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hey-dokyeom · 12 days ago

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the way the cookie crumbles 🍪 chan x reader.

you need one good story to get your career off the ground. lee chan is on a mission to try every chocolate chip cookie in seoul. better start somewhere, right?

🍪 pairing. interviewee!lee chan x food journalist!reader. 🍪 word count. 14.4k. 🍪 genre/warnings. alternate universe: non-idol. slice of life, romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, disease (which neither mcs have); profanity. themes of food/memory/grief, svt ensemble as journalists. 🍪 footnotes. this is part of the milestone: 100 collab. it’s been a while since i’ve written something that i feel like actually means something, and this is that fic for me. it’s my soul on a baking sheet, and i’m grateful that i got the chance to bring it to life. the two halves of my heart, a @chugging-antiseptic-dye & tara @diamonddaze01, proofread the outline for this months ago. thank you, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, @gyubakeries, and @shinysobi for the trust!!! 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ the way the cookie crumbles.

It’s taunting—the way the Google Docs cursor is blinking up at you.

You swear you’re going mad. How long have you been staring at this empty document? An hour? Three?

You heave out a sigh, slouching at your work desk until your forehead has landed on your mechanical keyboard. A couple of keys are smashed in the process, and you find an intelligible smatter of letters on your screen when you look up.

That’s the most progress The Story has had in a couple of days, unfortunately.

“You know,” a bemused voice calls from behind you, “maybe you’re trying too hard.”

The thought draws a snort of laughter from you. Trying too hard. It’s more like you’re not trying hard enough. How else to explain the sheer lack of progress in what was supposed to be your magnum opus?

You don’t wheel around to face your workmate. You already know who it is, anyway.

“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. “Aren’t you accepting a Hinzpeter Award next week, Mr. Humans-Write-Recipes-Better-Than-A.I.?”

Joshua lets out a low chuckle at the light jab about his capital-s Story. You poked your fun at your senior, but you had to give credit where credit was due; the article had been a riveting read, and Joshua deserves all his flowers for tackling it with such finesse.

“It’ll be your award next year,” he says with a certainty that should be comforting.

Instead, it reminds you of looming deadlines, of your prickly Editor-in-Chief, of your empty fucking Google Doc. Another sigh. This time, heavier.

“Or Seungkwan’s,” you say. “His ‘swicy’ story is doing crazy rounds on SNS right now.”

That was Seungkwan’s Story: A bold declaration of sweet and spicy— aptly called ‘swicy’— being the flavor of the 2025 food scene. Even the new guy, Vernon, had already managed to write something worth reading. Some feature about how foreign candy puts American candy to shame.

And you? Dozens of listicles and a couple of How-To’s later, you’ve yet to make your dent in The Korea Post’s Food beat.

You can’t see Joshua’s face, but you can imagine his expression when he sympathetically chides, “What did I say about comparing yourself to other people?”

You swivel around in your computer chair. Sure enough, Joshua is sporting a disapproving look.

“I’m not comparing myself to Seungkwan,” you say defensively. “I’m just factually saying that his article has over twenty thousand hits already.”

“Stop.”

“Okay, okay.”

Joshua’s demeanor softens a bit when he notices the palpable frustration on your face. “You’ll get there,” he reassures. “I’m sure you’re closer to it than you think.”

You’re tempted to call Joshua out for the platitude, to wax poetics about the Google Doc collecting cobwebs on your screen. Instead, you flash him a tight smile and go to change the topic—bringing up instead his most recent baking endeavor.

By the time Joshua has flounced away to go bother someone else, you’re ready to call it a day. Head home with your tail between your legs and watch Culinary Class Wars until you crash. It sounds as good of a plan as any, you gingerly think as you click on to Reddit one last time.

Crawling the web was typically a good source for inspiration. You’d been coming up empty-handed for the past couple weeks, but it never hurt to try. As you click through r/foodkr, your mind wanders to mala cream shrimp dim sum and—

A post catches your eye. You have to backtrack a bit to check it out, having scrolled too fast the first time around.

r/foodkr • 2hrs ago pichanlin

I want to try EVERY CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE in Seoul 😃

Now that I have your attention: Please name a cafe/bakeshop that sells chocolate chip cookies. Criteria: MUST be in Seoul, should be PURELY chocolate chip (no raisins, nuts, et cetera). Price is NOT an issue. Even if you personally think it is the worst cookie known to man, please please please name it. I am on A MISSION.

↑ 12 ↓ 🗨 8 ↷ Share

It’s a lot to unpack. The abysmal use of all caps. The ambitious declaration. Who the hell is this ‘pichanlin’, and what sort of death wish does he have? You tongue the inside of your cheek.

Closer than you think, Joshua had said.

The words ring in the back of your head as you go to send an invite message to start chatting.

For all intents and purposes, user ‘pichanlin’ isn’t the type who looks insane.

He’s bright-eyed and boyish in his attractiveness. He looks like he’s around your age, too, though that’s an assumption you make solely based on his megawatt smile.

Lee Chan, he had introduced himself prior to your meetup at Taegeukdang Bakery.

He sits across from you now, one leg crossed over the other. When the waiter comes to give him the warmed cookie he had ordered, he flashes the stranger a charming grin. It occurs to you that he’s not trying to be particularly winsome; it seems to be a natural quality.

You notice that his order doesn’t come with a drink.

“Just service water for me,” he explains when he catches your scrutinizing eye. “I’m already going to be blowing so much money on cookies, so I have to cheap out somewhere.”

You respond with a fake laugh. Such was the life of working in a corporate-adjacent setting. Mastering the art of the fake laugh was a must, and you’re convinced you’ve somewhat perfected yours.

You’re not on the same budget as Chan, so you can at least enjoy an iced latte. You absentmindedly stir the drink as you ask the million won question. “So, what’s up with this insane cookie run?”

The query is posed to be one that’s almost casual. When Chan responds just as coolly, you figure that you’re partly to blame.

“I like cookies,” he says simply.

You offer him a tight grin. “I like coffee,” you say, “but you don’t see me running around the city chugging Americanos.”

Chan’s responding laugh is far from fake. He sounds genuinely tickled. “Are you making fun of me?” he jokes, feigning hurt as he places a hand over his chest. “And here I thought you were a serious, no-nonsense journalist.”

A part of you bristles at this virtual stranger trying to poke and prod at you. You know he’s kidding, but the topic of being serious at work is a sore spot you’ve yet to find a balm for. You sip at your drink to try and forget the fact. The coffee is scaldingly hot, which makes you wince.

“I need to know what I’m getting into.” Your tone is surprisingly sage for your internal conflict. That gut feeling is beginning to tug again—that fear you’re pursuing a dead end, interviewing someone who’s not about to make sense.

It doesn’t help that Chan’s smile only breaks at your words. You want to snap that this isn’t a joke to you, but you’re trying to reign in that temper that’s given your editors so much grief in the past.

Fuck it. You should cut your losses. Head home and consider this yet another freak hoping to find his five minutes of fame with a viral TikTok series that won’t get more than a couple hundred views.

You open your mouth to excuse yourself to the bathroom from where you have no intentions of returning when Chan, seeming self-aware of how insane he sounds, motions for you to wait. He fishes through his backpack and—

It’s a map of the city. Not one of those folded, English maps you can pick up at the airport, promoting tourist traps like N Seoul Tower and Nami Island. No, it’s meticulously scribbled, with splotches of ink and hasty scribbles. Chan lays it out in the table between you with excruciating care, as if the map isn’t already battered with its torn edges and faint coffee stains.

