverside,” the first spoke again with a sigh heavy with age and sorrow. “Poor child vanished weeks ago only to return home dead.”

You moved nearer quickly, stopping beside the protruding stone wall of a nearby building.

“Aye,” the other replied gravelly. “And after all that, the physicians claim it was merely disease that took her.”

“Well, what else would it be? There were no signs of harm upon the body. Fever, perhaps.”

A missing girl.

No marks.

No explanation beyond illness.

These were the very details you remembered hearing from Taehyun before; women disappearing without trace only to be discovered afterward beneath circumstances too peculiar to dismiss outright. The resemblance fit too neatly beside the next for coincidence to feel entirely convincing. Could this girl have been one of the victims tied to the very matter Taehyun had been investigating? This could be your opportunity to uncover a lead. 

You remained where you were for another moment, listening carefully in hopes that one of the men might reveal further particulars worth remembering.

“You heard about Sol, did you not?" One of the men lowered his voice further, though not enough to escape your hearing. “She keeps insisting the physicians overlooked it. The girl has convinced herself her sister was murdered.”

The other shook his head with a weary sigh. “Grief has driven her toward madness, that is all. Folk do not think sensibly after burying their own blood.”

But footsteps approached behind you then, forcing you to turn away from listening further. Beomgyu emerged from the bookshop carrying faint traces of ink upon his fingers, entirely unaware of the tension gathering beneath your composure.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said upon reaching you. “It required more time than I anticipated.”

“It is quite alright,” you assured him seamlessly, offering him a small smile untouched by suspicion. Your gaze drifted briefly toward the men still standing conversing beneath the trees.

“Do you wish to head back home now?” he asked, earning your attention. 

“The cobblestone paths here are rather lovely,” you remarked lightly. “Would you mind walking through the alleys with me for a little while?”

Beomgyu followed your gaze down the path. He gave a little nod. “I could hardly refuse you after bringing you all this way.”

Unfortunately, by the time you guided Beomgyu toward the adjoining lane, the two elderly men had already drifted apart, each disappearing toward separate corners of the town until no trace of their conversation remained behind save for the unease now stirring within you. A faint disappointment settled across your thoughts at losing the trail so swiftly, though you still carried one valuable fragment away from the exchange.

Sol.

Your next venture into this town under borrowed anonymity would no longer concern manuscripts or observation. You would find this Sol yourself, and perhaps through her uncover more of the truth concealed beneath these strangely bloodless deaths. 

The subtle change in your bearing from being deep in thoughts did not escape Beomgyu. His hand found your elbow with a gentleness that made no demand of you, and his voice had dropped to match it. “Are you alright?”

The touch drew you from your reverie. You looked up at him, startled by how swiftly he had discerned the alteration within you, and inwardly reproached yourself for allowing your mind to wander so visibly in his presence. Of all things, the last thing you wished was for him to believe you had ceased enjoying the day after every ounce of care he had poured into it solely for your happiness. 

You released a breathless laugh and shook your head lightly. “I am positively alright,” you assured him. “I was merely thinking… I think I shall miss today rather terribly once it ends.”

“My lady.” Beomgyu ducked his chin, searching for your eyes. “I see no reason for remorse, then.”

You blinked. “No?”

“We can return together whenever you wish,” Beomgyu spoke in the same gentle cadence, lifting his hand to caress away a leaf stuck above your ear. “If you desire to see the town outside your work, I shall accompany you. If you wish for more dreadful coffee from my hands, I shall make it for you again. Whatever you ask of me, I will do it.” 

His words were sobering. It swept aside the earlier unrest within your thoughts so completely that for several moments you could only look at him in silence, overcome by the simple enormity of being regarded with such wholehearted devotion. 

“I know,” you murmured, not shying away from his touch. Your gaze fell briefly from his face afterward, though the smile remained. “I think…”

“Yes, my lady?”

A small breath escaped you. “I like the word together when it belongs to you and me.”

Beomgyu felt the words hit him somewhere with no name for it. Every yearning thought he had spent months concealing now surged violently beneath his ribs, flooding through him until even the tips of his fingers ached with it. Your name filled his mind entirely; he was choked with tenderness for you and there existed no room for anything beyond you.

You.

Always you.

He stopped walking so abruptly that you nearly collided against him before catching yourself, your brows lifting in surprise at the sight of him standing utterly motionless in the middle of the lane. The breeze stirred through the branches overhead, scattering fractured light across his face, yet Beomgyu scarcely appeared aware of the world surrounding him anymore. 

Your name slipped from his lips in a voice touched by reverence so naked that it stole the breath from your lungs little by little. 

His hand twitched faintly at his side before curling inward upon itself. He was just about to speak —

— and then your attention darted past his shoulder.

Every trace of warmth vanished from your expression.

At the far end of the lane, two mounted officers stood beside a flower-lined storefront engaged in conversation with the shopkeeper stationed outside. The sight itself should not have troubled you. Law officers wandering the town warranted no alarm.

But one of the men was none other than Kang Taehyun.

Your cousin sat scarcely twenty yards away from you. He had the exact capability of dismantling every fragile layer of anonymity surrounding the two of you within seconds if his gaze merely wandered in your direction.

You cursed under your breath.

The sheer agitation you showed was so wholly unlike anything Beomgyu had witnessed from you throughout the day, that it alerted him almost right away. He followed your gaze and turned around in search of the cause of your distress. Instinctively at the same time, he stepped before you to shield you from whatever danger he thought you sensed. 

It took him only a few seconds to understand why you reacted that way.

“We need to hide,” you said quickly, pulse thundering hard enough to make your voice uneven. 

It was so unlike you to have your rational thoughts abandon you under pressure. Whenever complications arose, you were the person others relied upon to remain composed. This, however, was a catastrophe of an entirely different nature. The consequences of being discovered here were not danger, scandal, or social disgrace.

The consequences were Taehyun's interrogation method. 

Endless questions.

Questions layered upon questions until one felt tempted to fling oneself into the nearest river simply to escape them. Because there existed no force upon earth more relentless than Kang Taehyun after discovering information he believed himself entitled to know. 

"Hide?" Beomgyu repeated, looking a bit mortified.

"Yes, hide." Your fingers closed around his wrist. “If Taehyun sees us here, I shall never hear the end of it. Do you understand how many questions he will ask? How many conclusions he will draw? I refuse to endure that conversation.”

A reluctant smile threatened the corner of Beomgyu's mouth. The urgency written across your face prevented it. You were entirely serious.

Turning sharply, you surveyed the opposite side of the lane, only for fresh frustration to seize you. The road stretched far too openly ahead, stripped of any meaningful cover, and fleeing now would draw precisely the notice you wished to avoid. They possessed a considerable advantage with their horses over fleeing pedestrians besides. It would take very little for Taehyun to notice. 

You looked back at your cousin’s direction again and saw that they exchanged farewells with the shop owner.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." 

There was no longer time to weigh possibilities, nor to devise an elegant solution. Acting upon pure instinct, you seized Beomgyu by the arm and pulled him after you, your eyes catching upon a narrow passage concealed behind several wine barrels and a haphazard stack of wooden crates wedged between adjoining houses.

Cramped stone walls pressed inward on either side while creeping ivy descended from above in tangled curtains, swallowing the street's brightness beneath a canopy of green. What had appeared from the street to be a convenient refuge revealed itself, upon closer acquaintance, to be hardly large enough for two people to occupy comfortably.

Unfortunately, you discovered this only after dragging him into it.

Beomgyu stumbled after you with scarcely enough room to regain his footing, and in the same breath his hand braced the wall behind your head to prevent the both of you from colliding with the stone. The action happened so swiftly that neither of you possessed the opportunity to reconsider it, and when the rush of movement finally settled, there existed no worthy space between your bodies. 

The front of your dress brushed against his shirt with every breath you drew. Even the slight rise and fall of his chest had become impossible to ignore within such constrained quarters that only seemed to shrink with every passing heartbeat. His hand still remained trapped within your grasp, and somewhere amidst your frantic concern over Taehyun, you failed to notice what that proximity was doing to the poor man before you. 

Beomgyu felt perilously close to losing every sensible thought he had ever possessed.

Throughout the course of the day there had been stolen moments he had treasured beyond reason. Even during the dance you had stood close enough for him to count the gold flecks hidden within your eyes and when he had held your waist as you swayed, he believed he would return home convinced no greater trial could possibly exist than that. 

What extraordinary arrogance. 

That had been entirely nothing compared to this. 

This — with your breath warm where it grazed the open collar of his shirt and strands of hair displaced by the hurried retreat still framing your features in gentle disarray. He was a gentleman and he possessed honour to act with propriety regardless of circumstance — but the smell of jasmine reached him.

It had always been jasmine, that fragrance which clung to you and which had tormented him for days on more than one previous occasion, proving sufficiently disastrous for his peace of mind. He believed himself afflicted already. Now he understood he had merely been receiving warnings.

In this cramped plae with no air between you worth speaking of, it was not a threat so much as an accomplished siege. It overwhelmed him entirely, filled every corner of his senses until he could not think past it, could not locate the edges of his own good judgement through the dizzy, lightheaded daze of it. His honour, he noted distantly, was hanging upon a very single and very insufficient thread. 

Outside the alley, hoofbeats sounded against cobblestone. 

Both of you stilled instantly. 

Beomgyu took advantage of that opportunity to look over his shoulder toward the opening while keeping himself wholly before you, shielding you from view beneath the cover of his body and shadow. But you caught his face in both your hands before he could complete the motion. 

It brought him back to you entirely. Face to face, so close that the dim light caught the precise arrangement of his features and held them there before you with an intimacy so abrupt that the air went out of your lungs. You realised, in the same instant he did, what you had done. The nearness left no refuge from the intensity gathering within his gaze now. Your hands dropped from his face at once and you turned your eyes away. 

Beomgyu remained frozen exactly where your hands had placed him, looking down at you and — oh, you were divine — that was the only word his mind produced and it produced it with damning conviction, divine in the half-dark with ivy shadows crossing your face and your eyes averted and your breath still uneven against his throat. 

He could not look away. 

He needed to look away.

"I must apologise," you whispered, your eyes still carefully directed elsewhere. "I had to act quickly." 

His gaze dropped to your lips as you spoke. It was involuntary and it was catastrophic and he wrenched his eyes heavenward with an exhale that did not come out nearly as collected as he required it to. He stayed there, jaw tight, staring upward at the tangle of leaves and the narrow strip of sky beyond it. 

From this distance — and it was not a distance, it was nothing, it was the mere suggestion of space between two people — anything could happen if any of you just leaned in a bit. His thoughts were getting out of hand and he exhaled again, shakily, and continued to look at anything that was not you. His heart was beating wildly.

"No need to be nervous," you said softly, and he heard the effort in it — heard that you were furnishing words into the silence because the silence had become a living thing between you and required managing. "My brother is not so frightening as all that." 

They were empty words and rang hollow even to your own ears. Because it was not your brother that had reduced your thoughts to scattered, ungovernable things. It was the warmth of him — so deeply comforting that you feared you were about to be addicted to it. How thoroughly you already wished to. 

"Yes, my lady," Beomgyu said, and his voice had abandoned him almost entirely. 

He closed his eyes. Kept them closed for a breath, and then another, and then opened them and looked down at you and did what he had to do — he took your hand from where it had come to rest against his chest, and with painstaking care brought it down to your side and held it there.

He could not bear your touch upon him right now. The jasmine was already more than sufficient to unravel what remained of every sensible intention, and your hand against his chest was a trial he had not the resources to endure. 

In spite of all the warnings his better judgement could produce, Beomgyu leaned forward. 

Your eyes went wide and every word you had been reaching for dissolved entirely. You could not move, watching him close the distance between you with an expression so stripped of its usual composure that you barely recognised it — 

— then you felt the whisper of his hair against your cheek, the barely-there graze of it, and the eventual weight of his forehead coming to rest upon your shoulder. 

You went entirely still beneath him. The exhale that left you was entirely involuntary. 

He was breathing in shallow increments, not even daring to inhale a chestful of your scent. The hand he had braced against the wall beside your head curled tighter against the stone. The solidity of it was the only negotiation available to him. 

Another set of hoofbeats sounded beyond the alley entrance. 

"Are you—" you began, keeping your voice to barely a breath of sound. "Is it the confined space? Is it too much?" 

His fingers found your lips before you could draw another word. The touch was feather-light, the tips of his fingers resting against your mouth with a gentleness that managed nonetheless to silence you. He still had not lifted his head from your shoulder. 

"Please," he said. Then, as though the word alone had not sufficiently conveyed the full measure of what he was asking — "Just allow me this. Only a moment." 

You stood perfectly motionless there in the shdaows and did not speak, because there was nothing in you that wished to deny him. The pressure of his fingers against your lips vanished shortly thereafter, hand falling to his side with a limpness like some bones have fallen off from their places. 

From beyond the alley came Taehyun's voice as he issued instructions to the officer accompanying him. But within the shelter of barrels and tangled greenery, you heard only Beomgyu's breathing and it began to eclipse everything else. One bewildering thought, however, continued to circle through your mind.

How, precisely, had you managed to find yourself here?

With your cousin only streets away, your heart racing for reasons that had very little to do with being discovered, and Choi Beomgyu hiding his face against your shoulder as though the mere sight of you had become too much for him to bear. In a way, you had brought this upon yourself. If only you had thought of a better solution, you wouldn’t have put yourself in this position — or him.

Time passed in a strange haze thereafter. The voices outside gradually diminished, until the sound of departing horses finally carried through the lane and dissolved into the broader noise of the town. 

Beomgyu remained where he was for another fleeting while, gathering whatever composure had abandoned him, before at last drawing back and lifting his head.

Colour had risen high across his face. He seemed wholly incapable of meeting your gaze, choosing instead to stare at a weathered crate whose existence suddenly seemed to fascinate him greatly.

“I believe,” he said eventually, clearing his throat, “your cousin has departed.”

You looked toward the mouth of the passage before returning your attention to him. Your lips curved despite yourself.

“How fortunate for us.”

“Quite.”

Your entire body still carried the imprint of his nearness; the heat of him remained beneath your skin, refusing to relinquish its hold no matter how fiercely you attempted to reclaim your composure. Some traitorous part of you noted the precise distance between your hand and his, seized by an almost absurd desire to reach for it and close the space between you again.

But Beomgyu still looked dazed — whatever battle had transpired within him had plainly not concluded. For that reason alone, you thought better of your own desires for his sake, and kept your hands where they were. 

“We should leave,” you said at last.

Beomgyu nodded immediately, perhaps a shade too quickly.

He emerged first, casting a glance along the lane to ensure the way ahead remained clear. Only when he gave a small nod did you step out from the shadows. You felt the spring breeze greet you and renewed the air in your lungs, drying the sweat that had clung to your skin. 

Somewhere overhead, the wind moved through newly awakened branches and sent a scattering of petals adrift across the afternoon. You followed their descent before your gaze returned to the man standing before you, who had not moved far, who stood at the edge of the road with the breeze moving through his hair and the same dazed quality still present in his eyes when they met yours. 

Though you could not have named the exact moment it happened, winter no longer seemed capable of reaching you.

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

Taglist; @hoefororeo @i-like-to-read-at-4am @caratcakemoa @90steele @cen116 @i-am-not-dal @bamgeutori @nanilis @sunooqvrlsx @izzyy-recs @yeoningz @whatblop @beommieternity @xodidarks @bamgeutori @bamtoriui @lostgirlysstuff @younbeanz @melmochii @choke-on-flowerz @frankghgr @immelissaaa @luvgyutae @brrytears @beomgyusluver @soobabby @cherr4es @dilfboysgirly @fancypeacepersona @y2kgyu @bryxwdz @kkyubear @vicurious28 @ru-lin

[yystarz]

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

[yystarz]

guess who got sick🫩

[yystarz]

winter gardens + museum date with @yvampyr <3

[yystarz]

idk man... just soobin these days... he too sexy to be showing himself off.. he should be in my room...or in me-

[zerocoded]

DRUNK BOYF DUTIES !

Soobin tries to play it cool. He straightens up, runs his long fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear with exaggerated gentleness. “I’m being very normal,” he declares, voice still slurred. You wish you could tell him that half of his body weight was on top of you, but you don't have the heart to do so when he was being so cute and hot at the same time.

WARNINGS ◦ drinking ◦ alcohol consumption ◦ sfw ◦ i mentioned soobin's height a thousand times i'm sorry ◦ drunk soobin and other txt members ◦ pretty light read

1,4O9 ━━━━━ drabble soobin x reader

۶ৎ 𝓜 , i need this man in a very unhealthy way. my number one husband right here guys. need him to birth my kids or summ. mid writing as always bye. we made a part two of this work, check it here.

━━━━━ read on ao3

The low hum of laughter fills the private dining room, plates half-cleared and soju bottles scattered like fallen soldiers. Comeback promotions are finally over, and tonight is the first real breather everyone’s had in months. You’re pleasantly tipsy, cheeks warm, but sober enough to play caretaker. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, is gone.

Soobin is slumped against you, all six-foot-something of broad, warm muscle. His long legs are tangled with yours under the table, one big hand curled possessively around your thigh like he might float away if he lets go. His neck is fully exposed where the collar of his oversized button-up has slipped open—flushed deep pink all the way down to his collarbones, the color spreading beautifully across his chest. Every time he laughs, that pretty red deepens.

“Baby,” he whines right against your ear, voice low and syrupy, breath hot. His lips brush the shell of your ear on purpose. “You’re not even looking at me. I did so good this comeback… don’t I deserve all your attention?”

You bite back a smile, stroking his fluffy hair. “You’re drunk, Soob.”

“Am not,” he lies, then immediately ruins it by nuzzling into your neck with a pathetic little sound. His drunk eyes—half-lidded, sparkling, unfairly hot—find yours when he pulls back just enough to wriggle his eyebrows at you. The effect is devastating. That lazy, lopsided smile of his makes your stomach flip even after years together.

Across the table, Taehyun snorts into his water. “Hyung, you’re so gone. You just tried to feed Y/N a piece of lettuce with your fingers. You know she hates it.”

The whole table erupts—Beomgyu cackling loudest, Kai screaming something you can't comprehend, Yeonjun recording on his phone with zero shame. Even the staff friends who’ve known you all forever are trying to make a point.

Soobin tries to play it cool. He straightens up (as much as a giant clingy man can), runs his long fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear with exaggerated gentleness. “I’m being very normal,” he declares, voice still slurred. Then he ruins it again by leaning his full weight on you, chin on your shoulder, whispering hotly, “You smell so good… wanna go home and cuddle. Or… not just cuddle.” He wriggles his eyebrows again, playful and shameless.

You laugh, cupping his burning cheek. God, he’s so fine like this—tall frame loose and relaxed, broad shoulders brushing yours, that exposed flushed neck begging to be kissed, drunk eyes full of open adoration. Years of dating him and he still makes your heart race like the first time.

Taehyun leans over, poking Soobin’s arm. “Hyung, blink twice if she needs to carry you out.”

Soobin blinks once, slowly, then twice while staring straight at you with the hottest, dumbest smile you’ve ever seen.

The energy is starting to wind down, the warm glow of the hanging lanterns casting soft amber light over the table. Empty soju bottles glint beside half-eaten side dishes, and the low chatter of the staff friends mixes with the distant hum of the restaurant’s playlist.

You stroke his hair again. “You okay, baby? Want some water?”

“Mmm… yeah,” he mumbles, but instead of reaching for the glass, he picks up the last bit of his soju, takes two slow, deliberate sips like he’s trying to prove he can still function. The liquid makes his already flushed neck and chest look even warmer under the low lighting. He sets the glass down with careful focus, then goes surprisingly quiet.

His big body is still pressed against yours, one arm draped heavily around your waist, but the playful wriggling stops. You can tell he’s concentrating hard—eyelids heavy, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, jaw set like he’s personally fighting off sleep just to stay here with you a little longer. The ambient glow from the paper lanterns paints golden highlights across his sharp jawline and the soft curve of his lips. His broad chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, the open collar of his shirt slipping even lower, revealing more of that pretty flushed skin.

You keep stealing glances at him, unable to look away. He catches you every time. Each time your eyes meet, a small, sleepy smile tugs at his mouth, deep dimples carving into his cheeks like they were made just for you.

“You’re staring,” he whispers after a while, voice lower now, a little rough around the edges. He leans in closer, nose brushing your temple. “Am I that handsome when I’m drunk?”

“Insanely,” you admit, brushing your thumb over one of his dimples. “But you’re also about to pass out on me.”

“Am not…” he lies softly, then chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. The table has mostly quieted, everyone lost in their own sleepy conversations, fairy lights twinkling overhead like tiny stars. Soobin’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your side, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket.

After another minute of comfortable silence, he straightens up just enough to look around the table, then back at you. His dimples flash again as he smiles, slow and sweet. “You want anything else, love? Dessert? More water? Anything…” He pauses, blinking slowly like the words are taking extra effort. "I'm gonna go pay, ok?"

You melt a little, heart squeezing at how hard he’s trying to be coherent and responsible even while clearly fighting sleep. “I’m good, Soob. We can head home.”

He nods, dimples deepening as he pulls you closer one last time, pressing a lingering, slightly clumsy kiss to your cheek. "Be right back."

You watch him rise, all tall and broad and still a little unsteady, that flushed neck catching the warm lantern light as he buttons his collar with clumsy fingers. The shift hits you instantly— the second he decides it’s time to handle things, the whiny, clingy drunk melts away and your responsible boyfriend clicks back into place. It’s the same Soobin who led the group through months of brutal promotions without complaint, the one who always makes sure everyone eats, rests, and gets home safe.

He stands there for a second, scanning the table with hazy but focused eyes, mentally counting bottles and plates like he’s checking for anything forgotten. His big hand rests on the back of your chair for balance, thumb brushing your shoulder once, gently, before he steps away.

Yeonjun notices immediately. With a small, knowing smirk, the older boy slips out of his seat and follows Soobin toward the counter without a word. You can’t help but smile as you watch them from afar. Soobin is already pulling out his card, insisting in that soft, slurry voice that tonight’s on him—“No, hyung, I got it. You all worked hard too…”—while Yeonjun quietly argues back, trying to split it anyway. Their voices are low, the exchange fond and familiar, like two older brothers bickering over who gets to treat the kids. It’s so cute you almost laugh out loud.

The soft amber glow of the restaurant wraps around them, fairy lights twinkling overhead, the quiet clink of glasses and low chatter from the remaining staff friends filling the warm air. Soobin towers over everyone even when swaying slightly, his broad shoulders filling out that half-unbuttoned shirt, cheeks and neck still beautifully pink. He’s fighting sleep so hard for this one last responsible act, and it makes your chest ache with affection.

You love this side of him more than anything—the quiet leader, the attentive one who acts like a true father figure to the boys even when he’s barely standing. He remembers the little things no one else does. He carries the weight without ever making it feel heavy. After years together, it still makes your heart flutter: how he can go from playful, whiny, and shamelessly clingy to this—steady, caring, and quietly in control—in the span of a heartbeat.

Eventually they come back, Soobin looking victorious but sleepy, Yeonjun rolling his eyes fondly behind him. Your boyfriend immediately returns to you, sliding back into his seat and draping his long arm around your shoulders like it’s the only place he belongs.

“Done,” he murmurs against your temple, voice soft and proud. “Ready to go home now?"

You lean into his warmth, breathing in his familiar scent mixed with soju and the faint restaurant aroma. “Yeah, Soob. Let’s go home."

[yystarz]

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨🥴😮‍💨😮‍💨need that

[yystarz]

museum date, museum date

museum date, winter gardens date, coffee date, dinner date😛😛

[yvampyr]

BRO dude im so excited wdym you were six mins away from me all this time.

[yystarz]

funniest thing that happened today😂😂

[yystarz]

museum date, museum date

museum date, winter gardens date, coffee date, dinner date😛😛

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 4

well, i thought i could resist you, but something in me just can’t help but insist to blur the lines just one last time /// sleep token, dangerous

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, baaaaad mutual pining & intense yearning, jealous!jjun, somewhat evil!tyun (he has good intentions though), strong language, suggestive themes, detailed descriptions of smoking, excessive drinking, helpless flirting, some angst to spice things up

words: 15k (rip)

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 4 AM

Yeonjun couldn’t sleep. His head felt like a cutlery drawer, rattling every time he rolled onto his other side, steel scraping steel.

Did it hurt the knives, he wondered at around four in the morning, to brush against other knives?

By six, he must’ve drifted off for a good twenty minutes, until a faint rustling near the windows woke him again. He blinked blearily just in time to catch Violet’s silhouette slipping under the heavy black curtains.

She hopped onto the windowsill and sat down in front of the only window in the flat that actually opened. It didn’t even look it; the frame had been caked in thick layers of white paint. Only the latch gave it away – a tiny brass catch, half-hidden beneath the lower frame in the far left corner, noticeable only by the peeling paint around it.

He hadn’t realised what the latch was for until you pointed it out to him that day on the stairs. Apparently, Violet had watched him work it once and memorised it.

She settled on the sill, her backside shoving the curtains aside. A narrow slit opened—he suspected he might’ve hung the drapes upside down—and through it, Yeonjun could make out the sharp outline of her whiskers against the pale light outside.

He lay still and watched.

With the precision of a surgeon, Violet slipped a paw into the far corner. Her whiskers twitched.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Nothing happened for a while.

Yeonjun frowned into the darkness.

Surely, he thought, she didn’t have the strength to move the latch. The thing was stiff even for him some mornings. It might’ve meant that the window had been opening on its own every day, then, or—

The brass catch jerked sideways with a tiny click.

The window frame loosened immediately.

Yeonjun stared.

Violet rose onto her hind legs and pressed her front paws against the bottom of the window, leaning her full weight forward. She was small—plump and very round, yes, but so small. Even if she’d mastered the latch, she shouldn’t have been capable of pushing the window open.

The frame creaked an inch upwards.

“Violet,” Yeonjun warned.

The cat turned, shooting him a look of profound irritation, like a single mother of five on her third consecutive night shift: don’t start with me right now, boy. Then she turned back and kept pushing.

The window scraped open just enough for her to squeeze onto the fire escape. Her back paws scrabbled briefly against the sill before disappearing outside.

Yeonjun stared, unblinking, for another minute.

Honestly, he should’ve used Violet to fight crime. Or rob banks.

Instead, he listened to the faint rhythm of her paws on the metal stairs as she climbed the fire escape towards your flat.

Upstairs, you dreamt that you were driving Reina’s old Honda.

The steering wheel thrummed in your hands as you drove along a narrow, two-lane road. The car rattled at higher speeds, and something in the dashboard buzzed as though you’d trapped a bee behind there somewhere, but it remained reliable as always.

The asphalt glistened; it must’ve rained recently. Now that you thought of it, you could almost smell the moisture in the air.

A bright blue car sped past, overtaking you.

You barely registered it.

Then, a few minutes later, the same blue car appeared again, passing you from the opposite direction.

Sunlight flashed against the windscreen, obscuring the driver’s face. The car was unfamiliar, yet you felt strangely worried that this was the last time you’d see it. You hoped it wouldn’t be.

You lowered the sun visor. Ahead, the road curved sharply left, and the car groaned as you turned the wheel.

For a while, you drove alone.

Soon, you spotted the blue car again. It was parked on the side of the road near a lake to your right, the hazard lights blinking lazily in the sunlight.

You pulled onto the gravel beside it, relieved.

As you stepped out of the Honda, you realised you were suddenly standing in the woods; the roadside was surrounded by trees.

Chestnuts, you thought at first. Then you narrowed your eyes.

Oaks.

You approached the blue car. The driver’s door hung open, but there was no one inside.

As you walked closer to the shore, past the trees, you saw a man sitting on the rocks in the shallows, sleeves rolled to his elbows, staring across the lake. This was the driver, you knew. You had to check on him.

You crept towards him. Your feet—why weren’t you wearing shoes?—slipped on the wet stones. The trees around you vanished.

The man turned—and the sound of something creaking jolted you awake.

Your eyes snapped open to the darkness of your room. For a disorienting moment, the dream clung to you: you could still hear the commotion of Reina’s old car, still smell the rain.

Then you heard Violet squeezing through the narrow opening in the window, right on schedule. She landed silently on the floor and padded toward the living room, careful, as though trying not to wake you.

The bedroom door creaked when her hind leg brushed against it.

Violet froze.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to spook her.

Silence. Then, the quiet patter of her paws fading into the living room.

Sighing, you rolled over, the sheets tangling around your legs. You reached blindly for your phone on the cardboard boxes by the bed. The screen flared to maximum brightness. Groaning, you squeezed one eye shut and tried to enter your PIN; Face ID refused to recognise you in the dim light.

Then you opened both eyes again.

Yeonjun, you realised, had been the driver of the blue car in your dream.

How strange.

You needed to text him, but yesterday’s conversation still lingered somewhere at the back of your mind. Just thinking about talking to him again made you feel like you’d swallowed something dense.

You pushed yourself onto your elbows, inhaled once, and opened his contact.

YOU [6:59 AM] violet’s here she’s welcome to stay but ive got to leave at 4

You’d barely lowered the phone before it buzzed against your palm.

YEONJUN [7 AM] thanks i’ll pick her up before you leave

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the chat on your screen.

You stared at it for a second, then set your phone down beside the pillow and climbed out of bed. A draft blew through the open window. You pushed it shut and headed into the kitchen to refill Violet’s water bowl.

The moment you appeared through the doorway, Violet abandoned her position by the curtains and wound herself around your legs instead, searching for entertainment. Her tail got caught beneath the hem of your pyjama bottoms, hitching the fabric upwards.

You knelt to scratch under her chin. Her purr vibrated against your palm.

“Let’s see if we can get some light in here for you, yeah?” you said, standing again.

Still half-asleep, you filled the bowl and went to the window. The curtains dragged heavily along the rail when you pulled them open.

It was a dreary, overcast morning outside. The building across the street looked even more muted than usual under the grey clouds.

Violet approached the window. She poked it with her nose, puzzled by the lack of sunlight, then glanced back at you.

“S’the best I can do, little one,” you said. “Cloudy day today.”

She replied with a small, resigned meow and turned back towards the window. A moment later, the faint reflections dancing across the glass seem to win her over.

You left her nestled between your flowerpots and started your morning.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 3:45 PM

Fifteen minutes before you needed to leave, you stood in front of the mirror by the bathroom door, holding your breath as you misted setting spray across your face. It smelled oddly of hairspray.

The dress you’d bought for tonight was sleeveless and blue. Beaded detail ran along the slit—it had already left glitter scattered across your thigh.

When you first saw the dress in the shop last week with Reina, it reminded you of the photograph your grandparents kept on the mantelpiece in their living room. In it, your mother was posing with her date before their school dance. She wore a dark blue dress—sleeveless—and had her hair braided half up. She was smiling.

It was your favourite picture of her.

You’d spent the morning thinking about it while you pinned the braided sections of your hair back. The curled ends now rested across your collarbones.

You leaned closer to inspect your mascara and caught the edge of a price tag peeking from the side seam of the dress.

“Shit—”

The doorbell rang.

Startled slightly by the sound, you tightened your fingers around the plastic of the tag and ripped it clean off the seam. The edge nipped your palm. Hissing, you shook your hand once and dropped the tag into the bin by the kitchen island.

Behind you, Violet sat primly on the back of the sofa, licking her paw, as though she, too, was getting ready for Reina and Soobin’s engagement party.

“Got a feeling that’s for you, baby,” you said, nodding towards the door. “Come on.”

Violet chirped and jumped down.

She discovered the hem of your dress just as you opened the door. Her claws snagged in the fabric, catching and releasing the blue material with increasing enthusiasm.

Yeonjun stood on the doorstep.

He opened his mouth—and closed it right after.

All he registered, initially, was the deep blue of your dress. Then the ruched fabric at the waist and the small cutouts on both sides of your midriff.

Then the rest of his thoughts abandoned him to seek employment elsewhere.

You bent down before Violet could shred the hem. She resisted your hands, twisting in place. When you gathered the ends of the dress, she leapt back and wiggled her behind ominously, her pupils blown wide.

“You like the dress, baby?” you murmured, scooping her up before she could launch herself at you. She looked mildly startled at being lifted, but not especially offended. “Come on, then.”

Yeonjun thought he liked the dress.

Although, admittedly, he could’ve slept better if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of your thigh through the slit when you bent down. He suddenly felt as though he ought to sit down and have a bottle of water. Perhaps two bottles.

“Hi,” you said. “You alright?”

Your voice shifted slightly, and he realised that you weren’t speaking to the cat this time.

With all the grace and composure he could muster, he said, “I—uh—it would—I mean, yes. Yeah. I’ll be off, then.”

He pivoted sharply towards the stairwell.

You blinked after him, fingers still running down Violet’s spine.

“And Violet?” you called.

Yeonjun stopped dead.

“Yes!” he said, whirling around before he could fully register the heat climbing up the back of his neck. “Of course. I’ll be off with Violet. I—we will be off together.”

He gathered the cat, careful not to brush your hands in the process. At this point, he was convinced that any skin contact would finish him on the spot.

You stepped back.

He dared a glance at you.

You were looking down now, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your hips.

The sunflowers, he noted, were still on your kitchen island beside you, bright yellow and offensively alive. He stared at them, trying to work out who else could’ve got them for you.

It was still just this one bouquet in any case, as much as it irked him.

He’d got you fourteen.

You were surprised to find him still standing on your doorstep when you looked up.

“Later, then,” you said, a little awkward.

Yeonjun blinked, snapping back to awareness.

“Right,” he said. “Later.”

He escaped down the stairs.

Once the door of your flat clicked shut behind him, he let out a breath that seemed to rattle all the way through him.

Violet meowed in his arms. He could tell she knew he’d embarrassed himself.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he warned as soon as he unlocked his door. He tapped gently between her ears before scratching under her chin. “M’going to have a very, very long night tonight. I need your support.”

Violet, when properly motivated, offered excellent support.

Today, however, she felt strongly motivated to do three things exactly: use her litter box, demolish half a pouch of tuna in her bowl, and fall asleep directly on Yeonjun’s favourite pillow on his bed.

Yeonjun spent a solid hour trying to get her interest back; no luck.

Now he stood alone in his bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror under the bulb overhead. His hands shook as he attempted to tie his tie. The knot collapsed again.

It had been a long time since he’d needed to do this.

The last time, you’d stood in front of him. You’d been wearing blue too, though the colour had been lighter then. Your fingers had been warm against his throat as you fixed the tie for him, tightening the knot with one precise tug. He remembered the concentration on your face, the brush of your knuckles under his jaw.

He stared at his reflection for another moment.

Had that been the beginning of the end, then? Dinner with his parents, his crashed car. Had he given you even one happy memory in those last few days?

He yanked his tie off and threw it onto the counter beside the sink.

Fuck it, then.

He’d go without one.

What did it matter anyway?

He’d show up at the restaurant, congratulate Soobin and Reina, smile when appropriate. Then he’d drink until he couldn’t recognise himself in any mirror anymore.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 7:30 PM

By the time Yeonjun arrived at the restaurant, everyone else was already there.

If he’d stopped to think about it, he might’ve found the sight endearing: the entire group of friends, formed years ago in university auditoriums and dormitories, still turning up for one another like this. Some of the other guests, he recognised, Soobin had known since kindergarten.

It was loud and very crowded here.

His mind was elsewhere.

He bumped into Soobin’s parents right by the door; his mother had earrings the size of small planets. They wanted to know how his family was doing.

“Fine, I expect,” he said, and walked off before they could ask what he meant. He hoped they’d assume he was drunk.

The restaurant had been decorated in excess, not unlike a royal wedding: white and gold everywhere, with balloons on the ceiling, on the walls, and stuck to the back of Kai’s head as Taehyun attempted to explain that hairspray was supposed to reduce static. There were enough flowers here that Yeonjun had heard Beomgyu sneezing from the street outside.

He saw you right away.

You stood near the main table in the centre of the room in your blue dress, one arm wrapped loosely around Reina’s shoulders. Nara stood opposite you, gesticulating wildly as she spoke, her bracelets flashing under the lights.

Then Soobin arrived and leaned over to murmur something into Reina’s ear. She laughed and pulled back from you with a quick wave.

Smiling softly, you turned to watch them go.

Yeonjun stared at that smile right up until he tripped over a loose ribbon trailing from the enormous banner stretched across the wall: REINA and SOOBIN 2027.

“Sorry,” he muttered to the approaching waiter, who bent to fix the ribbon.

On instinct, Yeonjun grabbed two champagne flutes from the tray in the waiter’s hands. Without hesitation, he downed the first one, dropped it back on the tray, and set off towards you and Nara with the second still in hand.

He figured he’d come up with something intelligent to say on the walk over.

Unfortunately, the walk was very short.

“Hi,” was the best he could do. “Where’re the betrothed?”

Nara, deducing the question wasn’t meant for her, took a sip of her champagne.

You turned towards him.

His hair was slicked back, but several dark strands had already escaped the gel and fallen over his forehead. He wore a black suit with a white shirt underneath. The buttons were golden.

Your gaze dropped, uninvited, to the exposed line of his neck. He wasn’t wearing a tie.

“Appetiser emergency,” you said, turning back ahead. “Something’s wrong with the salmon.”

“Ah,” Yeonjun said.

You were almost exactly his height in your heels. He became acutely aware of having a throat.

He wondered if he knew any fun facts about salmon. It wasn’t naturally pink; would that help the conversation? Also, was salmon the fish that could leap two meters out of water or was that—oh God, he was dying.

“W-wanted to apologise for being late,” he added, “but guess that’ll have to wait, then.”

“Hmm.” Nara smiled into her glass. “Bold of you to assume they even noticed you weren’t here.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Yeonjun glanced at you and smiled despite the jab.

Good choice, then, not going with the salmon facts.

“Still,” he said, draining the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “S’rude of me. D’you need me to get you another drink?”

You didn’t immediately process the offer. Nara tilted her head meaningfully towards the empty flute in your hand, a knowing grin on her lips.

“Oh.” You rotated the stem of the glass between your fingers. “No. I’ve got it.”

You smiled at Nara and stepped away towards the bar.

It took Yeonjun a few seconds to realise you meant you’d go and get another drink right this instant, and not in a moment. He watched you walk away and tried to decide what a decent waiting time was before he could casually turn up next to you again.

Nara asked him something.

He didn’t hear a word and answered with a noncommittal grunt.

Guests crowded around him, and Nara, bored now, walked away to join them, momentarily blocking his view. He lost sight of you.

Just as something uneasy began to tighten in his stomach, he spotted your blue dress again near the bar by the far wall.

“You’re here!”

Yeonjun flinched at the clap on his shoulder and turned around.

Soobin and Reina stood behind him, both already flushed from champagne, their eyes sparkling. Reflections from the hanging lights flickered in Reina’s golden earrings every time she moved her head. Soobin, noticeably, couldn’t look away from her pink dress for more than two seconds at a time.

Just looking at them made Yeonjun remember how to smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, giving them each a nod. “Congratulations, guys. The place looks beautiful.”

Over the last year, Reina had stopped looking at him like she might one day strangle him with her bare hands. For a while, she hadn’t looked at him at all.

Tonight, she smiled and lifted her glass slightly in acknowledgement.

“Thanks, man,” Soobin replied, smacking his shoulder again.

Yeonjun nodded awkwardly. He wanted to offer a more heartfelt sentiment for the occasion, but couldn’t stop thinking about salmon.

“You find the drinks alright?” Soobin asked.

Automatically, Yeonjun glanced towards the bar.

You were still there.

“Not yet,” he said, slipping the empty flute behind his back. “Thought I’d get one now, actually.”

“Of course,” Soobin said easily. The room was delightfully fuzzy around him. He loved champagne. “Enjoy yourself.”

Nodding again, Yeonjun disappeared back into the moving crowd.

Reina watched him leave, the corner of her mouth twitching.

She’d seen you by the bar.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 8 PM

As the first round of appetisers began circulating through the restaurant—small, buttery things topped with salmon and herbs that you and Reina had taste-tested earlier that afternoon—people drifted back to their tables.

Conversations mellowed into an expectant hum; the instrumental music on the speakers quieted.

It was time for the toasts.

Naturally, this took ages.

Everyone here had known each other too long to tell a short story. Every memory required context, three unrelated anecdotes, and at least one interruption from another table.

Reina and Soobin’s parents being here tempered some of the wilder tales, although not by much. Reina’s father, already out of his jacket, cheeks rosy from champagne, laughed louder than anyone in the room whenever someone started implying things they probably shouldn’t have.

Your personal favourite remained Beomgyu’s passionate retelling of how Reina had, over time, replaced Soobin for him.

It had started innocently enough: he’d go over to Soobin and Yeonjun’s to use their PlayStation for a few hours. Soobin usually joined him. Then, one time, Reina appeared in the doorway of Soobin’s bedroom, wincing. She had better things to do than watch them play, but Soobin was getting demolished, and she thought it reflected poorly on her. She took over the controller and proceeded to beat Beomgyu three times in a row before she got bored and left again.

“That,” Beomgyu said, hand pressed to his chest, “deeply impressed me.”

His champagne flute became part of the story. He mimicked Soobin’s aim and sloshed the drink across the tablecloth. Gestured at Reina again and nearly sent the whole glass flying.

The more people laughed, the louder he spoke.

“I’ve decided,” he concluded finally, “that I prefer playing against Rei. Least she can make a jump without respawning ten times.”

Another wave of laughter drowned out Soobin’s indignant yelps of protest. Reina leaned against his shoulder, hiding her laughter in the crook of his neck.

Beomgyu raised his glass higher.

“Anyway,” he announced, “can’t wait for your wedding. Cheers!”

Glasses rose around the restaurant, followed by applause. Soobin reached instinctively for Reina’s hand. The smile on her face beside him was bright enough to light up the whole building.

The warmth from their table radiated through the restaurant, settling into conversations as the evening wore on and people splintered into smaller groups.

Reina’s mother eventually settled down beside Taehyun at his table—she seemed to have adopted him the moment he’d brought her a fresh glass of champagne; her third one tonight. Her husband had suggested a two-glass limit. She suggested it was time for her husband to go home.

Across the room, Yeonjun leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, and observed your conversation with Beomgyu a few tables away—for about a minute. Then he counted to three, finished the rest of his champagne, and rose to his feet.

Beomgyu, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to revisit Taehyun’s earlier statement about static and hairspray. He rubbed a white balloon vigorously against the back of his head while he explained the theory.

His hair was beginning to lift.

“I believe you,” you said, already smiling despite yourself. “But, uh—you’re not worried this will ruin your hairstyle?”

“No, no, look.” He rubbed harder, oblivious to the strands floating upward around his ears. “I’m saying hairspray creates resist—”

“All that electricity can’t be good for you.”

You felt Yeonjun sit down beside you before you turned your head. He held another champagne flute in his hand.

Something inside you relaxed at the sight of him. Then this instinctive reaction set your teeth on edge.

“Lightning’s going to get you,” Yeonjun added, nodding towards Beomgyu’s hair. “How’re you going to make it to Nara’s birthday party next week, then?”

Beomgyu lowered the balloon slowly.

“This has got nothing to do with lightning,” he said. Then, less confidently: “Has it?”

Distracted by his growing concern, he missed the look you gave Yeonjun.

“No,” you said, unable to stop yourself from playing along. “It’s not raining right now anyway.”

“It’s not—but when it rains?” Beomgyu smoothed one side of his hair back down. Perhaps, he thought, he hadn’t used enough hairspray.

“Then we’ll be able to use you,” Yeonjun said, “to tell if there’s going to be thunder.”

Beomgyu frowned and turned back to you again.

“’Cause your hair will stand up,” you explained, gesturing at his head, “like a lightning rod of sorts.”

Yeonjun snickered quietly into his drink.

Realisation dawned on Beomgyu’s face.

He fixed you both with his most practised glare, scoffed, and pushed himself up from his chair.

“You guys think I’m five years old,” he said, pointing at you, then at Yeonjun, “don’t you?”

You failed to resist a smile.

“You look it,” Yeonjun replied, lifting his glass. “S’a compliment, really.”

Beomgyu hummed. Then, suspiciously solemn, he stepped around the table and leaned in before Yeonjun could react. Static crackled through the air as he rubbed the balloon against the back of Yeonjun’s head with ferocious enthusiasm.

“Oi! What—”

He ducked under Yeonjun’s outstretched hands, cackling, and darted into the crowd.

Grimacing, Yeonjun peeled the balloon away from his hair. A few strands remained standing upright.

“What a little shit,” he muttered.

When he looked up, you were already gone from your seat.

He pressed his lips together.

He sat there for a moment, balloon in hand, listening to the noises in the restaurant: the scrape of chairs, the laughter dissolving into the low rhythm of music. The balloons drifted by his feet whenever the kitchen doors swung open.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

He couldn’t just sit here with this fucking balloon.

Near the main table, Soobin’s mother swayed to the music with both of Reina’s parents. The two women giggled loudly, clearly already tipsy. Soobin’s father joined them, balancing a tray of drinks in one hand.

Yeonjun watched them for a moment without really seeing them.

Then he spotted a passing waiter and stood. He traded his empty flute for a full one—then reconsidered his current circumstances and took the whole tray instead.

The champagne was dry and unremarkable, but it did the job. He guzzled half the glass and fell back into the crowd.

A few minutes later, he found you again.

This time, you were talking to Kai in the warm light near the kitchen doors.

A little tipsy and very conversational, Kai spoke with his entire body. Champagne kept sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass every time his hands flew up, the restaurant lights catching the bubbles.

Currently, he was filling you in on everything you’d missed at university while you were in New York.

“I thought he left because he got a better offer somewhere,” you said, raising one eyebrow.

“No.” Kai shook his head hard enough to splash champagne onto the cuff of his shirt. He didn’t notice. “No, no. He was sleeping with two undergrads at the same time, and they found out about each other.”

Your second eyebrow rose to join the first. “And then?”

“And then,” he continued, thrilled, “the undergrads teamed up and went straight to the Board together. Told them everything, brought screenshots. And now he’s fired.”

You chuckled, rotating the champagne flute in your hands.

“Nice,” you said. “Love it when women collaborate.”

“We should’ve seen it coming, honestly,” he said, sipping from his half-empty glass. “Something was always off with his classes. Serves him right for being such a rigid—”

“Serves whom right?”

By now, you’d half-expected Yeonjun. You didn’t bother turning around.

He stopped beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against your arm. He tipped his head back and emptied the champagne in his glass in one swallow. He’d left the tray on the table behind him and glanced over his shoulder to make sure it was still there.

“Professor Johnson,” Kai told him. “He got fired.”

Yeonjun had absolutely no memory of a Professor Johnson.

Honestly, five glasses in, he was starting to have no memory of what he was even here for.

“No way,” he said. “What’d he do?”

Kai, buzzing at the opportunity to retell the story, started from the very beginning.

You listened for approximately two seconds, up until you had to duck away from Kai’s gestures. Then, lips pursed to fight back your laughter, you finished your champagne and left Yeonjun to endure the story alone.

And endure it he did, nodding at appropriate moments—more or less—while simultaneously scanning the restaurant for you. Kai’s hands grew increasingly more animated beside him.

There.

You’d joined a group of girls near the windows. Yeonjun didn’t recognise any of them, but you clearly did; laughter softened your features as you leaned towards one of them. The blue of your dress shimmered in the light every time you moved. The entire restaurant seemed to swim around it.

Kai noticed Yeonjun’s wandering attention mid-sentence.

He followed Yeonjun’s gaze across the restaurant, hand already reaching to drag him back into the conversation—until he spotted you near the windows and stopped.

Abandoning his efforts to resume the story, Kai walked off in search of more champagne before Yeonjun drained the place dry.

Yeonjun barely noticed him leave.

You were still laughing, which was good. He wanted you to keep doing that. Wanted the music on the speakers to quiet down, too, so he could hear you better. He also wanted—

Taehyun appeared beside you. He slipped smoothly into the conversation, apologised to the girls surrounding you, then leaned in to whisper something in your ear.

Yeonjun decided, immediately, that he needed something stronger than champagne.

By the time he crossed the restaurant towards you, a glass of whiskey in hand, Taehyun was already grinning.

Earlier in the evening, he’d been too busy charming Reina’s mother to pay much attention to anything else. Now, however, Reina’s parents were gathering their coats near the door, and Taehyun had redirected his energy into the next most exciting thing: tracking Yeonjun’s every move.

“It’s you again,” Taehyun said, raising his soju shot in greeting.

You glanced at Yeonjun. He met your gaze head-on and held it for an entire half-second.

“It’s me again,” he said.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Taehyun asked, eyeing the glass in Yeonjun’s hands. “Or just the drinks, then?”

“Just the drinks, then.”

“I see.”

Yeonjun swayed faintly where he stood. You turned your face so he wouldn’t see the smile threatening your lips.

“We were just talking about you, you know,” Taehyun added.

Yeonjun turned his whole body towards you. The golden light from the lamps carved dramatic shadows along his cheeks.

“Were you?” he asked.

“We were,” you said. “Noticed you’re very sociable tonight.”

The implication reached him about a second late. You watched him narrow his eyes, then take another sip.

“Guess I am, then,” he said.

“Any reason for that?”

He shrugged. Then shrugged again.

“My best friend’s engaged,” he said finally. “M’happy.”

You glanced at Taehyun just in time to catch the grin he was trying to hide by swallowing his soju. He placed the empty shot glass on the table next to him and turned back to Yeonjun.

He’d already noticed that every time you drifted into another conversation somewhere in the restaurant, Yeonjun reappeared minutes later with a fresh drink in his hand.

Naturally, Taehyun figured, this called for a small social experiment.

“Hm.” He stepped back to look you over with exaggerated consideration. “Have I told you you look stunning in that dress?”

Your eyebrows lifted.

Beside you, Yeonjun finished the rest of his whiskey in one alarming gulp. Ice knocked against the glass when he lowered it again.

“You haven’t,” you replied. “Thank you.”

Something in your dry tone amused Taehyun very much.

He decided to expand the scope of his experiment.

“Have you seen the photographer?” he asked, glancing around the restaurant. A few groups of people had started loose, tipsy dancing circles between the tables.

“I haven’t.”

You didn’t follow his gaze, which made Taehyun’s smile widen immediately.

Clueless, Yeonjun turned around. He had seen the photographer earlier—hard not to; the man had an aggressively white suit. Looked like a bishop in a game of human chess. Or the pope. Did popes wear white?

Salmon! Salmon was naturally white.

Before Yeonjun could point out the photographer with the salmon suit, Taehyun reached for your hand.

“We should take a picture together,” Taehyun announced, pulling you gently towards him.

You resisted instinctively, your heels dragging against the floor tiles. “Haven’t we already?”

“Not just the two of us.”

Your expression flattened immediately.

Taehyun, emboldened further, slid his free hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew his phone.

“Yeonjun,” he said pleasantly, holding it out. “Would you mind?”

A strange moment passed.

Yeonjun looked at the phone.

Then at Taehyun.

Then, finally, at Taehyun’s hand still wrapped loosely around your wrist.

The bustling restaurant seemed to fade around him. Someone dropped something near the kitchen; it sounded like a knife or a fork.

Slowly, Yeonjun accepted the phone.

Taehyun was surprised; he’d been convinced this would be enough. Back in grad school, Yeonjun would’ve combusted by now.

Alright, then.

Interesting.

Taehyun dropped his hand to your waist.

Yeonjun stared at the screen of Taehyun’s phone as though he’d never encountered such technology before. After a second, he set his empty glass down on the windowsill behind him.

Taehyun stepped beside you. Warmth pressed along your side as he nudged you even nearer.

“What are you doing?” you muttered under your breath.

“Trying to see something,” he whispered back. Up close, his breath smelled distinctly of soju, although it was hard to tell whether he was already drunk or still on the way.

Meanwhile, Yeonjun finally unlocked the phone. The screen tilted in his hand, the restaurant lights smearing across the glass until the apps blurred together.

He opened the email and stared, perplexed, at the writing on the screen. What the fuck was DHL and why—

This wasn’t right.

Finally, he found the camera.

He stepped back until the windowsill pressed against his hip and raised the phone, deliberately not looking at either of you.

Taehyun smiled at once. Pinned to his side by the weight of his arm around your waist, you managed something polite enough to pass for a smile, too.

Yeonjun took one picture.

Then another.

Then several more in quick succession, his thumb tapping faster each time.

You hadn’t realised how rigid you were until the muscles in your upper back started to burn. Taehyun, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease beside you.

The moment he started snickering, unable to hold it in any longer, you stepped away and fixed him with a disapproving look.

You had long suspected that prolonged exposure to Beomgyu had caused permanent damage to his brain. The two of them rubbed off on each other in all the worst ways sometimes.

Taehyun’s smile didn’t so much as twitch as he took the phone back from Yeonjun. “Thanks!”

He swiped through the photos until he reached the first one with you in it and exhaled dramatically. He no longer worked at the theatre, but he’d clearly retained the flair for performance.

“Ah.” He sighed. “We look good together.”

Lips pursed, you glanced down at his phone.

The overhead lights glinted off the screen. You lifted a hand to block the glare, your shoulder brushing against his.

“Although,” Taehyun added just as you leaned in, “you do look a bit like a police sketch. I mean that respectfully.”

You snorted, pinching the screen to zoom in on your faces. Your eyes were completely lifeless in the picture.

“No, yeah,” you said, “I look like I’m wanted in twenty-five countr—”

“You look beautiful,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s head shot up, victorious.

Slowly, you looked up, too.

Yeonjun still stood by the windows, one hand absently twisting the golden ribbon tied around the white curtain. The restaurant tables reflected on the glass behind him.

He was looking at you.

For a moment, you couldn’t seem to do anything but look back.

Taehyun grinned.

“Do you two want a picture together?” he asked, very pleased with himself.

You dropped your gaze first. “That won’t be—”

“Yes,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s smile spread.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back and gesturing between the two of you with his phone. “Go on, then.”

You glanced at him, contemplated briefly what life in prison would be like, then turned to Yeonjun. He shifted to one side, making room for you next to him.

You didn’t move.

“Come on,” Taehyun urged. “Haven’t got all day.”

“No?” You cut him a look. “You can go, then.”

He plastered on a kind smile.

“I’d rather stay,” he said. “Go on now, come on. It’s just a picture. Or is something the matter?”

You pressed your lips together and turned away.

The dull sound of your platform heels against the tiles seemed unnaturally loud as you crossed the space towards Yeonjun. By the time you stopped next to him, your heart had climbed so high into your throat that you couldn’t swallow.

Taehyun raised his phone. On his screen, you and Yeonjun looked like you were two presidential candidates forced to stand next to each other before an important debate.

“Wow.” He tsked. “This is extremely awkward.”

You scoffed, your thoughts tripping over fifteen different retorts.

Yeonjun cleared his throat next to you.

“I, personally,” he said, one eye blinking slower than the other, “think s’nice.”

Taehyun openly beamed. He was having the time of his life here tonight. Soobin and Reina should get engaged every day.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, taking a step closer. “Just—here. Let me help.”

He caught Yeonjun by the elbow and nudged him closer to you with enough force to make him stumble half a step. Then, laughing under his breath, he pried your wrist from your resistance and placed your hand against Yeonjun’s chest.

You couldn’t breathe.

“There,” Taehyun said, stepping back to admire his work. “Much better. Now closer.”

You moved perhaps half an inch.

Taehyun shook his head.

“Closer,” he repeated. And then, closer, closer, closer—three more times, until you could feel Yeonjun’s heartbeat against your own.

His cologne curled around you, the same one, reminiscent of citrus and wood. Of cold air. Of late-night drives in the rain. Low-lit kitchens and quiet music on the speakers.

“Smile now,” Taehyun instructed.

You tried.

The shutter clicked—once, twice. Then twice more.

You were painfully aware of every point of contact between you and Yeonjun: the warmth beneath your hand, the sound of his breath, the thumping inside your chest and right against it.

Finally, Taehyun lowered his phone.

You took a step back, hands automatically reaching for the zipper of your dress just to have something solid to hold. Cold air prickled across your arms.

Taehyun had already started flicking through the photos, his head cocked to one side as he studied each one. You moved back to his side.

No one spoke for a minute.

The pictures were awful.

They looked like they’d been taken years ago, sometime in university, even, before the distance and the silence and all that came after. They looked like nothing had happened at all. You could not look away.

Beside you, Taehyun glanced up from the screen.

Up until now, this had all been a laugh: push Yeonjun’s buttons here, see how red his ears get there. But now Yeonjun was standing by the window, looking at you and not the pictures, and Taehyun realised there was something here that he hadn’t accounted for.

He glanced back down at the pictures. At the way Yeonjun had angled himself toward you in every frame. The way your fingers rested easily over the white line of his shirt.

For months, Taehyun remembered, every time he’d tried to bring Yeonjun up around you, you shut it down straight away.

I don’t know what you’re on about.

We were just joking.

Nothing really happened.

Right, then.

People who meant nothing to each other did not fall back together that easily.

“Great,” you said finally. The slit of your dress pulled slightly against your thigh as you took a step back. You glanced quickly towards the bar. “Um—great pictures.”

Taehyun looked up at you.

His experiment, he thought, could give you one more push.

“Yeah?” he said lightly. “‘Cause we can have a re-do.”

You turned back to him. “No. This is good.”

“Hm.” He swiped through the pictures again, smiling. “Are these your first photos together?”

Yeonjun quietly shook his head.

Taehyun didn’t notice and glanced back up at you, expectant.

You cleared your throat. “No.”

He nodded, scrolling further back to the earlier photos of you and him.

“Well,” he said. “I reckon ours turned out better anyway.”

Your expression relaxed just a little.

“We look natural,” he continued, zooming in. Your eyes, he noted, hadn’t looked this empty with Yeonjun. He continued anyway, “and comfortable. Like we actually enjoy spending time together.”

By the window, Yeonjun visibly stiffened.

You clicked your tongue. “M’not enjoying spending time with you right now.”

“No?” Taehyun’s tone remained innocent. “Would you prefer I left you two alone, then?”

“Actually—”

“Yeonjun?” Taehyun finished, turning his head towards him.

“Yes,” Yeonjun said. “I would.”

Aha, Taehyun thought.

Just a bit more now, he was sure.

“Oh,” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Don’t mind me, then.” He flashed you a grin, all teeth and vice and everything nice. “I was just having such a nice time catching up with you. We should do it more often.”

“We saw each other on Thursday,” you said.

“And yet I already suffer tremendously.” He reached for your hand again. “Maybe we should—”

“Excuse me.” Yeonjun stepped forward abruptly, forcing you and Taehyun apart. “I need to use the restroom.”

He lingered between you for a heartbeat, his thoughts spinning and tripping over one another. Then he kept walking.

Your perfume still swam around him. Your hand had been on his chest less than five minutes ago. The space between you and Taehyun—

He needed a minute before his nervous system gave up on him for good.

You watched him disappear through the restroom doors. Beside you, Taehyun made a strangled sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

You turned slowly towards him. “You little snake.”

Taehyun exploded with all the amusement he’d been holding back, one hand comically braced against his stomach. His shoulders shook hard enough that nearby people started glancing over.

“You should see your face,” he wheezed. “I nearly—”

“What’re you trying to do here?”

Still spluttering, he managed to straighten up.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Just celebrating.”

Before you could question him further, he sighed happily and leaned in to press a quick kiss to your cheek—purely to annoy you one last time.

It worked.

“Taehyun.”

Laughing again, he sauntered towards the rest of your friends.

At some point during the evening, the floral centrepiece on the main table had been replaced by an unstable tower of jelly shots—Soobin, Reina, Nara, and Beomgyu were currently involved in a fiercely competitive game of jelly shot Jenga (JJ, as Beomgyu called it three rounds ago and now refused to call it anything else).

Judging by the alarming redness of Soobin’s cheeks, Reina was currently winning.

Taehyun arrived just in time to watch her slide another shot from the middle row. The structure held.

She threw both arms into the air so abruptly that she nearly sent Soobin tumbling into the table.

“Yes!” she shouted.

“I’m a little scared of you,” Nara said.

Laughing, Reina caught Soobin by the front of his jacket and pulled him into a kiss that he accepted with immediate enthusiasm.

He looked a little dazed when she pulled away, thrilled by her victory and their engagement and all their friends being here. He leaned back into the table dreamily.

“Bin—” Nara’s voice died in a high-pitched squeal as Soobin’s sleeve brushed the side of the middle row.

The tower collapsed at once, shot glasses staining the formerly white tablecloth in beautiful shades of the rainbow. Screeches rang around the table: Soobin—it wasn’t my fault—SOOBIN—I DIDN’T MEAN TO—

Beomgyu was doubled over with laughter as he tried to salvage the bottom row. Taehyun assisted him by dutifully swallowing every shot he was handed.

Before anyone could recruit you into helping rebuild the disaster, you turned away, walking towards the coat rack. You rummaged through your handbag until your fingers found your cigarettes; the cardboard pack was slightly crushed at one corner. You grabbed it, found your lighter, and slipped towards the back exit.

Outside, the evening air was cool against your bare arms.

The alley beside the restaurant smelled of damp brick and smoke. Headlights swept past the opening of the street. Somewhere further down the block, a group of teenage boys shouted loudly at one another.

You inhaled deeply and held the cold in your lungs for a moment. Then you opened the pack of Camels.

It was New York that had reminded you of the old habit.

Everyone there seemed to smoke socially: outside bars, museums, small European restaurants (the performative ones, with dreadful lighting and cocktails that nearly put you in debt, and the genuine ones, with great food and small windows).

You’d grown fond of standing outside with strangers, white smoke curling through the conversations, sharing lighters, borrowing cigarettes. It gave your hands something to do and, more importantly, it provided a great excuse to leave any room.

Yeonjun did not know about this habit.

When he finally left the restroom—after splashing cold water on his face and staring at himself in the mirror for a minute—his eyes automatically began searching the restaurant for blue.

Nothing.

He scanned the room again.

Still nothing.

Concern prickled through him as he grabbed another whiskey from the bar and started circling the restaurant in search of a familiar face. Someone had to have seen you.

Glittering dresses, glasses of champagne, and those endless fucking balloons all blurred past him.

Finally, he spotted Kai by the windows.

Unfortunately for Yeonjun, Kai had already been briefed on Taehyun’s ongoing social experiment and had decided, out of scientific curiosity, to become complicit.

“She left,” Kai said. “With Taehyun, I think.”

In reality, Kai knew, Taehyun was getting a new tray of jelly shots with Beomgyu, hoping to rebuild their tower.

Yeonjun, of course, did not know this.

“Yes,” Kai said in response to his gobsmacked expression. “Like two minutes ago, maybe.”

Yeonjun scanned the restaurant a third time, faster now.

You definitely weren’t here.

And neither was Taehyun.

Something heavy dropped straight through his stomach.

“Right,” he muttered. “I’ve got to go.”

Kai watched, fascinated, as Yeonjun abruptly turned and crossed the restaurant. Still clutching his whiskey glass, he barged past groups of people and disappeared through the back exit.

That was very interesting.

Taehyun, Kai thought, sipping his champagne, was going to enjoy hearing that the breaking point for Yeonjun had apparently been the mere possibility of you leaving the party with someone else.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 10 PM

Yeonjun found you the moment he shoved through the steel door.

The metal slammed against the wall hard enough to make you jump. Your cigarette nearly slipped from your fingers, scattering ash across your hand and the wet concrete at your feet.

You looked up.

Yeonjun stood beneath the flickering exit sign. It tinted his face a sickly green. His chest rose and fell beneath the open collar of his shirt, a little too fast. His hair had started coming loose; several dark strands now hung over his forehead.

For a second, he simply stared at you. The frigid air had slapped some clarity back into him, though not enough to undo the whiskey.

This, he concluded, was the smoking area, then.

“Y-you’re not here with—” He stopped himself with a long exhale. “Okay.”

You stared back at him, completely thrown.

Slowly, Yeonjun reached back and pulled the door shut behind him. The noise from the restaurant dulled immediately, leaving only the hiss of tyres somewhere beyond the alley and the quiet electric buzz of the exit sign.

He moved away from the door and leaned his back against the wall opposite you. The whiskey glass in his hand trembled slightly, the ice tapping against the edge.

His gaze dropped to the cigarette between your fingers; your second one.

“Didn’t know you still smoked,” he said, patting distractedly at his chest until his fingers found the inside pocket of his jacket.

You chose not to question why he’d followed you out here.

“I don’t,” you replied, bringing the cigarette to your lips.

He smiled. “Yeah?”

You exhaled toward the alley. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” he said, pulling out the crumpled red package of Marlboro from his pocket. “I do.”

He planted a cigarette between his lips and nodded towards the lighter you were still clutching in your hand. He had his own, but he couldn’t care less for it right now.

You flicked the lighter open.

Yeonjun leaned forward and misjudged the distance completely. He stumbled half a step closer, ending up nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with you against the wall. Whiskey sloshed dangerously in his glass. You took a cautious step aside.

“Sorry,” he murmured around the cigarette. “You mind?”

You held the flame up to him.

This time, he leaned in carefully. The cigarette tip glowed orange in the dark, briefly illuminating the soft curve of his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he took a drag.

You lowered the lighter and looked away.

“Smart idea,” you said, nodding towards the glass in his hand, “bringing your drink here.”

He followed your gaze downwards as if he’d forgotten he still had the whiskey with him.

“Yeah. Oh—” He glanced back at you. “You want some?”

You hesitated for only a second. “Dry throat.”

He held the glass out immediately.

You took a large swig. The whiskey burned harshly going down, but settled warm in your stomach.

“Thanks,” you said, handing the glass back.

His hand curled around it without looking, fingers grazing yours as he steadied the cigarette against the rim and took another drag. His lips brushed the edge of the glass.

Smoke drifted from his mouth in a thin silver stream, dissolving into the dark.

You only realised you’d been staring when your heart forgot its rhythm.

Turning away, you crossed one arm over your waist and lifted the cigarette again. Smoke filtered down into your lungs, calm and almost soothing.

“You should drink more,” Yeonjun said, staring absently into his glass.

“Yeah?” you said. “As much as you did tonight?”

A tired smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

He wasn’t going to defend himself. He felt one prolonged blink away from falling asleep against the wall.

For a while, the two of you stood in silence while the smoke drifted upward between you before dissipating into the cold night air. The brick wall was rough and chilly against your shoulders, but you didn’t move.

You weren’t standing nearly as close to Yeonjun as you had in front of Taehyun’s camera, but this was somehow worse. As if without the proof of his heartbeat against yours, you couldn’t be sure he was actually here.

“Taehyun was being an idiot back there, you know,” you found yourself saying. “He didn’t mean anything.”

Yeonjun exhaled smoke slowly through his mouth.

“I know,” he said.

You glanced at him again, taking in the exhaustion on his face. The night seemed to hang off his shoulders.

“What’s going on with you, then?” you asked.

He huffed out a small laugh.

“Several things,” he said, turning his head towards you. “I’m a machine. Got loads of ongoing processes and—”

“Yeonjun.” Your voice softened. “Be real right now.”

The smile faded from his face. “I am real.”

“So, what’s the matter with you? What’s with inserting yourself into every conversation I’m having?”

He scoffed, his shoulders tightening against the wall.

“What?” he said. “I can’t talk to people now?”

“You can,” you said evenly. “Why’s it always the same people I’m talking to, though?”

He took another drag from his cigarette and tipped his head back against the wall. His gaze wandered towards the narrow strip of night sky visible above the alley as he exhaled the smoke. No stars tonight; too many streetlights drowned them out.

“Just happened that way,” he said. “The restaurant’s smaller than it looks.”

“Right.”

You turned away from him and brought the cigarette back to your lips. The paper crackled as it burned.

“Did your grandad get you those sunflowers?” Yeonjun asked.

You blew out the smoke. “What?”

“The sunflowers you’ve got at home.” His eyes stayed fixed on the sky. “Are they from your grandad?”

Your brows pulled together. “Where is this coming from?”

“Just—just answer the question.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Are they from your grandad?”

You exhaled through your nose, smoke trailing with your breath. You didn’t know when he’d noticed the sunflowers.

“They are,” you said.

He dropped his gaze back to the pavement. “Okay.”

You stared at his hands for a second. His fingers relaxed around the glass.

“So nothing’s going on with you, then,” you said, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Just acting crazy for no reason.”

He scoffed around the cigarette, teeth sinking briefly into the filter.

“Well, why should I tell you if something was going on?” he said. “You don’t want to talk to me.”

“That—” You watched his hand tighten around the glass again. “Is that the problem?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Ash fell from the end of his cigarette in grey flakes, dropping over the toes of his loafers. “I’ve got too many problems to keep track of them all.”

“What—”

“I’ve decided,” he cut in, pushing himself off the wall, “I’m going to go back to the party now.”

You watched him stub out the cigarette against the bricks behind him. It hissed faintly as it died.

This was starting to feel surreal.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “And do what?”

He tossed the filter into the bin by the door.

The smile on his face was crooked and a little mean when he looked back at you. You knew it well.

“Well,” he said, stopping in front of you, “that’s none of your business now, is it?”

“It wouldn’t be,” you said through a stream of smoke, “if you weren’t interrupting every conversation I tried to have tonight.”

“M’not interrupting,” he said. “Just joining. S’called mingling.”

You scoffed. “You’re not mingling.”

“Yeah, I am,” he said, and the whiskey finally showed its face in the sluggish click of his tongue against his teeth. “And you don’t get to have a problem with it, because you don’t want me.”

Your fingers froze around the cigarette.

Yeonjun leaned heavily back against the wall beside you, as if the effort of the words had drained whatever energy he had left. He lifted the whiskey and took a long sip. It was mostly melted ice now.

You turned to face him fully. “What—what does that even mean?”

“It means m’going to go,” he said, but didn’t budge. His eyes flicked briefly towards the door beside him before snapping back to you. “Oh—or would you rather I wait, so you can go back first? Just in case, yeah? Have to be safe.”

You pressed your lips together tightly enough that your teeth clicked.

“We’re doing this shit now?” you said.

He shrugged. “Guess we are.”

Slowly, you dropped your cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it beneath your heel before tossing the remains into the bin. You brushed your palms together.

“Okay.” You met his eyes. “You can go back first. Just don’t make tonight worse for yourself than it already is.”

“Oh, worse, yeah.” He shifted, shoulder resting against the wall, angled towards you. “How d’you reckon I could make it worse?”

You clicked your tongue and crossed your arms over your chest.

“If you have to ask that,” you said, “then you clearly already know.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. He knew you wouldn’t answer him properly.

He took another sip from his glass.

“No, actually,” he said. Everything inside him was burning. “S’the whole point of asking a question. It implies not knowing the answer.”

“Okay, wise-ass. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

He turned his head, grinning. “If you have to ask that, then you clearly already know.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him. “I see we’re still twelve.”

“Thirteen and a half now,” he replied. “Been over a year since we were last out together.”

The tightness in your chest spread lower, frigid along your spine.

“Has it?” you said.

He glanced at you without lifting his head from the wall. “I’m offended you wouldn’t remember.”

“Why would I remember a bet we had for two weeks?”

His gaze dropped to the whiskey glass hanging loosely from his hand. The green light from the exit sign shimmered weakly across the surface, catching on the half-melted ice cubes.

For a moment, he just watched them swirl.

Then, quieter:

“Was that all there was, then?”

The silence that followed landed like a weight on your shoulders. It took you a moment to realise there wasn’t anyone else around to answer him for you.

“You said so,” you replied, tightening your grip around yourself.

Yeonjun sniffled.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said—out loud, for the first time.

You scoffed so quickly, it nearly startled him.

“Yeah?” you said. “Did that only take you a year and a half to figure out, then?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “I knew I didn’t mean it the moment I said it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

You asked the question, but your body was already preparing to leave. Your weight shifted, one knee bent slightly. Your eyes darted towards the door once, then once more.

Yeonjun wished he’d drunk more so he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Are you going to let me explain properly,” he asked, “or do you just want a quick answer so you can keep hating me?”

You watched him for a long moment after that: the darkness in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw, the mess of his hair. Your hands dropped to your sides.

He didn’t know, then, that there was very little he could say that would actually make you hate him.

You looked away towards the mouth of the alley and waited for a car to drive by so you could breathe again.

“I don’t hate you,” you said.

Yeonjun let out a slow breath. He wasn’t hearing you.

“Sure feels like you do,” he mumbled.

Above you, the exit sign seemed to buzz louder.

“I wish I did,” you said.

Yeonjun looked up.

The alcohol must’ve dissolved whatever sense he still possessed, because your words seemed to hit him hard enough to knock his heartbeat into a painfully familiar rhythm.

Now he heard you.

“W-what does that mean, then?” he asked.

You shook your head once. “Means you should go back in. Mingle.”

“No.”

He pushed himself off the wall too quickly and had to steady his balance before he lowered the whiskey glass carefully onto the pavement. Then he took a step closer.

“Explain,” he said. “You don’t hate me?”

You straightened instinctively against the wall, startled by the proximity.

“No,” you said.

“Why not?”

He suspected that might have been a stupid question. And still, his eyes moved slowly between yours, searching your face for the answer. There was nothing secretive left in him tonight; he’d drowned his restraint in the whiskey.

He wanted to know what he was to you now.

Wanted to be close to you.

Wanted you.

“Hating you,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “would mean I care about you.”

Yeonjun felt his stomach twist.

He’d heard you say this before: in the dark of his wardrobe room, surrounded by hangers of his clothes and hardly able to take a breath.

“Right,” he murmured, and the darkness in his eyes seemed to grow. “You don’t care.”

The alley around you suddenly felt much too small.

“Right,” you echoed.

“Mm.” He nodded once, eyes still fixed on yours. “Still want to jump out of a window every time I open my mouth, yeah?”

Your breath caught at the question. You could almost feel the plywood backing of his wardrobe against your spine again. Could almost smell the old wood.

“Sometimes,” you said.

His lips twitched.

“Sometimes,” he repeated. A slow smile touched his lips. “That’s better. I like that you’re honest.”

“Mhmm. I’ve never lied to you.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes. You were handing his words back to him.

He remembered you calling him performative for saying that to you back then. Remembered the quiet night and the way you refused to look at him, no matter how much he’d wanted you to. Remembered how desperately he’d hoped you’d believe him then. How desperately he hoped for it now.

The whiskey churned in his stomach.

He moved half a step closer before he realised he was doing it.

“You’re lying to me right now,” he said quietly.

You could hear your pulse in your ears. “I’m not.”

“You are.” He was close enough for your vision to blur around him. “You do care.”

Shivers raced down your spine, so sudden that they almost hurt.

Yeonjun waited. He needed you to admit that you cared. Needed proof that what you said wasn’t true.

You needed it to be true.

When you didn’t speak, he raised one hand. His fingers brushed the ends of your hair, cautious in case you’d shove him away. The touch was light enough that you barely felt it, yet every nerve ending inside you seemed to focus there anyway.

Gently, he swept your hair over your shoulder, exposing the side of your neck to the cool night air.

He really liked your hair tonight.

Really liked that the rest of the alleyway swirled around him, but you stayed completely still.

“S’why you’re out here now,” he murmured. “Asking me what’s the matter with me.” He pulled back just enough to look at your face again. “Because you care.”

“I care,” you replied, breathless, “about the way you’re making us look in front of everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And how am I making us look?”

“Bad.”

“Mm.” He leaned closer again. The toes of his shoes nudged the platform of your heels. “Why?”

His fingertips brushed your face before you could answer, a little cold and feather-light against your skin. Your shoulders pressed harder against the wall behind you.

You didn’t speak.

“Why am I making us look bad, love?” he repeated softly.

Your lungs tightened around the next breath.

Then his palm settled fully against the side of your face, devastatingly familiar.

Your eyes closed before you meant them to.

His thumb brushed over your cheek.

You blinked your eyes open again.

“You’re making it look,” you whispered, “like there’s something here.”

“Hmm.” He was close enough now that the warmth of every word reached your skin before the meaning did. “And there’s nothing here, yeah?”

There was nothing here: every inhale brought his chest against yours. Every exhale brought his mouth closer.

You squeezed your eyes shut again and took a breath.

The alleyway wrapped around you. Cars drifted by on the street. The exit sign pulsed loudly overhead. His cologne clung to the smoke in the air.

It was cold here.

The bricks were rough against your spine.

Before your mind could catch up to you, you pushed yourself off the wall and kissed him.

Yeonjun exhaled against your mouth, nearly choking as he caught your lips between his. His hand tightened at your jaw, still soft, but firm enough to hold you there. To tell you, wordlessly and desperately, not to pull away too soon.

His lips were soft and faintly bitter with smoke.

It was new, this taste of him. You didn’t like not knowing it.

Your hands caught instinctively in the lapels of his jacket, fingers tightening in the fabric as his shoulders loosened under your touch. He sighed against your mouth, emptying his lungs completely so he could breathe you in instead.

Your gloss was still sweet, still tasting faintly of cherry.

He hoped it would haunt him forever.

He tilted your head back to deepen the kiss—so slowly that you felt every moment of it: the parting of his lips, the slight tremor when you pulled closer.

Your fingers found the back of his neck and slid upwards into the strands of his hair. He made a small sound when you tugged lightly.

It went straight through you.

His other hand slid down to your waist, pulling you away from the wall and into him until your balance disappeared into the kiss. Your grip on his jacket tightened; your breath sped up.

“D’you care about me?” he murmured against your lips.

Your response came as a muffled breath, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Tell me,” he whispered, the words barely coherent. “Tell me you care.”

“I care.”

The kiss changed at once; his mouth moved against yours faster, rough with want. It stole the breath straight from your lungs.

His grip tightened around you. He could feel the texture of your dress against his palm, could feel the heat of your skin when his fingers brushed the cutouts on the sides of your waist.

He broke the kiss with a sharp, helpless gasp.

He was so fucking drunk.

“Fuck,” he whispered. His forehead dropped against yours. His lungs felt hollow, but his chest—his chest was so full. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

“I’m sorry—”

“No.” Both of his hands framed your face instantly. “Fuck, baby, no—” He pressed his lips to yours again. “No.” And again. “Not sorry.” And again. “Not sorry at all.”

Each kiss seemed to carry something different: regret and relief, questions he wanted to ask you, promises you wouldn’t let him make.

You were drowning in the warmth of his mouth, in the solid press of his chest against yours. In the unbearable ease with which your body remembered him.

The tension softened, but your mouths still lingered together in small, quiet touches.

One more kiss.

Another.

A pause that should’ve been the end of it.

Then one more kiss anyway.

And another—

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you could breathe properly.

Yeonjun stayed close enough for the taste of his whiskey to linger on your tongue. Close enough that, if you leaned forward even slightly, you could kiss him again.

“That—” You reached up to wipe your smudged gloss from the corner of his lips with your thumb. He wished you’d left it there. “T-that shouldn’t have happened.”

Something painful flickered in his eyes.

He smiled, but that only made him look sadder.

Slowly, he stepped back. His hands slid down your arms, fingers lingering on your skin for a moment longer before falling away.

“Of course,” he said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do, love.”

He took another step back and turned away, dragging a hand across his face as he tried to pull himself back together. You watched the line of his shoulders for a minute, your lungs unconsciously syncing to the rhythm of his breathing.

Then you dropped your gaze to the pavement instead. There were cigarette burn stains across the concrete, dark little circles.

“I-I’m going to go,” you said. “And we—we shouldn’t talk again tonight.”

He didn’t move.

A car drove past the alley.

You swallowed hard. “I need verbal agreement from you.”

Yeonjun shut his eyes.

You’d always recovered faster than him. Always been better at drawing lines and standing behind them.

“We won’t talk again tonight,” he said at last, still facing away from you.

The alley felt unstable around him now. If he looked back, if he saw your face again, he knew he’d drag you against him and start this all over again.

“Okay.” You pushed yourself off the wall. “That’s good.”

You moved silently enough that he barely heard you cross to the door. The hinges creaked when you pulled it open.

“I missed this, though,” he said before he could stop himself.

The door stopped moving.

Yeonjun didn’t turn, but he felt you freeze behind him all the same.

He pictured you standing in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, eyes lowered, fighting the same expression you’d worn yesterday in the stairwell.

That would haunt him forever, too.

“Don’t,” you whispered. It was a plea. “I—I’m going.”

The door shut behind you.

Yeonjun took a long, shuddering breath. He dug his lighter from his back pocket. It was nearly empty.