There are dozens of hand drawn, red pins, indicating what you can only presume are the destinations that Chan wants to hit. Pain d’echo. Aoitori Bakery. Samarkand. It’s extensive, obsessive, and the work of either a genius or a lunatic.

Said genius-slash-lunatic smiles up at you, unashamed of what he’s presenting. “This,” huffs Chan, “is what you’re getting into.”

Touché, you decide, as you settle back into your chair.

Your editor, Minghao, doesn’t look impressed.

To be fair, it’s hard to impress a man like Xu Minghao. A part of you feels silly, proposing this cross-country cookie run to him. Minghao is a serious journalist. He brings to the table—no pun intended—narratives that are unheard of in the field of food writing.

His Story was a thrilling investigative on Chinese fleets and their impact on the seafood industry. It landed him in this gorgeous corner office, where he edits drafts with a 0.3mm Muji Gel Ink Ballpoint Pen. In red, of course.

He’s holding that very pen now as he surveys your pitch, printed on an immaculately crisp piece of A4 paper. Minghao is old school like that. He doesn’t believe in Microsoft Word; he wants you to get blood on your hands, in the form of his editorial genius.

He clicks his tongue. You wince, bracing for impact.

Instead, you get grace. “This has potential,” he says.

To hell with I love you. Those are the three words you want to hear most in the world. This has potential, from the world’s most anal proofreader.

You exhale. Let your guard down. “But,” he starts, and you have to scramble to bring your wits back together. “You haven’t filled out this part.”

You knew it’d be called out. Before Minghao can even tap his pen at the empty portion of your pitch, you’re already prepared.

Rationale. That’s what you’re missing. The reason why Chan is trying to speedrun himself into diabetes.

“Yeah, well.” You shift from one foot to another as Minghao peers at you from over his glasses. “I was hoping I could fill that out later on.”

“You’ve got balls,” says Minghao dryly, “for making a pitch when you haven’t got a reason for it.”

“It’s interesting.”

“So is the fact that cheese is the most stolen food in the world, but you don’t see us writing 7,500CWS for that, do you?”

You bite back a laugh. A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward despite himself. He’s not as formidable as people make him out to be. He just has the tendency to make interns want to cry, and writers question their entire existence.

You were already full of doubt the moment you stepped into his office, so—it cancels out, you suppose. Minghao sees right through you nonetheless.

“Is this guy a frustrated baker? Is he someone planning to start a bakery?” Minghao poses, handing you back your pitch. The carnage isn’t bad today. A couple of struck-out adverbs, some dangling sentences with eight question marks next to them. “You’ll have to figure that out, or else your story will have no gravitas. It will float.”

“Float,” you repeat, clutching your pitch closer to you.

“Float,” he confirms. “Like an astronaut jettisoned out into space.”

You’re not sure you get the analogy, but you suppose a man who gets paid an annual salary of ₩100,000,000 deserves to be a little cuckoo. He rattles off your deadlines. You mumble gratitude and get ready to chase leads for a short-form listicle.

You’re only halfway out Minghao’s office door before you’re pulling out your phone from your pocket. It’s your latest saved contact, which makes things infinitely easier.

To: [INTERVIEWEE] Lee Chan 🍪 I’m in.

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Lee Chan has a plan: To try every single chocolate chip cookie in Seoul.

Not every cookie, you realize a little later on. Just around a hundred. Which is still certifiably insane.

A bakery and dessert café off Itaewon is where you two start your mission. Passion5 is gorgeous in that probably-overpriced way, set in an art-gallery like space. They boast of everything being made in house—cakes, ice cream, sandwiches.

You and Chan don’t look too out of place. If anything, the two of you look like a couple on a date. It’s a horrifying realization, but it’s also a good cover. You like to think of your stories like that, sometimes. Like they’re something Actually Important instead of a lead followed from Reddit.

Chan orders his chocolate chip cookie. You get an iced matcha that you put on your company card.

“So,” Chan says loftily, setting the cookie down between you two.

“So,” you respond, voice carefully measured.

You wait. You weaponize the silence. It’s the first good tip you got about interviewing: letting the quiet stretch, so your subject might divulge more than necessary. But Chan doesn’t look like he’s about to spill his entire life story. He just stares at you for a moment too long.

“Are we gonna half or what?” he asks instead of—I don’t know, giving you a quote you could use for your story.

You force on a tight-lipped smile. “No,” you say. “Go ahead.”

Chan doesn’t have to be asked twice.

Being a writer has made you more attuned to the little things. Mannerisms that might make or break a sentence. Tics that could point to something just below the surface. Most of these habits are the kind you have to dig for, the one you need 20/20 vision to be able to clock.

Lee Chan is as subtle as a foghorn. His fingers are stiff when he picks up the cookie. His bite is deliberately slow. When he chews and drawls out a comical, exaggerated ‘mmm’, you resist the urge to face palm. He’s putting on a show.

You couldn’t care less, though. Chan can perform all he wants. You give him a beat, and he cracks. “Very chewy,” he says through his mouthful of pastry. “Uses chocolate chips. Mmm. Nice.”

You jot it down in your notepad, even though it makes you feel like a student highlighting things that won’t be on a test. “Anything else?” you prompt.

“It’s… sweet,” he says lamely as he swallows. “A bang for your buck.”

At least that makes you laugh. Bang for the buck. “I didn’t know value for money was part of your criteria,” you jab.

“It’s not,” says Chan, and you feel that slight thrill that comes with having an opening.

You spring the question on him. “What’s your criteria, then?”

It’s meant to be the first question to a dozen more. What’s your end goal? Do you come from a family of bakers? What’s the worst cookie you’ve ever had?

But Chan doesn’t give, doesn’t bite. He only gives a noncommittal hum, finishes off his cookie, and wipes the crumbs off his fingers. He pulls out his city map from his bag and crosses out Passion5. No ceremony, no fanfare.

You stare at him incredulously as he chirps, “Next stop?”

You build your days around Chan.

On days when you’re not expected to report to the office, you follow him on his mission. He agrees to not try anything while you’re gone lest he find himself finding whatever he’s looking for while you’re in Google Docs hell.

He always gets the same thing: a chocolate chip cookie, and a glass of service water. You get mostly drinks. Every now and then, you give in to something novelty—a cheesecake-cookie hybrid at Songpa’s Au de Cookie, a s’mores-flavored cookie at Cafe Chunk. You’re convinced you’re going to both be very broke and a couple pounds heavier by the end of this story.

If you can even call it a story. The visits go like this: he orders. The two of you sit across from each other for seven minutes, tops. He eats his cookie, gives a half-hearted commentary on it, then crosses it off his map.

You’re not stupid. Chan obviously has no fucking idea what he’s talking about when it comes to the cookies. He doesn’t make any particular comments about the ingredients, about the consistency. He isn’t consuming them with the criticality of a pastry chef. By the fifteenth café, you realize maybe you’re just asking the wrong questions.

You’re at Breadypost—another recommendation that looks like it’s about to be struck out—when you try a new approach.

“What do you do?” you ask, the end of your pen tapping the table. “When you’re not on a cookie rampage, that is.”

Chan chews at his cookie thoughtfully. You’re bracing for another evasion, some lackadaisical comment about his personal life, so you nearly jump when he answers, “I’m a dancer.”

Your pen skids across your notebook. Dancer, you write down without ever looking away from Chan. “Oh?” You fail to sound casual. At least you sound interested, which, to be fair—you are. “A professional one?”

“You could say that.” Chan brushes some crumbs off the front of his shirt. “My parents own a dance studio. I help run it.”