He needed another two cigarettes before he could force himself to go back inside.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 11:30 PM

Soon, people began to leave the party in small groups, lingering in the doorway of the restaurant with jackets slung over their arms, hugging each other goodbye three times before actually parting. Laughter kept spilling out onto the pavement. Every few minutes, someone suggested, ‘one more for the road, yeah?’

You and Yeonjun were both still here.

Since coming back inside, neither of you had looked directly at the other.

Yeonjun, who had technically honoured his promise not to speak to you again tonight, kept checking the time on his phone to see exactly when tonight would finally be over.

Most of the pleasant whiskey buzz had already started wearing off. Now he was left with a dull headache pressing at the back of his skull.

While Reina and Soobin stood near the entrance, thanking people for coming, you quietly began tidying the remnants of the evening so they’d have less to deal with later.

Before long, Taehyun and Nara showed up to help.

The three of you moved easily around each other through the half-empty restaurant, stacking scattered plates, gathering abandoned champagne flutes, rescuing forgotten handbags and suspicious flash drives from underneath tables.

Every now and then, one of you would laugh at something, and the other two would soon join in.

The sound irritated Yeonjun instantly.

He wanted to be part of it.

He stood near the back of the room with a half-empty whiskey glass and spent nearly a full minute debating whether helping you clean would count as breaking the agreement between you.

Eventually, he decided it wouldn’t, as long as he didn’t speak.

Twenty more minutes until midnight.

“We used to stay out until four in the morning at least,” Nara remarked as Yeonjun silently took a stack of empty plates from her hands. “Is this us getting old?”

“It’s not,” Soobin called from the doorway. He clapped one of his old school friends on the shoulder before turning back inside. “The restaurant has working hours, s’all.”

“And you didn’t think about the after-party?” Nara asked.

“I think they did,” Taehyun cut in before Soobin could answer. “We’re just not invited.”

Behind you, Reina succumbed to giggles, leaning against Soobin’s shoulder while he fought to suppress his grin. She swayed lightly in her heels.

Seventeen more minutes, Yeonjun thought. And he can make a comment, too.

Beomgyu and Kai returned from the restroom and were dispatched, at once, to stack chairs while the rest of you finished clearing the dishes.

Finally, after apologising to the exhausted staff for staying late, all eight of you stepped outside. A few of the guests were still here. Apparently, there weren’t enough taxis in the city for everyone.

Phones glowed across the pavement. Somewhere farther down the street, a man argued with an Uber driver in a language you didn’t recognise, but seemed to understand perfectly. His hands flailed wildly in the direction of the intersection up ahead.

Reina and Soobin had planned in advance and ordered a taxi half an hour ago.

It arrived first.

The two of them climbed into it to raucous applause and dramatic cheers from the pavement, as if they were off for their honeymoon rather than just heading home. Fully committing to the performance, Reina rolled down the window and gave everyone a graceful royal wave.

You laughed.

They looked radiant tonight. You couldn’t stop watching them.

A few steps away, Yeonjun couldn’t stop watching you.

Another five minutes later, an Uber rolled across the street, the headlights washing everyone’s jackets silver-white for a moment.

You checked the license plate against your phone and reached for the back door.

“Bye!” Taehyun called after you.

“Text me when you get home,” Nara added automatically. Despite all her complaints about the night ending, she sounded ready to curl up and fall asleep right there on the curb.

You gave them both a wave and ducked into the backseat.

The sight of your hand disappearing behind the edge of the door made something inside Yeonjun drop hard enough to leave him briefly weightless.

All he remembered was taking a breath.

“Hello,” you said to the driver, reaching back to pull the door shut—only for it to jerk backwards.

Yeonjun climbed into the backseat, nudging you to a side, and slammed the door shut.

You stared at him. “W-what the f—”

“105 Dove Road,” he told the driver. “Thank you.”

Then, as though none of this was remotely unhinged behaviour, he turned towards the window and gave someone outside the restaurant a lazy little wave. Nara was visibly staring.

The Uber driver watched Yeonjun through the rear-view mirror for a very long second.

“Miss,” he said cautiously, his eyes shifting towards you, “is that the right address?”

Your surprise doubled at his question. Not many men bothered to check in with a woman when another man answered for her.

You glanced sideways at Yeonjun’s expectant, utterly unashamed eyes.

Sighing, you scooched across the backseat towards the opposite window and gave the driver an apologetic nod. It wasn’t his fault Yeonjun was insane.

“Yes,” you said. “He’s my neighbour.”

“Okay.” The driver shrugged easily. “Just making sure.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded and carefully backed away from the curb, manoeuvring around another Uber that Nara was currently attempting to climb into while still laughing at something Bemgyu was saying through the open door. He was pointing directly at your car.

Behind them, Kai had his phone out and seemed to be taking pictures of you.

This was great.

For a moment, you considered blocking everyone in your contacts.

As the Uber slid into dwindling Saturday night traffic, Yeonjun closed his eyes and sank deeper into the seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest. You kept your eyes fixed on the window instead of him, watching the streets smear past in streaks of neon.

He hummed beside you. “Warm here.”

You gritted your teeth.

“What did I tell you we wouldn’t do again?” you asked, trying not to let your voice carry to the front of the car.

Yeonjun gathered his hands on his lap. “We wouldn’t talk tonight.”

“Right,” you said. “And what are we doing?”

He cracked one eye open.

Ignoring the slow spin of his surroundings, he dug his phone out of his pocket and heaved it as though it weighed several kilograms. The screen lit his face with a ghostly glow.

“It’s technically tomorrow,” he mumbled, holding the phone vaguely in your direction.

His lockscreen showed 12:12 AM.

His arm dropped again, head thunking softly against the seat. You stared at him for a second.

“I’m starting to think you really are unwell,” you informed him.

A faint smile appeared on the corner of his lips. “We live in the same building.”

“That is not why you got into my car.”

Yeonjun opened his eyes and slowly rolled his head towards you.

“No?” he said softly. “Tell me why, then.”

Clenching your jaw, you looked back out the window. Further away from the city centre, most of the shops had gone dark. A pair of drunk men stumbled past a deli with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

“You wanted everyone to see it.” Irritation sharpened your voice. You wished you’d drunk more tonight. “Wanted to send everyone some message. Like you’re marking your fucking territ—”

“No,” he said, eyes sliding shut again. “S’actually because you said we shouldn’t talk again tonight. And then we didn’t, even though you were right there, and now I feel a little bit like m’dying. S’all.”

A violent shiver snaked down your spine.

“That’s your future hangover,” you said.

“No.” His lips twitched slightly. “S’just you.”

He heard you draw a sharp breath and opened his eyes to find that you’d closed yours.

When you eventually looked back at him and found him already watching you, you still didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I can’t—I shouldn’t be saying shit like this. S’not your fault we ended up here anyway. I’m the one who fucked up and—”

“Yeonjun.”

It didn’t sound like a demand for him to stop speaking.

He didn’t know what it sounded like.

“I—” He swallowed and dragged a hand roughly down his face. The tips of his fingers felt like ice against his cheeks. “Right now, I’m really drunk.”

He paused, then frowned.

That wasn’t right. He’d developed a solid alcohol tolerance over the last year, but he’d transcended even that tonight. He seemed to have acquired some sort of higher spiritual condition now, available only to those courageous enough to drink their weight in liquor.

His head felt detachable.

Oh—a bit like Eeyore’s tail, he remembered. He’d had a plushie as a kid. The Velcro on the tail had worn out, and he constantly worried he’d drop it in some shop and lose it forever.

A fresh wave of horror washed over him – what, then, if that happened to his head?

“You’ve been drunk the whole night,” you said when he didn’t add anything else.

He shook his head weakly against the headrest—it hadn’t detached yet, thank God—but didn’t say anything else.

Outside, the city darkened further. The pavements emptied street by street. The Uber passed cafés with shuttered windows, dark office buildings, and lonely bus stops bathed in the cold glow of streetlights.

Yeonjun watched your reflection in the glass of the window.

Even in this state, he could tell that the conversation was ending again, and there was no promise of it starting again tomorrow. Or the day after.

Actually, maybe the real conversation between you had ended a long time ago. Maybe it ended that day in grad school.

Everything since then had just been coincidence, like you said.

Just circumstances.

And Violet.

God, he missed Violet.

She was probably sprawled across the middle of his bed by now. She’d probably try to suffocate him in his sleep later for abandoning her all evening, and to be fair, he thought he deserved it.

“I…” He hesitated, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. “C-could you stay for a minute after we get back? I want to talk to you.”

The shadows across your face shifted in the passing streetlights.

“Think we’ve talked enough for one night,” you said.

“Please.”

You continued to watch the city rush past the window.

Quietly, you found yourself thinking of your dream again. Thinking of the way the blue car—was that Yeonjun’s dead Nissan?—had kept passing you on the road. How relieved you’d felt to see it again.

You thought you knew better than to believe in dreams.

Carefully, you turned your gaze to the floor of the car. You could see Yeonjun in your peripheral vision, leaning back against the seat. He was still watching you.

“Fine,” you said at last.

You didn’t know if you knew better.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 12:45 AM

When the driver finally stopped outside your building, you made sure to leave a significantly larger tip than you’d planned—partly because he’d treated you like an actual human being, but mostly because he’d been forced to listen to two people spiral for about half an hour, and no one deserved that on a Saturday night.

Yeonjun climbed out first.

You followed more slowly, smoothing your dress once your heels hit the pavement. The night air was damp against your skin, cool enough to sting where your pulse still raced. You were very tired.

For a moment after the door shut, the two of you stood beneath the streetlights and watched the Uber disappear down the street.

The silence that followed felt old.

It reminded you of grad school again. Of the long nights outside your building with Yeonjun standing near the entrance, his hands buried in his pockets, while neither of you looked for a reason to say goodbye.

You remembered not wanting to disturb Reina by bringing him upstairs. Remembered how, even then, wanting him that much had felt unsafe.

You wondered whether one day you’d stop remembering.

“Look,” Yeonjun started with a ragged sigh. “Maybe I did get into that car with you to send a message.”

Your gaze flicked to him.

“But not to them,” he added. “To you.”

Wind moved through the empty street, stirring the birch trees lining the pavement. Their leaves whispered overhead.

You knew you shouldn’t ask the next question.

You’d spent over a year closing those doors inside you, stacking anger against them. Pride against them. Grief. Anything to keep them from opening again.

But some exhausted part of you seemed to have quietly resigned itself to the fact that this was going to hurt regardless of whether they opened or not.

“What message?” you asked.

Yeonjun stared at the cracks in the pavement under his loafers. There was still some ash on the left one.

“I don’t want to not talk to you anymore,” he said, digging his nails into his palm to force the street to steady around him. “Or only run into you in the lobby sometimes. Or just—just be a neighbour to you. I c—I can’t do that with you.”

You felt heat flare under your skin: at the back of your neck and on the side of your face and across your lips. Everywhere he’d touched you tonight, as though he’d left invisible marks that he could trigger just with his voice.

They burned at the thought that you wouldn’t talk anymore.

That you would only run into each other sometimes.

That you would only be neighbours.

“I can’t do that with you, either,” you said, turning your gaze towards the dark building across the street. Only a few windows still glowed.

Yeonjun watched you, holding his breath.

Hope was a very dangerous thing to hand him; he didn’t know how to hold it.

“So what does that mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, fingers clutching the fabric of your dress. “Maybe it means we shouldn’t talk at all anymore.”

He shook his head, stubborn even drunk. The street tilted around him and bent backwards. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the nearest lamppost, his shoes clattering against the metal.

“No,” he said. “That—that can’t be what it means.”

He looked pale under the feeble yellow of the streetlight. Looked like he’d stay here until he became part of the lamppost.

“Why not?” you said.

He steadied himself against the pole, fingers tightening around the freezing metal. “Because it’s you and me.”

“So?”

“So we’ve always been talking.”

Your gaze drifted down to the base of the lamppost. “Much good it’s done us.”

Horribly, he realised that was true.

He had nothing concrete to offer you to prove that talking to him was worth the effort.

He’d failed to prove to you he was a good boyfriend back in grad school. Failed to tell you what mattered when it mattered. Failed at everything he’d tried.

And he’d never taken himself for much of an optimist, yet, despite all of that, he still stood here, in the cold, with tired eyes and whiskey for blood, his shoulders slumped beneath his suit jacket, looking at you like he still intended to get everything right this time.

It was you.

It had always been you.

He knew he’d carry that around with him for the rest of his life, whether you wanted him to or not.

“That can—everything can change,” he said.

He couldn’t tell whether the nausea twisting his guts came from the alcohol or the look in your eyes. Maybe both.

“It shouldn’t,” you said.

“Why not?”

“Because it—” You stopped yourself with a sharp exhale and looked down at the stubborn grass forcing its way through the cracks in the pavement. When you spoke again, your voice had gone quieter. “We can’t do this again, I told you. I’m sorry about what happened toni—”

“No.” The force of his interruption snapped your gaze back to him. “Don’t apologise for anything that happened tonight.”

You held his gaze for a second before looking away again. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I wanted you to.”

The more he spoke, the less you seemed to move.

He let go of the lamppost, but didn’t dare step closer.

“That doesn’t make it better,” you said.

“Why not?”

You shook your head. The pins in your hair had started digging into your scalp, and every tiny movement hurt. You didn’t have many more why nots left in you.

“We can’t do that again,” you said.

“But we—we’re not doing that again,” he argued. “It’s different now.”

“It’s not, though. It’s still us. Nothing’s different.”

“But you won’t even let me talk to you.” Agitation sharpened his words now; he’d stopped trying to soften them. “So how can you know that?”

Your fingers pressed into fists. “We’ve talked enou—”

“No, we haven’t! We never talked about what we were—what we were doin—”

“Well, whose fault is that, then?” Your voice cracked through the empty street. You looked at him with eyes bright enough to burn. “I wanted to talk to you! I fucking—I tried to talk to you. Back in grad school, I tried. Twice. Both times, you walked away without explaining shit. ‘Things were happening.’” You scoffed. “Fuck that. Now you want to talk? Now, over a year later, you want to fucking talk?”

“I want to explain why it took so long,” he said quickly. “I—”

“No,” you cut through him. “No, we’re not doing that. You think it—think I’m fine, yeah? Said I’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never been bothered by people leaving, right? Like water off my back, every single time.” Your chest shuddered as you tried to take a breath. “We—no. No, that’s it. I—I’m not doing that again with you. I can’t.”

You turned away from him.

Yeonjun stared at the back of your dress in silence. The vivid blue looked lighter beneath the streetlights. He watched the fabric shift with each wild breath you tried to tame.

He hadn’t been thinking about your mother when he’d walked away in grad school. He’d been thinking about his own.

And it hit him, finally, that you had cared about him far more deeply than he’d ever allowed himself to believe. And he had hurt you far worse than he’d understood.

He should’ve known.

He should’ve fucking known.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

A muscle jumped faintly beneath your shoulder blades. “Go home, Jun.”

The nickname knocked against him with frightening force.

“It’s cold,” you added. “You need to sleep this off.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes. He’d already got used to the dizziness and the nausea. The real problem now was the sharp pressure around his heart.

Maybe he’d drunk enough to damage something important. Or maybe it was the broken pieces, finding new ways to break again.

“I’m—I really am sorry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

You still didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

“Go inside, Yeonjun,” you said again. “S’cold.”

There was a slight shudder in your voice that seemed to trail down your whole body.

Swallowing, Yeonjun shrugged out of his jacket. The cold hit him instantly through the thin white shirt beneath, but he barely reacted.

He walked towards you, keeping his gaze ahead to ignore the dizzying sway of the pavement beneath him. Taking a deep breath, he lowered the jacket over your shoulders, the fabric still warm from the heat of his body.

Your breath caught in your throat all over again.

His hands rested on your shoulders for a second. Then he stepped back.

Immediately, you were swathed in him again: smoke, whiskey, the bergamot of his cologne, even traces of your own perfume. You gathered the collar of the jacket tightly in your hand and finally turned towards the building.

The doors groaned as you pulled them open. You glanced back at him, waiting.

Yeonjun lowered his gaze and gave a small nod before following you into the lobby.

Then he took the lift.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[yystarz]

read this yesterday and im still thinking abt that kiss....

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 4

well, i thought i could resist you, but something in me just can’t help but insist to blur the lines just one last time /// sleep token, dangerous

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, baaaaad mutual pining & intense yearning, jealous!jjun, somewhat evil!tyun (he has good intentions though), strong language, suggestive themes, detailed descriptions of smoking, excessive drinking, helpless flirting, some angst to spice things up

words: 15k (rip)

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 4 AM

Yeonjun couldn’t sleep. His head felt like a cutlery drawer, rattling every time he rolled onto his other side, steel scraping steel.

Did it hurt the knives, he wondered at around four in the morning, to brush against other knives?

By six, he must’ve drifted off for a good twenty minutes, until a faint rustling near the windows woke him again. He blinked blearily just in time to catch Violet’s silhouette slipping under the heavy black curtains.

She hopped onto the windowsill and sat down in front of the only window in the flat that actually opened. It didn’t even look it; the frame had been caked in thick layers of white paint. Only the latch gave it away – a tiny brass catch, half-hidden beneath the lower frame in the far left corner, noticeable only by the peeling paint around it.

He hadn’t realised what the latch was for until you pointed it out to him that day on the stairs. Apparently, Violet had watched him work it once and memorised it.

She settled on the sill, her backside shoving the curtains aside. A narrow slit opened—he suspected he might’ve hung the drapes upside down—and through it, Yeonjun could make out the sharp outline of her whiskers against the pale light outside.

He lay still and watched.

With the precision of a surgeon, Violet slipped a paw into the far corner. Her whiskers twitched.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Nothing happened for a while.

Yeonjun frowned into the darkness.

Surely, he thought, she didn’t have the strength to move the latch. The thing was stiff even for him some mornings. It might’ve meant that the window had been opening on its own every day, then, or—

The brass catch jerked sideways with a tiny click.

The window frame loosened immediately.

Yeonjun stared.

Violet rose onto her hind legs and pressed her front paws against the bottom of the window, leaning her full weight forward. She was small—plump and very round, yes, but so small. Even if she’d mastered the latch, she shouldn’t have been capable of pushing the window open.

The frame creaked an inch upwards.

“Violet,” Yeonjun warned.

The cat turned, shooting him a look of profound irritation, like a single mother of five on her third consecutive night shift: don’t start with me right now, boy. Then she turned back and kept pushing.

The window scraped open just enough for her to squeeze onto the fire escape. Her back paws scrabbled briefly against the sill before disappearing outside.

Yeonjun stared, unblinking, for another minute.

Honestly, he should’ve used Violet to fight crime. Or rob banks.

Instead, he listened to the faint rhythm of her paws on the metal stairs as she climbed the fire escape towards your flat.

Upstairs, you dreamt that you were driving Reina’s old Honda.

The steering wheel thrummed in your hands as you drove along a narrow, two-lane road. The car rattled at higher speeds, and something in the dashboard buzzed as though you’d trapped a bee behind there somewhere, but it remained reliable as always.

The asphalt glistened; it must’ve rained recently. Now that you thought of it, you could almost smell the moisture in the air.

A bright blue car sped past, overtaking you.

You barely registered it.

Then, a few minutes later, the same blue car appeared again, passing you from the opposite direction.

Sunlight flashed against the windscreen, obscuring the driver’s face. The car was unfamiliar, yet you felt strangely worried that this was the last time you’d see it. You hoped it wouldn’t be.

You lowered the sun visor. Ahead, the road curved sharply left, and the car groaned as you turned the wheel.

For a while, you drove alone.

Soon, you spotted the blue car again. It was parked on the side of the road near a lake to your right, the hazard lights blinking lazily in the sunlight.

You pulled onto the gravel beside it, relieved.

As you stepped out of the Honda, you realised you were suddenly standing in the woods; the roadside was surrounded by trees.

Chestnuts, you thought at first. Then you narrowed your eyes.

Oaks.

You approached the blue car. The driver’s door hung open, but there was no one inside.

As you walked closer to the shore, past the trees, you saw a man sitting on the rocks in the shallows, sleeves rolled to his elbows, staring across the lake. This was the driver, you knew. You had to check on him.

You crept towards him. Your feet—why weren’t you wearing shoes?—slipped on the wet stones. The trees around you vanished.

The man turned—and the sound of something creaking jolted you awake.

Your eyes snapped open to the darkness of your room. For a disorienting moment, the dream clung to you: you could still hear the commotion of Reina’s old car, still smell the rain.

Then you heard Violet squeezing through the narrow opening in the window, right on schedule. She landed silently on the floor and padded toward the living room, careful, as though trying not to wake you.

The bedroom door creaked when her hind leg brushed against it.

Violet froze.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to spook her.

Silence. Then, the quiet patter of her paws fading into the living room.

Sighing, you rolled over, the sheets tangling around your legs. You reached blindly for your phone on the cardboard boxes by the bed. The screen flared to maximum brightness. Groaning, you squeezed one eye shut and tried to enter your PIN; Face ID refused to recognise you in the dim light.

Then you opened both eyes again.

Yeonjun, you realised, had been the driver of the blue car in your dream.

How strange.

You needed to text him, but yesterday’s conversation still lingered somewhere at the back of your mind. Just thinking about talking to him again made you feel like you’d swallowed something dense.

You pushed yourself onto your elbows, inhaled once, and opened his contact.

YOU [6:59 AM] violet’s here she’s welcome to stay but ive got to leave at 4

You’d barely lowered the phone before it buzzed against your palm.

YEONJUN [7 AM] thanks i’ll pick her up before you leave

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the chat on your screen.

You stared at it for a second, then set your phone down beside the pillow and climbed out of bed. A draft blew through the open window. You pushed it shut and headed into the kitchen to refill Violet’s water bowl.

The moment you appeared through the doorway, Violet abandoned her position by the curtains and wound herself around your legs instead, searching for entertainment. Her tail got caught beneath the hem of your pyjama bottoms, hitching the fabric upwards.

You knelt to scratch under her chin. Her purr vibrated against your palm.

“Let’s see if we can get some light in here for you, yeah?” you said, standing again.

Still half-asleep, you filled the bowl and went to the window. The curtains dragged heavily along the rail when you pulled them open.

It was a dreary, overcast morning outside. The building across the street looked even more muted than usual under the grey clouds.

Violet approached the window. She poked it with her nose, puzzled by the lack of sunlight, then glanced back at you.

“S’the best I can do, little one,” you said. “Cloudy day today.”

She replied with a small, resigned meow and turned back towards the window. A moment later, the faint reflections dancing across the glass seem to win her over.

You left her nestled between your flowerpots and started your morning.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 3:45 PM

Fifteen minutes before you needed to leave, you stood in front of the mirror by the bathroom door, holding your breath as you misted setting spray across your face. It smelled oddly of hairspray.

The dress you’d bought for tonight was sleeveless and blue. Beaded detail ran along the slit—it had already left glitter scattered across your thigh.

When you first saw the dress in the shop last week with Reina, it reminded you of the photograph your grandparents kept on the mantelpiece in their living room. In it, your mother was posing with her date before their school dance. She wore a dark blue dress—sleeveless—and had her hair braided half up. She was smiling.

It was your favourite picture of her.

You’d spent the morning thinking about it while you pinned the braided sections of your hair back. The curled ends now rested across your collarbones.

You leaned closer to inspect your mascara and caught the edge of a price tag peeking from the side seam of the dress.

“Shit—”

The doorbell rang.

Startled slightly by the sound, you tightened your fingers around the plastic of the tag and ripped it clean off the seam. The edge nipped your palm. Hissing, you shook your hand once and dropped the tag into the bin by the kitchen island.

Behind you, Violet sat primly on the back of the sofa, licking her paw, as though she, too, was getting ready for Reina and Soobin’s engagement party.

“Got a feeling that’s for you, baby,” you said, nodding towards the door. “Come on.”

Violet chirped and jumped down.

She discovered the hem of your dress just as you opened the door. Her claws snagged in the fabric, catching and releasing the blue material with increasing enthusiasm.

Yeonjun stood on the doorstep.

He opened his mouth—and closed it right after.

All he registered, initially, was the deep blue of your dress. Then the ruched fabric at the waist and the small cutouts on both sides of your midriff.

Then the rest of his thoughts abandoned him to seek employment elsewhere.

You bent down before Violet could shred the hem. She resisted your hands, twisting in place. When you gathered the ends of the dress, she leapt back and wiggled her behind ominously, her pupils blown wide.

“You like the dress, baby?” you murmured, scooping her up before she could launch herself at you. She looked mildly startled at being lifted, but not especially offended. “Come on, then.”

Yeonjun thought he liked the dress.

Although, admittedly, he could’ve slept better if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of your thigh through the slit when you bent down. He suddenly felt as though he ought to sit down and have a bottle of water. Perhaps two bottles.

“Hi,” you said. “You alright?”

Your voice shifted slightly, and he realised that you weren’t speaking to the cat this time.

With all the grace and composure he could muster, he said, “I—uh—it would—I mean, yes. Yeah. I’ll be off, then.”

He pivoted sharply towards the stairwell.

You blinked after him, fingers still running down Violet’s spine.

“And Violet?” you called.

Yeonjun stopped dead.

“Yes!” he said, whirling around before he could fully register the heat climbing up the back of his neck. “Of course. I’ll be off with Violet. I—we will be off together.”

He gathered the cat, careful not to brush your hands in the process. At this point, he was convinced that any skin contact would finish him on the spot.

You stepped back.

He dared a glance at you.

You were looking down now, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your hips.

The sunflowers, he noted, were still on your kitchen island beside you, bright yellow and offensively alive. He stared at them, trying to work out who else could’ve got them for you.

It was still just this one bouquet in any case, as much as it irked him.

He’d got you fourteen.

You were surprised to find him still standing on your doorstep when you looked up.

“Later, then,” you said, a little awkward.

Yeonjun blinked, snapping back to awareness.

“Right,” he said. “Later.”

He escaped down the stairs.

Once the door of your flat clicked shut behind him, he let out a breath that seemed to rattle all the way through him.

Violet meowed in his arms. He could tell she knew he’d embarrassed himself.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he warned as soon as he unlocked his door. He tapped gently between her ears before scratching under her chin. “M’going to have a very, very long night tonight. I need your support.”

Violet, when properly motivated, offered excellent support.

Today, however, she felt strongly motivated to do three things exactly: use her litter box, demolish half a pouch of tuna in her bowl, and fall asleep directly on Yeonjun’s favourite pillow on his bed.

Yeonjun spent a solid hour trying to get her interest back; no luck.

Now he stood alone in his bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror under the bulb overhead. His hands shook as he attempted to tie his tie. The knot collapsed again.

It had been a long time since he’d needed to do this.

The last time, you’d stood in front of him. You’d been wearing blue too, though the colour had been lighter then. Your fingers had been warm against his throat as you fixed the tie for him, tightening the knot with one precise tug. He remembered the concentration on your face, the brush of your knuckles under his jaw.

He stared at his reflection for another moment.

Had that been the beginning of the end, then? Dinner with his parents, his crashed car. Had he given you even one happy memory in those last few days?

He yanked his tie off and threw it onto the counter beside the sink.

Fuck it, then.

He’d go without one.

What did it matter anyway?

He’d show up at the restaurant, congratulate Soobin and Reina, smile when appropriate. Then he’d drink until he couldn’t recognise himself in any mirror anymore.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 7:30 PM

By the time Yeonjun arrived at the restaurant, everyone else was already there.

If he’d stopped to think about it, he might’ve found the sight endearing: the entire group of friends, formed years ago in university auditoriums and dormitories, still turning up for one another like this. Some of the other guests, he recognised, Soobin had known since kindergarten.

It was loud and very crowded here.

His mind was elsewhere.

He bumped into Soobin’s parents right by the door; his mother had earrings the size of small planets. They wanted to know how his family was doing.

“Fine, I expect,” he said, and walked off before they could ask what he meant. He hoped they’d assume he was drunk.

The restaurant had been decorated in excess, not unlike a royal wedding: white and gold everywhere, with balloons on the ceiling, on the walls, and stuck to the back of Kai’s head as Taehyun attempted to explain that hairspray was supposed to reduce static. There were enough flowers here that Yeonjun had heard Beomgyu sneezing from the street outside.

He saw you right away.

You stood near the main table in the centre of the room in your blue dress, one arm wrapped loosely around Reina’s shoulders. Nara stood opposite you, gesticulating wildly as she spoke, her bracelets flashing under the lights.

Then Soobin arrived and leaned over to murmur something into Reina’s ear. She laughed and pulled back from you with a quick wave.

Smiling softly, you turned to watch them go.

Yeonjun stared at that smile right up until he tripped over a loose ribbon trailing from the enormous banner stretched across the wall: REINA and SOOBIN 2027.

“Sorry,” he muttered to the approaching waiter, who bent to fix the ribbon.

On instinct, Yeonjun grabbed two champagne flutes from the tray in the waiter’s hands. Without hesitation, he downed the first one, dropped it back on the tray, and set off towards you and Nara with the second still in hand.

He figured he’d come up with something intelligent to say on the walk over.

Unfortunately, the walk was very short.

“Hi,” was the best he could do. “Where’re the betrothed?”

Nara, deducing the question wasn’t meant for her, took a sip of her champagne.

You turned towards him.

His hair was slicked back, but several dark strands had already escaped the gel and fallen over his forehead. He wore a black suit with a white shirt underneath. The buttons were golden.

Your gaze dropped, uninvited, to the exposed line of his neck. He wasn’t wearing a tie.

“Appetiser emergency,” you said, turning back ahead. “Something’s wrong with the salmon.”

“Ah,” Yeonjun said.

You were almost exactly his height in your heels. He became acutely aware of having a throat.

He wondered if he knew any fun facts about salmon. It wasn’t naturally pink; would that help the conversation? Also, was salmon the fish that could leap two meters out of water or was that—oh God, he was dying.

“W-wanted to apologise for being late,” he added, “but guess that’ll have to wait, then.”

“Hmm.” Nara smiled into her glass. “Bold of you to assume they even noticed you weren’t here.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Yeonjun glanced at you and smiled despite the jab.

Good choice, then, not going with the salmon facts.

“Still,” he said, draining the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “S’rude of me. D’you need me to get you another drink?”

You didn’t immediately process the offer. Nara tilted her head meaningfully towards the empty flute in your hand, a knowing grin on her lips.

“Oh.” You rotated the stem of the glass between your fingers. “No. I’ve got it.”

You smiled at Nara and stepped away towards the bar.

It took Yeonjun a few seconds to realise you meant you’d go and get another drink right this instant, and not in a moment. He watched you walk away and tried to decide what a decent waiting time was before he could casually turn up next to you again.

Nara asked him something.

He didn’t hear a word and answered with a noncommittal grunt.

Guests crowded around him, and Nara, bored now, walked away to join them, momentarily blocking his view. He lost sight of you.

Just as something uneasy began to tighten in his stomach, he spotted your blue dress again near the bar by the far wall.

“You’re here!”

Yeonjun flinched at the clap on his shoulder and turned around.

Soobin and Reina stood behind him, both already flushed from champagne, their eyes sparkling. Reflections from the hanging lights flickered in Reina’s golden earrings every time she moved her head. Soobin, noticeably, couldn’t look away from her pink dress for more than two seconds at a time.

Just looking at them made Yeonjun remember how to smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, giving them each a nod. “Congratulations, guys. The place looks beautiful.”

Over the last year, Reina had stopped looking at him like she might one day strangle him with her bare hands. For a while, she hadn’t looked at him at all.

Tonight, she smiled and lifted her glass slightly in acknowledgement.

“Thanks, man,” Soobin replied, smacking his shoulder again.

Yeonjun nodded awkwardly. He wanted to offer a more heartfelt sentiment for the occasion, but couldn’t stop thinking about salmon.

“You find the drinks alright?” Soobin asked.

Automatically, Yeonjun glanced towards the bar.

You were still there.

“Not yet,” he said, slipping the empty flute behind his back. “Thought I’d get one now, actually.”

“Of course,” Soobin said easily. The room was delightfully fuzzy around him. He loved champagne. “Enjoy yourself.”

Nodding again, Yeonjun disappeared back into the moving crowd.

Reina watched him leave, the corner of her mouth twitching.

She’d seen you by the bar.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 8 PM

As the first round of appetisers began circulating through the restaurant—small, buttery things topped with salmon and herbs that you and Reina had taste-tested earlier that afternoon—people drifted back to their tables.

Conversations mellowed into an expectant hum; the instrumental music on the speakers quieted.

It was time for the toasts.

Naturally, this took ages.

Everyone here had known each other too long to tell a short story. Every memory required context, three unrelated anecdotes, and at least one interruption from another table.

Reina and Soobin’s parents being here tempered some of the wilder tales, although not by much. Reina’s father, already out of his jacket, cheeks rosy from champagne, laughed louder than anyone in the room whenever someone started implying things they probably shouldn’t have.

Your personal favourite remained Beomgyu’s passionate retelling of how Reina had, over time, replaced Soobin for him.

It had started innocently enough: he’d go over to Soobin and Yeonjun’s to use their PlayStation for a few hours. Soobin usually joined him. Then, one time, Reina appeared in the doorway of Soobin’s bedroom, wincing. She had better things to do than watch them play, but Soobin was getting demolished, and she thought it reflected poorly on her. She took over the controller and proceeded to beat Beomgyu three times in a row before she got bored and left again.

“That,” Beomgyu said, hand pressed to his chest, “deeply impressed me.”

His champagne flute became part of the story. He mimicked Soobin’s aim and sloshed the drink across the tablecloth. Gestured at Reina again and nearly sent the whole glass flying.

The more people laughed, the louder he spoke.

“I’ve decided,” he concluded finally, “that I prefer playing against Rei. Least she can make a jump without respawning ten times.”

Another wave of laughter drowned out Soobin’s indignant yelps of protest. Reina leaned against his shoulder, hiding her laughter in the crook of his neck.

Beomgyu raised his glass higher.

“Anyway,” he announced, “can’t wait for your wedding. Cheers!”

Glasses rose around the restaurant, followed by applause. Soobin reached instinctively for Reina’s hand. The smile on her face beside him was bright enough to light up the whole building.

The warmth from their table radiated through the restaurant, settling into conversations as the evening wore on and people splintered into smaller groups.

Reina’s mother eventually settled down beside Taehyun at his table—she seemed to have adopted him the moment he’d brought her a fresh glass of champagne; her third one tonight. Her husband had suggested a two-glass limit. She suggested it was time for her husband to go home.

Across the room, Yeonjun leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, and observed your conversation with Beomgyu a few tables away—for about a minute. Then he counted to three, finished the rest of his champagne, and rose to his feet.

Beomgyu, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to revisit Taehyun’s earlier statement about static and hairspray. He rubbed a white balloon vigorously against the back of his head while he explained the theory.

His hair was beginning to lift.

“I believe you,” you said, already smiling despite yourself. “But, uh—you’re not worried this will ruin your hairstyle?”

“No, no, look.” He rubbed harder, oblivious to the strands floating upward around his ears. “I’m saying hairspray creates resist—”

“All that electricity can’t be good for you.”

You felt Yeonjun sit down beside you before you turned your head. He held another champagne flute in his hand.

Something inside you relaxed at the sight of him. Then this instinctive reaction set your teeth on edge.

“Lightning’s going to get you,” Yeonjun added, nodding towards Beomgyu’s hair. “How’re you going to make it to Nara’s birthday party next week, then?”

Beomgyu lowered the balloon slowly.

“This has got nothing to do with lightning,” he said. Then, less confidently: “Has it?”

Distracted by his growing concern, he missed the look you gave Yeonjun.

“No,” you said, unable to stop yourself from playing along. “It’s not raining right now anyway.”

“It’s not—but when it rains?” Beomgyu smoothed one side of his hair back down. Perhaps, he thought, he hadn’t used enough hairspray.

“Then we’ll be able to use you,” Yeonjun said, “to tell if there’s going to be thunder.”

Beomgyu frowned and turned back to you again.

“’Cause your hair will stand up,” you explained, gesturing at his head, “like a lightning rod of sorts.”

Yeonjun snickered quietly into his drink.

Realisation dawned on Beomgyu’s face.

He fixed you both with his most practised glare, scoffed, and pushed himself up from his chair.

“You guys think I’m five years old,” he said, pointing at you, then at Yeonjun, “don’t you?”

You failed to resist a smile.

“You look it,” Yeonjun replied, lifting his glass. “S’a compliment, really.”

Beomgyu hummed. Then, suspiciously solemn, he stepped around the table and leaned in before Yeonjun could react. Static crackled through the air as he rubbed the balloon against the back of Yeonjun’s head with ferocious enthusiasm.

“Oi! What—”

He ducked under Yeonjun’s outstretched hands, cackling, and darted into the crowd.

Grimacing, Yeonjun peeled the balloon away from his hair. A few strands remained standing upright.

“What a little shit,” he muttered.

When he looked up, you were already gone from your seat.

He pressed his lips together.

He sat there for a moment, balloon in hand, listening to the noises in the restaurant: the scrape of chairs, the laughter dissolving into the low rhythm of music. The balloons drifted by his feet whenever the kitchen doors swung open.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

He couldn’t just sit here with this fucking balloon.

Near the main table, Soobin’s mother swayed to the music with both of Reina’s parents. The two women giggled loudly, clearly already tipsy. Soobin’s father joined them, balancing a tray of drinks in one hand.

Yeonjun watched them for a moment without really seeing them.

Then he spotted a passing waiter and stood. He traded his empty flute for a full one—then reconsidered his current circumstances and took the whole tray instead.

The champagne was dry and unremarkable, but it did the job. He guzzled half the glass and fell back into the crowd.

A few minutes later, he found you again.

This time, you were talking to Kai in the warm light near the kitchen doors.

A little tipsy and very conversational, Kai spoke with his entire body. Champagne kept sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass every time his hands flew up, the restaurant lights catching the bubbles.

Currently, he was filling you in on everything you’d missed at university while you were in New York.

“I thought he left because he got a better offer somewhere,” you said, raising one eyebrow.

“No.” Kai shook his head hard enough to splash champagne onto the cuff of his shirt. He didn’t notice. “No, no. He was sleeping with two undergrads at the same time, and they found out about each other.”

Your second eyebrow rose to join the first. “And then?”

“And then,” he continued, thrilled, “the undergrads teamed up and went straight to the Board together. Told them everything, brought screenshots. And now he’s fired.”

You chuckled, rotating the champagne flute in your hands.

“Nice,” you said. “Love it when women collaborate.”

“We should’ve seen it coming, honestly,” he said, sipping from his half-empty glass. “Something was always off with his classes. Serves him right for being such a rigid—”

“Serves whom right?”

By now, you’d half-expected Yeonjun. You didn’t bother turning around.

He stopped beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against your arm. He tipped his head back and emptied the champagne in his glass in one swallow. He’d left the tray on the table behind him and glanced over his shoulder to make sure it was still there.

“Professor Johnson,” Kai told him. “He got fired.”

Yeonjun had absolutely no memory of a Professor Johnson.

Honestly, five glasses in, he was starting to have no memory of what he was even here for.

“No way,” he said. “What’d he do?”

Kai, buzzing at the opportunity to retell the story, started from the very beginning.

You listened for approximately two seconds, up until you had to duck away from Kai’s gestures. Then, lips pursed to fight back your laughter, you finished your champagne and left Yeonjun to endure the story alone.

And endure it he did, nodding at appropriate moments—more or less—while simultaneously scanning the restaurant for you. Kai’s hands grew increasingly more animated beside him.

There.

You’d joined a group of girls near the windows. Yeonjun didn’t recognise any of them, but you clearly did; laughter softened your features as you leaned towards one of them. The blue of your dress shimmered in the light every time you moved. The entire restaurant seemed to swim around it.

Kai noticed Yeonjun’s wandering attention mid-sentence.

He followed Yeonjun’s gaze across the restaurant, hand already reaching to drag him back into the conversation—until he spotted you near the windows and stopped.

Abandoning his efforts to resume the story, Kai walked off in search of more champagne before Yeonjun drained the place dry.

Yeonjun barely noticed him leave.

You were still laughing, which was good. He wanted you to keep doing that. Wanted the music on the speakers to quiet down, too, so he could hear you better. He also wanted—

Taehyun appeared beside you. He slipped smoothly into the conversation, apologised to the girls surrounding you, then leaned in to whisper something in your ear.