Dance studio, you jot down. “Like… ballet? Hip-hop?”

A boyish sort of smile tugs at his mouth. “All sorts of things,” he says vaguely. “I’ve been training since I was a kid, so it was pretty natural for me to start teaching once I got old enough.”

You feel dizzy. A dance instructor. No, dance prodigy. Has a better ring to it. You have a feeling you’ve struck gold, but there’s still that hint of suspicion. Whether the gold is real. Whether it’s just the truth wrapped in gold.

“Being a dance teacher,” you start, brain already working on overdrive, “is that something you’ve always wanted to do? Or is this one of those, like, tiger parent situations?”

Chan seems to catch on to the underlying question. Really, you have to start giving him some more credit. His smile breaks into a laugh, one that’s still rattling through his chest as he pulls out his map. “I want it on record,” he teases, “that whatever you’re thinking is wrong.”

You hiss in some air through your teeth. He knows you’re still trying to find that rationale, still trying to land on a reason for all this. “What is it, then?” you ask, frustration leaking into your tone.

It’s highly unprofessional; Minghao would probably flay you alive for speaking to a source like this. But going on just enough cookie runs have made you kind of crazy, and perhaps a little too comfortable around Chan.

He doesn’t clock you on it. He just gives the same, infuriating answer. “I like cookies.”

Your pen jabs into your notebook. A period to the same sentence spoken time and time again. Chan pretends not to notice.

You do notice, however, the slightest quiver in his fingers as he crosses Breadypost off his map.

“What should I do if my interviewee is lying to me?”

Seungkwan levels you with the most vicious side eye mid-salad bite. Vernon pulls off one of his earphones, pausing his transcription of his Ahn Sung-jae interview.

You’re caught somewhere between the two of them. A working lunch. Greasy fingers flying over your keyboard, chasing a deadline, as you try out KyoChon’s new dakgalbi.

“Is this the cookie monster?” Vernon asks.

“Ha. Cookie monster.” You snort out a laugh. “Nice one. I should have that somewhere in my title.”

“Only if you want Minghao to murder you,” Seungkwan deadpans, and Vernon gives a jerky nod of agreement.

You take a quick bite of your lunch. The gochujang is a little on the sweet side, but the perilla leaves are a nice touch. You briefly contemplate paying extra to have it with cheese next time.

“I’m just saying,” you say after swallowing. “He’s hiding something.”

“Everybody’s hiding something,” Seungkwan says loftily, brandishing his plastic fork at you. “That’s why you have to build trust with your interviewee.”

“This is a story,” you shoot back. “Not a relationship.”

Vernon, who has gone back to transcribing, grunts. “Most stories are just situationships,” he says absentmindedly, already half-tuned out of the conversation.

A muscle in your face twitches. “What does that even mean?”

“He means,” Seungkwan interjects, “that you’re building something with every story. Like one does with a relationship or—fuck it—a situationship. Conversation. Rapport. All that shebang.”

You’re sure the three of you sound crazy. Such was the life of the newsroom, anyway. Long-winded metaphors, thinly-veiled critique. You’ve all mastered the art of saying things the way each of you can understand, and Seungkwan’s explanation—no matter how insane—makes sense.

You rub the heel of your palm into your temple. “Okay,” you sigh. “Build trust. Got it.”

Seungkwan and Vernon share a look. Quick enough that it could be missed, but you catch it. Before the scowl can fully form on your face, Vernon is jumping in to explain. “What if he’s just… dunno.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “A guy who likes cookies?”

“It’s pretty interesting in itself,” Seungkwan offers as he pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. His next couple of words are muffled. “A dancer with a sweet tooth.”

“Right.” You hit your Enter button a little too hard. The key gets stuck, and so you jam on it a second time until it clicks back into place. “Interesting.”

It could be, really. Chan’s attractive enough for the article to fly as one of those cutesy photo essays, and the mission is amusing in that semi-viral TikTok sort of way.

But you don’t want fifteen seconds of fame. You don’t want fluff about a ‘cookie monster’ dance instructor. You want a capital-S Story. The Story.

Seungkwan demolishes his salad and makes unsolicited comments about the croutons that came with it. Vernon complains under his breath about Ahn Sung-jae’s lack of decent audio recording despite being filthy rich.

You nod along as you think about what it means to trust and be trusted.

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There’s a secret to the perfect chocolate chip cookie, and only Lee Chan knows it.

The days start to blend together. Cookies. Iced coffees. Cafés and patisseries, places you’d never have thought to visit if it weren’t for Chan.

He keeps crossing out places on his map. You keep prying, slow but sure, snatching up every little piece of information he drops. Born in February. Came from Iksan. Graduated from Seoul Broadcasting High School. A breadcrumb trail.

After a productive day (five cafés!) that was ultimately futile (all crossed out!), you find yourself on the same path with Chan. Something about the nearest bus route being the same one you two could take.

You’re making small talk about the day’s weather when Chan’s ears perk up at a commotion. “Oh?” He cranes his neck in the direction of the crowd. “Let’s check it out.”

You really, really don’t want to. You want to go home, order takeout, and start your fourth rewatch of Inventing Anna. But Chan is already moving before you can politely deny him, and so you drag your feet towards the loose circle of people gathered in Seoul Plaza.

The noise hits you first. A The Boyz song on full blast. THRILL RIDE, you think it might be. People squeal, rush to the center.

Chan smiles. A kind of smile you haven’t seen yet. This isn’t cookie-induced, isn’t a grin given after you’ve made a dry joke. This one is bright and wide with realization. “It’s a Random Play Dance,” he says in explanation.

You give a small ‘ah’ in response. It’s not really something you care much for. You’ve seen it on your For You Page, sure, but this wasn’t the sort of thing you sought out. Chan, on the other hand, starts to shoulder through the crowd. You follow a couple of steps behind, mumbling apologies to the people you squeeze past.

“Have you ever?” Chan asks once you’ve come up to his side.

“Me?” A high-pitched laugh escapes you. “God, no.”

Chan’s grin is lopsided, a little crooked. You really wish he wasn’t so pretty; when he’s smiling like this, it’s so easy to get distracted. “Why not? Shy?” he prods.

Your nose scrunches on instinct. “Let’s go with that,” you say, and Chan drops it. For now, at least.

He has his arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the dancers in the middle. You realize he’s leaning down a bit, stepping into your space so he can whisper into your ear. “The girl in red has good form,” he says, his voice taking on the type of quality you personally reserve for discussing the merits of one-pot meals. “And see the guy over there—the one wearing Converse? His footing’s a bit off. Watch.”

You watch. Chan is right. Budget Juyeon is one step behind for the t-thrill ride, t-thrill ride, how ya feeling. “I wouldn’t have noticed that,” you say, eyes still fixed on the people have Chan pointed out.

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. The smugness rolls off him in waves anyway. “‘S my job,” he says.

A new song strikes up. You’re startled when, only a beat in, Chan is already laughing to himself. Instant recognition. He shoots you a sideways glance before breathing out, “Give me a minute, yeah?”

And then he’s gone, again, but not somewhere you can’t see. You watch, both awed and mortified, as he skids to the center of the circle with practiced ease. A couple more people follow suit. The new song bleeds into the crowd. Hey girl, take you home tonight. Get that give me, get that give me, give me.

Lee Chan transforms before your eyes.

Gone is the boy who said ‘you too’ when a barista told him to have a good day. (Twice.) In his place, somebody else. Someone entirely new. A Lee Chan who moves like water, who hits all the marks. A dancer.

People make room for him, as if sensing just how much of a force he is to reckon with. Chan doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care, maybe. He just dances—perfect steps, controlled movements, one well-placed wink that isn’t cringe at all.

He’s so happy about it, too. You see it in the looseness of his limbs, the spark in his eye. He laughs with the people at his side, sharing that secret language that only dancers can speak, as he hums along to 2PM’s it’s alright, alright, it’s alright.

When the song transitions to something by aespa, you expect him to keep going. Maybe you even want him to keep going. He doesn’t, though. Just half-jogs back to you with beads of sweat clinging to strands of his bangs.

“Ready to go?” he asks offhandedly, and you can only nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak yet.

The two of you go back on your merry way to the bus station. “That was nice,” he huffs out; you have some vague sense that he’s fishing.

You bite. He deserves that much. “You were good,” you say. “Like, really good.”

His grin is very what, me?, but you cut him some slack. “I told you,” he shoots back. “Dance studio.”

Even the way he says it. The word ‘dance’. You notice, now, how his voice lilts a bit. Reverence for the craft. There is no doubt: Lee Chan loves to dance. He lives to dance. Which means—

You let out a groan. “I really thought you were a frustrated baker,” you admit, drawing a breathless laugh from your interviewee.

“I told you it wouldn’t be something like that,” he sing-songs.

Your shoulders briefly bump into each other. You put a half-step of distance between the two of you. After he’s caught his breath, Chan catches you off-guard: “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“You know. Is journalism just a pit stop before you become Seoul’s genderbent Gordon Ramsey?”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “No,” you answer without missing a beat. “Journalism is… it.”

“How long have you known you’d get into the field?”

You feel it, then. The bricks of the wall, sliding into place. Your next words feel like mortar sealing the cracks. “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions,” you tease, your fingers unconsciously flexing at your side.

Chan does that thing again where one shoulder rises and falls with attempted nonchalance. Having spent enough time with him, you’ve started to keep a mental repository of his quirks. How he is when he’s faking it until he can make it. How he is when he actually thinks something is good.

He doesn’t say anything more. You wonder, briefly, if this is a page right out of your book. Waiting for the silence to stretch unbearably so the other person might be forced to fill it.

You clear your throat. You think of Seungkwan, of Vernon. Build trust. Conversation. Rapport.

You will have to give as much as you want to get.

“I’m a bit jealous,” you admit, your voice low like you’re sharing a secret. Maybe you are. It feels like it. “I don’t think there’s anything I’m passionate about outside of writing. And even that, I’m a slave to, you know?”

It’s supposed to be light. Supposed to be a joke. But Chan is looking at you like he understands, like he sympathizes. It’s in the wry way he smiles, the way he shoves his hands into his coat pockets as if to keep them from clenching and unclenching. He does that, you realized. When he’s excited about something.

“I hear you,” he says, and it strikes you that he means it.

So you keep going. It might not be the most ideal situation—could this qualify as trauma-dumping?—but Chan listens well. He nods in all the right places. Throws in a joke or two himself. The two of you are still discussing the whole turning-what-you-love-into-your-job debacle by the time you get to the bus stop, and the conversation is good enough for you two to linger by the benches and let at least two buses pass.

“Yeah,” you say as the conversation comes to its natural end. “It’s just—I guess I want to write something that matters.”

You don’t expect Chan to meet you halfway on that sentiment. You don’t doubt his dancing has its own legacy-making end goal, but story-telling is in an entirely different league of its own. Chan understands that much.

He looks at you, his smile softer at the corners. “Let’s hope I can give you that, then,” he says, the teasing dulled by the sincerity he can’t tamp down.

A story that matters.

The cookie list is halfway conquered now, sugar and flour and cocoa powder a familiar terrain you navigate with something bordering on affection. Each crossed-off name feels like a mission completed. Almond crinkle from a hole-in-the-wall near Hapjeong that melted on your tongue, a New York-style chocolate chip so thick it could double as a doorstop, a miso caramel that you and Chan argued about for a full subway ride.

You’re walking side by side, crumbs on your sleeves, when Chan, entirely unprompted, drops the bomb like he’s been carrying it in his pocket all day.

“Buttery. Chewy. Thick.” He ticks each word off with a finger, eyes trained straight. “Semi-sweet chocolate chips, probably. Definitely not milk chocolate.”

You stop mid-chew, blinking. “Wait. Are you—are you just now telling me your cookie criteria?”

He nods with all the gravity of someone revealing state secrets. “Yes. I’ve decided you’re ready.”

Your phone is in your hand within seconds. Notes app open. “Say that again,” you prompt. You’ll transfer it to your notebook later. “Slower.”

Chan repeats himself, voice low and deliberate. You transcribe dutifully, thumbs flying over the screen, but your brow pinches at the word thick.

“Thick?” you echo, narrowing your eyes.

“You can’t trust a cookie that flattens like a pancake.”

You honest-to-goodness gasp. “That’s slander. Thin cookies are elite,” you argue. “They’ve got edge crisp. They shatter when you bite in. That’s half the joy.”

He looks at you like you just confessed to liking soggy cereal. “And no raisins,” he throws in for good measure.

The indignation rises in you like steam. “That’s a hate crime. Raisins have their place!”

Chan grimaces theatrically. “In oatmeal, sure. But not in cookies.”

“But oatmeal is a cookie. It’s nostalgic! Textured! Wholesome!”

“It’s betrayal disguised as dessert.”

You snort. A full, undignified laugh escapes you, loud enough that a couple of people passing by glance over. You duck your head, pretending to examine a croissant in the bakery window. Chan, of course, is utterly unbothered. He’s basking in the win. In riling you up after days of indifference.

And then—

“See?” he half-joked. “You’re passionate about other things, too.”

You’re not ready for it. The words land like a thud in your chest. You blink, trying to play it off.

Because it’s such a throwaway thing for him to say. A casual observation. Still, it knocks something loose.

You’ve been clawing at meaning lately.

Tired drafts. Half-finished essays. Interview transcripts that go nowhere. You thought writing about food would save you, would make it matter. That if you turned love into narrative, maybe it would give you something to hold onto.

But here’s Chan, not even trying, reminding you of something you forgot: it’s okay to love something without needing to spin it into something useful. To just love.

You let the thought settle. The warmth of butter. The snap of a crisped edge. The comfort of chewing something that tastes like your childhood.

Maybe you’re allowed to love food for food’s sake. Maybe you’re allowed to love writing separately, too. And maybe—maybe it’s okay not to love them both at the same time.

You glance sideways. Chan’s attention is on a chalkboard menu now. He has no idea that he’s just pulled the rug out from under your existential crisis. No idea that you’re reordering your worldview between bites of cookie.

“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” he says, already stepping toward the register. “If we’re about to argue for another hour, I want to be awake for it.”

He grins at you before he leaves, a flash of teeth and a crinkle of eye. Easy. Unbothered.

You nod mutely, still holding your phone like a lifeline. The cursor blinks at the end of your note.

Buttery. Chewy. Thick. Semi-sweet.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket. Some conversations should be off the record.

You’re supposed to be writing about Seoul’s independent café renaissance. Instead, you’re staring at a blinking cursor and a blinking Chan.

Well. A photo of Chan.

He’s mid-bite in this one, cheeks puffed out slightly, eyes wide with theatrical delight. The cookie in question is half gone. There’s a second photo, blurry, of him doing a little wiggle in place, what you’ve now internally dubbed The Happy Dance. You remember the exact sound he made, too. Something like a muffled mmmph! that might’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

You exhale through your nose, set your phone down screen-first. Focus.