Yeonjun decided, immediately, that he needed something stronger than champagne.

By the time he crossed the restaurant towards you, a glass of whiskey in hand, Taehyun was already grinning.

Earlier in the evening, he’d been too busy charming Reina’s mother to pay much attention to anything else. Now, however, Reina’s parents were gathering their coats near the door, and Taehyun had redirected his energy into the next most exciting thing: tracking Yeonjun’s every move.

“It’s you again,” Taehyun said, raising his soju shot in greeting.

You glanced at Yeonjun. He met your gaze head-on and held it for an entire half-second.

“It’s me again,” he said.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Taehyun asked, eyeing the glass in Yeonjun’s hands. “Or just the drinks, then?”

“Just the drinks, then.”

“I see.”

Yeonjun swayed faintly where he stood. You turned your face so he wouldn’t see the smile threatening your lips.

“We were just talking about you, you know,” Taehyun added.

Yeonjun turned his whole body towards you. The golden light from the lamps carved dramatic shadows along his cheeks.

“Were you?” he asked.

“We were,” you said. “Noticed you’re very sociable tonight.”

The implication reached him about a second late. You watched him narrow his eyes, then take another sip.

“Guess I am, then,” he said.

“Any reason for that?”

He shrugged. Then shrugged again.

“My best friend’s engaged,” he said finally. “M’happy.”

You glanced at Taehyun just in time to catch the grin he was trying to hide by swallowing his soju. He placed the empty shot glass on the table next to him and turned back to Yeonjun.

He’d already noticed that every time you drifted into another conversation somewhere in the restaurant, Yeonjun reappeared minutes later with a fresh drink in his hand.

Naturally, Taehyun figured, this called for a small social experiment.

“Hm.” He stepped back to look you over with exaggerated consideration. “Have I told you you look stunning in that dress?”

Your eyebrows lifted.

Beside you, Yeonjun finished the rest of his whiskey in one alarming gulp. Ice knocked against the glass when he lowered it again.

“You haven’t,” you replied. “Thank you.”

Something in your dry tone amused Taehyun very much.

He decided to expand the scope of his experiment.

“Have you seen the photographer?” he asked, glancing around the restaurant. A few groups of people had started loose, tipsy dancing circles between the tables.

“I haven’t.”

You didn’t follow his gaze, which made Taehyun’s smile widen immediately.

Clueless, Yeonjun turned around. He had seen the photographer earlier—hard not to; the man had an aggressively white suit. Looked like a bishop in a game of human chess. Or the pope. Did popes wear white?

Salmon! Salmon was naturally white.

Before Yeonjun could point out the photographer with the salmon suit, Taehyun reached for your hand.

“We should take a picture together,” Taehyun announced, pulling you gently towards him.

You resisted instinctively, your heels dragging against the floor tiles. “Haven’t we already?”

“Not just the two of us.”

Your expression flattened immediately.

Taehyun, emboldened further, slid his free hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew his phone.

“Yeonjun,” he said pleasantly, holding it out. “Would you mind?”

A strange moment passed.

Yeonjun looked at the phone.

Then at Taehyun.

Then, finally, at Taehyun’s hand still wrapped loosely around your wrist.

The bustling restaurant seemed to fade around him. Someone dropped something near the kitchen; it sounded like a knife or a fork.

Slowly, Yeonjun accepted the phone.

Taehyun was surprised; he’d been convinced this would be enough. Back in grad school, Yeonjun would’ve combusted by now.

Alright, then.

Interesting.

Taehyun dropped his hand to your waist.

Yeonjun stared at the screen of Taehyun’s phone as though he’d never encountered such technology before. After a second, he set his empty glass down on the windowsill behind him.

Taehyun stepped beside you. Warmth pressed along your side as he nudged you even nearer.

“What are you doing?” you muttered under your breath.

“Trying to see something,” he whispered back. Up close, his breath smelled distinctly of soju, although it was hard to tell whether he was already drunk or still on the way.

Meanwhile, Yeonjun finally unlocked the phone. The screen tilted in his hand, the restaurant lights smearing across the glass until the apps blurred together.

He opened the email and stared, perplexed, at the writing on the screen. What the fuck was DHL and why—

This wasn’t right.

Finally, he found the camera.

He stepped back until the windowsill pressed against his hip and raised the phone, deliberately not looking at either of you.

Taehyun smiled at once. Pinned to his side by the weight of his arm around your waist, you managed something polite enough to pass for a smile, too.

Yeonjun took one picture.

Then another.

Then several more in quick succession, his thumb tapping faster each time.

You hadn’t realised how rigid you were until the muscles in your upper back started to burn. Taehyun, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease beside you.

The moment he started snickering, unable to hold it in any longer, you stepped away and fixed him with a disapproving look.

You had long suspected that prolonged exposure to Beomgyu had caused permanent damage to his brain. The two of them rubbed off on each other in all the worst ways sometimes.

Taehyun’s smile didn’t so much as twitch as he took the phone back from Yeonjun. “Thanks!”

He swiped through the photos until he reached the first one with you in it and exhaled dramatically. He no longer worked at the theatre, but he’d clearly retained the flair for performance.

“Ah.” He sighed. “We look good together.”

Lips pursed, you glanced down at his phone.

The overhead lights glinted off the screen. You lifted a hand to block the glare, your shoulder brushing against his.

“Although,” Taehyun added just as you leaned in, “you do look a bit like a police sketch. I mean that respectfully.”

You snorted, pinching the screen to zoom in on your faces. Your eyes were completely lifeless in the picture.

“No, yeah,” you said, “I look like I’m wanted in twenty-five countr—”

“You look beautiful,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s head shot up, victorious.

Slowly, you looked up, too.

Yeonjun still stood by the windows, one hand absently twisting the golden ribbon tied around the white curtain. The restaurant tables reflected on the glass behind him.

He was looking at you.

For a moment, you couldn’t seem to do anything but look back.

Taehyun grinned.

“Do you two want a picture together?” he asked, very pleased with himself.

You dropped your gaze first. “That won’t be—”

“Yes,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s smile spread.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back and gesturing between the two of you with his phone. “Go on, then.”

You glanced at him, contemplated briefly what life in prison would be like, then turned to Yeonjun. He shifted to one side, making room for you next to him.

You didn’t move.

“Come on,” Taehyun urged. “Haven’t got all day.”

“No?” You cut him a look. “You can go, then.”

He plastered on a kind smile.

“I’d rather stay,” he said. “Go on now, come on. It’s just a picture. Or is something the matter?”

You pressed your lips together and turned away.

The dull sound of your platform heels against the tiles seemed unnaturally loud as you crossed the space towards Yeonjun. By the time you stopped next to him, your heart had climbed so high into your throat that you couldn’t swallow.

Taehyun raised his phone. On his screen, you and Yeonjun looked like you were two presidential candidates forced to stand next to each other before an important debate.

“Wow.” He tsked. “This is extremely awkward.”

You scoffed, your thoughts tripping over fifteen different retorts.

Yeonjun cleared his throat next to you.

“I, personally,” he said, one eye blinking slower than the other, “think s’nice.”

Taehyun openly beamed. He was having the time of his life here tonight. Soobin and Reina should get engaged every day.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, taking a step closer. “Just—here. Let me help.”

He caught Yeonjun by the elbow and nudged him closer to you with enough force to make him stumble half a step. Then, laughing under his breath, he pried your wrist from your resistance and placed your hand against Yeonjun’s chest.

You couldn’t breathe.

“There,” Taehyun said, stepping back to admire his work. “Much better. Now closer.”

You moved perhaps half an inch.

Taehyun shook his head.

“Closer,” he repeated. And then, closer, closer, closer—three more times, until you could feel Yeonjun’s heartbeat against your own.

His cologne curled around you, the same one, reminiscent of citrus and wood. Of cold air. Of late-night drives in the rain. Low-lit kitchens and quiet music on the speakers.

“Smile now,” Taehyun instructed.

You tried.

The shutter clicked—once, twice. Then twice more.

You were painfully aware of every point of contact between you and Yeonjun: the warmth beneath your hand, the sound of his breath, the thumping inside your chest and right against it.

Finally, Taehyun lowered his phone.

You took a step back, hands automatically reaching for the zipper of your dress just to have something solid to hold. Cold air prickled across your arms.

Taehyun had already started flicking through the photos, his head cocked to one side as he studied each one. You moved back to his side.

No one spoke for a minute.

The pictures were awful.

They looked like they’d been taken years ago, sometime in university, even, before the distance and the silence and all that came after. They looked like nothing had happened at all. You could not look away.

Beside you, Taehyun glanced up from the screen.

Up until now, this had all been a laugh: push Yeonjun’s buttons here, see how red his ears get there. But now Yeonjun was standing by the window, looking at you and not the pictures, and Taehyun realised there was something here that he hadn’t accounted for.

He glanced back down at the pictures. At the way Yeonjun had angled himself toward you in every frame. The way your fingers rested easily over the white line of his shirt.

For months, Taehyun remembered, every time he’d tried to bring Yeonjun up around you, you shut it down straight away.

I don’t know what you’re on about.

We were just joking.

Nothing really happened.

Right, then.

People who meant nothing to each other did not fall back together that easily.

“Great,” you said finally. The slit of your dress pulled slightly against your thigh as you took a step back. You glanced quickly towards the bar. “Um—great pictures.”

Taehyun looked up at you.

His experiment, he thought, could give you one more push.

“Yeah?” he said lightly. “‘Cause we can have a re-do.”

You turned back to him. “No. This is good.”

“Hm.” He swiped through the pictures again, smiling. “Are these your first photos together?”

Yeonjun quietly shook his head.

Taehyun didn’t notice and glanced back up at you, expectant.

You cleared your throat. “No.”

He nodded, scrolling further back to the earlier photos of you and him.

“Well,” he said. “I reckon ours turned out better anyway.”

Your expression relaxed just a little.

“We look natural,” he continued, zooming in. Your eyes, he noted, hadn’t looked this empty with Yeonjun. He continued anyway, “and comfortable. Like we actually enjoy spending time together.”

By the window, Yeonjun visibly stiffened.

You clicked your tongue. “M’not enjoying spending time with you right now.”

“No?” Taehyun’s tone remained innocent. “Would you prefer I left you two alone, then?”

“Actually—”

“Yeonjun?” Taehyun finished, turning his head towards him.

“Yes,” Yeonjun said. “I would.”

Aha, Taehyun thought.

Just a bit more now, he was sure.

“Oh,” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Don’t mind me, then.” He flashed you a grin, all teeth and vice and everything nice. “I was just having such a nice time catching up with you. We should do it more often.”

“We saw each other on Thursday,” you said.

“And yet I already suffer tremendously.” He reached for your hand again. “Maybe we should—”

“Excuse me.” Yeonjun stepped forward abruptly, forcing you and Taehyun apart. “I need to use the restroom.”

He lingered between you for a heartbeat, his thoughts spinning and tripping over one another. Then he kept walking.

Your perfume still swam around him. Your hand had been on his chest less than five minutes ago. The space between you and Taehyun—

He needed a minute before his nervous system gave up on him for good.

You watched him disappear through the restroom doors. Beside you, Taehyun made a strangled sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

You turned slowly towards him. “You little snake.”

Taehyun exploded with all the amusement he’d been holding back, one hand comically braced against his stomach. His shoulders shook hard enough that nearby people started glancing over.

“You should see your face,” he wheezed. “I nearly—”

“What’re you trying to do here?”

Still spluttering, he managed to straighten up.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Just celebrating.”

Before you could question him further, he sighed happily and leaned in to press a quick kiss to your cheek—purely to annoy you one last time.

It worked.

“Taehyun.”

Laughing again, he sauntered towards the rest of your friends.

At some point during the evening, the floral centrepiece on the main table had been replaced by an unstable tower of jelly shots—Soobin, Reina, Nara, and Beomgyu were currently involved in a fiercely competitive game of jelly shot Jenga (JJ, as Beomgyu called it three rounds ago and now refused to call it anything else).

Judging by the alarming redness of Soobin’s cheeks, Reina was currently winning.

Taehyun arrived just in time to watch her slide another shot from the middle row. The structure held.

She threw both arms into the air so abruptly that she nearly sent Soobin tumbling into the table.

“Yes!” she shouted.

“I’m a little scared of you,” Nara said.

Laughing, Reina caught Soobin by the front of his jacket and pulled him into a kiss that he accepted with immediate enthusiasm.

He looked a little dazed when she pulled away, thrilled by her victory and their engagement and all their friends being here. He leaned back into the table dreamily.

“Bin—” Nara’s voice died in a high-pitched squeal as Soobin’s sleeve brushed the side of the middle row.

The tower collapsed at once, shot glasses staining the formerly white tablecloth in beautiful shades of the rainbow. Screeches rang around the table: Soobin—it wasn’t my fault—SOOBIN—I DIDN’T MEAN TO—

Beomgyu was doubled over with laughter as he tried to salvage the bottom row. Taehyun assisted him by dutifully swallowing every shot he was handed.

Before anyone could recruit you into helping rebuild the disaster, you turned away, walking towards the coat rack. You rummaged through your handbag until your fingers found your cigarettes; the cardboard pack was slightly crushed at one corner. You grabbed it, found your lighter, and slipped towards the back exit.

Outside, the evening air was cool against your bare arms.

The alley beside the restaurant smelled of damp brick and smoke. Headlights swept past the opening of the street. Somewhere further down the block, a group of teenage boys shouted loudly at one another.

You inhaled deeply and held the cold in your lungs for a moment. Then you opened the pack of Camels.

It was New York that had reminded you of the old habit.

Everyone there seemed to smoke socially: outside bars, museums, small European restaurants (the performative ones, with dreadful lighting and cocktails that nearly put you in debt, and the genuine ones, with great food and small windows).

You’d grown fond of standing outside with strangers, white smoke curling through the conversations, sharing lighters, borrowing cigarettes. It gave your hands something to do and, more importantly, it provided a great excuse to leave any room.

Yeonjun did not know about this habit.

When he finally left the restroom—after splashing cold water on his face and staring at himself in the mirror for a minute—his eyes automatically began searching the restaurant for blue.

Nothing.

He scanned the room again.

Still nothing.

Concern prickled through him as he grabbed another whiskey from the bar and started circling the restaurant in search of a familiar face. Someone had to have seen you.

Glittering dresses, glasses of champagne, and those endless fucking balloons all blurred past him.

Finally, he spotted Kai by the windows.

Unfortunately for Yeonjun, Kai had already been briefed on Taehyun’s ongoing social experiment and had decided, out of scientific curiosity, to become complicit.

“She left,” Kai said. “With Taehyun, I think.”

In reality, Kai knew, Taehyun was getting a new tray of jelly shots with Beomgyu, hoping to rebuild their tower.

Yeonjun, of course, did not know this.

“Yes,” Kai said in response to his gobsmacked expression. “Like two minutes ago, maybe.”

Yeonjun scanned the restaurant a third time, faster now.

You definitely weren’t here.

And neither was Taehyun.

Something heavy dropped straight through his stomach.

“Right,” he muttered. “I’ve got to go.”

Kai watched, fascinated, as Yeonjun abruptly turned and crossed the restaurant. Still clutching his whiskey glass, he barged past groups of people and disappeared through the back exit.

That was very interesting.

Taehyun, Kai thought, sipping his champagne, was going to enjoy hearing that the breaking point for Yeonjun had apparently been the mere possibility of you leaving the party with someone else.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 10 PM

Yeonjun found you the moment he shoved through the steel door.

The metal slammed against the wall hard enough to make you jump. Your cigarette nearly slipped from your fingers, scattering ash across your hand and the wet concrete at your feet.

You looked up.

Yeonjun stood beneath the flickering exit sign. It tinted his face a sickly green. His chest rose and fell beneath the open collar of his shirt, a little too fast. His hair had started coming loose; several dark strands now hung over his forehead.

For a second, he simply stared at you. The frigid air had slapped some clarity back into him, though not enough to undo the whiskey.

This, he concluded, was the smoking area, then.

“Y-you’re not here with—” He stopped himself with a long exhale. “Okay.”

You stared back at him, completely thrown.

Slowly, Yeonjun reached back and pulled the door shut behind him. The noise from the restaurant dulled immediately, leaving only the hiss of tyres somewhere beyond the alley and the quiet electric buzz of the exit sign.

He moved away from the door and leaned his back against the wall opposite you. The whiskey glass in his hand trembled slightly, the ice tapping against the edge.

His gaze dropped to the cigarette between your fingers; your second one.

“Didn’t know you still smoked,” he said, patting distractedly at his chest until his fingers found the inside pocket of his jacket.

You chose not to question why he’d followed you out here.

“I don’t,” you replied, bringing the cigarette to your lips.

He smiled. “Yeah?”

You exhaled toward the alley. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” he said, pulling out the crumpled red package of Marlboro from his pocket. “I do.”

He planted a cigarette between his lips and nodded towards the lighter you were still clutching in your hand. He had his own, but he couldn’t care less for it right now.

You flicked the lighter open.

Yeonjun leaned forward and misjudged the distance completely. He stumbled half a step closer, ending up nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with you against the wall. Whiskey sloshed dangerously in his glass. You took a cautious step aside.

“Sorry,” he murmured around the cigarette. “You mind?”

You held the flame up to him.

This time, he leaned in carefully. The cigarette tip glowed orange in the dark, briefly illuminating the soft curve of his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he took a drag.

You lowered the lighter and looked away.

“Smart idea,” you said, nodding towards the glass in his hand, “bringing your drink here.”

He followed your gaze downwards as if he’d forgotten he still had the whiskey with him.

“Yeah. Oh—” He glanced back at you. “You want some?”

You hesitated for only a second. “Dry throat.”

He held the glass out immediately.

You took a large swig. The whiskey burned harshly going down, but settled warm in your stomach.

“Thanks,” you said, handing the glass back.

His hand curled around it without looking, fingers grazing yours as he steadied the cigarette against the rim and took another drag. His lips brushed the edge of the glass.

Smoke drifted from his mouth in a thin silver stream, dissolving into the dark.

You only realised you’d been staring when your heart forgot its rhythm.

Turning away, you crossed one arm over your waist and lifted the cigarette again. Smoke filtered down into your lungs, calm and almost soothing.

“You should drink more,” Yeonjun said, staring absently into his glass.

“Yeah?” you said. “As much as you did tonight?”

A tired smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

He wasn’t going to defend himself. He felt one prolonged blink away from falling asleep against the wall.

For a while, the two of you stood in silence while the smoke drifted upward between you before dissipating into the cold night air. The brick wall was rough and chilly against your shoulders, but you didn’t move.

You weren’t standing nearly as close to Yeonjun as you had in front of Taehyun’s camera, but this was somehow worse. As if without the proof of his heartbeat against yours, you couldn’t be sure he was actually here.

“Taehyun was being an idiot back there, you know,” you found yourself saying. “He didn’t mean anything.”

Yeonjun exhaled smoke slowly through his mouth.

“I know,” he said.

You glanced at him again, taking in the exhaustion on his face. The night seemed to hang off his shoulders.

“What’s going on with you, then?” you asked.

He huffed out a small laugh.

“Several things,” he said, turning his head towards you. “I’m a machine. Got loads of ongoing processes and—”

“Yeonjun.” Your voice softened. “Be real right now.”

The smile faded from his face. “I am real.”

“So, what’s the matter with you? What’s with inserting yourself into every conversation I’m having?”

He scoffed, his shoulders tightening against the wall.

“What?” he said. “I can’t talk to people now?”

“You can,” you said evenly. “Why’s it always the same people I’m talking to, though?”

He took another drag from his cigarette and tipped his head back against the wall. His gaze wandered towards the narrow strip of night sky visible above the alley as he exhaled the smoke. No stars tonight; too many streetlights drowned them out.

“Just happened that way,” he said. “The restaurant’s smaller than it looks.”

“Right.”

You turned away from him and brought the cigarette back to your lips. The paper crackled as it burned.

“Did your grandad get you those sunflowers?” Yeonjun asked.

You blew out the smoke. “What?”

“The sunflowers you’ve got at home.” His eyes stayed fixed on the sky. “Are they from your grandad?”

Your brows pulled together. “Where is this coming from?”

“Just—just answer the question.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Are they from your grandad?”

You exhaled through your nose, smoke trailing with your breath. You didn’t know when he’d noticed the sunflowers.

“They are,” you said.

He dropped his gaze back to the pavement. “Okay.”

You stared at his hands for a second. His fingers relaxed around the glass.

“So nothing’s going on with you, then,” you said, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Just acting crazy for no reason.”

He scoffed around the cigarette, teeth sinking briefly into the filter.

“Well, why should I tell you if something was going on?” he said. “You don’t want to talk to me.”

“That—” You watched his hand tighten around the glass again. “Is that the problem?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Ash fell from the end of his cigarette in grey flakes, dropping over the toes of his loafers. “I’ve got too many problems to keep track of them all.”

“What—”

“I’ve decided,” he cut in, pushing himself off the wall, “I’m going to go back to the party now.”

You watched him stub out the cigarette against the bricks behind him. It hissed faintly as it died.

This was starting to feel surreal.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “And do what?”

He tossed the filter into the bin by the door.

The smile on his face was crooked and a little mean when he looked back at you. You knew it well.

“Well,” he said, stopping in front of you, “that’s none of your business now, is it?”

“It wouldn’t be,” you said through a stream of smoke, “if you weren’t interrupting every conversation I tried to have tonight.”

“M’not interrupting,” he said. “Just joining. S’called mingling.”

You scoffed. “You’re not mingling.”

“Yeah, I am,” he said, and the whiskey finally showed its face in the sluggish click of his tongue against his teeth. “And you don’t get to have a problem with it, because you don’t want me.”

Your fingers froze around the cigarette.

Yeonjun leaned heavily back against the wall beside you, as if the effort of the words had drained whatever energy he had left. He lifted the whiskey and took a long sip. It was mostly melted ice now.

You turned to face him fully. “What—what does that even mean?”

“It means m’going to go,” he said, but didn’t budge. His eyes flicked briefly towards the door beside him before snapping back to you. “Oh—or would you rather I wait, so you can go back first? Just in case, yeah? Have to be safe.”

You pressed your lips together tightly enough that your teeth clicked.

“We’re doing this shit now?” you said.

He shrugged. “Guess we are.”

Slowly, you dropped your cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it beneath your heel before tossing the remains into the bin. You brushed your palms together.

“Okay.” You met his eyes. “You can go back first. Just don’t make tonight worse for yourself than it already is.”

“Oh, worse, yeah.” He shifted, shoulder resting against the wall, angled towards you. “How d’you reckon I could make it worse?”

You clicked your tongue and crossed your arms over your chest.

“If you have to ask that,” you said, “then you clearly already know.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. He knew you wouldn’t answer him properly.

He took another sip from his glass.

“No, actually,” he said. Everything inside him was burning. “S’the whole point of asking a question. It implies not knowing the answer.”

“Okay, wise-ass. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

He turned his head, grinning. “If you have to ask that, then you clearly already know.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him. “I see we’re still twelve.”

“Thirteen and a half now,” he replied. “Been over a year since we were last out together.”

The tightness in your chest spread lower, frigid along your spine.

“Has it?” you said.

He glanced at you without lifting his head from the wall. “I’m offended you wouldn’t remember.”

“Why would I remember a bet we had for two weeks?”

His gaze dropped to the whiskey glass hanging loosely from his hand. The green light from the exit sign shimmered weakly across the surface, catching on the half-melted ice cubes.

For a moment, he just watched them swirl.

Then, quieter:

“Was that all there was, then?”

The silence that followed landed like a weight on your shoulders. It took you a moment to realise there wasn’t anyone else around to answer him for you.

“You said so,” you replied, tightening your grip around yourself.

Yeonjun sniffled.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said—out loud, for the first time.

You scoffed so quickly, it nearly startled him.

“Yeah?” you said. “Did that only take you a year and a half to figure out, then?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “I knew I didn’t mean it the moment I said it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

You asked the question, but your body was already preparing to leave. Your weight shifted, one knee bent slightly. Your eyes darted towards the door once, then once more.

Yeonjun wished he’d drunk more so he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Are you going to let me explain properly,” he asked, “or do you just want a quick answer so you can keep hating me?”

You watched him for a long moment after that: the darkness in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw, the mess of his hair. Your hands dropped to your sides.

He didn’t know, then, that there was very little he could say that would actually make you hate him.

You looked away towards the mouth of the alley and waited for a car to drive by so you could breathe again.

“I don’t hate you,” you said.

Yeonjun let out a slow breath. He wasn’t hearing you.

“Sure feels like you do,” he mumbled.

Above you, the exit sign seemed to buzz louder.

“I wish I did,” you said.

Yeonjun looked up.

The alcohol must’ve dissolved whatever sense he still possessed, because your words seemed to hit him hard enough to knock his heartbeat into a painfully familiar rhythm.

Now he heard you.

“W-what does that mean, then?” he asked.

You shook your head once. “Means you should go back in. Mingle.”

“No.”

He pushed himself off the wall too quickly and had to steady his balance before he lowered the whiskey glass carefully onto the pavement. Then he took a step closer.

“Explain,” he said. “You don’t hate me?”

You straightened instinctively against the wall, startled by the proximity.

“No,” you said.

“Why not?”

He suspected that might have been a stupid question. And still, his eyes moved slowly between yours, searching your face for the answer. There was nothing secretive left in him tonight; he’d drowned his restraint in the whiskey.

He wanted to know what he was to you now.

Wanted to be close to you.

Wanted you.

“Hating you,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “would mean I care about you.”

Yeonjun felt his stomach twist.

He’d heard you say this before: in the dark of his wardrobe room, surrounded by hangers of his clothes and hardly able to take a breath.

“Right,” he murmured, and the darkness in his eyes seemed to grow. “You don’t care.”

The alley around you suddenly felt much too small.

“Right,” you echoed.

“Mm.” He nodded once, eyes still fixed on yours. “Still want to jump out of a window every time I open my mouth, yeah?”

Your breath caught at the question. You could almost feel the plywood backing of his wardrobe against your spine again. Could almost smell the old wood.

“Sometimes,” you said.

His lips twitched.

“Sometimes,” he repeated. A slow smile touched his lips. “That’s better. I like that you’re honest.”

“Mhmm. I’ve never lied to you.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes. You were handing his words back to him.

He remembered you calling him performative for saying that to you back then. Remembered the quiet night and the way you refused to look at him, no matter how much he’d wanted you to. Remembered how desperately he’d hoped you’d believe him then. How desperately he hoped for it now.

The whiskey churned in his stomach.

He moved half a step closer before he realised he was doing it.

“You’re lying to me right now,” he said quietly.

You could hear your pulse in your ears. “I’m not.”

“You are.” He was close enough for your vision to blur around him. “You do care.”

Shivers raced down your spine, so sudden that they almost hurt.

Yeonjun waited. He needed you to admit that you cared. Needed proof that what you said wasn’t true.

You needed it to be true.

When you didn’t speak, he raised one hand. His fingers brushed the ends of your hair, cautious in case you’d shove him away. The touch was light enough that you barely felt it, yet every nerve ending inside you seemed to focus there anyway.

Gently, he swept your hair over your shoulder, exposing the side of your neck to the cool night air.

He really liked your hair tonight.

Really liked that the rest of the alleyway swirled around him, but you stayed completely still.

“S’why you’re out here now,” he murmured. “Asking me what’s the matter with me.” He pulled back just enough to look at your face again. “Because you care.”

“I care,” you replied, breathless, “about the way you’re making us look in front of everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And how am I making us look?”

“Bad.”

“Mm.” He leaned closer again. The toes of his shoes nudged the platform of your heels. “Why?”

His fingertips brushed your face before you could answer, a little cold and feather-light against your skin. Your shoulders pressed harder against the wall behind you.

You didn’t speak.

“Why am I making us look bad, love?” he repeated softly.

Your lungs tightened around the next breath.

Then his palm settled fully against the side of your face, devastatingly familiar.

Your eyes closed before you meant them to.

His thumb brushed over your cheek.

You blinked your eyes open again.

“You’re making it look,” you whispered, “like there’s something here.”

“Hmm.” He was close enough now that the warmth of every word reached your skin before the meaning did. “And there’s nothing here, yeah?”

There was nothing here: every inhale brought his chest against yours. Every exhale brought his mouth closer.

You squeezed your eyes shut again and took a breath.

The alleyway wrapped around you. Cars drifted by on the street. The exit sign pulsed loudly overhead. His cologne clung to the smoke in the air.

It was cold here.

The bricks were rough against your spine.

Before your mind could catch up to you, you pushed yourself off the wall and kissed him.

Yeonjun exhaled against your mouth, nearly choking as he caught your lips between his. His hand tightened at your jaw, still soft, but firm enough to hold you there. To tell you, wordlessly and desperately, not to pull away too soon.

His lips were soft and faintly bitter with smoke.

It was new, this taste of him. You didn’t like not knowing it.

Your hands caught instinctively in the lapels of his jacket, fingers tightening in the fabric as his shoulders loosened under your touch. He sighed against your mouth, emptying his lungs completely so he could breathe you in instead.

Your gloss was still sweet, still tasting faintly of cherry.

He hoped it would haunt him forever.

He tilted your head back to deepen the kiss—so slowly that you felt every moment of it: the parting of his lips, the slight tremor when you pulled closer.

Your fingers found the back of his neck and slid upwards into the strands of his hair. He made a small sound when you tugged lightly.

It went straight through you.

His other hand slid down to your waist, pulling you away from the wall and into him until your balance disappeared into the kiss. Your grip on his jacket tightened; your breath sped up.

“D’you care about me?” he murmured against your lips.

Your response came as a muffled breath, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Tell me,” he whispered, the words barely coherent. “Tell me you care.”

“I care.”

The kiss changed at once; his mouth moved against yours faster, rough with want. It stole the breath straight from your lungs.

His grip tightened around you. He could feel the texture of your dress against his palm, could feel the heat of your skin when his fingers brushed the cutouts on the sides of your waist.

He broke the kiss with a sharp, helpless gasp.

He was so fucking drunk.

“Fuck,” he whispered. His forehead dropped against yours. His lungs felt hollow, but his chest—his chest was so full. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

“I’m sorry—”

“No.” Both of his hands framed your face instantly. “Fuck, baby, no—” He pressed his lips to yours again. “No.” And again. “Not sorry.” And again. “Not sorry at all.”

Each kiss seemed to carry something different: regret and relief, questions he wanted to ask you, promises you wouldn’t let him make.

You were drowning in the warmth of his mouth, in the solid press of his chest against yours. In the unbearable ease with which your body remembered him.

The tension softened, but your mouths still lingered together in small, quiet touches.

One more kiss.

Another.

A pause that should’ve been the end of it.

Then one more kiss anyway.

And another—

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you could breathe properly.

Yeonjun stayed close enough for the taste of his whiskey to linger on your tongue. Close enough that, if you leaned forward even slightly, you could kiss him again.

“That—” You reached up to wipe your smudged gloss from the corner of his lips with your thumb. He wished you’d left it there. “T-that shouldn’t have happened.”

Something painful flickered in his eyes.

He smiled, but that only made him look sadder.

Slowly, he stepped back. His hands slid down your arms, fingers lingering on your skin for a moment longer before falling away.

“Of course,” he said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do, love.”

He took another step back and turned away, dragging a hand across his face as he tried to pull himself back together. You watched the line of his shoulders for a minute, your lungs unconsciously syncing to the rhythm of his breathing.

Then you dropped your gaze to the pavement instead. There were cigarette burn stains across the concrete, dark little circles.

“I-I’m going to go,” you said. “And we—we shouldn’t talk again tonight.”

He didn’t move.

A car drove past the alley.

You swallowed hard. “I need verbal agreement from you.”

Yeonjun shut his eyes.

You’d always recovered faster than him. Always been better at drawing lines and standing behind them.

“We won’t talk again tonight,” he said at last, still facing away from you.

The alley felt unstable around him now. If he looked back, if he saw your face again, he knew he’d drag you against him and start this all over again.

“Okay.” You pushed yourself off the wall. “That’s good.”

You moved silently enough that he barely heard you cross to the door. The hinges creaked when you pulled it open.

“I missed this, though,” he said before he could stop himself.

The door stopped moving.

Yeonjun didn’t turn, but he felt you freeze behind him all the same.

He pictured you standing in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, eyes lowered, fighting the same expression you’d worn yesterday in the stairwell.

That would haunt him forever, too.

“Don’t,” you whispered. It was a plea. “I—I’m going.”

The door shut behind you.

Yeonjun took a long, shuddering breath. He dug his lighter from his back pocket. It was nearly empty.

He needed another two cigarettes before he could force himself to go back inside.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 11:30 PM

Soon, people began to leave the party in small groups, lingering in the doorway of the restaurant with jackets slung over their arms, hugging each other goodbye three times before actually parting. Laughter kept spilling out onto the pavement. Every few minutes, someone suggested, ‘one more for the road, yeah?’

You and Yeonjun were both still here.

Since coming back inside, neither of you had looked directly at the other.

Yeonjun, who had technically honoured his promise not to speak to you again tonight, kept checking the time on his phone to see exactly when tonight would finally be over.

Most of the pleasant whiskey buzz had already started wearing off. Now he was left with a dull headache pressing at the back of his skull.

While Reina and Soobin stood near the entrance, thanking people for coming, you quietly began tidying the remnants of the evening so they’d have less to deal with later.

Before long, Taehyun and Nara showed up to help.

The three of you moved easily around each other through the half-empty restaurant, stacking scattered plates, gathering abandoned champagne flutes, rescuing forgotten handbags and suspicious flash drives from underneath tables.

Every now and then, one of you would laugh at something, and the other two would soon join in.

The sound irritated Yeonjun instantly.

He wanted to be part of it.

He stood near the back of the room with a half-empty whiskey glass and spent nearly a full minute debating whether helping you clean would count as breaking the agreement between you.

Eventually, he decided it wouldn’t, as long as he didn’t speak.

Twenty more minutes until midnight.

“We used to stay out until four in the morning at least,” Nara remarked as Yeonjun silently took a stack of empty plates from her hands. “Is this us getting old?”

“It’s not,” Soobin called from the doorway. He clapped one of his old school friends on the shoulder before turning back inside. “The restaurant has working hours, s’all.”

“And you didn’t think about the after-party?” Nara asked.

“I think they did,” Taehyun cut in before Soobin could answer. “We’re just not invited.”

Behind you, Reina succumbed to giggles, leaning against Soobin’s shoulder while he fought to suppress his grin. She swayed lightly in her heels.

Seventeen more minutes, Yeonjun thought. And he can make a comment, too.

Beomgyu and Kai returned from the restroom and were dispatched, at once, to stack chairs while the rest of you finished clearing the dishes.

Finally, after apologising to the exhausted staff for staying late, all eight of you stepped outside. A few of the guests were still here. Apparently, there weren’t enough taxis in the city for everyone.

Phones glowed across the pavement. Somewhere farther down the street, a man argued with an Uber driver in a language you didn’t recognise, but seemed to understand perfectly. His hands flailed wildly in the direction of the intersection up ahead.

Reina and Soobin had planned in advance and ordered a taxi half an hour ago.

It arrived first.

The two of them climbed into it to raucous applause and dramatic cheers from the pavement, as if they were off for their honeymoon rather than just heading home. Fully committing to the performance, Reina rolled down the window and gave everyone a graceful royal wave.

You laughed.

They looked radiant tonight. You couldn’t stop watching them.

A few steps away, Yeonjun couldn’t stop watching you.

Another five minutes later, an Uber rolled across the street, the headlights washing everyone’s jackets silver-white for a moment.

You checked the license plate against your phone and reached for the back door.

“Bye!” Taehyun called after you.

“Text me when you get home,” Nara added automatically. Despite all her complaints about the night ending, she sounded ready to curl up and fall asleep right there on the curb.

You gave them both a wave and ducked into the backseat.

The sight of your hand disappearing behind the edge of the door made something inside Yeonjun drop hard enough to leave him briefly weightless.

All he remembered was taking a breath.

“Hello,” you said to the driver, reaching back to pull the door shut—only for it to jerk backwards.

Yeonjun climbed into the backseat, nudging you to a side, and slammed the door shut.

You stared at him. “W-what the f—”

“105 Dove Road,” he told the driver. “Thank you.”

Then, as though none of this was remotely unhinged behaviour, he turned towards the window and gave someone outside the restaurant a lazy little wave. Nara was visibly staring.

The Uber driver watched Yeonjun through the rear-view mirror for a very long second.

“Miss,” he said cautiously, his eyes shifting towards you, “is that the right address?”

Your surprise doubled at his question. Not many men bothered to check in with a woman when another man answered for her.

You glanced sideways at Yeonjun’s expectant, utterly unashamed eyes.

Sighing, you scooched across the backseat towards the opposite window and gave the driver an apologetic nod. It wasn’t his fault Yeonjun was insane.

“Yes,” you said. “He’s my neighbour.”

“Okay.” The driver shrugged easily. “Just making sure.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded and carefully backed away from the curb, manoeuvring around another Uber that Nara was currently attempting to climb into while still laughing at something Bemgyu was saying through the open door. He was pointing directly at your car.

Behind them, Kai had his phone out and seemed to be taking pictures of you.

This was great.

For a moment, you considered blocking everyone in your contacts.

As the Uber slid into dwindling Saturday night traffic, Yeonjun closed his eyes and sank deeper into the seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest. You kept your eyes fixed on the window instead of him, watching the streets smear past in streaks of neon.

He hummed beside you. “Warm here.”

You gritted your teeth.

“What did I tell you we wouldn’t do again?” you asked, trying not to let your voice carry to the front of the car.

Yeonjun gathered his hands on his lap. “We wouldn’t talk tonight.”

“Right,” you said. “And what are we doing?”

He cracked one eye open.

Ignoring the slow spin of his surroundings, he dug his phone out of his pocket and heaved it as though it weighed several kilograms. The screen lit his face with a ghostly glow.

“It’s technically tomorrow,” he mumbled, holding the phone vaguely in your direction.

His lockscreen showed 12:12 AM.

His arm dropped again, head thunking softly against the seat. You stared at him for a second.

“I’m starting to think you really are unwell,” you informed him.

A faint smile appeared on the corner of his lips. “We live in the same building.”

“That is not why you got into my car.”

Yeonjun opened his eyes and slowly rolled his head towards you.

“No?” he said softly. “Tell me why, then.”

Clenching your jaw, you looked back out the window. Further away from the city centre, most of the shops had gone dark. A pair of drunk men stumbled past a deli with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

“You wanted everyone to see it.” Irritation sharpened your voice. You wished you’d drunk more tonight. “Wanted to send everyone some message. Like you’re marking your fucking territ—”

“No,” he said, eyes sliding shut again. “S’actually because you said we shouldn’t talk again tonight. And then we didn’t, even though you were right there, and now I feel a little bit like m’dying. S’all.”

A violent shiver snaked down your spine.

“That’s your future hangover,” you said.

“No.” His lips twitched slightly. “S’just you.”

He heard you draw a sharp breath and opened his eyes to find that you’d closed yours.

When you eventually looked back at him and found him already watching you, you still didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I can’t—I shouldn’t be saying shit like this. S’not your fault we ended up here anyway. I’m the one who fucked up and—”

“Yeonjun.”

It didn’t sound like a demand for him to stop speaking.

He didn’t know what it sounded like.

“I—” He swallowed and dragged a hand roughly down his face. The tips of his fingers felt like ice against his cheeks. “Right now, I’m really drunk.”

He paused, then frowned.

That wasn’t right. He’d developed a solid alcohol tolerance over the last year, but he’d transcended even that tonight. He seemed to have acquired some sort of higher spiritual condition now, available only to those courageous enough to drink their weight in liquor.

His head felt detachable.

Oh—a bit like Eeyore’s tail, he remembered. He’d had a plushie as a kid. The Velcro on the tail had worn out, and he constantly worried he’d drop it in some shop and lose it forever.

A fresh wave of horror washed over him – what, then, if that happened to his head?

“You’ve been drunk the whole night,” you said when he didn’t add anything else.

He shook his head weakly against the headrest—it hadn’t detached yet, thank God—but didn’t say anything else.