You pull up a different document and try to switch gears. An interview transcription. A listicle about croffles. A half-finished pitch about post-pandemic dessert trends. You give each one a valiant 30 seconds of attention before your mind veers off course.

Back to Chan.

Your fingers sift through the pages of your notebook. It started structured. Professional. Clean. Now?

hates raisins in cookies

buttery chewy thick semi-sweet ONLY

says thank you to bus drivers. every time.

does the happy dance when cookie is a 9.9/10, but will still cross it out on the map wtf

crinkles by the eyes when he laughs (every time??)

once said “i think choreography is just storytelling with muscles”??? what does that MEAN???

You stare at the last one for a second too long. You shake your head, as if that will rattle the thoughts loose.

You have a Google Doc named [Writer’s Close] Lee Chan Cookie Tour. You open it. Read the first sentence. It’s fine. Serviceable. You could probably write four more paragraphs after it, waxing poetics on Chan’s criteria and the fifty cookies you’ve seen him try so far.

It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t say anything.

It doesn’t say that Chan cares deeply and easily. That he notices things like foot placement and poor form in a crowd of strangers, not to nitpick but because he believes people should move like they mean it. That he lights up when he talks about his students. That he grins with his whole body. That he likes cookies the way some people like vinyl. Specific, devotional, particular.

It doesn’t say that he’s surprised you.

You chew your bottom lip, flipping through your camera roll again.

Chan, reaching for a cookie with both hands. Chan, trying to stuff half of it into his mouth at once. Chan, dramatically pretending to faint after a good bite. You catch yourself smiling. Oh no.

You sit back in your chair, stretch your arms above your head like it might pull you back to objectivity. Like the physical act of recentering your spine might recenter your heart, too.

The blinking cursor waits. So does the draft. And you, God help you, are still thinking about the boy who hates raisins.

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How many cookies can a man have before he starts to go insane?

Coconutbox Cafe & Gallery smells like burnt sugar and acrylic paint. It’s the seventy-something café on Chan’s map—an exact number he could recite in his sleep but one you stopped trying to keep track of after number forty-three.

Today’s pick is sun-drenched and quiet, tucked between a pilates studio and a bookstore with faded signage. The playlist is indie enough to make you feel cultured but familiar enough not to distract you. Mismatched furniture fills the space in organized chaos: chipped wooden stools, velvet armchairs in colors that were probably fashionable once, and a swing bench that no one actually sits on.

Chan seems to like it immediately. He always does. There’s something about the newness of a place that makes his face go soft at the edges.

You’re halfway through your drink—something frothy and complicated that you didn’t mean to order but didn’t correct the barista on—when he leans across the table. Chin in hand, eyes curious. “Can I read it?” he asks.

You don’t look up from your laptop. “No.”

“Aww.” He drags the syllable out, mock-wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be honest,” you say. “No preconceived biases. No shifts in behavior. You might start… posing more.”

He glares at you, dramatically offended. “You think I’m that self-conscious?”

“You wore a beanie for three days straight because you didn’t like how your ears looked in that one photo.”

“Wow,” he mutters, sitting back like you’ve physically wounded him. “Low blow. Personal foul. Yellow card.”

You glance up. He’s pouting, full-lipped and cartoonish. You don’t feel bad about it.

“Just give me a little spoiler,” he pleads. “One sentence.”

You don’t tell him that one sentence is all you have. That you’ve written and rewritten that first sentence countless times in the past couple of months. To be fair, it’s the golden rule of journalism.

An article is only as good as its hook. With all the time you’ve spent with Chan, you want that hook to be foolproof. The kind they give a Pulitzer to.

Met with silence, Chan amps up his act. He gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just told him he’s being cut from the final edit. “Am I that boring?” he bemoans.

You roll your eyes. “I’m still trying to find the right angle. The perfect execution. I’m biding my time.”

He narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

Then he leans back, and you can see it happen. The spark. The tiny gleam of mischief in his expression. You’ve come to fear it. “Oh,” he says ominously. “Well, if I’m not interesting enough as is, maybe I just need to give you material.”

“Chan—”

Too late. He’s already on his feet. He grabs the empty coffee cup from your tray and balances it on his head like a crown. Then, he plucks a single dried flower from the centerpiece and tucks it behind his ear, like he’s a painter’s muse from a pretentious student film.

“This,” he announces in a deep, solemn voice, “is my artistic era.”

You stifle a laugh. It doesn’t work. “I’m a tortured soul,” he goes on, arms wide, spinning slowly in place. “Fueled only by caffeine and existential dread.”

“Please sit down.”

“Would a boring subject do this?” He strikes a pose in front of the gallery wall, back arched as if he’s modeling for an extremely niche fragrance ad. The dried flower falls out of his ear and lands in his sleeve.

You cover your face with your hands. When you peek through your fingers, he’s still going. Shuffling dramatically across the floor like he’s in a modern dance interpretation of heartbreak, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re watching.

You are.

You’re even laughing now, full and real and impossible to suppress. Your stomach starts to ache in the way it does when you laugh too hard and too long. The barista looks vaguely concerned. Chan doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Eventually, he returns to the table. Smug and satisfied, like this was all part of a well-rehearsed plan. He sips the last of your drink without asking.

“I take it the writer’s block is gone?” he says, not looking at you as he adjusts the empty cup back onto his head.

You shake your head, trying to steady your grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums. “But useful.”

You glance down at your laptop. The sentence still blinks, alone, on the screen. But your fingers twitch. The weight that’s been pressing into your ribcage for days now loosens, just a little.

You think, maybe, you’ve got your second sentence now. Maybe even a third.

You meet Minghao at a tiny place near the newsroom, the kind of café with two outlets per table, quiet lo-fi playing through ceiling speakers, and a chalkboard menu written in both English and a half-hearted attempt at French. It’s clean, minimalist, and exactly the sort of place he’d approve of. Muted palette, simple typography, no nonsense. Even the pastries are geometrically intimidating.

Your coffee arrives first. His, second. Then, without thinking, you add a chocolate chip cookie to your order. It’s not until the cashier bags it that you realize what you’ve done.

Minghao raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “That for you?”

You stir your drink like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. “No.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods. Like he already knows, but he’ll let you say it anyway. He’s good at that. Letting you inch your way to honesty instead of forcing it out of you. It’s what makes him editor material; you both adore and despise him for it.

“It’s for Chan,” you finally admit, not meeting Minghao’s gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Just barely. “You’ve grown to care for him.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, too quickly. “This is just—part of the mission. A gesture. Fuel for the fieldwork.”

“Sure.”

You glance at Minghao. He sips his coffee like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just called your bluff in six syllables or less. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment, voice neutral but not unkind. “It’s not a sin to care about your story and the people who comprise it.”

You nod slowly, but wait. There’s always a but with Minghao. You know it’s coming. He’s not the type to leave things at kindness. You sip. You brace.

“But,” he says, as expected, “remember why you’re here.”

There it is. The bucket of cold water. No dramatics, just clarity. The kind that slices right through the comfort you’ve been pretending isn’t there.

You look out the window, where a new wave of commuters spills onto the street. People moving with direction, with purpose. Everyone headed somewhere. No one wondering if they’re already too close to what they’re supposed to be observing.

You came into this story ready to dig. To get close enough to see the seams and the flaws, to understand what drives a person to visit dozens of cafés in search of the perfect cookie. You thought it would be clinical. Interesting, maybe even charming. But not this.

You didn’t account for how Chan would worm his way in—through humor, through dance, through the moments between café visits. You didn’t expect to memorize the sound of his laugh or learn the difference between his fake pout and the real one.

And now, you’re too close. Not just to the story, but to the boy at its center.

“This is work,” you say as firmly as you can manage.

“It is,” Minghao agrees. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t need to. “So do the work.”

You nod, even if part of you bristles. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s too right. You hate how much sense he makes.

The conversation mellows from there. You finish your coffees. You talk about deadlines, the new layout for the online features page. You trade stories. He tells you about the intern who once spelled sablé as sable and defended it with a passionate monologue about endangered animals. You laugh, and the sound is not forced. Minghao smiles, rare and real, like a crack in glass that somehow makes it prettier.

When you stand, he reaches for the cookie bag, peeking inside with an appraising eye. “Thick. Buttery. Semi-sweet,” he observes. He’s seen your notes. He has the memory of a goddamn elephant. “You remembered.”

You snatch it back with a roll of your eyes. “It was a coincidence.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, tone dry.

He lets you go with a knowing look. Doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. That’s the thing with Minghao. You always leave with more questions than answers, and a better draft because of it.

Late afternoon has dipped into early evening, and you pull your coat a little tighter around you. The cookie bag swings lightly at your side. You walk toward the train station, footsteps steady.

When you pause at the corner, waiting for the light to change, you glance at the nearest trash bin. The thought creeps in: maybe it would be simpler to toss the cookie. Make it a clean break. Cut the thread before it knots.

You hover. One step closer, maybe two.

But you don’t throw it out.

You grip the bag a little tighter instead.

The light changes. Green. You cross the street, the lines, until your feet are taking you where you have to be.

The park is quiet, brushed in soft gold. Everything is painted in warm tones. Leaves, benches, kids on scooters, the worn path beneath your shoes. A dog runs off-leash in the distance. There’s a couple on a blanket sharing earphones. The air is warm, but not oppressive, touched by the early edge of evening.

You spot Chan before he sees you, and for a second, you don’t move. He’s crossing the field, steps light, head tilted slightly like he’s listening to music only he can hear. That same bounce in his gait. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair caught in the breeze. The sight of him tightens something in your chest.

You hate that it does.

You’re supposed to be the one in control. The observer. You even practiced the speech in your head on the train ride over. Professional boundaries, clarity, distance. Reminders of what this is and what it isn’t. You swore it wouldn’t get messy.

But then he gets closer, his joy unrepentant in the face of your internal conflict. “I got you something,” he says, lifting a small paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

Your hands tighten around your own little gift. “What?”

“Oatmeal. Thin as cardboard,” he sings. “Thought of you when I saw it.”

Your fingers close around the bag when he offers it, but you don’t look inside. You look at him. You were just about to tell him. Just about to say all the things you rehearsed. How this needs to stay professional. How you can’t afford to blur the lines any further. But now you’re holding this ridiculous cookie, and he’s looking at you with the kind of warmth that comes with preheated ovens.

The bag smells like raisins. He remembered, too.

You don’t think. Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You kiss him.

The bag falls, forgotten between you. The cookie, you suspect, is probably flattened beyond salvation.

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then one hand finds your waist, tentative but sure, while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck. He kisses you like he’s catching up. Like he’s been holding back and didn’t realize until now. There’s the briefest hitch in his breath, then something else takes over.

He kisses you like he means it—and for a second, you let yourself mean it, too.

But it doesn’t last.

Reality crashes in all at once. Too sharp, too loud, too late. You pull away fast, like the kiss burned you. Like the world has snapped back into focus and left you gasping for air. “This isn’t—” You inhale sharply, taking a step back. “God, it’s not right. Fuck!”

Chan looks stunned. “Wait, what?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, still backing up, swiping your hand over your mouth like it might erase the taste of his Chapstick. “It’s not appropriate. I shouldn’t have—”

“But you kissed me.”

“It was a moment of weakness,” you say, harsher than you mean. “It didn’t mean anything.”

His face falls, just a little. “Didn’t mean anything,” he repeats.

You can’t look at him. You start to turn, hoping maybe the wind or the silence will carry you away from this. “Don’t do that,” Chan says. His voice cuts through the stillness. More steady than you expect. “Don’t walk away like that didn’t just happen.”

You whirl back around, jaw tight. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He’s not screaming. Not really. But his voice rises just enough for a couple of heads to turn, and your stomach churns at the thought of this being some teenager’s tweet of the day. saw a couple breaking up at seoul park lol omg frfr.

You’re not supposed to be part of that. Part of anything, really.

“I can’t care about you,” you say. Your voice isn’t steady anymore. “I’m not supposed to. This is a job. You’re—”

You stutter. He waits. You wish he wouldn’t.

“You’re just a guy who likes cookies,” you finish, flat and hollow. “You’re nothing but a story to me.”

Silence follows, thick and immediate.

You can practically hear the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. The pain doesn’t register on his face all at once. It unfurls, slow and soft, like paper tearing. Chan nods once. He swallows. His mouth curves, barely, into something that might look like a smile if you didn’t know better.

“Okay.” He swallows hard. His shoulders are tight, drawn inward. As if he’s keeping himself from unraveling.

You want to claim you’re not being cruel. This was just the way of the world, the unsigned contract you two had drafted up. You were the journalist; he was the interviewee. You’re not cruel. You’re not cruel. You’re doing your fucking job.

Right? Right?

“Well,” Chan says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, “if a story is all I am, then I’ll make sure it’s one that matters.”

Your own words, thrown back at you. You dare say you deserve it. There are some lines you can’t uncross, and this feels like one of them.

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You’re back on the trail. Kind of. Not really.

Chan’s walking beside you, but the lightness in his step is gone. You feel it before you see it. Something dulled at the edges, like music with the treble turned down. The city hums around you, oblivious. There’s a café on every corner, but none of them look promising. They all look like endings.

You try to make conversation. About the weather. About the new seasonal menu. About how one of the cafés you visited last week now sells espresso in waffle cones. Chan nods, polite but absent.

The cookie tasting continues. Technically. The first café’s cookie is overbaked. Dry. Crumbles like disappointment.

The second one has promise—a good smell, a nice shape—but too sweet. He barely chews before passing you a napkin to spit it out. The third café? He doesn’t even bother tasting. One glance at the chalkboard menu and he’s out the door.

You finally say, “I’m sorry.”

Chan cocks his head to one side. “What?”

“For earlier. The park. The kiss. The... everything.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he slows. Just enough to let the moment catch up. “Let’s just finish,” he says. Not cruelly, but measured in a way that indicates he is truly done with all this. He’s just… going through the motions. “One more left.”

The final café is small and tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon. It’s got a handwritten sign and a cinnamon-heavy smell. There’s a single cookie on display.

You both get one. You eat in silence. It’s chewy, at least. You observe Chan carefully, wondering if this is it. It would be a nice climax. The one hundredth store being the one.

Chan pulls the map from his back pocket.

You watch as he crosses off the last location.

He stares at it for a second too long. The whole thing is covered in tiny red x’s, like battle scars. You swallow your bite of cookie, tasting the weight of the world in the chocolate chip that’s not what either of you needed. “So,” you say delicately, “what now?”

He folds the map neatly, tucks it away. “You write your story.”

“And you?”

Chan exhales through his nose. A humorless little breath. “I never eat another cookie again.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but the punchline never lands. You laugh anyway, the sound unconvincing and weak, because it’s better than silence. It’s better than the look on his face, the one a man gets when he’s lost something. When he hadn’t gotten what he wanted.