Outside, the city darkened further. The pavements emptied street by street. The Uber passed cafés with shuttered windows, dark office buildings, and lonely bus stops bathed in the cold glow of streetlights.

Yeonjun watched your reflection in the glass of the window.

Even in this state, he could tell that the conversation was ending again, and there was no promise of it starting again tomorrow. Or the day after.

Actually, maybe the real conversation between you had ended a long time ago. Maybe it ended that day in grad school.

Everything since then had just been coincidence, like you said.

Just circumstances.

And Violet.

God, he missed Violet.

She was probably sprawled across the middle of his bed by now. She’d probably try to suffocate him in his sleep later for abandoning her all evening, and to be fair, he thought he deserved it.

“I…” He hesitated, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. “C-could you stay for a minute after we get back? I want to talk to you.”

The shadows across your face shifted in the passing streetlights.

“Think we’ve talked enough for one night,” you said.

“Please.”

You continued to watch the city rush past the window.

Quietly, you found yourself thinking of your dream again. Thinking of the way the blue car—was that Yeonjun’s dead Nissan?—had kept passing you on the road. How relieved you’d felt to see it again.

You thought you knew better than to believe in dreams.

Carefully, you turned your gaze to the floor of the car. You could see Yeonjun in your peripheral vision, leaning back against the seat. He was still watching you.

“Fine,” you said at last.

You didn’t know if you knew better.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 12:45 AM

When the driver finally stopped outside your building, you made sure to leave a significantly larger tip than you’d planned—partly because he’d treated you like an actual human being, but mostly because he’d been forced to listen to two people spiral for about half an hour, and no one deserved that on a Saturday night.

Yeonjun climbed out first.

You followed more slowly, smoothing your dress once your heels hit the pavement. The night air was damp against your skin, cool enough to sting where your pulse still raced. You were very tired.

For a moment after the door shut, the two of you stood beneath the streetlights and watched the Uber disappear down the street.

The silence that followed felt old.

It reminded you of grad school again. Of the long nights outside your building with Yeonjun standing near the entrance, his hands buried in his pockets, while neither of you looked for a reason to say goodbye.

You remembered not wanting to disturb Reina by bringing him upstairs. Remembered how, even then, wanting him that much had felt unsafe.

You wondered whether one day you’d stop remembering.

“Look,” Yeonjun started with a ragged sigh. “Maybe I did get into that car with you to send a message.”

Your gaze flicked to him.

“But not to them,” he added. “To you.”

Wind moved through the empty street, stirring the birch trees lining the pavement. Their leaves whispered overhead.

You knew you shouldn’t ask the next question.

You’d spent over a year closing those doors inside you, stacking anger against them. Pride against them. Grief. Anything to keep them from opening again.

But some exhausted part of you seemed to have quietly resigned itself to the fact that this was going to hurt regardless of whether they opened or not.

“What message?” you asked.

Yeonjun stared at the cracks in the pavement under his loafers. There was still some ash on the left one.

“I don’t want to not talk to you anymore,” he said, digging his nails into his palm to force the street to steady around him. “Or only run into you in the lobby sometimes. Or just—just be a neighbour to you. I c—I can’t do that with you.”

You felt heat flare under your skin: at the back of your neck and on the side of your face and across your lips. Everywhere he’d touched you tonight, as though he’d left invisible marks that he could trigger just with his voice.

They burned at the thought that you wouldn’t talk anymore.

That you would only run into each other sometimes.

That you would only be neighbours.

“I can’t do that with you, either,” you said, turning your gaze towards the dark building across the street. Only a few windows still glowed.

Yeonjun watched you, holding his breath.

Hope was a very dangerous thing to hand him; he didn’t know how to hold it.

“So what does that mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, fingers clutching the fabric of your dress. “Maybe it means we shouldn’t talk at all anymore.”

He shook his head, stubborn even drunk. The street tilted around him and bent backwards. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the nearest lamppost, his shoes clattering against the metal.

“No,” he said. “That—that can’t be what it means.”

He looked pale under the feeble yellow of the streetlight. Looked like he’d stay here until he became part of the lamppost.

“Why not?” you said.

He steadied himself against the pole, fingers tightening around the freezing metal. “Because it’s you and me.”

“So?”

“So we’ve always been talking.”

Your gaze drifted down to the base of the lamppost. “Much good it’s done us.”

Horribly, he realised that was true.

He had nothing concrete to offer you to prove that talking to him was worth the effort.

He’d failed to prove to you he was a good boyfriend back in grad school. Failed to tell you what mattered when it mattered. Failed at everything he’d tried.

And he’d never taken himself for much of an optimist, yet, despite all of that, he still stood here, in the cold, with tired eyes and whiskey for blood, his shoulders slumped beneath his suit jacket, looking at you like he still intended to get everything right this time.

It was you.

It had always been you.

He knew he’d carry that around with him for the rest of his life, whether you wanted him to or not.

“That can—everything can change,” he said.

He couldn’t tell whether the nausea twisting his guts came from the alcohol or the look in your eyes. Maybe both.

“It shouldn’t,” you said.

“Why not?”

“Because it—” You stopped yourself with a sharp exhale and looked down at the stubborn grass forcing its way through the cracks in the pavement. When you spoke again, your voice had gone quieter. “We can’t do this again, I told you. I’m sorry about what happened toni—”

“No.” The force of his interruption snapped your gaze back to him. “Don’t apologise for anything that happened tonight.”

You held his gaze for a second before looking away again. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I wanted you to.”

The more he spoke, the less you seemed to move.

He let go of the lamppost, but didn’t dare step closer.

“That doesn’t make it better,” you said.

“Why not?”

You shook your head. The pins in your hair had started digging into your scalp, and every tiny movement hurt. You didn’t have many more why nots left in you.

“We can’t do that again,” you said.

“But we—we’re not doing that again,” he argued. “It’s different now.”

“It’s not, though. It’s still us. Nothing’s different.”

“But you won’t even let me talk to you.” Agitation sharpened his words now; he’d stopped trying to soften them. “So how can you know that?”

Your fingers pressed into fists. “We’ve talked enou—”

“No, we haven’t! We never talked about what we were—what we were doin—”

“Well, whose fault is that, then?” Your voice cracked through the empty street. You looked at him with eyes bright enough to burn. “I wanted to talk to you! I fucking—I tried to talk to you. Back in grad school, I tried. Twice. Both times, you walked away without explaining shit. ‘Things were happening.’” You scoffed. “Fuck that. Now you want to talk? Now, over a year later, you want to fucking talk?”

“I want to explain why it took so long,” he said quickly. “I—”

“No,” you cut through him. “No, we’re not doing that. You think it—think I’m fine, yeah? Said I’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never been bothered by people leaving, right? Like water off my back, every single time.” Your chest shuddered as you tried to take a breath. “We—no. No, that’s it. I—I’m not doing that again with you. I can’t.”

You turned away from him.

Yeonjun stared at the back of your dress in silence. The vivid blue looked lighter beneath the streetlights. He watched the fabric shift with each wild breath you tried to tame.

He hadn’t been thinking about your mother when he’d walked away in grad school. He’d been thinking about his own.

And it hit him, finally, that you had cared about him far more deeply than he’d ever allowed himself to believe. And he had hurt you far worse than he’d understood.

He should’ve known.

He should’ve fucking known.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

A muscle jumped faintly beneath your shoulder blades. “Go home, Jun.”

The nickname knocked against him with frightening force.

“It’s cold,” you added. “You need to sleep this off.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes. He’d already got used to the dizziness and the nausea. The real problem now was the sharp pressure around his heart.

Maybe he’d drunk enough to damage something important. Or maybe it was the broken pieces, finding new ways to break again.

“I’m—I really am sorry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

You still didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

“Go inside, Yeonjun,” you said again. “S’cold.”

There was a slight shudder in your voice that seemed to trail down your whole body.

Swallowing, Yeonjun shrugged out of his jacket. The cold hit him instantly through the thin white shirt beneath, but he barely reacted.

He walked towards you, keeping his gaze ahead to ignore the dizzying sway of the pavement beneath him. Taking a deep breath, he lowered the jacket over your shoulders, the fabric still warm from the heat of his body.

Your breath caught in your throat all over again.

His hands rested on your shoulders for a second. Then he stepped back.

Immediately, you were swathed in him again: smoke, whiskey, the bergamot of his cologne, even traces of your own perfume. You gathered the collar of the jacket tightly in your hand and finally turned towards the building.

The doors groaned as you pulled them open. You glanced back at him, waiting.

Yeonjun lowered his gaze and gave a small nod before following you into the lobby.

Then he took the lift.

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[filmsbyun]

Manacled Hands, Shared Sins || Choi Soobin

Chapter One: You, of All People

It always begins with a closed door and Choi Soobin waiting on the other side of it.

story ml .☘︎ ݁˖ next chapter

⊹ wc .ᐟ 11.9k

pairing: Ravenclaw!Choi Soobin x Slytherin!afab!reader

tags and warnings: hogwarts au, aged up characters and college setting, except for the first part of this chapter - the entirety is written in flashbacks, strangers to... something (they're working on it), slow burn and i mean slow, soobin is not as put together as advertised, morally grey reader, mutual "i don't trust you but i'll make an exception", brief mention of blood (nosebleed), loss of consciousness [probably missed some]

yun's ☕: idk what was happening to me back when i started writing MHSS but damn the self-projection is deadly with this one. @nanilis ily for beta reading and saving my eyes <33

Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

Tonight, everything had the chance to change.

After a failed heist of the Marauder's Map from the caretaker's office, you were compelled to take an improvised detour — which was the last thing you had hoped for. 

It was supposed to be a perfectly executed infiltration. You had spent the better part of a fortnight mapping the caretaker's patrol schedule down to the minute and accounting for every variable that a poorly lit, dust-choked administrative office could throw at a pair of reasonably competent students. The Map was to be acquired swiftly before anyone even realized something was missing. It should have gone without a hitch.

But then Choi Yeonjun, in all his catastrophic recklessness, knocked over a lamp with the crook of his elbow. 

There was no time to think, let alone breathe. The fast approaching footsteps of the caretaker and his cat reverberated into your bones. You spun on your heel and fixed Yeonjun with one murderous look, one that said you’d personally transfigure his organs the next time you see him, and then darted into the hidden passage behind the filing cabinet. You didn't need to tell him where to go — he knew. The two of you split, vanishing into separate secret tunnels that curved and burrowed beneath the castle like veins.

It was a manoeuvre lifted straight from the oldest pages of tactical withdrawal — splinter the team to fracture pursuit. Force the enemy to divide their attention across two corridors and lose precious seconds making up their minds. 

You ducked beneath low beams, boots scraping against damp, uneven stone, and emerged somewhere near the third-floor Charms corridor. It was dead silent. You took a moment to press your palm flat against the wall, steadying your breath; your free hand curled into a fist at your side. 

You felt the irritation that had been building since the moment of Yeonjun's mishap now fully bloom in your bloodstream. You hated disruptions to your perfectly constructed plans. More so if the plan promised you nothing but the desired result in your desired way. You despised the unpredictability of someone else’s incompetence.

The map should’ve been yours tonight. You could’ve had one of the greatest magical tools in your very hands if Choi fucking Yeonjun didn’t fuck up. 

Hexing him in your mind wasn’t enough. You needed to see him writhe and squirm and regret every breath he took from the moment he decided to knock over that damned lamp. You wouldn’t stop until he begged. Until the arsenal of curses in your vocabulary bled dry.

Tonight, everything had the chance to change.

You didn’t know what it exactly was, but suddenly, you felt uncomfortable inside. If your senses weren’t keen, you would’ve almost missed it. The air in the corridor was uncharacteristically colder, a dip so slight it could’ve been passed off as a draft. Especially during this time of the year considering summer was fast approaching. Your eyes narrowed as you stared ahead.

Every practical thought you possessed told you to turn back. It was not safe to stay outside now, considering the caretaker was well aware someone is breaching the curfew hours. You should have taken the route back to the Slytherin dormitory the moment you reached the junction. You should have doubled back without a second thought. 

Instead, you found yourself walking toward the far end of the corridor. It was as if a vicious voice in your mind telling you to see what you could find in there. You stood in front of the door, now feeling the chill biting into your skin through your robes.

Turn around. Leave. 

Magic tainted the air and the darkness that surrounded you, but it was almost foul. It reeked of something utterly bestial. 

Just before your hand gripped the doorknob, you paused. You stared at it, eyes slightly narrowed and one single thought planted itself in your mind: what was the point of going in? There was no logic to this and definitely no reward waiting on the other side. You didn't even know what was behind that door. If you had the map, perhaps you would’ve had some semblance of direction. Instead, all you had was this knot of frustration curdling in your stomach and a bitter aftertaste crawling up your throat reminding you of your failed heist.

Out of spite, your hand twisted the knob.

Locked.

Your head tilted slightly. There was a strange tension that clung to your palm the moment you touched the brass. Magically sealed.

Colloportus, probably.

Which meant someone was inside. Now that tickled your curiosity. 

"How useless," you muttered under your breath, stepping back half a pace and drawing your wand. "Alohomora."

The enchantment peeled away with a faint metallic creak. The door opened, spilling cold, stale air into the corridor like breath from a tomb. You gripped your wand tighter as you stepped through, the point barely alight and casting only a faint glow that brushed the floor ahead of you.

The door shut softly behind you, muffling the corridor into nothing.

You didn't know what you were expecting. An unused room with dust-slicked furniture, perhaps. Rows of forgotten bookshelves or peeling chalkboards — the hollowed-out remains of a classroom that had stopped serving a purpose sometime in the last century. At worst, a Gryffindor huddled over some misguided prank, ready to bolt at the sight of whoever crossed them. Anything, really. 

Tonight, everything was going to change.

Anything but him.

You could've sworn your heart stopped beating for a moment. The hand holding your wand dropped slowly to your side as your eyes adjusted to the dark — hoping you were seeing things.

A rift in space, like a violent slash torn through the space itself. The air around it warped, sucked inward and shuddered back out as though the room was caught in a perpetual gasp. Blackness spilled out from it in slow drips, thick tendrils that stretched and recoiled and disappeared, only to return seconds later. The edges shimmered faintly like oil catching low light.

And standing before it, back to you, head tilted upward like he was staring into the maw of a god, was —

"Soobin?"

His name left you before you could stop it, punched out of your chest on a breath of bewildered recognition.

Choi Soobin flinched like you’d hexed him.

He turned sharply, and his eyes found yours — wide and trembling. There was a pale sheen across his forehead and a terror in his expression that had nothing to do with being caught and everything to do with what stood — what moved behind him.

You took a step back without meaning to, wand lifting a fraction higher. Everything was supposed to change tonight but not like this. You were never supposed to find him, let alone come near him.

It had been a year already without exchanging more than what the corridors and shared classes required — brief flickers of coincidental glances, not even nods. It was meant to stay that way until you took your last breath, until you could forget what he’d asked of you with those eyes, what you gave in return without ever saying yes. But here you were, standing just a reach away from him — again.

“Soobin… what are you doing?”

A little over one summer ago, your world unexpectedly collided with Choi Soobin. 

You had always steered clear of situations that never concerned you. It wasn't indifference, but rather a necessity. It was a rule you clung to with a desperation only survival breeds. 

From the moment you were sorted into Slytherin, your name had carried a shadow that wasn't yours to carry. Everyone had already decided who you were before you had a chance to be anyone, and no amount of evidence to the contrary was ever going to change that. 

Even the smallest act of goodwill from you was met with suspicion, as if it were part of a larger scheme. You still remembered second year — offering to help a Hufflepuff with a stack of books and watching them recoil from you like you'd levelled a wand at them. You'd stood there thinking, what would a twelve-year-old possibly do? In group projects, Slytherins were the ones nobody wanted to be paired with. In duels, you were expected to go too far, and so you held back until it was dangerous to do so. 

The unfairness you faced didn’t soften with time. It calcified — hardened into something dense and cold in your chest, a rage so constant it had long since settled inside you like second skin. You learned fast that there was no benefit in trying to prove yourself otherwise. No matter what you did, your actions would always be dissected under the same poisoned lens. Therefore, you began to adapt. 

You put on the mask they gave you and wore it better than anyone had expected you to. If the world was going to be frightened of you either way, you'd at least make sure they had a reason to be scared of. 

You developed a habit to always make sure you’re the one in control. People called it power-hunger and never once considered that power, for you, had never been about wanting more — it was about making sure no one could take what little you already had. In this twisted, prejudiced system that you’ve come to resent so thoroughly, so deeply, you had to make sure you played the game cunningly. 

The only power you craved was the kind that let you live without compromise.

And maybe that was why people like Choi Soobin made no sense to you.

You had always watched him from a distance for years; it had never been out of envy, rather as a way to study the architecture of privilege.

He existed on the opposite end of everything — where people assumed the best instead of the worst. Head Boy. Top of his class. House of blue and bronze. Teachers adored him, students respected him, and nobody ever thought to question why, because people like Soobin didn't require justification. He had never needed to prove he was good; people had simply decided that he was, the same way they had decided things about you, except in his case the decision was golden. The golden standard whose light could not be touched by shadows.

His record gleamed with achievements, badges, merits, and praise. His uniform never bore a crease, his hair always neatly styled, and his dimpled smile which was entirely too charming. It was only natural then, that you saw him as one might look upon an altar, some polished figure placed far above your reach.

He always looked so unbreakable. 

Until that summer of your junior year, when you pushed open an unused storage room on the outskirts of the castle and found him hiding in the dark with tears running down his cheeks. And just like that, everything you thought you knew began to dissipate.

The summer sun flared behind you, casting a wide spill of golden light across the dusty floor — stopping just short of where he sat crumpled in the shadows. That spill of light caught his face, and for the first time in all the years you had watched him, you saw Choi Soobin come entirely apart.

He was on the ground with his knees pulled to his chest, shoulders trembling as though whatever composure he usually clung to had slipped completely from his grasp. His face was flushed and puffy, neat hair gone askew, and those lips — bitten and swollen — looked like he’d tried to hold the sobs in until it hurt.

Your eyes widened mirroring his, and that extremely fragile moment hung between you — your breath caught in your throat and his faltering somewhere in his chest.

The tear tracks glistening on his cheeks ought to have made your stomach twist with empathy. But that sight of him — this pathetic, crumpled version of Choi Soobin — sent a rush through your bloodstream so dizzying and euphoric you almost didn’t recognise it. 

It gave you a thrill you had no right to feel, a bitter sort of satisfaction rooted not in cruelty but in the cruel symmetry of it all. Because right in front of you was Choi Soobin with a crack in his polished shell. How lucky were you to catch it? Alone, and by sheer accident?

A strangled sound left his throat as he stumbled upright, hands fumbling for the wall behind him to steady himself. One arm reached out towards you as though bridging the space might undo what had just occurred.

"Why are you here—no, it doesn’t matter. You—!"

Your heart kicked to your stomach because of what his words meant. He was going to plead. You could see it forming in his panicked eyes as he was reaching out from the shadows, towards you who stood at the threshold in the light. 

It was ironic, almost cruelly so. All this time, you had been the one consigned to the periphery — the one forced into shadows while he basked under everyone’s approval. And now here he was, cornered and desperate in the dark, with you holding the door. That image tipped something in the balance of your thoughts.

"Please," he rasped, voice hoarse and shaky. "Don’t tell anyone. You didn’t see this. Alright? You didn’t see me. Please."

Because even as your mind raced through the possibilities this encounter had suddenly opened, a low, grim voice inside your head reminded you that this was someone breaking. You weren't supposed to feel satisfaction watching it happen. It came with an edge of shame, twisting itself around your ribs. You had never been cruel. That had always been the distinction you held onto, the line between wearing the mask and becoming it. 

But the balance of power had always been something you fought to claim. This was power handed to you freely, through the very act of witnessing, and now that it laid squarely in your hands — you couldn't pretend you didn't want to close your fist around it. 

Choi Soobin had no clue what you might do with this power — and that, more than anything, was what was making him panic. 

He said it again, almost tripping over the repetition, each plea more frantic than the last. And oh, the way your heart picked up with each of his pleas. His tone was splintered with desperation, barely stitched together by what little dignity he had left to himself. He sounded as if the very idea of you walking away with this memory was what terrified him rather than being found in this state by anyone else.

You recoiled at the sensation. As much as that part of you that still remembered the sting of loneliness wanted to offer him mercy, the part that had learned to survive by staying three steps ahead… it could already see the leverage hanging between you.

Golden, rule-bound, Head Boy Soobin, asking for your silence.

If he didn’t want this moment to exist, then you held the power to erase it — or hold it like a noose. You wondered, idly, what it would feel like to have him caught in your palm. What might he give for your silence? What could you make of that control if you truly chose to keep it?

"Why?" you asked, your tone cutting through the tense air. "What’s in it for me?"

Soobin froze, eyes widening — clearly taken aback by the question. His mouth parted, searching — no, scrambling for something, anything to say in return. But after a few seconds, he came up empty and his gaze flickered to the floor. The apparent defeated breath which slipped past his trembling lips ruefully had you claiming your victory. 

But you should have known better than to think you could seize up a Ravenclaw like him so easily.

You watched the change wash over him like it was a spell. He straightened up fully, the trembling in his frame gradually overridden by something colder and more composed as if remembering the role he was supposed to play. There it was again — that mask, pulled neatly back into place. Only this time, you knew precisely how thin it was, and exactly where it cracked. 

"Forget it," he bit out, though his voice cracked slightly around the syllables, betraying the rush with which he reclaimed control. "Just go. If you've got what you wanted, then go on—walk out. It won’t matter either way, will it?"

You blinked once, your brows twitching in a surprise that bled gradually into caution. There was a particular quality to the way he said it, an edge that felt as though it had been honed under pressure. It was meant to cut.

With two long strides, his frame came close enough but still maintained a safe distance. He towered above you in height, his shoulder sat well above yours, and  you took in the way that if you had stood a little more close to him — his lips would have easily brushed your forehead if he so much as leaned in. Your chin stayed leveled regardless. Your feet didn’t budge.

"No one's going to believe you anyway."

But the meaning behind the words struck harder than you anticipated. You’d heard that before too many times, from too many people, in too many forms. The implication that your voice carried less validity by virtue simply because of the house you’d been sorted into. It was like he’d plucked it directly from the mouth of every person who'd instinctively blamed the emerald green and silvers for bruised egos.

He meant it as a bluff, a wall of indifference to hide the very real fear he’d shown before. You understood the mechanics of it perfectly. That didn't stop the words from scraping across old wounds, and the sting made your fingers twitch.

The breath that snagged in your throat left as a scoff. You've played this game far too many times to lose your footing over borrowed cruelty. You let that fact show in the slow curl of your mouth as you held his gaze, allowing your expression to settle into the particular brand of composure that tended to unnerve people more than open hostility ever could.

"Are you sure about that, Head Boy?" His title left your lips like a mock coronation stripped bare. "Because not long ago, you looked frightened out of your skin over what I might do—after seeing you like this. Doesn't seem like such a throwaway moment now, does it?"

You stepped forward slowly, one foot after another, until barely an arm's length remained between you. Soobin didn’t move but his throat bobbed with a swallow, and your gaze stayed level with his without flinching. 

"If you’re confident," you said, voice low and laced with the barest edge of challenge, "then say it again. Tell me to leave, to walk out of here bearing witness to your pitiful state, trusting that blind hope of yours that I'll just let it all vanish." You let the pause breathe. "Go on, Soobin. Tell me."

There were too many thoughts flickering behind those tired eyes, which was a contrast to how motionless he stood. Every inch of his tall frame was taut with conflict. Lethargically, he dragged a hand across his face; fingers pressed hard into his brow, then down over the curve of his cheek. The exhaustion didn’t leave with them.

"What do you want?" he asked, finally.

This was him giving in — not to you personally, but to the situation, which was almost more satisfying. Because now you get to decide the terms of how this arrangement will proceed. You took a genuine moment to consider what you actually wanted out of this.

You held no personal vendetta against him nor do you want to hurt him. You never wanted to hurt him in the first place, only sought to solidify the leverage he himself presented in front of you. Having the Head Boy tethered to you, even by circumstance, might one day tip the scales in your favour. And right now, with the evening already thoroughly derailed, you were not above playing the long game. 

Your gaze dropped briefly to the scuffed floor beneath your shoes, your expression settling into mild, almost disinterested contemplation while your mind moved through the possibilities at full speed. After a few moments, the faintest semblance of a smile appeared on your lips.

"Hmm. I’ll think about it." — A side tilt of your head as your eyes narrowed with mirth. "Until then, our hands are manacled."

Your smile had barely faded, the echo of your words still hanging in the air —

"Until then, our hands are manacled."

— when you made the turn, prepared to let him go, to leave the silence to do whatever it needed to do with him. You had no intention of dragging it further, no desire to bruise what dignity he still had left to himself — but only to mark the moment and walk away with the upper hand. But before your foot could land into a full stride, his fingers closed around your wrist.

They weren't rough, but they held with enough insistence to stop you dead. Your head turned sharply. He was looking at you but there were no traces of that frantic panic from earlier. In its place was a kind of stillness that unsettled you. The flush had drained entirely from his face, leaving behind a pallor that did not suit him at all, and his breath came shallower than it should have for someone simply standing still. 

"I don’t like to be in anyone’s debt." There was nothing weak about what he said. “So whatever it is you want—name it. Just say it, and you’ll have it. Then we’ll be done.”

You blinked at him, momentarily caught off-guard by the vehemence still left in his voice after everything. You weren't sure what surprised you more — that he still had it in him to bark terms at you, or that he genuinely believed this was a transaction that could be finalised and forgotten on the spot. Your eyes flicked to the point of contact between you — your hand, small in his — and you gave it the faintest twist, more a signal than a struggle.

"Let go," you muttered.

He did, marginally, and before you could wrench your hand back fully — your gaze caught on a detail that hadn’t been there seconds ago. A stark red line had begun its descent from his nose toward the curve of his lip. You blinked once, processing it.

"Soo—"

His name broke apart in your mouth as his eyes lost their focus all at once and his jaw slackened. His frame swayed alarmingly, head tilting forward but he looked at you mustering all of his might one last time.

“Please,” he managed to breathlessly croak out. 

The grip around your wrist, which had already gone loose tightened just once, a brief flare of strength as if trying to hold onto something, anything. In a heartbeat, his knees buckled and the full weight of him collapsed forward.

Soobin woke with a start, lungs dragging in air that felt stale and far too cold against his damp skin. His chest heaved once before he shot up onto his elbows, eyes darting around with a vague urgency because he couldn’t really piece together where he was. The dimness of the room pressed in on him, shadows stretching long across the stone floor, and it was only when he caught sight of the small rectangular window near the ceiling — its glass tinged with the bruised hues of dusk — that it clicked into place. 

He was still in the storage room. The sun had gone down. How long had he been unconscious this time? 

He shifted slightly and registered, with some confusion, that something soft had been folded beneath his head. It was a robe, folded neatly like a makeshift pillow. His own robe had been draped over him and had since slipped down onto his lap when he sat up. His brows pulled together, and he was still working out what to make of it when a voice reached him from across the room and made him flinch.

"You're up?"

His gaze snapped over. You were sitting against the opposite wall with your legs stretched out in front of you. There was nothing pointed about your tone, nor any warmth either. At a loss, Soobin turned his head to take in the room again, but the movement sent a sharp throb blooming behind his temples and he winced. 

"Don't move around too much," you said, already uncrossing your arms and pushing yourself to your feet. "You passed out from exhaustion." 

You crossed the room in even strides and crouched down beside him — not close enough to crowd him, but near enough that he could make out the faint sheen at your collarbone, likely from the stress of the situation rather than the season itself. You held his glasses out toward him, extended in one hand. His eyes tracked the motion before narrowing. 

"Why are you still here?" he asked, his voice roughened by wear. He took the glasses back warily. 

You rolled your eyes with a sardonic tilt to your brow. "Surely you weren't expecting me to lug you up to the Hospital Wing, were you?" The dry slant in your voice was pointed, and your eyes flicked once to the considerable length of his frame, making your meaning perfectly clear without another word. 

He had the decency to look mildly abashed. 

"I nicked a few healing potions," you added, producing a small vial from your pocket and turning it over between your fingers. "Didn't use a Reviving Spell because you looked too comfortable knocked out cold." 

Soobin blinked at you, his frown deepening as he shook his head faintly, strands of hair falling across his forehead with the motion. "No, that's not what I meant. I meant—" he faltered, eyes narrowing with more focus this time, "—why didn't you leave?" 

You stilled, the potion vial cooling against your palm. You looked at him squarely then, and a soft sigh pushed out from your chest. Truth to be told, the answer was pretty simple but, at the same time, was too tangled to unpack in full. Your gaze fell away for a moment, tracing the dull lines of the stone floor, before you offered the vial to him.

"Why were you crying?"

The question came out low but not tentative as you already knew the answer, had pieced it together from the moment you'd walked through the door. You were simply daring him to put it into words himself. 

He didn't take the vial. He didn't answer either. His eyes dropped instead to his fists, now limp against his lap, and he stared at them for a stretched moment before murmuring, "I thought I said I don't like to be in anyone's debt." 

A short laugh left you, soft and lacking any real bite, though it made him glance up with mild surprise. It was clear then that he hadn’t expected that reaction. You, on the other hand, were beginning to see him with a great deal more accuracy with every passing minute.

The perfect version of Choi Soobin in your mind had long since shattered. And now, watching him frown down at his own hands with a grievance he couldn't quite direct anywhere, you could finally admit that he was no different from you in the ways that mattered.

You gave the vial a small shake and dropped it into his lap, where he fumbled to catch it.

"You won't be in my debt," you said, and got to your feet without waiting to see whether he drank it or not. 

Soobin's fingers tightened around the vial, his knuckles paling slightly as his eyes lifted to follow you. The guardedness in his expression was no longer openly confrontational but present nonetheless. 

"For what?" he asked, the rasp still clinging to the edge of his voice. "For your silence? Or the fact that you helped me?" 

You paused mid-step, then turned just enough to glance down at him. The rigidity hadn’t left his posture, and you could see the way he was still watching you like he expected the other shoe to drop. How recognisable that looked to the way you’d spent your life. It almost felt like staring at a mirror.

You couldn't fault him for it. 

"You’re still on guard," you observed without accusing. You turned your gaze back to the opposite wall as you spoke. "Can’t blame you. I’d be, too."

Soobin chose not to say anything. He didn’t know what he could even say to that. Everything you said and did sat at odds with everything you were supposed to be. 

"You asked what was in it for you. So how do I—why should I—trust that you’re not just doing all this because it benefits you somehow?"

An almost excellent argument. Your attention drifted to the dim slit of the window, where the last strips of daylight were thinning out against the castle wall. You took that moment to choose your words.

"You've every right to be cautious," you murmured, confessing it more to yourself than him, "I might've wanted a transaction earlier. I'd be stupid not to. But I'm not heartless. I couldn't walk out and leave you there, knowing full well I could help." 

The doubt hadn't left his face entirely, though it had receded. Perhaps that was why the next words came out of you as readily as they did. 

"I'm not what they make me out to be," you said. "Most times, I'm not even close. And you of all people should know what that's like, shouldn't you?" 

His brows drew together at that, the crease between them deepening by a fraction. You knew he caught the implication.

"People see what they want, right? They call you perfect because it suits them. Just like they look at me and see trouble. A Slytherin must be scheming. I’m used to being doubted. But you—" Your voice softened just a notch, “you get doubted for the opposite. No room to slip up because you’re the one everyone bets on."

"You don’t know anything about me," he muttered,  gaze dropping away from yours.

"I could say the same," you replied without hesitation. "Besides, I’ve seen plenty already."

You watched the storm gather behind his eyes again, but it wasn’t the same as before. There was less bite in it, more weariness. With a sigh, you stepped closer and crouched beside him again, plucking the vial from where it had sat unopened in his hand. 

"Drink it," you said, holding it up in front of him. "You're still half out of it, and it's getting late. They're probably already wondering where you are." 

He took it with a reluctance that was more reflex than genuine resistance, tipping it back and swallowing, his throat working through the bitter draught. You waited, arms draped loosely across your knees. When he lowered the vial and drew the back of his hand across his mouth, you didn’t bother sugar-coating the next question.

"Why don't you want people to see you like this?" 

He didn’t look at you, just stared down at his hands. With the way the silence was persisting, you figured you wouldn’t be getting any more answers out of him. So you were prepared to leave it at that, that is until, he softly spoke.

"My worth only matters if I come out on top."

Your head tilted, just slightly. The pieces had been falling into place from the moment you found him, but now they were slotting in too perfectly. You matched his silence afterwards. 

There wasn’t much point in keeping him leashed by some hollow agreement. He was just as misjudged as you were.

"Look, I know trust isn't a word people use around Slytherins," you said, and there was no apology in it, “I’m not asking for that. But if it's fairness you want, then here's my offer—you agree to help me out when I ask, and in return, I keep this between us. That’s it. Just an even trade."

You watched him closely as he processed it. He was looking for the catch, which was reasonable. Maybe you should’ve been more idealistic and more kind-hearted, but that wasn’t how you’d learnt to survive. Still, you hoped he'd say yes — but not only for the practical advantage of it. Because a yes would mean he'd begun to see past the emblem stitched onto your robes.

Even then, deep down, you knew better than to let your guard down. In your world, trust was a currency far more dangerous than gold, and if he ever turned on you, you’d have to do what you always did: survive.

“Alright.”

Soobin couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept properly. His days began far too early, long before the rest of the castle had stirred, trudging into duties that he never had the heart to refuse. The badge pinned to his robes caught the sunlight just right, glinting with every step, as though reminding him of what was expected. He ticked every box, filled every space that others left behind. It was never sufficient to simply do well; he had to do more. He had to be more.

By the time evening fell, he had already run himself to the bone. His nights were riddled with broken naps, eyes shut only to be wrenched back open by the persistent tug of responsibility. More often than not he caught the sunrise from the dormitory window — bleary, still in yesterday's uniform, blanket kicked to the floor at some point in the small hours. And yet every morning, he would rise and reapply the polished version of himself that the world had come to rely on. He’d pull that mask on with both hands — the one that made people proud, made them believe he had it entirely under control, that covered the parts of him nobody had ever thought to ask about. 

He hadn’t even realised, until recently, just how long he’d been wearing it. It had grown into his face like a second skin. 

He told himself that the pursuit of excellence was a personal ambition, chosen freely, belonging entirely to him. But if he peeled back the layers and looked the truth in the eye, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Since childhood, affection and approval had come tethered to achievement. A strong grade earned warmth. A trophy earned applause. An honour badge earned a hand on the shoulder and a look that said, there he is, exactly as expected. 

It didn’t take long for the boy to understand: his value was conditional and was tied directly to success. To survive was to adapt — he became whatever was needed of him. The alternative had always felt too much like a risk he couldn't calculate the cost of. Every morning he told himself again and again and again — this is for me. But behind the mask and skin, Soobin was already rotting.

The real him — the tired, fallible boy that existed beneath the accolades had long been buried beneath a veneer of perfection polished so thoroughly that even he struggled to remember what lived underneath. It wasn't that he wanted to deceive anyone, but the thought of the image slipping, even by a fraction, left a cold dread crouched at the base of his skull. 

If he stopped running, if he faltered even once, would he still matter? Would the respect hold? Each day they asked more of him — more excellence, more responsibility, more poise and each day Soobin gave it, all of it, right down to the last reserve. He kept giving until he had nothing left, and still, the asking never ceased.

No one had ever managed to break through the mask he wore and all the rotten parts of him had been left untouched. Until you appeared with a sledgehammer and hit it square on his face, cracking the mask in one go.

You, who were supposed to be a stranger.

Soobin hadn't known what to make of you. He knew your name, of course — you had walked the same corridors for years, sat in the same examination halls, existed within the same world but it had never collided. He had always been far too consumed with the ideology of perfecting himself to stop and consider the people around him. You, on the other hand, seemed untouched by that particular strain of madness. 

He assumed you preferred your own company, someone who kept to the shadows by choice. He’d never paused to wonder what you might be like beyond the stories told in between whispers and beyond the lines he’d drawn in his head. Now, in the wake of a single moment that had slipped past control, you were there, woven into the edges of every thought. You had seen a part of him that he hadn’t even let himself look at for too long. And Soobin, for all his cleverness, didn’t know how to untangle that without losing hold of the rest.

“Soobin?”

The voice cut clean through his thoughts and pulled him back into the corridor with an abruptness that left him momentarily disoriented. He turned toward the Ravenclaw prefect standing beside him with an expectant look. Oh, right. They were in the middle of an inspection. 

A lost artefact, supposedly one of the older enchanted trinkets tucked away for display, had gone missing over the weekend. Somehow it had turned into a full-blown investigation. The item didn't hold any real threat or value; if anything, Soobin thought the whole affair had been blown grossly out of proportion. He cleared his throat, mustering a faint smile.

“Sorry—what were you saying?”

The prefect's arms were folded, his brow deeply creased. “I said we ought to check the dungeons next. The Slytherin prefects have been acting shifty ever since we mentioned rounding up their lot for questioning." A groan followed, the boy's voice dropping into a drawl that he clearly imagined made him sound authoritative. “Honestly, I've seen them slinking about corridors they've no business being in. Always somewhere they shouldn't be. Isn't it obvious who we ought to start with?" 

Soobin listened, the words floating past him like smoke leaving behind only irritation. It had been three days since that afternoon in the storage room — three days of your voice turning itself over in the back of his mind with a persistence that sleep might have dulled if he had been getting it.

"I'm not what they make me out to be. You of all people should know what that's like."  —  And he did. Merlin help him, he did.

“No,” he said, voice clipped but not raised, the change in tone made the prefect blink. “Leave the Slytherins out of it. Unless you've got solid proof, there's no cause to single them out." He raised an eyebrow, the last trace of his smile gone entirely. “You told me the last magic trace showed the artefact was by the lake, didn't you? Then if you're so eager, go dive in and see what you find.”

The prefect’s face coloured with disbelief. He opened his mouth to object, but Soobin cut him off before a single word could leave his lips.

“You’re dismissed.”

The prefect faltered, then turned on his heel and stalked off down the corridor. Soobin watched him go without feeling particularly bad about it. Then his eyes drifted to the window at the far end of the hall where the sky outside sat heavy and grey.

Three days, and this was what his mind had become in the aftermath — an utter disarray because of you.

To clear his mind, Soobin had taken to sorting potions in the classroom long before any of the junior students were due to arrive. The room was still and faintly lit by muted sunlight through narrow windows, and for a short while the silence had granted him the illusion of peace. He moved through the rows of labelled vials and rattling jars, meticulously aligning each one according to the Professor's usual arrangement, hoping the orderliness would somehow impose itself upon the growing disorder in his mind.

Anything to stop his mind from drifting back to that moment. Anything to stop thinking about you. Of course, as if summoned by thought alone, the door creaked open. He froze mid-reach, heart lurching with a recognition that some part of him had known it would be you. 

You paused in the doorway with an unreadable look — though you masked your surprise more effectively than he did. Glancing around at the empty classroom, you ambled in and let a few vials drop onto the nearest table.

"You following me now?" Your tone was dry but teasing, looking at him with a faint quirk of your brow. 

Soobin's throat had gone inexplicably arid. He feigned a scoff and turned back to the shelf. "Don't flatter yourself." 

You smirked, then leaned back against one of the desks. "Word is, someone's lost a trinket and now the castle's having a meltdown over it." 

He casted a slow side-glance toward you. He watched your face more than he listened to your words, wondering if you, too, had already been on the receiving end of those narrow-eyed stares and baseless suspicions like the rest of your house? He wouldn’t put it past them. Slytherin had always made for convenient scapegoats. He didn’t know if anyone had singled you out yet, and he wouldn’t ask — but the thought made his chest tighten regardless.

"I'm looking into it," he said at last, his hands fiddling with a cork that needed no adjustment whatsoever. "I'm doing what I can to stop people jumping to conclusions. But—well—I mean, I just hope—"

You snorted and raised a hand, cutting him off without needing to raise your voice by a single degree. "Don't pity us. Told you we’re used to it by now. Frankly, it's getting funny—watching them scurry around like rats thinking they’ve uncovered something worthwhile.” You reached into your robes and produced another small vial, turning it over between your fingers before tossing it lightly onto the desk beside him. “But I will say this—you’re wasting your time rounding us up."