It’s beginning to feel like neither of you are about to get what you want.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, this time softer. Not for the kiss. For this. For the empty hands and crossed-out boxes.

Chan doesn’t speak right away. His jaw flexes. Then he turns to you, eyes catching yours—and this time he doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat. Two.

His gaze lingers, and it does something to you. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I’m sorry, too.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is.

You stand there beside him in the dying light, two people who went searching for something sweet and ended up with something else entirely. You don’t ask what that something is. You’re not sure you want to know.

The cherry on top is that you get tonsillitis.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not the kind of ache that curls under your ribs or hides behind your ribs or flares to life when you pass a bakery that reminds you of a certain boy who used to smile like he’d invented happiness.

No. This time, it’s literal.

Your throat is on fire. Your glands feel like someone slipped rocks into the hollow of your neck. Your voice is gone, your sleep disrupted, and you can’t even swallow without it feeling like glass.

And of course, of course it had to come after all of that. After the story. The kiss. The silence that followed. The slow disintegration of something that was never meant to be more than an assignment.

You sit slouched in a hospital hallway, head tipped against the cold wall, wondering if you’ve somehow earned this. Tonsillitis as divine retribution. An inflamed throat to match an aching heart. An article that hasn’t even gotten past the first sentence.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone down the corridor is watching a mukbang on full volume. You are seconds away from shoving a tongue depressor in your own ear just to make it stop when a familiar voice cuts through the din.

You freeze.

It can’t be.

You look up—slowly, cautiously—and there he is.

Chan.

He’s standing not far from you, wearing a navy baseball cap and an oversized hoodie like he’s trying not to be noticed. He’s not alone. There’s an older woman beside him. Elegant. Unsmiling. Her features are drawn in that unmistakable way of someone with experience in the art of shutting people out.

You don’t catch everything they say, but you see it. The subtle tension. The way Chan follows half a step behind, reaching out like he might steady her. She brushes him off. Keeps walking.

Something twists in your stomach.

You don’t know what she is to him. A relative, maybe. His mother? An aunt? The resemblance isn’t glaring, but there’s something in the posture, the deflection, that feels practiced.

Chan calls after her softly. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. You watch as he jogs after her, gentle hand at her elbow. She doesn’t stop. He falters. He looks around, helpless, and that’s when he sees you.

It’s a split-second flicker of recognition. His eyes widen, just a little. The barest twitch of his mouth. You can’t tell if it’s surprise or guilt or something else entirely.

But you look away.

Because it’s none of your business. Because whatever this is, whoever she is—you’re not a part of it.

For once, the Universe is on your side. The receptionist calls your name. You scramble towards the doctor’s office, the feeling of Chan’s gaze burning into your back. Dr. Jeon asks everything you expect him to, but all you can really manage are a few choice words that feel like barbed wire being dragged through your throat.

“It hurts,” you tell your doctor, voice broken and raspy. “It really, really hurts.”

Joshua pokes his head into your cubicle with a grin that immediately puts you on edge. “You have a visitorrr,” he croons.

You glare at him, throat still raw from last week’s tonsillitis-adjacent hell. “What kind of visitor?”

“The attractive kind.”

You already know who it is.

Still, you don’t expect to see Chan standing in the lobby of your workplace, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes trailing absently across the ceiling like he’s rehearsing something in his head. When he notices you, he straightens. Offers a small, careful smile. Not his usual one. This one’s dimmed, as if someone turned the dial down on him.

You don’t say anything as you lead him to the cafeteria. The air between you carries the ghost of too many almosts.

The coffee here is terrible. The cookies are worse. Neither of you bother.

Chan settles across from you at a small table scratched with initials and hearts carved by interns who fell in love with the wrong people. His hands are clasped together on the table, thumbs twitching in search for rhythm. You realize you haven’t seen him this still in a long time.

“After everything,” he begins, voice forcibly steady, “I think I deserve to ask you one question.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth and ready for impact. For something heavy. Something that might break the room in half.

Do you love me? Why did you kiss me?

Instead—

“What’s your story with food?”

You’re not sure you heard him right. You stare for a minute too long, and he stares right back, as if saying yeah, that’s what I want to know. When you laugh, you’re surprised by how much it aches.

“Do you have the time?” you start, your heart rattling in your chest.

He nods.

You tell him about your childhood kitchen. The yellowing linoleum, the faded recipe cards, the way your mother used to hum while slicing scallions. You tell him about the little step-stool you stood on to watch her stir soups, how you’d sneak pinches of dough and get scolded half-heartedly.

You tell him about the messes you made trying to bake from memory. About the apple crumble that turned into applesauce. The birthday cake you forgot the sugar in. The ramen experiments that ended in smoke alarms.

You tell him that food was love before you ever had a word for it. That it stitched you and your mother together in ways language never quite could.

Then you tell him about your first story. The one that got you published. A noodle shop three blocks down from where you grew up, run by a ninety-two-year-old widow who spoke in proverbs and gave out extra toppings when no one was looking. You wrote about her hands. Her children. The lineage of flavor passed from one generation to none, and how storytelling, like cooking, could preserve things.

People. Taste. Time.

You tell him about the guilt, too. The constant, low hum of it. How ridiculous it sometimes feels to write about something so soft in a world that feels like it’s made of broken glass. How food writing isn’t just about what’s delicious. It’s about what’s been lost. What you’re desperate to hold on to.

Chan listens. He buys you a bottle of water when you start to stutter. He never looks away.

When you run out of breath, out of steam, he exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his own this whole time. His turn.

“I guess,” he says, “if I had to pick one story to explain me, it’s her.”

You don’t need to ask who. You already know.

“She always had this chocolate chip cookie in her purse. Same brand. Same crinkle on the packaging,” he says, and the look on his face shows he’s already half-lost to memory. “I don’t even think she liked them, but she made sure I always had one. She’d hand it to me at the end of every visit. Channie, for you.”

His eyes are glassy, but not wet. Not yet. “I know it was store-bought. She wasn’t a baker,” he goes on. “She burned toast. But that cookie—it stuck. It was her. A kind of love language, I guess.”

“And that’s what this was all about?” you ask. Gently. So gently. “Finding it again?”

He nods. “I thought if I could find that exact one, maybe it would… I don’t know. Bring her back. Even for a second. Maybe time might crack open a little and let her through.”

The implication hits like a truck. Your voice lowers. “She’s sick?”

“Alzheimer’s.”

He doesn’t say it for sympathy. He says it like he’s still talking about the weather. Inevitable. Slow and cruel and impossible to predict.

“She started forgetting where she put her keys,” he narrates. “Then names. Then faces. I thought it was just age catching up to her. I didn’t… I didn’t think it was this.”

He glances away for the first time, and you don’t demand he keep his eyes on you. You don’t ask if you can pull out your recorder so you can get all this verbatim. This isn’t that kind of moment.

“And now, she barely knows who she is,” Chan goes on. “I visit. I talk. Sometimes I sing old songs she used to like. Mostly, I just sit. I just sit there and hope. I sit with my hope, you could say.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. Just grief. Lived-in. Paper-thin. There is no teeth in your silence. Not this time. There is only space for Chan to be, and that’s exactly what he does. What he gives you.

“I thought maybe if she tasted it again—just once—it’d click,” he finishes. “She’d remember me. She’d call me Channie again. I thought that would be enough.”

You want to say something. Anything. But there are places that words don’t reach, where no degree in journalism can help. Where you can hear the quiet, It was not enough.

You do what is second best.