He watched you cross the room with an unhurried gait before you stopped where he stood, taking in his handiwork of the shelves. "One of your prefect lackeys cornered me yesterday, asked if I’d been out past curfew. Couldn’t lie—of course I had. Have you seen our dorm? Feels like a cupboard on the best of days. Sometimes I need air, that’s all."

His eyes widened, caught off guard by how easily you admitted to rule-breaking. You laughed at the expression he wore.

"Lucky I was out, though. I had such a magnificent view of the Great Lake. You might want to check with the Gryffindor Quidditch lot."

He blinked, processing your words. "Are you sure you saw—"

You shrugged, brushing past him with a careless grace. "Up to you, Head Boy. Whether you believe me or not, that’s your decision."

Before stepping out, you gave him a languid wave over your shoulder. Just like that you were gone, leaving him standing there amidst the shelves and sunlight and questions.

There was no logic in doubting you when everything you’d done until now pointed away from manipulation. Besides, you had every reason not to help him. So why did you hand him information that benefitted him and cost you nothing to withhold? 

Perhaps it was a means of keeping suspicion away from your house, now that you had him at a disadvantage. Or were you truly doing it because you simply could?

The more you occupied his thoughts, the less sense you made.

But for now, he had to take a risk — one rooted in instinct. By mid-afternoon, he had assembled his prefects and approached the Gryffindor Quidditch team. What followed sent a ripple through the castle by sundown: sure enough, buried beneath spare brooms and scattered playbooks, tucked into a leather duffle bearing the team's crest, the artefact was found. 

The case, to the astonishment of a great many people, was closed within hours. 

In the Great Hall, beneath the enchanted ceiling deepening into evening stars, Soobin had been summoned to the front of the room and praised. His name rang out across all four tables, followed by applause and murmured admiration. He bowed his head politely and accepted the accolades but it felt hollow for the truth sitting heavily in his chest — the success wasn’t his.

It all felt wrong because it wasn’t his doing.

As his eyes swept over the Slytherin table, he found you with your chin propped on your palm, your expression as unreadable as ever. But you were watching him. He held your gaze and felt his shoulders drop with the breath leaving him. If his eyes could speak, he hoped they’d managed to say the words he couldn’t voice aloud here.

You did this.

You smiled faintly, a small twitch of your lips before you looked away.

The applause went on but Soobin could no longer hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. Praise meant nothing when it was built on someone else’s truth. If the system failed to acknowledge how to recognise the likes of you, someone had to.

He wasn't about to forget what he owed you. And he wasn't about to pretend otherwise, even if only to himself. 

For as long as you could remember, sleep had never come easily to you. It was a fickle guest at best, arriving on its own terms and departed the same way. There were stretches of nights where you spent endless hours staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, thoughts circling like vultures over carrion and refusing to give you peace. On the worst of those nights, when the insomnia bit harder than you could handle, you would find yourself wandering beneath the stars, seeking calm in the open air and high arches of the Astronomy Tower. 

Draped in shadows and moonlight, the tower had always felt like another world entirely. Up there, it was just you and the sky, the stretch of it so vast it made your problems feel smaller, if only for a little while. It had long since become your refuge, a haven away from the noise, both external and internal.

You knew the patrol schedule of the prefects by heart. It didn't take much to memorize the patterns of their rounds and adjust your movements accordingly, seamlessly gliding between the gaps they left behind. It was a routine that had served you well for years because you earned and protected it with vigilance. So when you reached the floor just beneath the tower that night, bleary-eyed from another restless stretch and wrapped in your usual cloak of solitude, it came as a rude jolt to realise your calculations had, for once, failed you. 

The faint scuff of approaching footsteps from around the bend told you someone else was near, and your brain kicked into high alert, racing to concoct a plausible diversion or escape plan that might buy you time. You were just beginning to run through your options when a hand closed firmly around your arm.

Before you could so much as draw a breath, you were pulled sideways into a narrow alcove swallowed by shadows. Your back met cold stone, and another hand pressed over your mouth blocking any chance to produce a sound worth suppressing. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Every nerve in your body had gone rigid with alarm, and for one suspended, disorienting moment you could see nothing in the dark at all. 

Then your vision adjusted, and you saw Soobin. 

He was pressed close, his frame angled between yours and the faint light filtering in from the corridor. So close that you could make out the warning in his expression before he raised one finger slowly to his lips. His eyes held yours with an intensity that was not unkind but brooked absolutely no argument. 

You stared back, stunned into silence. After a long beat, his hand withdrew from your mouth and he stepped back by a fraction, creating a margin of space between you that the alcove barely accommodated. The sudden lack of contact made the air feel colder somehow, and you drew in a sharp breath as if recovering from a plunge underwater.

From where you stood within the narrow recess of the alcove, you listened to him speak with another prefect. Despite the levelness threaded through each reply he offered, there remained a faint impatience beneath it whenever she attempted to prolong the exchange. He told her he had already checked the passage adjoining the western staircase, that Peeves had apparently overturned a suit of armour two floors below and distracted half the prefect patrol for nearly twenty minutes. By the time he assured her he would finish the remaining rounds himself, the girl sounded appeased enough to descend the staircase without another word. 

The echo of her footsteps gradually faded into the lower corridors until silence reclaimed the floor once more.

You remained where you were for another moment regardless, and only after you felt certain the coast was clear did you finally turn your attention toward him. He stood near the stone archway leading toward the upper staircase, shoulder resting against the pillar beside it while his arms remained folded loosely across his chest. Though the dim torchlight left portions of his expression obscured, you still caught the rueful way in which he looked at you.

“Had a feeling you’d turn up here tonight,” he said, lowering his voice now that the corridor belonged only to the two of you.

You eyed him warily, tone dry as ever. "So you are following me."

To your surprise, the accusation only drew a warm laugh from him, and you found yourself momentarily thrown. Because up until then you had only seen fragments of him yet this laughter belonged to none of those versions entirely. The corners of his eyes had drawn together faintly in a way that made him appear younger than he usually allowed himself to be. His dimple surfaced fully this time, and though you’d never admit it aloud, your eyes remained on them a moment too long.

He tipped his head toward the staircase. “Come along.”

You hesitated for a heartbeat before following him up the remaining flight. When you reached the top, he had already stepped aside to allow you through the stone archway first. The Astronomy Tower opened before you in a vast stretch of moonlit stone and open sky, the wind brushing past your robes while the stars scattered overhead in endless clusters that seemed brighter from this height than anywhere else within the castle grounds. Oh, how much you loved this.

"I was wondering," he said eventually, glancing sidelong at you, "if you wanted to seal our transaction."

That earned your full attention at once. You regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Oh? What do you propose?"

He looked out at the sky as he spoke, as though the words came easier when he wasn't delivering them directly. “Top floors fall under my patrol rounds,” he explained. “I usually leave the tower until last, which means hardly anyone comes up here after curfew unless I bring them myself. You could use it whenever you please.”

You tilted your head, assessing him, because generosity rarely arrived without hidden motives attached to it. He seemed to notice the caution settle across your face because a faint awkwardness entered his expression before he continued.

“It’s meant as thanks,” he admitted, voice lowering further while his eyes drifted briefly toward the floor between you. “And an apology as well. For the way I spoke to you that day in the storage room. For the assumptions I made.” His mouth pressed briefly into a thin line before he glanced back toward you again. “If being up here gives you a bit of peace, then maybe it’ll bring me some too. Knowing I could give you something in return."

You scoffed — startled, if you were being honest with yourself. As always, you reached for the oldest armour in your arsenal: deflection.

“You do realise,” you replied, folding your arms loosely while turning toward the night sky again in hopes the movement might conceal the faint disarray creeping beneath your composure, “that I didn’t do anything grand for you, right?”

Soobin did not appear remotely surprised by your response. If anything, he looked rather resigned, offering a soft nod that seemed more of a confirmation to himself than a reply meant for you. 

“Yep. Had a feeling you’d say that,” he murmured, then he held out a hand like he was proposing a treaty. "Truce?"

Your gaze dropped to his outstretched hand while the cold night air swept through the tower and stirred the sleeves of his robes around his wrists. There remained a ridiculous sincerity to the gesture that had you studying it as though it were a foreign object. Rather than humouring him immediately, you folded your arms across your chest instead which was part self-protection, part calculated provocation. 

“And access to the Restricted Section whenever I fancy it,” you bargained smoothly. “You’ll cover for me.”

One of his brows arched, and though he managed to preserve most of his composure, there was the faintest flicker of exasperation in his eyes. It could’ve even been reluctant amusement at your audacity. 

“You do realise that I’m not actually allowed in there either,” he replied, the protest lacking any real conviction.

“Yes, but you’ll be let off the hook far more easily than I would, wouldn’t you?” You only shrugged, unbothered. “I may as well take advantage of that.” 

A long sigh escaped him then, and he brought one hand toward his forehead before rubbing briefly at his temple. The sight pulled the faintest twitch from the corner of your mouth because there was a peculiar satisfaction in watching Choi Soobin gradually realise you intended to exhaust every ounce of patience he possessed.

“I think that balances our arrangement rather nicely. I’m being so terribly generous by keeping your secret, after all. Surely you can manage this much for me in return. Unless—” Your head tilted slightly afterward, letting the smirk curl lazily across your lips. “Your saintliness is repulsed by my sins?”

The sound that left him then came dangerously close to a snort despite the visible effort he made to suppress it, his head dipping briefly while one hand covered part of his mouth for a moment. He turned away from you entirely and crossed toward the far side of the tower where a worn satchel had been abandoned beside the wall. 

You initially expected parchment or patrol schedules to emerge from within, because despite everything you had witnessed, part of you still remained convinced that Choi Soobin belonged too perfectly within the image Hogwarts had built around him to truly step beyond its rules in any meaningful way. That assumption dissolved the instant he withdrew a thick leather-bound book whose worn spine and tarnished silver embossing bore the tell-tale signs of having been plucked from the shelves no student was meant to touch. 

Restricted Section.

Your brows lifted at once before you could stop yourself.

Soobin glanced back over his shoulder then, catching the exact moment your expression changed. The satisfaction that crossed his face afterwards appeared far too pleased for your liking.

When he held it out to you, instead of taking it you fixed him with a deadpan look. “You don’t have permission to enter the Restricted Section, you say?” you asked slowly as the implication sank in.

Because it was obvious now — to get that book, he would have had to slip past more than one barrier, and likely break more than a few rules. The smile on his lips told you he hadn’t borrowed it under anyone’s good graces. He’d gone in himself, without approval and permission. There was a flicker of pride in the way he stepped closer, extending the book again, as though this too were part of the truce. 

“As you can see, I’m not terribly committed to sainthood,” he said with a soft laugh bordering on irony, keeping the book away when you showed no signs of taking it. “You already knew that, didn’t you?” 

You were still looking at him with a subtle incredulous look. “Feels like I’ve been hexed.” 

Then came the grin again, lopsided and strangely genuine in a way that didn’t suit the polished Head Boy the rest of the school had come to revere. “We’re sharing sins now.” 

You looked down at his hand when he held it out again. The very hands that had been manacled to yours by shared sins as though the pair of you had sealed some farcical pact made in jest. Who could have predicted that those same hands would soon find themselves bound in matters far graver and knotted into secrets far more treacherous? 

You allowed your hand to turn beneath his in acceptance of the truce he had offered earlier. 

That was where it began, though neither of you possessed enough foresight then to recognise the significance hidden inside what appeared, at first glance, to be little more than a mutually beneficial arrangement. What first emerged from necessity settled gradually into habit, and habit carried the pair of you toward a routine so natural in its development that neither of you seemed to notice how deeply it had embedded itself into your evenings until the pattern already existed too thoroughly to break apart without leaving absence behind.

It surprised you, in truth, how quickly it formed.

The corridors would be vacant by the time you arrived, just as he had said, and you no longer had to pause at intersections to check whether another prefect remained nearby, nor did you continue moving with the same guarded caution that had marked your first visits there. Sooner or later he would arrive after patrol exactly where you expected him to be, carrying whichever book had occupied his attention that particular night.  

There would rarely be much conversation at first. 

Most nights passed in that strange parallel silence, with the only sound being the occasional turning of a page. He studied a lot, not just schoolwork, but obscure texts filled with complicated spellwork, fragmented theories on ancient magic, and handwritten annotations crammed tightly between margins yellowed from age. At times he tested incantations beneath his breath while tracing slow movements through the air with his wand. Other times, he simply fell asleep.

You would watch, faintly incredulous, as his posture would slacken and his chin drop slowly to his chest. There were nights he barely lasted twenty minutes before nodding off, and you had to wonder if he really lacked that much awareness or if he was just that used to trusting no one would disturb him.

Or worse, if he thought you would be kind enough to rouse him when it was time to leave.

He’d be disappointed if he thought you’d be that nice. You weren’t his minder. Yet inevitably your annoyance drove you toward him anyway. Sometimes you nudged the toe of his shoe with your own until he stirred awake sluggishly, and sometimes your fingers landed briefly against his shoulder while you muttered a curt, "It’s time."

Each time, he obeyed with surprising docility for somebody so relentlessly rigid when conscious. 

The days rolled into weeks. There were times when the stillness gave way to words without preamble. One such night found you with your back resting against the cold surface of a column, head tilted back to peer up at the invisible sky beyond the high windows. Nearby, Soobin lay sprawled on his back with his arms folded over his midriff. The silence between you transformed into something so harmless now that when he spoke, it didn't feel jarring.

"Mind if I talk?" he asked — not so much as seeking permission as gauging whether your presence was receptive to it tonight.

You offered no verbal reply, only glanced down at him for the briefest moment before looking skyward again. By now he knew you well enough to read that as a yes. 

"I don’t reckon I’ve slept properly in weeks," he admitted after several moments had passed. He didn’t expect an answer, or perhaps didn’t even want one. “Every time I close my eyes, I start thinking about all the things I haven’t finished yet. There’s always another essay to polish, another text to memorise, another meeting to attend, and if I fall behind even once—it feels like I’m squandering the whole bloody point of it, whatever 'it' is meant to be.”

You could have answered that one honestly. Your own nights had not been restful in years, and insomnia had a way of making you feel oddly territorial about the subject — but you held your tongue and let him continue. He clearly needed the space to do so more than you needed to fill it. Soobin spoke more freely during the moments when he believed he was not being interrupted out of pity. 

“I don’t even know what I’m chasing any longer. What exactly am I doing any of this for?” he continued, one hand lifting to cover his eyes briefly before falling back against his chest again. “I think most people believe I enjoy it. The badges, the praise, all that rubbish. I suppose I’ve never given them much reason to think otherwise. That’s probably my own fault.” 

The shadows beneath his eyes appeared darker from this angle. There was an exhaustion in the way his fingers flexed against his shirt that made your chest tighten with an emotion foreign to you. 

Perhaps nobody had ever bothered asking him whether he was tired. 

You lowered your eyes toward your lap instead as your thumb found the edge of a loose thread at your knee. You rolled it between your fingers, more to occupy your hands than from any real interest in mending it, because if you looked at him for too long while he spoke in that worn-down voice of his — you suspected you might begin to get attached to him in ways that would become inconvenient later. 

It would have been simpler if he had truly been arrogant; simpler if all that brilliance of his came attached to cruelty or vanity. But Soobin wasn’t held together by pride. He was held by the sheer pressure of never being allowed to fall behind. He lived in a world of ‘musts’ and ‘shoulds,’ where stepping out of line meant becoming irrelevant entirely. 

And you — well, you suspected as much weeks ago. Merlin, you’d known from the moment you found him in that cramped storage room, folded in on himself with tears slipping down his face like he was trying to shed everything that made him human. The memory sat unpleasantly beneath your ribs because you realised how long he must have been carrying all of this alone. 

"If I stop, it’ll look like I’ve given up. But if I keep going like this, I’ll fall apart." There was a note of distance in his voice now, like he was repeating something someone else had once said to him, or perhaps something he’d told himself so often it had begun to lose all meaning. 

So you picked the option where no one notices. You didn’t say it out loud, but the thought crossed your mind anyway. You glanced at him though all you could really look at were his hands. One brushed a loose string on his sleeve, then curled into a fist. They were restless. He hadn’t looked your way once.

“You’re not very good at taking your own side,” you said eventually. Your voice wasn’t cruel. 

That earned a short breath of laughter from him, though there was little humour in it. His head rolled slightly against the floor until he could glance towards you properly for the first time since the conversation began.

“I haven’t the faintest clue how,” he admitted. “I think I was only ever taught how to win. No one ever mentioned what to do if I decided to lose on purpose, or if I just lost.”

You drew your knees closer towards yourself before resting your cheek lightly against your forearm. The two of you were looking at each other; your eyes sharp in the shadows. 

"That sounds like a miserable way to live."

He remained silent, then softly, "It is."

No words were shared for several minutes afterwards.

You sat with everything he said, not sure whether to add anything, or whether adding anything would cheapen it. There was an intimacy to honesty that you had always disliked. It felt like he took a part of his heart out and forced you to hold the bleeding piece. And now it sat in your hands, raw and uncomfortable, a truth so vulnerable you didn’t know if you had the right to hold it. Your hands were now tainted. 

“I’ve had people telling me all the time that they admire me,” he added eventually, and this time the laugh that slipped from him sounded hollow enough to make your fingers still against your knee. “They say I can come to them whenever I need help, that they’d always be there if matters went wrong, but I keep wondering whether any of that’s actually true. Do I truly have anyone I can rely on?” 

“Is that why you were crying that day?” you asked carefully. 

A faint smile touched his mouth at the memory. “Had nowhere else to go,” he admitted. “So I hid myself away until I couldn’t hold it in any longer.” 

“Oh.” You didn’t know what else to say.

His titles and image walked into rooms before he did. His perfection gave people something to admire, but it never gave them a reason to look closer. He was lonely. Far lonelier than you’d guessed.

Then he rolled onto his side to face you properly, one arm folding beneath his head whilst the other rested across the floor between you. That smile remained, but it didn’t touch his eyes. 

“What about you?” he asked.

Your brows drew together slightly. “What about me?”

“Why do you always seek control?”

“To survive,” you answered plainly.

Soobin had begun understanding you in fragments over these past weeks; through your tendency of detachment, through the cynicism honed by years of distrust, through every moment where your instinct had been to strike first before anyone else had the chance to wound you. Ever since that time inside the storage room, you began appearing in his periphery in ways you hadn’t been before, cropping up in spaces he’d never registered you in, though now, he wondered how he could’ve possibly missed you.

His gaze became trained on the people around you — he observed the way others spoke to you, the glances exchanged in corridors, the narrowed eyes in classrooms and he noted the subtleties most others overlooked. The treatment wasn’t always cruel, but it was pointed, and it was frequent. Soobin, who had lived much of his life under the soft glow of admiration and expectation, found it easy to see the difference. And in those differences, he understood you better than he expected to.

And you, despite every attempt to remain detached from him, had begun noticing him everywhere too. It wasn't just in this shared nightly hour you had, but in your own time, when you caught yourself glancing up in the corridors to find him already there, or letting your gaze pause just a fraction too long when he passed by your table in the Great Hall. Even during classes where you had no reason whatsoever to think about Choi Soobin, your attention betrayed you whenever his voice carried from the opposite end of the room. 

He seemed more present now than before, more noticeable, though you weren’t sure whether it was him changing or you. Your eyes knew to find him, and perhaps his had done the same.

You didn’t quite know how to feel about it all. The change wasn’t entirely uncomfortable but it made you wary. That was a more simple way to put it. You, who had learnt better than to give in to soft comforts, couldn’t help but question it. After years of distrust, of guarding yourself against shallow kindness and false smiles, how could you begin to allow anyone in? 

For Soobin, the change carried an entirely different sort of confusion. It felt like breathing for the first time in too long. It confused him, yes, left him reeling in the early days, but it also peeled back that internal tautness he never quite realised he lived with. You with all your blunt remarks and unreadable silences had given him a kind of space he didn’t know he needed. You never praised him for his marks. You never looked impressed by his titles. If anything, you dismissed them half the time. Yet you also never demanded more from him than honesty, and there was a frightening relief in being looked at without expectation wrapped around his throat. 

You were always being watched before you were known.

And he was always being looked at, but never really seen.

You mirrored one another in temperament, in guardedness, in how you both wore your defence mechanisms like second skin. He understood you kept your heart barricaded not because there was nothing within. It had been built because you had been given far too many reasons to lock it away until you had perhaps forgotten what it had originally been protecting.

Yet, there it was, beating still.

He thought, perhaps selfishly, that if you'd let him then he could be someone you could rely on — just as he had slowly come to rely on you.

“Thank you for listening to me.” — He meant every syllable. 

Your eyes darted towards him at once, though by then he had already turned away. Flat on his back again, his face tilted towards the terrace and eyes closed like he chose to retreat from the moment. A sense of discomfort bloomed somewhere under your sternum. 

Gratitude had never sat comfortably in your hands. You knew how to deal with ridicule, suspicion, even cruelty. Those were territories you understood. Honest tenderness left you fumbling for footing. 

“I should go back.” You pushed yourself upright rather abruptly, brushing stray dust from your robes in motions that lacked their usual composure. “It’s getting late. Goodnight, Soobin.”

He opened his eyes then, watching you for a second too long before giving a small nod. “Goodnight.” 

He didn’t question why you suddenly looked incapable of remaining still beside him another minute longer. Perhaps he understood already. Perhaps he simply chose not to force the matter open. 

You descended the spiral staircase with one hand pressed to the stone wall to keep balance, not that it mattered — it was your breath that threatened to slip whilst your thoughts churned noisily. You didn’t know what this meant or what tonight would become, or if it would become anything at all — but as you slipped into the darkness, one thing had been made clear. Whatever had passed between you tonight, it was not the sort of thing that vanished come morning.

Whether you spoke of it again or not, you’d both remember.

Taglist; @starrynightgyu @i-am-not-dal @hoefororeo @caratcakemoa @yystarz @i-like-to-read-at-4am @90steele @cen116 @bamgeutori @nanilis @sunooqvrlsx @izzyy-recs @tyunningism @pageraf

[yystarz]

my bedtime story is up😛😛😛😛

[yystarz]

peep poop

peep poop(๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)

[yystarz]

i was gonna send u an ask with a lotus and say peep poop 🤏

helloo poop peep

[yystarz]

WOWWWW WHY CANT I ATTACH IMAGES TO ASK TURN THIS ONNNNNN

omg idk how to fix that..

[yystarz]

i'm being so serious rn when i say that i need THAT in me 7 days a week

[filmsbyun]

Snowbound Affairs || Choi Beomgyu

꒰❄️꒱ A blizzard strands your train in the middle of nowhere, and the only inn with a room left has one bed. You don’t hesitate to book it with the charming stranger who’s been keeping you company. 

⤷ ゛ This story is part of the One Bed Series .ᐟ.ᐟ

⊹ wc .ᐟ 22.4k

pairing: Choi Beomgyu x afab!reader

tags: strangers to friends to ?, mutual pining and micro-flirting, sexual tension, they get stranded on a train, in the middle of a snowstorm, yearner!beomgyu, mention of injury, slowburn in a train setting because i fucking can [probably missed some]

[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, fingering, oral (f.), nipple play, he grinds against reader's knee, he humps the mattress while eating reader out, cums in his pants, he also begs, dom!beomgyu (but pathetic and madly in love), one instance of him being a little possessive, some fluffy moments, multiple orgasms, protected sex (huzzah!), sliight pain kink if you squint, mating press, implication of multiple rounds at the end [definitely missed some]

yun's ☕: *cricket noises* i bring offerings after my suspicious disappearance. anyway that’s enough about me.

Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

You stared at your phone with a sigh that turned faintly visible in the chilly air. 

It was colder at the station than you thought it would be when you left your apartment. There wasn’t enough insulation anywhere to stop the biting chill from finding its way through the walls and floors of the underground station. A draft swept underneath the sliding glass doors at the front entrance and teased your ankles repeatedly as you paced. Commuters bustled around you in small groups beneath the mounted television near the waiting bench; the murmurs of their conversations punctuated by small clouds of breath as the newscaster droned over images of snow-whitened roads.

“…the blizzard is expected to intensify by late afternoon. All travelers are advised to reconsider non‑essential trips…”

You exhaled slowly and watched the condensation fog your phone screen momentarily before it dissipated. Regret pooled heavily in your stomach. You should have known better than to pick this particular weekend to go home — the rare long break that had lined up perfectly with your schedule and, with spectacular inconvenience, also happened to coincide with the worst winter storm of the year. Too late to reconsider now. The ticket was bought and the bag was packed and you were already here, which was more than halfway committed by any reasonable measure. 

When the train whistle sounded and the engine glided into the station on a billow of frost, you shrugged off what remained of your better judgment and fell in with the sluggish crowd moving toward it. Passengers bundled up in heavy coats brushed shoulders with you and you were swallowed by a ripple of low-toned conversation.

The luggage wheels chose that exact moment to give out.

They jammed in the narrow gap between the platform’s edge and the train’s step. It lurched to an abrupt halt that jolted your arm forward. You tugged once but it wouldn’t budge. Tugged again, harder, putting your body into it — the handle creaked but the wheels held fast. 

Restlessness rippled through the people behind you in line. Heat flushed your neck as you crouched down trying to yank the damn suitcase free, not wanting to hold up the line for much longer.

Not today. You started to panic. Please, not today.

“Need some help there?”

The voice came from just behind you.

You didn’t turn all the way to face him — just bobbed your head in thanks. “Yeah, please. Thank you.”

His hand slid past yours and the cuff of his coat sleeve brushed yours as he knelt down next to the suitcase. One hand gripped the handle while the other nudged underneath just enough to shift the wheels out of the corner. Lifted it slightly and twisted, and it popped free. 

He straightened without comment and took the handle, stepping onto the train and glancing back only briefly to make sure you were following. You nodded hastily and climbed up the narrow stairs. Face still burning, you walked along the aisle behind him and led him towards your seat.

“It's just this row,” you said, pointing. 

At your seat, he hoisted the suitcase up in one clean motion — higher than his head, without any visible hitch — and you watched his arms complete the arc of it that gave you a funny feeling in your belly. Before you quite realized it, your eyes had followed the line of his arms all the way to his hands. You finally got a good look at his face when he turned to you.

Strong lines along his jaw and eyes that warmed when they met yours. A few strands of dark hair had fallen loose from the rest of his neatly combed-back style, resting across his forehead. It was somewhat unfair for a stranger on a train to look like that. 

“Thank you,” you said, your hand going up automatically to check the suitcase was properly secured. “You really saved me from the embarrassment back there.” 

He glanced at it once more and gave it a small push to seat it further in, then stepped back to give you room to pass. 

“Don’t mention it. Happens to the best of us.” He rested his hand briefly on the back of your seat to steady himself as someone edged down the aisle behind him. “Those gaps catch wheels more often than people think.” 

You laughed despite yourself as you sank into the window seat and pulled your jacket closer around your shoulders. “Guess I'm just the unlucky one who got chosen tonight.”

His lips moved into something that wasn't quite a smile yet but was heading there. He rapped his knuckles against the suitcase gently, like to make sure it wouldn’t fall off on you. Then he gestured towards the row in front of you, indicating his seat.

“Mine's a couple up.”

“Thank you again,” you said as he turned to go.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, and this time the smile completed itself. “Happy holidays,” he replied before continuing down the aisle.

“Happy holidays,” you whispered quietly to yourself. 

You weren't entirely sure how happy it was shaping up to be. 

The inside of the train was dim and catatonic. Departure had already been pushed back thirty minutes in the hopes that any remaining passengers would hurry and get on board before conditions made the journey inadvisable. Even so, large pockets of empty seats remained scattered throughout, and the untouched headrests gave the entire compartment a strangely hollow appearance. 

The seat directly across from yours was unclaimed. So were most of the others within eyeline. 

A small stroke of fortune, perhaps. You could hardly blame them. Considering the warnings that were on every news channel, it seemed likely that most people with flexible plans had chosen to remain safely indoors instead of venturing across the country through a rising blizzard. The ones who had shown up tonight were the ones who couldn't afford the postponement, who had reasons that outweighed the inconvenience of a winter storm bearing down on the railway line. 

You fell squarely into that category. It had been too long since you had last made the trip home and when the long weekend appeared on your calendar, the trip had felt too convenient to postpone. Canceling would have been the sensible thing. You had considered it, and then the thought of putting it off again had guilt building up. So you had packed a bag and come anyway, blizzard warnings and all, which was either devotion or stubbornness and at this point you weren't certain there was a meaningful difference between the two. 

Under ordinary conditions the journey was supposed to take just over two hours. Judging by the sound of the wind working itself against the windows before the train had even cleared the city, the estimate felt increasingly optimistic.

For the first half hour of the journey, you did little more than watch the passage of the evening through the window. The sky held the last of the day's color — pale rose bleeding into silver at the edges as the sun dropped behind a low line of hills, and the first snow began to fall into the fading light. Started as a scattering of delicate flakes drifting lazily through the air which was barely noticeable against the dimming horizon. It was a rather pretty sight. 

Within minutes the flakes multiplied and thickened, merging into a pale curtain that swept across the open countryside in waves. The train’s headlights cut out a small area of movement through the white until there was very little left to look at except the storm itself. Watching it for too long produced a faint, swimming sensation behind your eyes.

A chime sounded through the carriage, followed by the soft crackle of the train’s announcement system. The conductor’s voice came through the speakers, informing that due to deteriorating weather conditions along the route, the train would be reducing speed and making several unscheduled stops to ensure the safety of everyone on board.

Your earlier suspicion had aged into confirmation. This wasn't going to be the usual two-hour ride to Daegu. If the weather kept building at its current rate, the journey could easily stretch to twice the original estimate, possibly more.

There was only so long anyone could watch an unbroken wall of snow before the mind began casting around for something else to do with itself. Some coffee would be a lot more appealing than staring at bleakness, you thought, and it nudged you out of your seat. You made your way down to the snack car. It was marginally brighter than the passenger compartments. A slim counter ran along one side with an attendant moving briskly between shelves and heating units.

The display offered little in the way of temptation.

Plastic-wrapped pastries lay under heat lamps that had long since deprived them of whatever freshness they might have once found. A shelf of microwaveable items occupied the adjacent space. Nothing about it looked particularly appealing, and you could almost feel the sodden heaviness that would come an hour later if you dared to take more than a mouthful. Hardly ideal considering the uncertain length of the journey ahead.

Despite that, the shelves were emptying at a surprising pace. Passengers seemed less concerned with quality than availability, gathering whatever remained before the options disappeared altogether. The sight prompted you to make your decision quickly.

You purchased a couple of the lemon cream buns stacked near the register along with a cup of coffee. The buns looked harmless and would likely sit far better in your stomach than the alternatives. You deemed it a sensible choice. 

With your small collection of supplies in hand, you glanced around for somewhere to sit. A small table near the wall was the only vacant one remaining. You slid into the seat and set the buns down in front of you, curling both palms around the cup. The train rocked more noticeably here than in the passenger car — a slow, side-to-side sway that rattled through the fixtures and occasionally produced a low creak from the metal frame of the carriage when a particularly aggressive gust found the side of the train. 

You set your coffee down and reached for your phone. Your mother had sent four messages since the departure delay, each one a variation on the same concern, and you owed her a call before the evening went any further. The dial tone attempted to connect, held for a few seconds, and then dissolved into silence without going through. 

You pulled the phone from your ear and looked at the screen — the network icon in the corner was flickering back to life then fading again. You angled the phone toward the window on the off chance that the extra distance might persuade the signal to cooperate.

Unfortunately, the same result followed. You clicked your tongue, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

“Can I sit here?”

Your heart gave a startled jump before your brain had fully registered the voice, and you looked up to find the handsome stranger from the platform standing at the edge of your table. He balanced himself by bracing one hand against the tabletop as the movement of the carriage rocked him slightly where he stood. In his other hand he carried a small packet of food.

“Sure—please, go ahead,” you said quickly, sitting up straighter and nudging your paper bag a little farther to the side to clear the space. 

He dipped his head in gratitude and lowered himself onto the seat beside you. The train chose that exact moment to lurch forward with a particularly pronounced sway that made him huff a quiet laugh. He settled, set his food down, and met your eyes with a look that carried the trace of whatever that almost-laugh had been. 

“I hope you don't mind. Every other table seems to have been claimed.” He glanced briefly around the car before returning to you. “I figured since we'd already spoken, it’d be less awkward than asking a complete stranger.”

“I don't mind at all,” you said, shaking your head with emphasis. “Besides, I doubt anyone on this train is turning down company tonight.”

His lips curved in a gentle smile. “Then I’ll do my best to make sure the company isn’t disappointing. I’d hate to abuse such generous hospitality on our second meeting of the evening.” His gaze held something like assurance, almost as if he were hoping you’d enjoy his presence as much as he would enjoy yours.

“Well,” you murmured, settling back and holding your coffee close, “in that case you’re very much welcome to the table.”

He unwrapped his meal and you noticed he hadn't thought to get a drink. You looked at your own coffee, still warm between your palms, and then back at him. 

“You know,” you added, motioning towards your own cup, “I’ll grab you something to drink—might make the night ahead a little warmer.”

He looked up immediately and raised a hand in protest. “You don't have to do that—really, you've already given me the seat.”

“It’s really not a problem,” you insisted, rising halfway before he could object again. “You helped me earlier, remember? Consider it repayment.” You paused, letting him gather his thoughts before continuing. “Coffee or tea? Whichever you prefer.”

He hesitated for a moment before conceding with a small nod. “In that case,” he said, glancing briefly toward the counter, “coffee would be great.”

You returned shortly after with a cup of coffee. He sat up straighter once you approached. 

“Here you go,” you said, holding it toward him.

He took it with both hands and bowed his head in thanks. After taking a small sip he set the cup down and extended his hand.

“I should have done this properly earlier,” he said. “Choi Beomgyu.”

You repeated his name in your head over again after he said it, savouring the sound. Lingering on the taste of each syllable with a strange attention you couldn’t quite place. As you gave your own introduction, you took his hand and shook it, and noted that it was warm — still carrying the heat from the cup. Just like his name. 

You felt your phone buzz suddenly.

“One second—sorry, my mum's been waiting to hear from me,” you said, quickly placing the phone to your ear while flashing him a look of apology.

Turning slightly in your seat, you focused on the call while explaining the situation to your mother. The connection crackled occasionally beneath your words, forcing you to repeat yourself once or twice as you reassured your mother that you were still on the train and that the delay had only stretched the journey, not halted it entirely. 

Every so often, when you glanced up mid-sentence, you caught him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The simple exchange sent a curious flutter through your chest; it was pleasant in a way that made you unexpectedly aware of the moment.

“Are you visiting family in Daegu?” he asked once you’re done talking.

You nodded, pulling your scarf down from around your neck and draping it across your lap. The snack car had warmed you up enough that keeping it wrapped felt excessive. “I haven't been home in a while.” You rested your hands atop one another on your lap, tapping your fingers together absentmindedly in a restless habit you had never quite managed to outgrow. “You?”

“Daegu as well.” The corners of his mouth lifted. You had the same destination as him, which meant he could spend time in your company longer. “My brother is getting married. The ceremony is the day after tomorrow, actually. I didn't have much choice about traveling tonight, storm or not.”

“Wait, really? That's wonderful!” You leaned forward with a delighted sound, your hands lifting slightly in excitement before you caught yourself and laughed. “Congratulations to him—to your whole family, I mean.”

Beomgyu laughed as well, the sound bright enough to draw a brief glance from someone seated a few tables away. “He's been sending me photos for weeks,” he said, already reaching into his coat pocket for his phone. “Here, let me show you a few—”

He scrolled through the gallery while angling the phone between you on the table so both of you could see. You instinctively found yourself leaning in for a better view.

The photos moved past in an affectionate chronicle — a smiling couple holding up their hands to show the rings, a table full of family at what looked like a celebratory dinner. The particular beautiful pandemonium of wedding preparations filling someone's living room with fabric samples and flower arrangements and people who all seemed to be talking at once. In nearly every image, Beomgyu's brother and the woman beside him were either laughing at the camera or turned toward each other with the telltale glow of two people eagerly awaiting the day ahead.

You caught yourself smiling purely for them, not for any reason beyond simple happiness.

“They look so happy,” you said, pausing on one photo in particular — the bride-to-be with a streak of flour across her cheek, laughing beside his brother in the middle of what appeared to be a thoroughly failed baking project. 

Beomgyu leaned in slightly to see which one you had stopped on, and his shoulder brushed yours as he did. Neither of you moved apart. “That was their attempt at baking their own engagement cake,” he said, the laugh already back in his voice. “My brother maintained for weeks that it was the best thing he'd ever eaten. Nobody else who tried it agreed with him.”

“He was protecting her feelings,” you said immediately.

“Almost certainly.” He scrolled to the next photo, which showed the same couple holding up a lopsided, fondant-covered disaster with matching expressions of pride. “Although he did finish the whole thing, so either he meant it or he has genuinely terrible taste.”

You laughed, and Beomgyu looked at you when you did. He should have torn himself away after a second. Instead, he stayed there watching you through the sound of it, gaze softening which he failed to hide in time. 

God, he could get used to hearing that. 

The next few were different from the others — older photographs, more personal. A family of four around a dinner table crowded with dishes. A blurry snapshot taken outdoors where two boys stood shoulder to shoulder beneath a vibrant blue sky, squinting into the sun. Another picture showed the same boys years later, taller now, though their expressions suggested they had been persuaded into the photo rather than volunteering for it. 

Beomgyu walked you through his memory lane and told you little stories behind every photo. You listened and watched his face more than the screen. 

You focused on a photo of his father caught in a candid moment with a glass raised toward the camera. You stared at it and then back at Beomgyu, and it required very little imagination to picture how those features might settle with age — how his face may look five, ten years from now etched with laugh lines and softer features. Older, but still the same.

It gave you this tight feeling in your chest that felt oddly misplaced. You had known this man for barely an hour, but the simple act of looking at the people who raised him and listening to him talk about his life — it had begun to create the faintest sense of connection that you hadn't been looking for and weren't sure what to do with. 

“I really hope I make it there on time,” Beomgyu said, more to himself than to you, his eyes moving toward the window. “I promised I'd be there early—there were a few things I said I'd help with before the ceremony. That promise is starting to feel a little ambitious.”

You followed his gaze toward the window where the glass had begun to cloud faintly. Snow tore past it in dense white streaks, illuminated only when the train passed the occasional line of track lights. 

“Optimistic,” you offered. “And I think it’s perfectly fine to be optimistic in times like these. If anything, it gives others peace of mind.”

At this point optimism was the only resource anyone aboard the train seemed to possess. Every passenger you had seen since boarding the train bore the same tell tale demeanor. Hoping and praying that the weather would let up and that they would make it to their destination. 

Beomgyu liked that you had taken his pessimism and returned it to him reframed, and it made him curious whether the calm in your voice was something you actually felt or something you had decided to project for the benefit of the people around you. He suspected it was genuinely both and made him wonder if that calm would hold if he pushed the thought a little further.

“Maybe,” he conceded, glancing once more at the window. “If it doesn’t work out, I suppose I'll just end up stranded somewhere along the line with everyone else who gambled on the weather tonight.” He gave a small shrug, though the thought clearly amused him. “Could be worse outcomes.”

“Significantly worse,” you agreed, lifting your coffee cup. “We're inside, at least. Stranded on a train is categorically not the worst version of stranded. But, like, I still wouldn't want to spend the night here in that situation.”

He let that settle for a beat, glancing around the carriage with a brief, contemplative sweep before his eyes returned to yours. The smile that followed came out slowly, like he had given himself a moment to decide whether to say the next thing and had concluded in favor of it. 

“I suppose that's only true depending on who you're stranded with.”

It was a miraculous testament to your abilities that you kept yourself from blushing at his words. What you did end up doing was burn your lips on your coffee in an attempt to conceal your smile.

You flinched with a small hiss, pulling your bottom lip inward between your teeth and dragging your tongue across it in a futile attempt to address the sting. Beomgyu straightened so abruptly his knee knocked the underside of the table.

“Hey—careful,” he said, offering a folded tissue. “Are you alright?”

There was visible concern in his voice, but still the question ended with a faint breath of laughter he clearly attempted to suppress. You took the tissue and pressed it to your lip, narrowing your eyes in playful reproach. His smile turned apologetic that softened his entire face. The sight had an unfortunate effect on you. Your attempt at indignation dissolved before it could fully form, and the reprimand you had intended never reached your lips.

“It's fine,” you said, lowering the tissue and testing your lip with a light press of your finger. The sting had already softened to a mild throb, manageable enough that your attention had moved on to the more pressing issue of what had come out of your mouth in the seconds after it. “Besides, that was probably the most action my lips were going to get tonight anyway.”

You got a sickening sense of ick arriving after you finished speaking, crawling up from your stomach to the back of your throat in a slow, nauseating wave. It wasn’t that you wanted to make it sound pitiful. You had not meant it as flirtation either, goddammit — that was the honest truth. And the honest truth was somehow worse, because it meant you had simply said something pathetic with complete sincerity and no strategic intent whatsoever. You sounded splendidly sad and misleading.

Slowly, you lowered your hand away from your mouth. You steeled yourself for embarrassment at the very least or polite sympathy at worst — but you found neither on Beomgyu's face. There was no trace of pity in his expression, no awkward hesitation that might suggest he had begun reassessing the stranger in front of him after he was confronted with a confession he had not asked for. 

“Tell me about it,” he said with a barely concealed knowing smile.

“Seriously?” You raised your brows, scoffing softly. “I wouldn't have guessed that about you.”

You meant that sincerely.

He was attractive — there was no point pretending otherwise. He had also been kind and considerate; a gentleman. Whether it meant anything beyond good manners was a separate question entirely. 

Still against your better judgement a small, selfish thought surfaced. 

That’s convenient.

You crossed your legs beneath the table and shifted in your seat, applying what willpower you had left to the project of not following that thought any further down the path it was heading. It was a limited supply of willpower. Beomgyu was not helping. 

If his deft handling of your earlier remark had not already charmed you, the way he reacted now had already gotten to you. He looked away, if only for a second, gaze dropping to the table as a shy smile graced his lips. It was not avoidance so much as a brief retreat, as though he needed the space of a heartbeat before returning to you. When he did return to you, there was a faint flush dusting his cheeks that he appeared entirely unaware of.

Oh.

You were getting smitten by this man far too quickly. You needed to slow down. You were very aware that you needed to slow down. 

“It's kind of you to say that.” He exhaled a short laugh, turning his coffee cup in a slow half-rotation against the table. “No, I mean—it really hasn't been that long. But no.”

You nodded, more to fill the space than anything else. Fortunately, your conscience was still alive and you used the moment to remind yourself of a few things. Charm could be fabricated just as easily as it could be genuine. People could present themselves well and say the right things in ways that made you forget to question what was underneath. None of what Beomgyu had shown you tonight proved anything on its own. 

The reminder was sound. It lasted approximately four seconds.

“I was actually supposed to bring someone to the wedding,” he added, like an afterthought. “Didn’t quite work out that way.”

You perked up at the new information. “Why’s that?” 

He tongued the corner of his lips, hemming and hawing how much he wanted to share. “Explaining the full absence of a plus one,” he said, with a self-deprecating tilt of his head, “might genuinely take longer than the rest of this journey.” He paused. “I could go into it, if you don't mind sitting through the sad highlights.”

“We’ve got time,” you said, gesturing at the window. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

The apples of his cheeks puffed up as if he had been waiting for permission to continue. 

But you never got to hear what happened, because somewhere behind you, the sound of a child’s crying echoed through the carriage. Instinctively, your head turned.

A young woman stood a few steps away, shifting a restless toddler against her shoulder while scanning around for an available seat. The train’s swaying had an evident effect on her posture and she adjusted her hold with visible strain.

“We should give her the table.” You glanced once at Beomgyu before nodding toward the woman. 

He followed your line of sight and got the cue immediately. He was on his feet in the blink of an eye, and when the woman approached he gestured toward the seats with a smile. “Please—it's all yours.”

Instant gratitude spread across her features. She thanked you both as she settled in with the toddler, and you wiped the faint ring your cup had left on the table while Beomgyu moved the spare chair aside to give her more room. It was not a long exchange, but it carried an undercurrent of understanding that needed no elaboration. Then, just as quickly, you left the snack car together.

Within the dim confines of the vestibule, you slowed your pace and stole a glance back at him.

“Um—” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, looking ahead rather than at him as you spoke. “If you don't hate the idea of company, there's an empty seat across from mine. You could sit there, if you want—I don't think anyone's coming around to check tickets tonight.” A small pause followed, then you quickly added with an almost self-conscious, “Only if you're comfortable with it, though.”

The amber light caught your face as you turned back toward him, illuminating your features in such a dreamy way that caught him entirely off guard. It pooled along the curve of your cheek and the line of your mouth, and when you looked up at him — he momentarily lost the capacity to breathe correctly.

He had been mesmerized by your eyes from the moment at the platform. He’d known then that you'd be difficult to forget. Now, at this proximity, with your attention fixed on him, they seemed to undo whatever composure he had managed to gather over the last few minutes.

He would be an idiot to say no. A spectacular, irredeemable idiot. 

“I don't mind at all,” he said, falling into step beside you. Only God knew how he didn’t trip over his own words. “That's genuinely a better offer than where I've been sitting. The man next to my seat has decided that I was a reasonable substitute for a headrest.”

Your startled laughter was music to his ears. The stupid grin on his lips refused to tame down — because he was the one who made you laugh. Call it stupid, which it honestly was, maybe even a little embarrassing, but he was already helplessly besotted with you. 

You led him back through the carriage to your row and slid into the window seat, and he settled into the one across from you. The closeness here was different than before, but welcomed by you both. 

He leaned back against the seat and ran a hand through his hair, and you watched him do it with your chin resting on your hand.

"Where was I?" he asked.

"Your mystery plus one," you said. "You were about to explain."

"Right." He exhaled, dropping his hand back to his lap. "Right."

A blind date arranged by a close friend, one he trusted enough not to question the introduction. He recounted every detail that led him to start that year-long relationship with a rueful self-aware smile, because he already knew how ironic it sounded.

He had believed in her completely. That was the part he kept returning to — by strengthening that belief, the memories forged during their time together felt as though they were permanently branded onto his soul. A year passed before the foundation of it showed its first fractures, and by then they had accumulated enough that he couldn't point to a single moment where things had gone wrong. 

It hadn't been betrayal in the way people typically meant when they used the word. Messages that went unanswered until well into the night, accounted for with an explanation that was just plausible enough to accept. A promise that became a lie so gradually that the transition was invisible until it was already complete. Moments where he'd raised a concern and watched it get brushed aside so lightly that he'd found himself questioning whether he had read the situation correctly. None of it had seemed large enough to name at the time, yet each instance had gathered somewhere in him and piled up little by little. 

He told you how she’d invented minor crises just to see if he would react, and how he had mistaken that scrutiny for care. It sounded foolish now that he could hear himself saying it, he acknowledged. She had tested the bounds of his patience and taken advantage of the trust he gave her freely. He then explained how he had called her out on it more than once and she had come back with some half-assed excuse, some bullshit story that had a cute twist at the end and had him questioning his own intuition.

Melancholy had draped itself over his face, painting his lips when he reached the parts that still cost him something to say. She existed as this fantasy, presented herself as a version of a person that matched him so well he had attributed it to compatibility rather than a lie. It wasn't until she slipped, until he caught the tail end of a phone call he hadn't been meant to hear, that the full shape of it became visible to him all at once. 

She hadn’t loved him; she had loved being loved by him.

It had taken him far longer than he was comfortable admitting to understanding the difference between those two things, and longer still to work out what it meant for everything he thought he had known about the year they had shared. Because when she left his life she took her reasons with her and left him only answers to cobble together from the fractures of her decisions.

You found it difficult to hold yourself at a distance from what he had shared. He was objectively someone you barely knew — someone whose life intersected yours for the briefest of moments. You were supposed to suspend your trust in these circumstances, that a narrative spun in a place and time like this could become whatever version the narrator needed it to be. You had reminded yourself of this already tonight, more than once, and it had helped less each time. 

Because there was something about him as he talked that tethered his words to the haunted yearning he struggled to hide.

Raw honesty had a particular quality that was very difficult to sustain without it being exactly what it appeared to be, and what you were watching was not someone shaping a narrative for your benefit. It left you wondering, with a growing sense of disbelief, how someone who spoke with such care and openness could have been met with so little of it in return.

“Did your friend know?” you asked. “The one who set up the blind date—did he know what she was like?”

Beomgyu pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head slowly. The rueful smile returned, directed more at the memory than at you. “Taehyun had no idea,” he said. “If he had, he wouldn't have pushed me into it. He felt terrible when everything came out—kept apologizing for weeks, wouldn't let it go no matter how many times I told him it wasn't his fault.”

“Taehyun?” You blurted out, eyes going wide like saucers. Your sudden rise in volume in turn startled him. “Kang Taehyun?”

“Yeah,” he answered, hesitating for a brief second before adding, “Do you… know him? I mean—it's not a rare name, there are probably—”

“No, hold on,” you muttered, already scrolling through your gallery with growing urgency until you found what you were looking for. You turned your screen toward him, leaning across the space between your seats. “This Taehyun. Is this him?”

Simultaneously leaning forward, creased eyebrows crinkling up and mouth falling agape in recognition, he pointed a finger at your screen.

“That’s Taehyunnie,” he chortled. “Yes—yes! That's my friend. That's him.”

“You’re kidding.” You pulled back with a laugh of your own that came out slightly unhinged, pressing your palm briefly to your forehead. “He's my friend too.”

He fumbled for his own phone, unlocking it with hurried movements and swiping into his gallery. He held his screen beside yours, flipping through a series of photos — some from school days and others more recent, Taehyun in various configurations with a younger-looking Beomgyu across several years. 

“Look—this is us. This one was last year,” he said, tapping a photo of the two of them against the backdrop of the Han River at night. 

“What are the actual odds,” you said, shaking your head slowly. “How does that even happen.”

“The world is ridiculously small.” He huffed out a breath. “Which university?”

“Same as him. Same department too,” you said, sitting up straighter now, the earlier heaviness of the conversation completely overturned. “We were year mates.” 

“I've known him since school. We ended up at different universities but we never lost touch.” He let out another incredulous laugh. "I can't believe I've never seen you around.”

“He never mixes his people.” With deft fingers, you quickly texted Taehyun asking about Beomgyu. You hoped the network was cooperating. “I don't think I've ever seen him introduce anyone from different parts of his life to each other.”

“That explains a lot. He’s always been like that,” Beomgyu said, nodding. "I've met maybe two people from his university years, and both times it was accidental." 

This unbashful feeling of giddiness was so, so stupid, but you didn’t feel the need to hold yourself back anymore. How narrow could the world be? How could it be, that you had wandered unknowingly alongside him for so long? Something that had felt like a wall between you — the stranger-ness of him — had just been pulled away. Your heart leapt with joy.

Conversation lulled into momentary silence but it was thrumming with the last of your laughter and the surprise that had not yet worn off. Staring into each other’s eyes you both felt this growing sense of belonging that you were not feeling around each other when you met.

“I feel so happy,” he confessed with a warm smile. The flat of his palm caressed his chest where his heart laid. "I don't know why exactly. I just—I really do." 

"Me too," you said simply. And you meant it all the way down. 

He had this tendency to say more with his eyes than his mouth could describe, something you observed he’s been doing all evening. You loved deciphering him this way.

"I kept thinking we'd get off the train and that would be it," he said, his gaze dropping briefly to your hands before returning to your face. "That you'd be a good memory I wouldn't have any way of returning to. I kept thinking I should prepare myself for that. It’s… comforting knowing that we can actually keep in touch.”

You tilted your head sideways, narrowing your eyes playfully. "So without Taehyun, we wouldn't have managed that?" you asked with a light, probing edge.

The surge of satisfaction that grasped you was palpable when you saw him undone by you. Colour rose along his cheeks — heat that crept upwards even as his charming smile held, because Beomgyu was choosing to ride the wave you clearly already had. 

“I can be friendly,” he murmured with a croon as he leaned forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees and closing the distance between you by a fraction that registered in every nerve you had. His gaze that stayed on yours asked for nothing and yet held your attention completely. 

You hummed, nodding for him to finish what he started. “Go on.”

"I would have found a reason to stay right here regardless." His fingers brushed once against the fabric near your knee as the train swayed. An involuntary shiver ran up you just from that miniscule of a contact. "But I'd rather earn it," he said. "Starting with being your friend."

You were looking at each other so intently that anything beyond the two of you went unnoticed. The rest of the compartment might as well have fallen away. You had eyes for each other and nothing else.

"I'd like that," you said, and let your voice drop a little so that he had to lean slightly closer to catch it. "I'd like to be your friend too." 

"Good." The curve of his mouth was slow and warm. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Your heart raced with nerves and exhilaration. Just then your phone vibrated against your palm, abrupt enough to pull you back. 

Tyun wait why are you asking about beomgyu are you actually on the same train as him rn. please say yes Tyun ok if you are- he's one of the best people i know. genuinely. you're in good hands. also this is the funniest thing that's happened to me all week and i'm at my friend's wedding rehearsal dinner so that's saying something

You stared at the screen for a moment, the corner of your mouth pulling up despite yourself. Of all the moments for Taehyun to come through with a functional response, it had to be now. While you had gone silent, Beomgyu began to feel a tad bit of concern over his choice of words. Had he pushed you too far?

"Everything okay?" he asked.

You looked up from the screen and met his eyes, and this time you didn't look away first.

"Yeah," you said. "More than okay."

The pellucid certainty with which you had said it did more than reassure him. He had meant what he said about earning it, about taking things at the pace they were supposed to take, and that intention hadn't moved. But intentions and the pull he felt sitting across from you occupied two entirely separate parts of him, and the latter was becoming considerably less manageable by the minute.

"I should probably stop making this all about me," he said, gathering himself back into some semblance of composure. "That feels a bit unfair at this point."

“Unfair?” you echoed, a hint of disbelief slipping through. 

The word sat oddly with you. You had not felt shortchanged for a single moment. If anything, you had been the one taking more than you gave, learning him piece by piece while keeping most of yourself tucked carefully away, and the imbalance had been entirely your doing. The fact that he had read the conversation as one-sided in your favor was almost endearing enough to be a problem. 

"I've done most of the talking," he went on, reading nothing of where your thoughts had just gone. "You've been sitting here listening this whole time. That can't be a particularly good deal." 

You almost smiled at that. He really did think this had been one-sided. He had no idea what his presence had been doing to you the entire time. 

"I don't know." You shrugged, a soft breath escaping you. "I actually like hearing you talk." 

His brows rose, caught off guard. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his voice, or so he had always thought. The urge to just cross over this friendly boundary still maintained slyly by the two of you was becoming more and more overwhelming for him.

You pressed your lips together for a second, and then shook your head. The words you had chosen felt insufficient for what you had actually meant. 

“No—that’s not quite right,” you corrected, more honestly this time. "I love your voice. I could listen to it for a long time. Is that a strange thing to say?" 

There were too many things Beomgyu could say, and none of them felt safe enough to let out without altering the course of where this was going. 

"No." He breathed, and it came out faster than anything he had said before. He stopped right after it, lips parting as if to add more. “I just—”

You watched him try again. It only made your curiosity deepen.

“I’d like to hear about you too,” he confided a little softly. “If you’re willing.”

You bit down on your lip to keep your expression from giving too much away. He knew exactly what he was doing and he was not being clever about any of this. Your heart argued with your senses but pragmatism had long lost its hold on you. He was just too irresistible. It was as if he inspired a recklessness in you, a desire to go all-in. Lose yourself in him completely.  

You reached into your paper bag and held out one of the lemon buns toward him.

"I don't mind," you said. “Being asked, I mean.” 

There is a version of this that could be explained very simply.

Two people passing the hours with conversation, letting the journey carry them forward while they trade stories to make it feel shorter. Friends, if someone were curious enough to ask. 

He listened with care, asking questions without overstepping that kept you speaking. You set the pace for how much you revealed, and he respected that boundary perfectly. Just like a good friend would do, he remembered the details you shared (which truthfully surprised you) as if it mattered beyond the moment itself. It would be easy to accept that at face value, to believe that this was all it was. 

Friends, as you both agreed to be.

Perhaps that was why it felt the way it did. 

Because ntihng had crossed any line, and nothing had been said that could not be taken back if needed. Every word could still belong to a version of this night that ended without consequence, where you part at your destination with a smile and carry nothing forward except a pleasant recollection. At some later point, you might meet again through the same shared acquaintance. You would greet each other with the comfort you had reserved for being familiar strangers turned to friends. 

But then there were smaller moments that defied such easy explanations. 

The glances that did not move unless you gave him a reason to. There were gestures such as reaching over in the middle of something you were laughing about and wiping the trace of lemon cream from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, followed by the absent motion of bringing that same thumb to his mouth without breaking eye contact. 

That is where the simplicity begins to fray. If this were only friendship, it wouldn't feel like this.

"This is a little strange, isn't it?" you said.

“In what way?”

“We’ve been talking for—what, over an hour?” You smiled a little; there was a daze that washed over your face from settling into the moment. "And I don't feel like I'm talking to someone I just met." 

That downward smile was going to be the death of you. “I stopped thinking of it that way a while ago.”

Just as you'd expected, he voiced the very thing you'd been longing to hear without any hint of insincerity. You had felt it coming in the way you feel the temperature drop before rain — how easily he kept meeting you where you stood. 

"Honestly, I kind of assumed we'd eventually hit an awkward patch," he admitted. “Or that we’d run out of things to say.”

He had expected for the specific variety of silence that descends when two strangers have exhausted their common ground and are waiting for a graceful way to stop pretending otherwise. Strange, how quickly that concern had disappeared without him noticing when exactly it had stopped mattering.

“I’m almost disappointed about that.” You laughed, shaking your head. "I had a whole exit strategy prepared." 

“Really?” he asked, a hint of disbelief slipping through. “You don’t strike me as someone who needs an escape plan.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen me in a truly terrible conversation.” You quirked one side of your lips. “Trust me, I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be.” 

“Were you close to using it?”

His voice carried a lightness that didn't entirely mask the fact that the answer actually mattered to him. The idea of you having considered leaving even hypothetically — it bothered him. 

“No.” The single syllable rolled off your tongue slowly. “I didn’t need to.”

There was that damn downturned smile again. You were convinced that until this point he did that on purpose. But now you don't even know anymore.

“I’m glad I made it past that, then.” 

It had slipped from notice that the blizzard outside had picked up and how far the train had traveled cutting through sheets of snow. The space you carved out with him held its own pocket of time that the world beyond the glass had stopped feeling entirely real. 

“I’m going to step away for a minute,” you said, rising to gather yourself. You needed to use the restroom. “I’ll be right back.”

He gave you a small nod, letting his eyes linger on you for a moment — just a second. 

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here.” 

Once you left the carriage, Beomgyu’s nerves finally lit up and ran through him all at once. He sank back into his seat, composure slipping now that there was no reason to hold onto it. It didn’t make sense how present you still felt.

Had he said too much? Not enough? He tried to retrace the conversation, searching for when he may have gone too far, but every answer blurred into the next. He hoped he hadn't bored you. God no — he hoped you weren’t just humoring him out of politeness, offering him your attention so he would not feel out of place.

Politeness could mimic interest so convincingly that it frightened him. He had spent a year learning that lesson and several months afterward trying to unknow it. He had to close his eyes just to escape those thoughts. But you were there against his eyelids still, as if his mind had been waiting for the moment it could drift back to you without resistance. 

Beomgyu dragged both hands over his face and bent forward until his elbows met his knees. He let out a low groan that was muffled into his hands. He couldn't believe how far gone he already was, and so quickly. 

This was a completely unprecedented situation for him. Barely even knew you for a few hours and he’d already undone all the resolution he’d worked months on rebuilding after his last relationship fell apart. He had told himself, after everything with her, that whatever came next would be approached with care. He would take his time and not give himself away so completely to someone he hadn't yet earned the right to trust with that. 

You, a stranger on a train — even though that word had begun to lose its meaning — reached into his heart and stirred life where he had grown accustomed to stillness. How on earth did you manage that so easily?

Every time you had looked at him his breath had caught before he could do anything about it. Every time he looked at you, he wanted to leave you just as breathless. He wanted to take his air back from your lips. 

Still hunched forward in that position, he dropped one hand and reached into his pocket for his phone. The signal had been unreliable all evening, yet he placed the call anyway and lifted the device to his ear, waiting through the faint interference. 

Lucky for him, it did go through.

"Taehyun."

Taehyun's voice came through slightly distorted, carrying the ambient noise of wherever the rehearsal dinner had deposited him. "Hey—what's up? I heard you met my fri—"

“How come you never mentioned her?” Beomgyu asked gravelly, his palm still pressed against his face. 

There was a definite pause from the other side. Then a sound that was unmistakably Taehyun trying not to laugh.  

“What? You're not making any sense." Taehyun hummed, then clicked his tongue. "Actually, you are making sense. You're making a very specific kind of sense. So I'm guessing that means you two are getting along." 

Beomgyu pressed his fingertips to his temple and said nothing for a moment. The answer was obvious to him and yet impossible to articulate without sounding ridiculous. How could he possibly condense the way you'd become his every waking thought into something as simple as getting along?

He could only place the blame on Taehyun.

If he had been introduced to you at any point before this — he liked to believe things might have unfolded differently for him. Perhaps then he would have avoided the long detour of heartbreak that had left him so guarded in the first place.

With a sigh, he slouched back again in his seat. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

Taehyun made a sound of vague acknowledgment, oblivious to what Beomgyu was implying. "Well, yeah. She's good people. I figured you'd work that out on your own." 

Taehyun didn’t have to describe how wonderful you were for Beomgyu to understand that you were someone worth taking a risk on. Beomgyu was enchanted, irrevocably shackled to you. Right now he couldn’t conceptualize beyond you, was already wondering how much longer until you returned, was already longing to have more time before he had even figured out what to do with the time he had already been given.

That was right, what he wanted was more time with you that was unburdened by the end of this journey. He longed for conversations with you that were not bound by the ticking of stations, moments that didn't feel so transient. He wanted to see you again in a setting that did not threaten to take you away at any second. 

His grip on the phone tightened slightly. “I’ll call you later.” 

“Yeah, sur—”

He ended the call and set the phone face-down on his thigh.

You would be back any minute. He needed to put himself back together before you came through that door. He straightened up. Ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled slowly through his nose.

He was absolutely, completely fine.

The narrow corridor felt even more confined as you walked out, permeated by a warmth that clung a little too closely to your skin. It was difficult to tell whether it came from the heating circulating through the carriage or from within you. Honestly, after a moment, you stopped trying to work that out. The distinction began to feel irrelevant to hold your attention for long.

You stood at the small sink and looked at your own reflection in the mirror above it, and the face that looked back at you was not particularly useful at concealing things. You liked whatever was happening between you and him. You couldn't recall the last time you'd felt that rush in your chest. You were not the type to be swept up without noticing but you had no interest in pulling yourself back either. He made you want to remain exactly where you were and see what came next. 

Still, the complicating factor was how this choice was fundamentally undermining all your personal aspirations. You were a believer in time. You always made sure to thoroughly get to know the person before letting anything more substantial take root. That was a rule you lived by. You never had before, nor had you ever found a reason to doubt it. 

Within the span of a single evening, Choi Beomgyu was dismantling that whole belief system.

You reached for the door, pausing only for a second before pulling it open. Once this journey ends and you both decide to keep things friendly, you couldn't foresee the path your friendship might take. 

You had your eyes downcast but you looked up when you stepped back into the carriage. Heart leapt so hard that it hurt when you saw him. He was exactly where you had left him, and he was already looking toward you. The small lift of his hand in greeting carried more impact than it should have given how little time had passed.

There was no way of deciding the outcome here, standing in the train — but you could decide what to do with the present.

With a returned smile, you steadied a hand on the overhead bin when you felt the carriage sway. Had the wind outside gotten worse so suddenly? The motion underfoot no longer matched the memory of it from a few minutes ago. 

An unanticipated lurch snapped through your footing and destabilized you. Your grip slipped and you caught yourself against the nearest seat with a jolt that travelled up your arm. Beomgyu across from you was already half out of his seat, both hands reaching towards you with intentions to catch you before you hit the ground. Pure panic written so openly across his face that it stopped you for a second. You had not seen that expression on him before. You shook your head before pushing yourself upright again. Waving him down, you sent a quick signal that all was well.

You managed only two more steps.

In a sudden motion, the train slowed and threw everyone forward. The deceleration ripped the ground beneath you and you were falling backwards before your mind processed what even was happening. The impact with the floor was cushioned underneath your head only because you felt hands wrapped around you turning the fall into something controlled yet no less forceful as both of you went down together.

Metal screamed along the rails, a prolonged and violent scrape that resonated through the carriage and pounded into your skull. It went on and on while the brakes worked through their full range before the train finally seized to a jarring halt. The force of it traveled upward through the floor, through your spine, through every bone in your body at once. Overhead compartments sprung open under the strain, and luggages came down in heavy bursts striking seats, the aisle, anything in its path. 

“Fuck—watch out—!!”

You couldn’t even tell whose voice belonged to who. 

Even if the fall had injured you, your panic-driven mind latched onto two things — the bags coming down and the fact that he was above you. Your hands moved before thought had any place in it. With your palms cupping the back of his head and fingers pushed through his hair, you pulled him down against you, shielding his head as best as you could. There was no room left to consider anything beyond that. Where anything might land, what might strike you instead — none of it mattered.  

The lights went out. Somewhere in the darkness people fell or shouted in confusion. The cacophony of overlapping cries completely obliterated any sense of direction. The deafening ringing in your ears made you lightheaded. Your breathing came in uneven pulls, your hands still locked where they had been placed, holding him there, refusing to let go. A heavy thud landed somewhere close. Another followed.

Then a bag came down and struck Beomgyu’s back with such force that you felt it through him, hurtling down into your arms as he let out a rough, bitten-off breath against you. You blinked against the darkness, forcing your vision to adjust and your mind to catch up. A strained groan from above you left Beomgyu and your heart jumped to your throat. 

"Beomgyu—" His name came out fast and ragged, barely put together. 

His body had taken the hit for both of you, completely encapsulating you. He shifted slightly, warm breath ghosting unevenly against your cheek. 

“I’m here,” he managed. The words were rough, so close that you felt them more than heard them. “I'm here.”

There was a flicker and then the lights came out one by one until the carriage revealed itself again in fragments. Complete disarray. Fallen bags and open compartments. People pulling themselves upright and voices rising in questions that had no answers yet. 

Beomgyu pushed himself up slowly, one hand bracing beside your shoulder, the other still securely cradling the back of your head. His hair had fallen forward across his forehead and his face was in partial shadow, but it didn't obscure the strain in his expression or the tight line of his mouth as he exhaled through it.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, sounding duller from the aftermath of the impact. “I’m okay—are you—”

Instead of his hair, your hands cupped his face, a firm hold that stopped him from speaking further. “Don’t say that if you’re not sure,” you cut in, too fast to soften it. “Where does it hurt? Your shoulder? Your head—”

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he insisted softly, his hand coming up to close around your wrist for a second. That was all it took to bring you back to earth a bit. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

He helped you sit up, but your hands were trembling. You pressed them against his shoulders, then along his arms, checking what you already feared without needing words for it. “But you—fuck,” you said under your breath, “that bag came straight down on you, I felt it, you have to—you’re bleeding? Wait—no—are you—”  

"See? Nothing's bleeding. I'm okay." He spoke again, this time lower so his words fell directly into your ear while his hands intercepted both of yours before you could spiral further. He turned his head one way and then the other, letting you see until you were convinced. 

“Why didn’t you move?” you were baffled.

“It didn’t matter.” He said it simply, as if the answer had been obvious from the start. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushed lightly along your skin as his eyes moved over your face with the same fervour you had just turned on him. "Now let me—your head, did it hit anything when you went down?" 

“I don’t think so,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure. Everything had happened too fast for you to keep track of where your body had gone, what had hit what. There were aches assembling themselves in various places that you were not currently interested in acknowledging. “I think I’m alright. I—”

You trailed off as your eyes began to wander despite what you were saying. A wave of dread washed over you as you grasped the terrifying reality of the situation — how truly alarming this was, and the chilling possibility of it being far more dire. Fuck, the train mustve been stranded. 

“Do you think something happened to the tracks?” you mumbled. 

“Has to be.” He glanced toward the aisle, quick, taking in what he could before looking back at you. “Something ahead must have given way.”

It wasn’t a real answer that explained anything, but you found yourself holding onto it anyway. Anything was better than letting your thoughts run too far ahead of you. 

Beomgyu looked down at you. He took you in, carefully looking over you for any sign of injury and he didn’t like what he saw. The sight of how shaken you were stirred a fierce need in him to keep anything from touching you again.

“I’ve got you,” he said, and this time it stayed between the two of you.

Pushing himself up carefully on unsteady legs he pulled you with him, grabbing your hand before you could steady yourself on anything else. He didn’t let go once you were upright, keeping you close against his side.

The overhead speaker crackled to life with a burst of static that cut through the noise. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain where you are. A conductor will come through each carriage shortly to check for injuries and assess the situation.”

Nobody particularly listened. People were already reaching for what had fallen and trying to check on each other. Beomgyu didn’t wait either. He guided you back to your seat through the narrow space, keeping you within reach the entire time. Once you were seated you watched him position himself between you and the pandemonium unfolding behind him.

You had somewhat calmed down by then. Your pounding heart settled into a more manageable pace, though every now and then you flinched when something remotely loud happened around you. From where you sat, you looked up at Beomgyu’s standing figure. You were certain he was pretending far too well. You literally felt the bag hit him. You curled your fingers around his sleeve and gave a weak tug to garner his attention.

“Beomgyu?” you called out softly. “Why don’t you sit down?”

He glanced at your hand on his arm, then at your face. A soft smile appeared. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his palm settling gently at the back of your head. 

“I promise I'm okay.” 

You frowned at his response. You did not accept his words easily no matter how much you wanted to believe them. Tiny beads of sweat remained at his brow, partially hidden by hair that no longer sat in place from the earlier commotion. He was holding his right side in a controlled way without appearing to hold it. 

“Come here.” You tried again, moving yourself over to the next seat and patting the space you had just vacated. 

Beomgyu let out a breath that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, but he didn’t argue this time. Just when he was about to sit, the carriage door at the far end swung open and a conductor came through. He looked rattled as the rest.

“What’s going on?” Beomgyu didn’t wait to ask once he reached your row.

The conductor glanced between the two of you before answering. “We had to stop the train,” he explained, glancing briefly down the aisle where other passengers had begun to gather. “There's a section of track ahead where the ground has dipped significantly under the snowfall. We couldn’t risk pushing through.”

Hearing this, a worried — “What?” — left you, causing the conductor to subtly panic. 

“There's no immediate danger,” he added, pivoting to you quickly. “The train is stable where it is. We're positioned near a town, and we've already been in contact with the main control unit. Arrangements are being made.”

“Arrangements?” Beomgyu pressed. He wasn’t satisfied with vague answers at a time like this. “What does that mean exactly?”

“Emergency vehicles should be here by morning.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued, “It will take a few hours.”

“How long are we talking about?” Someone from the small crowd asked. 

“I can’t give you an exact time,” he admitted with a faltered look. “The weather’s working against us. It could take the entire night. I wouldn’t want to promise otherwise.” 

A murmur moved through the people within earshot. You pressed toward the window. 

The tracks outside had vanished entirely beneath the snow, swallowed into a continuous white expanse that stretched beyond the rails and erased the boundary between the ground and everything else. Further out, across the distance, a scatter of low buildings broke the line of white — dim lights burning in their windows, the shapes of signs and structures suggested inns, maybe homes, maybe a combination of both. 

The town sat there within reach and still felt removed.

Beomgyu in the meantime finished talking to the conductor. Seeing you looking out the window unmoving, he took the seat beside you without a word. He could tell there was something weighing on your mind, evident in those pretty depths of your eyes. 

“Do you have enough warm clothes on you for the night?” he asked, his hand coming to rest against your arm. “They're reducing power to conserve energy. The heating won't hold through the night.” 

Ignoring his question, you instead asked something else. “Is this really safe?”

You didn’t look away from the window even after asking it. Matter of fact, he had been circling the same thought himself. The train was stable, technically, but it certainly wasn’t going to be a wise decision to stay the night in a train that was already losing warmth by the minute. His focus flicked to the window, to the blinking lights of the town against the white sheet. Each of them was an opportunity beckoning him to act.

There was something he could do but that wasn’t a decision he was willing to make alone. 

“Would you feel safer spending the night in one of those inns?” the gentleness of his voice coaxed you to meet his eyes. 

“But…” you trailed off, glancing out again before turning back to him. Your voice lowered slightly. “How do we know there's even a room available? Everyone’s stuck here. We won't be the first ones to think of it.” 

He nodded with a hum, considering it properly. There was a possibility that what you said might be true. There were no guarantees waiting out there. If he took you out there and came back with nothing, it would turn into a pointless trip through the cold. Worse, it would mean dragging you through it for no reason at all and you might end up sick. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for that.

“I can go and check first,” he said after a moment. “Just to know what we’re dealing with.”

You blinked at him. You weren’t dumb to understand what he meant, not at all — but it was still absurd hearing him say it so plainly. 

“What do you mean, you?” you asked, eyes narrowing. 

“I'll ask around, see what the situation is,” he explained. “You can stay here until I—”

He started to get up, and your hand tightened instantly around his sleeve. 

“Beomgyu, you’re not going alone.” 

He was taken aback by the severity of the way you spoke — leaving no room for him to protest. Your voice never raised but it still pinned him to place. 

“I’ll be fine,” he tried, the tail end of it with a chuckle. His hand coming up as if to ease your grip. “It’s just a quick check. I can’t have you out there in this—you’ll be drenched before we even reach the town.” 

“And you won’t?” you returned, your brows pulling together. 

He exhaled through his nose, the argument falling apart before it could fully form. “It’s better than both of us going out there for nothing.”

You shook your head. You could see what he was trying to do, see the way he was placing you first again, but it only made you stand your ground firmer. 

"You're already hurt. I felt that bag come down on you. I watched you hold your side for the last twenty minutes thinking I wouldn't notice," you said, more adamantly this time. “And you want to walk out into a blizzard alone? That's your plan?” As if that made any sense. 

He opened his mouth.

"No," you said, before he could use it. You stood, keeping your grip on his sleeve, and moved to face him properly. "Whatever happens from here—we figure it out together. That's not a negotiable point. You don't get to make that call by yourself and leave me sitting here wondering."

You felt a little ashamed of the tremor in your voice; with the way your words had spilled out with such naked fervor — but you had meant every last one of them, and you knew it even as the heat climbed into your cheeks. Beomgyu was no longer a stranger to you. You couldn't have explained it to anyone with any satisfying logic or couldn't have justified the fierceness of it. But the care was there. You cared the way you'd care for someone who had been woven into your life for years, not someone you'd only met hours ago on a train that smelled of old upholstery.

You were not going to stand by and watch him walk out alone into a blizzard with a hurt shoulder because he had decided your comfort was worth more than his own. 

“I’m coming with you,” you pleaded softly, your gaze dropping as you lost the nerve to hold his eyes any longer. Your grip loosened, sliding down his sleeve until your fingers found his wrist and curled around it. His pulse was there, warm beneath your fingertips. “So don’t go alone… please.” 

Beomgyu had gone completely still. His eyes were wide, you'd seen that much in your periphery before you'd looked away. His mouth had opened just slightly, the beginning of a word that never arrived.

He wasn't sure what he would have said anyway. He wasn't sure he was capable of forming language at all right now, because something in his chest had just detonated so quietly and so completely that he almost expected to look down and find himself changed. 

Cared for — this was… this was something he never imagined he would feel anytime soon. He hadn’t expected this from you. From anyone, maybe, but especially not you. Why would he? He had only known you today. One single day, and yet you had felt more real to him than most things he could name in his life.

He wanted to pull you into him. He spent a very willful second not acting on it, gaze cutting sideways to avoid the sight of your downturned face — because if he kept looking at you, he wasn't sure what he'd do and he was even less sure he'd regret it.

He said your name under his breath. The single syllable found you anyway.

You looked up.

He wished you hadn't, and he was also very glad you had. Beomgyu felt the sensation of his heart being pulled clean out of his chest. If this is what dying feels like, he thought, I wouldn't mind it happening again. He wouldn't mind it happening every day for the rest of however long he had.

He slipped his hand free from your loose hold and turned his palm, lacing his fingers through yours. A bloom of heat spread from that one point of connection until it reached somewhere behind your sternum and sat there.

“You’re right, I'm sorry.” He smiled softly, squeezing your hand. "Let's go together." 

You let out a shaky sigh of relief. Your smile came back at him unsteady at the corners but genuine all the way through. 

Beomgyu backtracked to find the conductor while you waited near the door of the compartment, your joined hands finally separating only because they had to. He found the man near the vestibule. 

"We'd like to stay the night in town, if that's permitted," Beomgyu said in a stable tone he'd had to rebuild from scratch in the last five minutes. "Is there any flexibility on that?" 

The conductor considered him for a moment, then nodded. "You won't be the first to ask, and it's no trouble on our end—but for the safety of all passengers, anyone arranging their stay nearby will need to leave their contact information and boarding details with me before they go. It’s for record-keeping and to ensure everyone is accounted for when we resume.”

"Of course." Beomgyu turned to glance back at you, and you were already moving forward, having caught enough of the exchange to understand.

You gave your name, your boarding details, the number they could reach you at. Beomgyu followed after you and gave his own. Once the conductor had everything noted down, he gave you both a brief nod of acknowledgment and moved on. Beomgyu adjusted his bag onto his left shoulder — the uninjured one. You made a mental note to find a moment to properly check on it later. 

To your surprise, he reached for your luggage. Foolish man, did he think you were going to let him take on the burden? You stopped him, fixing him with a look that you hoped communicated the full extent of what you thought of that idea. 

Beomgyu withdrew his hand. He was very clearly suppressing a smile about it. You chose not to acknowledge this. 

One of the crew members patrolling outside the vestibule came around to assist with the snow covered steps. You passed your bag down first, then stood at the top of the steps as Beomgyu reached the bottom and turned back toward you with both arms open. You took hold of him and stepped down, the snow compressing softly beneath your weight. The two of you were standing so close that you could see a snowflake catch in his lashes before the wind took it. 

He found your hand and pulled you forward into the dark.

The town was supposedly a ten-minute walk. But the wind had teeth. It came at you sideways, driving the snow in sharp little gusts into every gap between your scarf and your collar. Not to mention, it kept finding your eyes regardless of which direction you angled your face. You dropped your head and followed the forward pull of his hand, trusting his sense of direction entirely when your own vision had reduced to a narrow strip of ground directly ahead of your feet. 

He turned to look at you with his hair whipping across his forehead. "You okay back there?" he asked loudly over the wind. 

"I'm okay," you called back. "Keep walking."

He turned forward again, and his grip on your hand tightened.

The local inn was the first lit building you reached, its windows glowing a deep amber against all that darkness. The woman on the other side who had clearly been watching the path and had seen you coming opened the door before you reached it. You were ushered into the warmth of the entrance, and the sudden change in temperature hit you so completely that you went still for a moment just to absorb it. Towels were pressed into your hands almost immediately, and someone disappeared to retrieve a space heater, guiding you both toward the lounge.

You were the one who approached the front desk once you'd gotten your bearings back, pulling your scarf down from your face and explaining the situation to the receptionist. She listened with her eyes on her screen, typing as you spoke, and her expression did a small and very telling thing when she reached whatever entry she had been looking for.

"I'm very sorry," she said, and she did sound it. "With the weather and the number of people who've come in tonight, we only have one room left."

"I'll take it." Beomgyu, who had been standing by your side, said to the receptionist as he produced his card from his wallet. "For her."

You turned to look at him slowly.

He was staring at the receptionist.

"Only for me?" you asked.

That made him look at you. "You'll have somewhere to sleep and you won't have to worry abo—"

"Where will you stay?"

Beomgyu did not find the courage to tell you that he was planning to go back to the train. In that pause you turned back to the receptionist before he could reconstruct whatever answer he'd been assembling. 

"We'll both take it," you told her. "Both names on the booking, please."

She processed this without a visible reaction and set the key on the counter. You picked it up before Beomgyu could. 

"Didn't I say," you began, "that from here on out, we'd stick together?"

He was losing his mind. This was a verifiable fact, and he was now conducting a very private reckoning with himself somewhere three steps behind you as you ascended to whatever floor the room was on. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd share a room with you. One bed, presumably, since there was one room and he was not going to suggest you sleep on a chair. He would gladly take the floor himself if it came to that. 

But you — you looked completely unaffected. He could not tell whether you genuinely weren't affected or whether you were simply so much better at concealing it than he was. Either possibility was going to keep him awake tonight, and the irony of that was not lost on him at all. 

Beomgyu had known, in the abstract, that you were going to be the end of him. He just hadn't expected it to happen this fast.

However, that ‘unaffected’ demeanor of yours slipped soon enough.

At the door, he watched you work the key into the lock. It caught on something inside the mechanism, and you had to pull it back halfway and try again. You were holding yourself together. It was a valiant performance. He was almost convinced.

Almost being the operative word, because your hands were still shaking.

"Sorry, I—these keys are—" The sentence dissolved. You were not sure what you had intended to finish it with. 

It wasn't only the cold making your hands uncooperative. You were acutely aware of the warmth radiating off him from where he stood behind you. So far you were putting a brave front that you were extremely okay with sharing a room with him. But in the privacy of your own skull the facade you had been constructing since the front desk began developing very audible fractures. 

You finally got the lock. The door swung inward. 

You stared at the predicament in front of you, and you could almost hear the splinters of your self-control breaking echoing in your ears. 

It was not a bad room. There was a single window set into the far wall with the curtains already drawn against the snow, a desk against one wall, a wardrobe; the usual geometry of a hotel suite and perfectly adequate in every respect except for the one that mattered.

The queen-sized bed sitting squarely in the middle of the room.

You were distantly conscious, without turning around, of Beomgyu coming to stand just inside the doorway. The jitters that had been lurking at the base of your stomach all evening were now making their presence extremely known.

Goosebumps moved along your arms when he spoke. 

“I’ll go ask for an extra mattress.”

He sounded a little weary. You turned to see him over your shoulder and found him already looking at you. One hand resting on the door frame — hovering at the threshold in a way that told you he had not yet decided whether he was fully in this room or still in the process of giving you an out. 

He meant it. He would go back down those stairs right now, charm the exhausted receptionist into producing a mattress from wherever spare mattresses went on a night like this, and drag it back up here himself on a hurt shoulder without a single word of complaint. All so that the arrangement you had walked into with such apparent calm would feel less like what it was.

You held his gaze for a beat and felt the fractures in your composure spread another inch.

You turned back to the bed and told him to go ahead. Maybe the time alone would help you sort through your thoughts before he came back. What you didn’t know was that by letting him leave for a while, you had given him the same chance to collect himself. 

Beomgyu peeled himself from the door frame and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click. You sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the curtains for a while.

As soon as he was out, Beomgyu pressed his back against the wall beside the door and dragged both hands up over his face, muffling a whine. He stood there for a moment in that position and then, he tipped his head back and let it knock against the wall once. The impact sent a dull throb radiating from his shoulder blade, where the bruise from the bag had been quietly intensifying for the last hour. He winced a little as he slowly rolled his shoulder back.

Everything was going to be just fine if he found an extra mattress, right? He was a rational person and this was a rational solution and there was absolutely no reason for his brain to go anywhere near the alternative, which was—

He was not going to finish that thought.

He was, unfortunately, already finishing that thought.

It wouldn't be the worst thing, said some deeply unhelpful corner of his mind, sharing a bed. You've had a long day. You've both had a long day. It would be fine—

Beomgyu slapped himself on the cheek. A sting that bloomed across this skin that he thoroughly deserved, and which he hoped would serve as an adequate eviction notice for whatever was currently colonizing his better judgment.

There was a man at the end of the corridor. 

A staff member, identifiable by his vest, holding a stack of folded towels and staring at Beomgyu with a wide neutral expression. He was definitely going to be thinking about it for the rest of his shift and possibly several shifts thereafter. The two of them made prolonged awkward eye contact. Beomgyu slowly lowered his hand. 

"Evening," Beomgyu said.

The man blinked. "Evening, sir."

Whatever remained of his dignity was simply going to have to be enough to work with. He cleared his throat and walked toward the man, adorning a smile pretending as if nothing happened.  

"I suppose you'd know if there are any spare mattresses available for the night?" he asked, with what he felt was perfect charm. "Or even a cot—anything along those lines would do."

The staff member's expression morphed into something genuinely apologetic as he shifted the towels in his arms. "I'm sorry, sir, we've had a full house tonight with the weather—we've no spare beds or pillows left at all, I'm afraid." He paused, as if taking stock of Beomgyu's face and finding something there that warranted the addendum. "We do have extra blankets, though, if that would help. Plenty of those."

Beomgyu looked at him for a moment.

"Blankets," he repeated.

"As many as you'd like, sir."

So the mattress plan was dead and his self-respect had taken significant casualties. He more or less expected this outcome so he accepted this information with a nod that he hoped projected serenity, and thanked the man. 

You had managed to do very little in the time he was gone except sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the middle distance. So when the door opened you startled badly enough that your hand flew to your sternum.

Beomgyu, to his credit, took one look at you and chose not to say a single word about it. He stepped inside and set the folded stack of blankets he was carrying onto the armchair in the corner.

“They didn't have any mattresses to spare.” He paused. “They were, however, extremely enthusiastic about giving me blankets. Enough blankets to—I don't know—build a fort, maybe.”

Despite everything, the laugh that came out of you was genuine. Beomgyu's mouth curved into it too, and for a moment the two of you were just sitting with the absurdity of the whole evening.

“A fort,” you repeated.

“Structurally sound, I think, if we're creative about it.”

You shook your head, still smiling, and the fizzle of nerves in your stomach went down several degrees.

“Go freshen up first,” he said, nodding toward the bathroom. “The water should be warm by now.”

“I'm alright,” you said, and it was the truth — or at least, you needed it to be true for a little while longer. “I need to sit down for a bit more. You go ahead.”

He looked at you for a moment, considering, and then decided not to argue. He pulled a change of clothes from his bag and disappeared through the bathroom door without another word. 

The room was very quiet without him in it.

You sat in silence for another moment before reaching for your bag and pulling out what you needed for the night. You laid everything out on the bed beside you and tried not to think too hard about anything. But you couldn't stop thinking about what had happened so far. Every time you tried to gather yourself, another memory surfaced before the previous one had even faded properly. 

You were still going through your bag when the bathroom door opened.

Beomgyu emerged with a towel slung around the back of his neck, working the ends of it through his damp hair. The coat and heavy winter layers were gone. He was wearing his jeans still and a white t-shirt that had clearly been retrieved from the depths of his bag, and the effect of the lamplight on that particular combination was — you needed to look at something else. You found something extremely interesting to look at in your open bag and devoted your full attention to it.

"Bathroom's all yours," he said, dropping into the armchair and draping the towel over one knee. He picked up his phone and looked at it, and did not appear to notice anything. You were grateful for this, whether it was genuine or not.

You gathered your things and left without further incident. When you came back out, hair damp and changed into something warmer, Beomgyu had moved from the armchair to the floor. He was arranging the extra blankets with his back against the side of the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. He'd turned the overhead light off at some point, leaving only the bedside lamp, which gave the room a softer ambience.

The sliver of skin peeking out under the neckline of his shirt stopped you. You’d been meaning to say something about the bruise but you weren't sure how to start the conversation. You were still trying to locate that opening when your phone buzzed on the bed where you'd left it. You picked it up and felt your chest swell up with guilt as you read the name on the screen.

You answered, sitting on the edge of the mattress and pulling your knees up. "Hi, mum."

Beomgyu did not look up, but was already preparing to take himself somewhere else in the small room to give you space to talk. He settled quietly against the far wall instead.

Her voice came through at full volume. You held the phone a fraction from your ear and let her go, because she had earned it. She wanted to know where exactly you were, how you had ended up there, whether the inn was properly heated, whether you had eaten, whether the staff had been helpful, and whether she needed to call someone — this last question delivered with the implication that she already had a list prepared and was ready to begin working through it the moment you gave her any opening whatsoever. You answered each one in turn, assuring her that you were warm and safe and completely, genuinely fine, that the conductor had everyone's details, that the train would resume in the morning, that she did not need to call anyone at all. 

"And you're not alone?" she asked, and her voice had gone from worried to specifically worried, which were two different registers that you had spent a lifetime learning to distinguish.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Beomgyu glance up. 

"No," you said, and then, after a beat — "I'm with a friend." 

You held his gaze for a moment, and the smile that came onto your face was small and a little helpless. Beomgyu’s breath caught but he returned it in kind — a slow, soft thing moving into his eyes before it reached his mouth. 

Your mother was still talking. You made yourself listen. Soon the call ended and you lowered the phone into your lap. 

The silence was beginning to close in on you. You had not moved since the call ended. Beomgyu had resettled himself against the side of the bed. You could hear the softness of his breathing and the occasional tapping of his phone screen.

Your eyes found his shoulder again. You’d been doing that all evening — returning to that spot the way a tongue finds a sore tooth. Since the moment he had put himself between you and the falling bags without a second's pause, and then sat up and asked if you were alright.

The guilt that had arrived with your mother's call had not fully left. It had just rerouted itself, going into a different chamber of your chest, and was now sitting there with everything else you hadn't said tonight.

You opened your mouth. Thought better of it. Looked at the phone in your lap, then back at him.

"Beomgyu."

He looked up.

You had not prepared a beginning for this, which became apparent almost immediately once you started. "I have something in my bag—for bruising, it's a spray, I've been carrying it around forever and I—can I see your shoulder?"

The question came out, and then before he could answer whatever polite deflection he was about to offer, the rest of it came out too, because the dam was broken and there was nothing left to hold it.

"I'm sorry." You closed your eyes for a moment, shaking your head. "I'm sorry, I keep thinking about how uncomfortable I've probably made you with all of this—I shouldn't have forced the room situation, I just didn't want you out there somewhere on a cot in a corridor with a hurt shoulder and I—" The exhale that left you came out uneven. "And I know, I know that's ironic, because now you're on the floor anyway and the whole arrangement is—I can see that it's not what you would have chosen. "

You pressed your lips together. Tried to find the thread back to something coherent. 

"You've been helping me since the moment we met," you said, and your voice had gone softer, stripped of the rambling and left with only the part that was true. "Every single moment since we met, actually, and I haven't—I wanted to do something for you too. I keep thinking about your brother's ceremony." 

Had he called his family after getting into this predicament? He was so excited about it, too. Your heart hurt thinking about it again.

"I just keep thinking about it and I can't stop, and I need you to know that this isn't pity, Beomgyu, I swear to you it isn't, I just—"

You didn't have the word for what it actually was. You left the sentence where it ended. 

Beomgyu had not looked away from you once. He had let you go — all of it, every fragmenting, half-finished piece of it — without interrupting. In his eyes was something that lived in the same neighborhood as the way he had looked at you on the train when you'd told him not to go alone.

He reached over and took your hand.

"I'm grateful to you.” His voice was low and carried nothing except the truth of the statement. "For not giving up on me." 

Your throat tightened. You looked at his hand over yours and then back at his face. The room felt warmer than it had a minute ago, and yuo were aware that you were not going to be able to say anything particularly articulate for at least another few seconds.

When you trusted your voice again, you reached for your bag with your free hand.

"Can I see your shoulder?"

This time, he nodded. He got up from the floor and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. With the spray can in hand you told him, with as much composure as you could locate, that he was going to need to take his shirt off. 

Beomgyu sat motionless for a beat, then reached behind his neck and pulled the shirt over his head in one clean motion. You looked away out of instinct and heard the fabric settle. You gave yourself three seconds, which was not enough but was all you were going to get, and turned back around.

The thing was, you had not been prepared for that.

You had spent the entirety of today beside him and had built a reasonable understanding of him — tall and broad-shouldered. What you had not accounted for was what the coat and the layers had been quietly keeping to themselves this entire time. You found your breath stolen by his lean, subtle musculature, a lithesome elegance to the long lines of his body.  

He was watching your face with an expression you couldn't parse. You gave him nothing back, or at least you tried to, and directed your eyes pointedly to his shoulder.

"Turn around," you said.

He listened, settling with his back to you. You uncapped the spray and focused on what you were doing. The bruise was starting to pronounce itself by the colour of it — a wide, muted violet bloom. You winced softly at the sight of it. 

You pressed the nozzle and the cold spray hissed out against his skin. You heard him pull a short breath in through his teeth. The sound shouldn't have sent a shiver through you, but it did.

"Sorry," you said immediately.

"Don't be.” He exhaled, the tail end of it caught in a groan. "Keep going."

You did, working carefully across the area, your fingers hovered near his skin without touching him. The lamp threw long shadows across his back enunciating all the dips and muscles, and you were close enough that you could have rested your chin on his undamaged shoulder if you had lost your mind entirely.

When you were done you capped the spray, and he turned back around to face you.

He didn't move back. Neither did you, which meant the gap between you was considerably less than sensible. You looked at his collarbone. His jaw. Anywhere that wasn't his eyes, because his eyes were the part of him you trusted least to look at right now without consequence.

Beomgyu had spent all this time at the outer edge of what he could manage. Every time the distance had narrowed he had found a reason to widen it again, only for it to narrow once more since the moment you had taken his wrist in your hands and told him not to go alone which had cracked him right down the middle. He had talked himself back from the edge more times tonight than he could count. But you were standing in front of him now with bare inches between you, and he had just exhausted the last several minutes trying not to lose his goddamn mind. 

“You keep doing that,” he murmured.

The sudden drop in register of his voice pulled you back to him again. He was ruined by you.

You frowned faintly, trying desperately to hold onto normalcy. “Doing what?”

His gaze moved fractionally away, then returned and held. "Make it difficult to remember why I should keep my distance." 

The lamp caught the side of his face and you noticed, not for the first time, how much he gave away in his eyes even when the rest of him stayed composed. 

It was a shame how your poor heart again picked up her pace. Your throat had gone dry.

"That's a rather serious thing to say to someone you just met." The evenness of your own voice was a small miracle. 

The corner of his mouth moved just barely, not committed to a smile but got most of the way there. His gaze stayed on yours without wavering. "It is," he agreed. 

Your knuckles had gone white around the spray can. The push and pull of the entire evening was still moving between you, and you knew exactly where you could meet him right now — knew he was right there waiting. But there was a part of you, stubborn and a little wicked, that wasn't done yet.

"And what made you forget?"

He answered you with his eyes dropping lower on your mouth which made your stomach turn over completely. A ghost of a smile graced your lips when he looked back up at you. 

"That you're not nearly as unaffected as you act." 

"Careful," you muttered. "You're starting to sound like you know me." 

"I don't." There was something in the way he said it — more an observation he found genuinely interesting. "But I think you like it when people almost do." 

Your next breath came out thin, and something in you that had been braced all this time slowly stopped bracing. You looked at him and past the hours of both of you circling — and you let him see it too. All of it. The fact that his name had been sitting differently in your mouth for a while now. You were standing here at the end of the world's longest day and you were not unaffected, you had never been unaffected, and you were so tired of pretending otherwise.

You reached out and cupped his jaw. You felt the imperceptible hitch of his breath — and he went very still beneath your palm.

Whispering, you asked. "Is that what you've been thinking about all evening?" 

"Among other things," he breathed out. 

He looked genuinely wrecked. Eyes wide, jaw slack by a fraction, all the composure he'd been maintaining for the better part of the evening dissolving in real time right there in your hand. The sight of it — of him, undone and unguarded and entirely yours to read pulled a soft laugh out of you.

"I was wondering when you'd stop pretending."

The column of his throat moved when he swallowed. "Were you pretending too?" His voice had gone very, very low.

You tilted your head at him just slightly, and let him see the answer in your face before you said it.

"What do you think?"

Your hand trailed from his jaw so slowly he felt each centimeter of the loss before you gave it back — fingers finding his hair instead, sliding through and curling, and the sensation of it traveled straight down his spine. You gave a soft tug. He had been braced for so many things tonight — but not this. His lashes fluttered, and a shiver wrung out at the edges of the breath that left him. He couldn’t help himself but lean further into your touch, savoring the feel of your palm. 

He stayed there for a moment, just a moment, with the warmth of your hand against the side of his face and the soft press of your fingertips still curled in his hair, and it felt indecent how much he needed it. How long he had needed it. Everything inside him begged to reach for you.

When he opened his eyes, whatever had been left of his composure was gone. His jaw had set and his eyes had gone several degrees darker than you had seen them all day.

His hand came up and curved around the back of your neck, and he pulled you down. 

It was not a soft kiss, feverish and wanting, his mouth a hungry thing against your own. It felt like a kiss he had thought about, a kiss that he could not help but hurry toward now that there was nothing left standing between him and it.

God, he thought, distantly, finally. 

Just as hungry, you fell into it completely — the kiss so hard and so burning that slowing down felt almost physically impossible. The sheer intensity of it clawed out a tattered little sound from the back of your throat. The spray can found its way onto the mattress somewhere beside you as you had to catch yourself against the bare warmth of his shoulder. The uninjured one, some still-functioning part of your brain noted before that corner went quiet too. 

He gently bit your bottom lip making you groan softly, his grip at the back of your neck tightening for half a second before easing again when he realized he was holding you too hard. The kiss felt so good and so right, you realized, in the blurred and breathless space between one moment and the next.

He was the one who found the way back to guide you to a gentler motion. His lips closed against yours, pressed once and held.

Your breathing had become the same air. Neither of you had managed to pull away properly, your mouths still brushing every time either of you exhaled. Your eyes wouldn't open fully, thoughts drifting somewhere far behind the haze settling over you while strands of your hair spilled forward around both of your faces.

Beomgyu’s gaze could no longer hold onto one place for very long. They moved over you slowly, greedily, taking in every detail that revealed itself now that you were this close to him; the dazed glaze over your eyes and the part in your lips still damp and red from his mouth. His hand slipped from the back of your neck to your face, fingers brushing through the strands that had fallen across your cheek before carefully tucking them behind your ear. 

One more suspended second was all he took before he kissed you again. 

This time, your legs went genuinely weak beneath you, a wave of dizziness rolling through your chest and down to your knees. You pitched forward with a soft sound escaping into his mouth as you had to bring your knee up onto the mattress between his parted thighs for balance.

Even through the haze clouding your thoughts, you heard the way Beomgyu moaned at the contact. 

You were intoxicated by the reaction you had pulled from him so easily. Curious now, bolder, you pressed your knee up experimentally against him once more. You felt the full-body jerk of him beneath you with a hitched breath, his hand shot to your thigh and gripped it which sent heat rushing through your stomach. 

There it is, you thought, and smiled against his mouth. 

Groaning into the kiss, a slow roll of his hips came, involuntary at first and then less so, chasing the pressure with a hunger that made his head spin. He was so fucked. The heady taste of your mouth, the feverish press of your hands against his bare skin, the sweet sounds you kept making — sounds that he was responsible for, that he was drawing out of you — every part of you was driving him toward madness at each passing second.

Too much and nowhere near enough.

He needed — he didn't have a precise word for what he needed, only the overwhelming awareness that he needed more of it, more of you, more proximity than was currently physically possible given that you were already as close as you could get. 

Beomgyu broke the kiss only to stand up, towering above you and you had half a second to register the loss before he came back down to recapture your lips. Tilting his head to find a deeper angle, he cupped your face with a possessiveness that felt completely natural to him now. Thumbs pressing against your jaw before he let them travel — sliding down the column of your throat and tracing the lines of your collarbone, traveling lower until his fingers found your waist and dug in. He pulled you flush against him which prompted your hands to tangle themselves into the hair at his nape because the alternative was falling. 

“Remember earlier,” he said against your mouth, his breath warm across your lips, “when you said being chosen tonight meant you were unlucky?”

You could barely think straight enough to answer. “Mhm?”

“I would’ve spent the rest of my life regretting it if it had been anyone else.” He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, voice roughened beyond repair.

Beomgyu could not stop thinking about how fragile chance truly was. 

The possibility of some other version of tonight, some parallel arrangement of events where you had gotten the luggage free on your own or someone else had been the one to offer a hand. Some other reality where he never learned your name at all. It left a bitterness crawling across his tongue he wanted to retroactively prevent.

Every alternate path that did not lead directly here felt not just improbable but wrong, an offense against some order of things he hadn't known he believed in until this moment. Because right now, you were there in front of him with flushed lips and dazed eyes. You were his reality — and he couldn't imagine having been anywhere else. 

“That’s a terrible thing to sound so pleased about,” you told him, a smile threading through it despite yourself. You tipped your head to one side with a feathery exhale, wetting your lower lip. You wouldn't have had it any other way either. You knew he could see it, and neither of you needed to say so out loud for the fact to sit plainly between you. But you still wanted him to hear those words. “I think I would’ve hated it too. For the record.” 

The smile that crossed his face at that was slow and a little smug and deeply, irredeemably pleased with itself.

"You look very satisfied with yourself," you told him.

"I am," he said, without any apparent remorse about it.

You laughed, and he caught the sound of it in his mouth with the same consuming want that had been there from the very beginning. You felt it everywhere, felt it travel all the way down your spine and settle low in your stomach. You could feel the hard press of him through his jeans, more than substantial and it pulled a genuine gasp which got swallowed by him.

He spun you, guiding you backward until the back of your knees met the edge of the bed and you went down and he came with you. Beomgyu held himself above you on one forearm braced beside your head, his hair falling forward in dark disheveled strands.

“Beomgyu—” His name barely survived the kiss. 

It was still more coherent than his reply which didn't make it to language at all but was a low sound against your skin as his mouth found the curve of your throat and began to move downward. The heat of it was dizzying; the solid press of his chest against yours and you had to close your eyes because keeping them open felt like too much. Your back arched off the mattress on its own when he licked and nibbled on your skin with growing hunger, and every breath he dragged from you appeared to drive him further past reason.

You had never been kissed this way before. There was yearning in every part of him now, laid bare beneath your hands without concealment, and the proof of it sent your pulse racing harder when he lifted his head again to look at you.

The pause made you finally regain some semblance of rationality. When he did nothing but stare at you, a small crease formed between your brows. 

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He touched the side of your face, fingers tracing the line of your cheekbone. “You’re beautiful.”

The simplicity of his compliment made heat crawl up your cheek. You laughed softly, and you knew you looked a complete mess. But Beomgyu thought the opposite of whatever you were thinking about yourself. You looked even more beautiful. It made him smile too.  

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, the curve of your cheek, then the tip of your nose. The tenderness of it nearly ruined you more than the heated kisses had. He returned to your mouth briefly before turning his head, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. 

A startled giggle burst out of you immediately, your shoulders curling inward. “Wait—”

“You’re ticklish there?” he asked, already smiling against your skin.

“That’s not funny.”

“I think it’s a little funny.”

You shoved weakly at his chest while laughing again. He joined you, his forehead dropping to the curve of your neck and for a suspended moment you were just two people lying tangled together on a hotel bed, laughing at nothing in particular, and it was so easy and so warm that you felt your chest expand with it. You couldn't remember the last time laughter had found its way into a moment like this. It made the whole thing feel weightless, unlocked from gravity, driven by nothing except warmth and pleasure and the specific delight of being here with this specific person. 

He was back to trailing kisses down the torrid skin of your collarbones before biting down on the supple flesh, eliciting a breathy moan from you. 

“Beomgyu, please.”

He was breathing rougher now after hearing his name fall from your lips that way. Your head fell back against the mattress and the full line of your throat opened to him, an offering, and he took it without pause. His hand slid down your side before stopping at the hem of your shirt. Fingers curled into the fabric, his eyes lifted to yours first.

“Can I take this off?” he asked softly.

By now here was no patience left in you for a slow answer. You were hot and restless and had been running on the ragged edge of wanting him for long enough. Nodding vigorously, you let him help you. Fabric disappeared in hurried movements and half-broken kisses, your fingers brushing clumsily against his wrists whenever both of you reached for the same place at once. You wanted nothing more than the feeling of his torrid naked skin on yours.

The second the last barrier disappeared between you, you pulled him back down with a renewed hunger. When your tongue swept against his lower lip a shuddering moan tore from him. It vibrated straight into your mouth, sending a fresh pulse of heat coiling low in your core that made your toes curl against the mattress. 

Even though the separation felt visceral when he sat up, the thin strand of saliva still connected your mouths for a fleeting second before breaking apart had your mind reeling. He parted your legs and settled between them. You had to resist the urge to reach for him again just to have something to do with your hands, which were suddenly and inconveniently purposeless at your sides. 

You didn't know if Beomgyu had read your mind or not. Because the next moment he gathered both your wrists in one hand and held them above your head, pinning to the mattress.

"Keep them here for me, love." 

The way he spoke, followed by a sweet kiss to your forehead had you clenching around nothing. You felt your arousal pooling and her skin prickling with heat, heart thundering. A whine forming in your throat that you swallowed back down, your thighs instinctively pressing inward to relieve some of the ache that had been building since the moment his mouth had first found yours. The effort was largely unsuccessful with the way he was holding your knees apart. Nothing but the slow and mounting burn of wanting him and being made to wait. 

You watched him through heavy lashes as he took you in, his chest rising and falling with the same labored cadence as yours. His hand came down to the base of your throat — open-palmed, barely any pressure, just the heat of his skin against yours before he drew it downward in one long, slow pass. Over the swell of your chest that had your nipples perk up, following the line of your sternum, across the plane of your stomach, and everywhere his hand traveled the skin came alive behind it. 

"You're so beautiful. I keep thinking I've gotten used to it and then I look at you again," he said, and his voice had gone so low it was nearly gone entirely. The candor in his eyes was almost too much to hold. 

You bit down on your lower lip, trying to hide the shy smile. "Mhm. You said that already." 

His face softened further at that, and his hand came up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. He tilted your face toward his. 

"I know,"  he said simply. His eyes stayed on yours. "I'm glad it was you. Out of everyone on that train tonight, I'm so glad it was you."

"Do you mean it?" you whispered back. 

He took your hand from above your head and brought it down to his chest, pressing your palm flat against the place where his heart was. The gesture was so nakedly honest that it took you a moment to breathe around it. 

"I do," he admitted earnestly. "What do you want me to do to make you believe?" 

There was no doubt that you believed him, but he was close to begging. This man — who had been so consuming just minutes ago — was now looking at you with flushed cheeks and eyes gone wide and earnest. He was stripped of every layer of dominance he'd been wearing so naturally, and he looked so genuinely, openly gone for you that you had to press your lips together to hold back the moan just from that sight. He just kept getting better. Every single time you thought you had a handle on what he was, he turned into something more interesting.

You bit the inside of her cheek, considering. "Think you can be good for me?"

His breath left him in a rush. "Anything you want, baby." The endearment came out like it had been waiting. "I can be so good." 

You tilted your head, fingers trailing idly along his jaw. "Mhmm, yeah? How will you do that?"

Beomgyu flashed you a boyish smile before pressing feathery kisses on your stomach, working his way downward and stopping right over your glistening cunt. He groaned, thumb finding your clit when he registered exactly how much he had done to you. He moved a slow, exploratory circle over that bundle of nerves and he drank up every twitch and gasp your body gave him.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against your inner thigh. You let out another soft sound that had his mind reeling, and he felt his cock twitch in his jeans at the thought of how much more of that he could draw out of you if you'd let him. "You can trust me." 

You ran your hand through his hair, a lopsided smile on your lips. You did trust him. There was no fear in you when it came to him. 

"You can do whatever you want with me," you breathed out. You never said things like that — had never felt the ground beneath you feel solid enough to say it and mean it. You meant it now. With him, in this specific moment, it felt not only natural but true. "I'm all yours." 

There was a flash of something primal in those gentle eyes the moment those words left your mouth. The small smirk that followed arrived slowly and it was a different creature entirely from the boyish smile of a few minutes ago. Beomgyu blew a soft breath directly over your center — barely anything, a whisper of air — and your whole body shivered in response, a tremor that started at your core and radiated outward to your fingertips, your thighs drawing in on instinct before his hands spread them back open. 

"Beomgyu—" His name dissolved into a gasp before you could finish it, your back arching clean off the mattress when he pressed his lips to your clit. A kiss so devastatingly soft it turned your brain into mush. "Oh fuck, ah—" 

He smiled against you. You felt it, and it sent another shudder rolling through you causing you to blindly chase that feeling again. 

Beomgyu had always considered himself a patient man. That quality was currently hanging by the thinnest possible thread, because the moment he tasted you it detonated through his senses so completely that the shockwave traveled all the way to his fingertips before plummeting his sanity somewhere down to his dick. 

Encouraged by your whimpers, he flattened his tongue against your clit before delving lower to lap at the velvety lips of your pussy, exploring the wet heat with long, languid strokes. He savored the way you were so warm and slick against his tongue and each time your inner walls clenched, he probed deeper. Your juices dripped down his chin, a filthy reminder of how desperately you needed this. 

He gripped your thighs, your hips, urging you forward — coaxing you to move against his mouth, to take what you needed from him — and when you did, when your hips rolled down into him with that small, desperate press, he felt his mind going completely blank. Fuck — there was your hand gripping his hair. He was huffing and taking short breaths. There was a ringing at the edges of his hearing as he looked up at you through his lashes, eyes wide and glossy because in this moment, he felt like he was made to kneel between you. You were flushed and breathing heavily but looked extremely beautiful like this. 

"You taste fucking divine." His words were muffled between your cunt. 

He was drunk, so high on you as he watched you let out a high pitched gasp when he eased in two fingers. Your folds stretched around the thickness of them, clenching down hard before he had fully seated them, and he groaned against you at the sensation. He began to move them in a slow drag, feeling the way your soft walls responded to each angle, each depth, each curl of his fingers, and you were already so far gone and so slick that the slide of it was obscenely easy and obscenely good. 

Your head went back against the pillow. The bedsheet crumpled in your fist. His name was falling from your mouth in fragments — just sound, broken and breathless and needier than you had ever heard your own voice. Closing your eyes you let yourself get absolutely lost in the ecstatic pleasure he was giving you.

He had made you a promise and he intended to keep it. He picked up every micro reaction you gave at every thrust of his fingers, every tremble of your body when he sucked on your clit before swirling the tip of his tongue over it until he figured out what was going to take him to guide you over the edge. But looking at you, it didn’t seem like he was going to need to do much work anyway. 

He could feel you spasming around his fingers, your moans were coming faster now, falling over each other, your thighs closing around his head. He was suffocating but it felt excruciatingly good that his eyes rolled briefly before he wrenched them back open, because he needed to see you, needed to watch every second of what he was about to do to you, and he was not going to miss it for anything. 

Amidst all that, Beomgyu humped the mattress below him, the taste of you and the sound of your voice and the grip of your fingers in his hair combining into something that was rapidly exceeding his capacity to contain. He curled his fingers and stroked upward into the soft, swollen spot that made your whole body seize, and did it again, and on the third stroke he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there with the flat of his tongue pressed firm against it — bringing you over a mind shattering orgasm.

It was the scratch of your nails on his scalp and the sound of his name breaking apart in your throat that made him cum. His release poured out of him in waves that left him loose and trembling and utterly, completely spent. He pressed his forehead against your inner thigh and breathed, ears ringing faintly, and the bliss that settled over him in the aftermath was so total and so warm that for a long moment he couldn't have told you where he was or how any of this had happened. 

"Gyu…" you croaked. You were still trembling from the aftershocks, your whole body loose and oversensitive. You reached for him anyway, fingers finding his jaw. "Come closer."

He complied with your request and you took the chance to grab his face and kiss him hard, tasting yourself all over his wet lips. He moaned into your mouth and pressed against you. It was denim against bare skin that had you mewling, your hips jerking upward on reflex. You broke the kiss with trembling hands as they traveled down his stomach to the waistband of his jeans, working the button with fingers that weren't quite cooperating, and he let you — watched you with his chest heaving and his weight braced on one forearm above you — until the zip gave and he took it off. Your hands found the front of his boxers and stopped.

The fabric was unmistakably, warmly wet, and your brain took a full second to catch up.

"Fuck," you breathed, one finger hooking into the waistband, pulling it down slowly. His cock came free and you stared at it — flushed and thick and coated with his creamy release. “Did you cum?”

"Couldn't help it, love." His voice had the faintest note of sheepishness threading through the warmth of it. "You were so fucking good." 

You didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say and also your mouth had stopped functioning properly. You pushed his boxers the rest of the way down and he kicked them off, and then he was kissing you again before he pulled back just far enough to speak against your lips.

"Protection?"

You nodded toward your bag. Beomgyu followed your gaze and reached for it in one fluid motion, rummaging through it. He found what he needed, tore the packet open with his teeth and rolled the thin rubber over his shaft, giving it a few pumps. 

He was — there was no clinical way to put this — beautiful, in a manner that made your oversensitive pussy clench with a want so acute it bordered on painful. 

The anticipation that coiled within your stomach crawled up to your throat and through your chest, gathering all your oxygens from your lungs on its way. Beomgyu shuddered over you, hands roaming, fingers mapping out your skin like he was committing every inch of you to memory. He lined the tip of his cock against your entrance, and drew it torturously, inexcusably slowly along your folds without pushing in.

"Beomgyu, please," you cried out after he kept stroking you. "Please—" 

"Tell me if it gets uncomfortable." He was panting, chest rising and falling against yours, and he reached down to guide your knees upward, folding them gently toward your chest, opening you further. "Tell me if I hurt you, okay?"

Your bodies flushed together, every inch of heated skin sliding against the other as Beomgyu’s tip breached inside with the moan of your name. He kissed you, so deeply, so fiercely, that the gasp you let out at the stretch was entirely devoured by his mouth. The overwhelming pleasure flooded both of you until he couldn’t keep his head up anymore and it lulled forward beside yours. 

Beomgyu’s mouth hung open, puffing against the hot skin of your neck as he seated himself inside you inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt and you were so full of him that your vision had gone soft at every edge. He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching as he had to fight the urge to cum from just feeling your tight walls sporadically clenching around him. Strong arms bracketed your head, caging you in and his hips started to roll in deep, languid undulations — not thrusting so much as grinding. 

Each thrust carried him to the very limit of your depth before drawing back in a long, dragging pull that had every nerve ending inside you lighting up in sequence. The stretch of him was extraordinary; you felt every ridge and contour of him on each withdrawal with a vividness that had you gasping and moaning.

"Feels sooo good, Gyu—!!" you were now blabbering incohesive words, brain a complete mush under the overwhelming and capsizing pleasure of him. 

Beomgyu tried to hold onto the last bit of his sanity when he felt your hand trail up to the hair on his nape, curling and tugging on a fistful. Even with a snowstorm outside, both your bodies were glistening with sweat and heat radiated off of you as you were pressed chest to chest; there was nowhere for either of you to go, every exhale of his landing directly against your face and every inhale of yours pulling in the scent of him, the heat of him, the totality of him.

Tears of pleasure sprung to your eyes. He brought his face up from biting your neck to smash his lips against yours. His tongue glided over you in messy strokes, saliva pooling at the corner of your lips and hot puff of breath exhaling against his mouth.

For the last several minutes, the bruised area was sending a dull throb through him with every movement — but Beomgyu did not give a single fuck about it. How could he even bother with it when you were there underneath him? Face blissfully fucked out with glistening lips and teary eyes, you warmth enveloping him so wholly — his shoulder could wait indefinitely. There was not a version of this moment in which he was going to stop. 

The depraved sound of skin against skin along with your mingling groans and gasps resonated off the walls of the room. He could feel you clenching around him, could tell you were reaching your high again soon with how thoroughly fucked out you looked and sounded.

"Beomgyu—’m close,” is all you managed before crying out, the rest of whatever you were going to say dissolved as your back arched off the mattress, every inch of contact maximized.

You gripped him like a vice, your body quivering when you finished, his name spilling from you so sinfully that his vision went white at the edges.

He became the louder one then — groans and grunts as his thrusts became sloppier, helping you ride out your orgasm before he buried himself to the hilt in one deep thrust and spilled into the condom with a long, broken groan pressed into the curve of your neck.

Both of you were breathing hard, the sound of it filling the silence left by everything else. He didn't pull out, stayed exactly where he was, his weight settling into you gradually as the tension released from his muscles all at once. You felt him softening inside you slowly as the two of you drifted back to earth. 

"So perfect," he slurred against your skin. 

His lips left trails of kisses around your chest, neck, and shoulders, as if making up for every mark he couldn't leave. Tasting the salt of your skin, his tongue traced your areola that dragged a whine out of you even now. He sucked gently, then harder, then dragged his teeth across the swell of flesh before soothing it with his tongue. 

You sighed at the sensation, feeling your body reaching absolute bliss. His voice brought you back from slipping into dreamland. 

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, a hand running through your hair and you melted at the soothing feeling. 

He lowered your legs carefully onto the mattress afterward, though neither of you made any real attempt to move apart. His chest still pressed against yours in places and your knee hooked loosely over his thigh.

“Mhm.” Your eyes slipped shut again for a second, contentment pulling through you slowly. “Is your back alright?”

Beomgyu laughed breathlessly. “We might need another round of that ice spray.”

Your eyes flew open immediately, horrified enough to make him break into genuine laughter this time. He dipped down before you could scold him, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“I’m joking,” he murmured against your skin. “Mostly.”

“Beomgyu.”

“There she is.” His grin widened lazily. "I was wondering how long before I got that look." 

You sighed despite yourself and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing back and forth absentmindedly over warm skin. His expression changed the second you touched him again; softer instantly, eyes lowering for half a moment before returning to yours.

“You know,” you said slowly, “we’ve thoroughly ruined any chance of being friends." 

“Mmhmm, well.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss into your palm. "Wasn't planning on being your friend for very long anyway."

You raised a brow at him. "Really."

Beomgyu smiled into your hand before finally looking at you properly. There was still heat in his eyes, though now it mixed too openly with affection.

"I meant it when I said I wanted to earn your trust," he spoke earnestly, playing with your hair. "I really did mean that. But somewhere around tonight, after everything—" He exhaled another laugh beneath his breath. “I got selfish. I think staying only friends with you would’ve actually killed me.”

Your stomach flipped hard at the honesty in his voice. You didn’t think you could handle any more of this man —  he was seriously too much for your heart.

"You're so cute," you cooed, poking his cheek.

He stared at you. "I just confessed my suffering to you."

"You did it adorably, though."

Beomgyu stared at you in disbelief that lasted approximately a few seconds before your sweet laughter dismantled it. His mouth twitched. He pressed it flat. It twitched again. You were still smiling when his eyes dropped to your mouth; the fondness remained and the teasing still there, but desire began to creep back in beneath it piece by piece.

“Can't believe you say things like that right after ruining me for half the night,” he murmured, fingers sliding along your thigh again.

Your mouth curved. "Half the night?"

"Yeah." He chuckled, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “I’m trying to sound respectable.”

You opened your mouth and sucked on his thumb, swirling your tongue around it. The heat began its slow return through your body, and watched his jaw tighten when you released his finger with a pop. "I like you better when you're honest." 

He simply looked down at you with a slow smile, tonging the corner of his lips. He then shifted a bit up and you keened with delight when he rolled his hips in one slow, purposeful thrust. 

“I don’t think I’m anywhere near done with you yet.”

THE END.

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[yystarz]

second reblog bcs i'm crazy over snowbound beomgyu!!

THE WHOLE TIME I WAS THINKING OF THE MOVIE 'BEFORE SUNRISE' !!

the tension in those conversations, building familiarity with a stranger that you've just met on the train and the anxiety building up when both of you are unsure of whether you both will be seeing each other again when you reach your individual destinations...

classic, intimate, and gut wrenching!

if any MOA reader out there is looking for a fic rec.. I'd recommend you start with this one and get completely swooned by yun's writing skills😭👆🏼

yun when u read this? PAT YOURSELF ON THE BACK GIRL!! THIS IS AMAZING !

[koqabear]

would it be greedy to ask you guys to send me your favorite taehyun looks. i'm writing a fic and i deadass cant decide on a look for him.

[yystarz]

.... i'd like to nominate these tyun looks

[yystarz]

that's kai and his yeonjun oppa