Your hand rests over Chan’s. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate either. He just lets the warmth of your palm stay there. In fact, he stares at it as if the answer might exist in the spaces between your fingers. You have taken what he’s come to give. You’ve given what he’s asked.

He stands after a long while. The chair scrapes back with a reluctant sigh. “I should go,” he says, tight-lipped and dry-eyed despite the waver in his voice.

You rise with him. “Chan—”

“Thanks for listening.” It’s plain and simple. No frills. An echo of affection, maybe, but not the kind that demands.

You draw back. You give him grace. “Thanks for trusting me with it,” you respond.

This is where the sentence should end, where the line should break. But Chan offers you a rueful smile, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted just slightly. “You’re missing the point,” he says.

He walks away before you can ask what the point is. What’s the point of anything, really.

You’re left there at the table with its long-forgotten initials and hearts, feeling like something else is carving within you.

100% ▼ | Normal text ▼ | Arial ▼ | - 12 + | B I U A

Food is magic, because food is memory. A man named Lee Chan has tried to chase that magic for over half a year.

Minghao reads your first draft in silence.

You hate that you’re watching him instead of looking over your own work. Every flick of his red pen feels like a personal attack, even when it doesn’t land on anything at all. He’s halfway through page three when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You pick at your thumbnail. Regret it instantly. It throbs under the pressure, but the pain feels easier to manage than the tension building in your chest. When Minghao finally sets the pages down, you sit up straighter and prepare for carnage.

“It’s good,” he says simply.

You blanch. “Good?”

He nods. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Solid structure. Strong voice. A little long, but it’s got bones.”

You know you should be relieved. Instead, there’s this twisting in your gut. It’s like you ate something bad, and you try not to let it show on your face.

Minghao narrows his eyes, immediately catching on. “But?”

You try to deflect. “No but.”

“Liar.”

You deflate. “I’ve been so scared of screwing this up,” you blurt out. “Of letting you down. When you said ‘remember why you’re here,’ I thought... I don’t know. That maybe I wasn’t doing enough. That I was getting too close. That I was crossing a line.”

Minghao tilts his head. The sharpness of him softens, just a little. “You misunderstood me.”

He leans forward. Taps a finger on the table between you. “What’s the most important thing about a cookie?” he asks.

Your eyes twitch. “The... flour?”

He stares. “Okay. No,” he rephrases. “Let me rephrase. What’s the most important thing about food?”

“Salt?”

“God.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “People. It’s people.”

You stare. He continues, more gently now. “Vernon’s story about candy shone because it was about tradition. Culture. Community. The way a single sweet tied together generations. Seungkwan’s was about food tech, but really, it was about ingenuity. Human innovation in the face of resource scarcity. Even Joshua’s piece about AI ramen wasn’t just about automation. It was about how technology still tries to mimic human intuition.”

His voice is measured, but there’s something in it. A belief. The kind that only comes from loving something deeply, and for a long time. You’re silent, letting it wash over you. Letting it settle in the hollows of your chest.

“At the root of food,” Minghao continues, “behind every recipe that’s unwritten or winged, every craving, every comfort—there’s people. Someone made that dish for someone else. Or remembered it. Or passed it down.”

“The food we love is only as good as the people who make it,” he says. “The stories we tell are only as good as the people behind them.”

You don’t realize you’ve stayed quiet until Minghao looks at you with that familiar editor’s patience. The kind he uses when he knows you’re on the edge of a revelation, only needing a push.

You think of Chan. Not the cookie-searching version. Not the boy who tried and failed to track down a taste from his past. Just Lee Chan. His grin. His terrible jokes. His self-assured rhythm.

The corners of his eyes, the crumbs underneath his nails. The way his voice wavered when he talked about his grandmother. The weight he’s carried all alone. The hope, still flickering.

“I made him a punchline,” you murmur, the horror settling low in your gut. “I made him a mission.”

Minghao shrugs. “You made him a start,” he says, forgiving in a way you’re not sure you deserve. “Now you get to decide where you finish.”

You exhale. A long, unsteady breath. There’s a beat of silence. The air feels different now. Lighter, but charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks, or the second before a leap.

“I need an extension,” you declare.

Nobody asks Minghao for extensions. He runs the newsroom with military precision, and you can’t blame him. Journalism relies on clockwork—press cycles, deadlines in red pen. But you’ve come to understand that some things are bigger than that. More important. Worth going against everything you believe.

“Yeah.” You meet Minghao’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “I want to tell the story right.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he taps the table once. When he smiles, it’s slow and small. Real.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Go write something that matters.”

This time, you know what that means.

You just have one thing to do before that.

You show up to Chan’s studio and immediately wonder if this was a mistake.

He answers the door in a hoodie too big for him, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair damp like he’s just showered or maybe it’s sweat-slick from rehearsal. There’s a beat of surprise in his expression before it hardens, folding in on itself like wet origami.

“Hey,” you try, voice quiet but even.

“Hey,” he echoes, flat.

It stings more than it should. A hollow ache opens up in your chest, sharp and cold. You shift on your feet, offering a small, uncertain smile. “I have something for you.”

He raises a brow. “Unless it’s the cookie I’ve been looking for, I’m not sure I’m interested.”

You breathe through your nose. “Give me one chance,” you say, wincing at the sound of your own begging. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Chan looks at you, unreadable. For a second, you think he might actually shut the door in your face. You’d deserve it.

But then he sighs, grabs a jacket hanging from a hook behind the door, and mutters, “Lead the way.”

You’re not sure why he agreed, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe he took pity. Maybe there’s still some residual respect from the moment shared in your company cafeteria. Whatever it is, you know it’s temporary. Fleeting. One shot to get things right.

You take Chan to a co-baking studio tucked into a homely alley in Mapo-gu.

The air inside smells like vanilla and ambition. Stainless steel counters stretch out in clean lines. There’s sunlight pouring in through high, smudged windows. Rows of labeled jars—sugar, nutmeg, semisweet chocolate chips—stand like small sentinels. It’s industrial, but cozy. Clean. Bright. Full of possibility.

Chan squints. “What is this?”

“A baking studio.” You gesture around with a tilt of your head. “I booked us a session. You have everything you need to try again. One last time.”

His head snaps to you. “You want me to bake?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize I don’t know how to bake, right?”

“That makes two of us.”

You see it, then. The tiniest crack in his demeanor. The corner of his mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile surfacing, then retreating like a wave too nervous to reach the shore. He gives you the ultimatum you were already half expecting: “I’m not doing this without you.”

You sigh, mostly for show. “Fine.”

The instructor gives you two a brief rundown, gesturing toward the pre-measured ingredients and the recipe card in bold type. Then, mercifully, she disappears, leaving you alone.

The two of you pull on aprons that are slightly too big and immediately begin fumbling like contestants in a reality show neither of you signed up for. The butter isn’t soft enough. The sugar spills. Chan nearly drops an egg on the floor, and you burn your hand lightly on the oven door.

There’s flour on the counter, on your sleeves, in your hair. The vanilla extract sloshes over the measuring spoon. The dough looks more like cement than something edible.

It’s a disaster, but it’s yours.

You glance at Chan after a particularly clumsy attempt at whisking, and the two of you dissolve into laughter. It bubbles up from your chest, full and warm, like something you’d forgotten you still had in you. Chan looks startled to hear it, like he hadn’t expected joy to make an appearance.

“This is terrible,” he says, grinning despite himself.

“Objectively,” you agree, shaking your head.

His smile stays this time.

You lean over the counter to scoop a bit more flour, and in doing so, you miss the look he gives you—soft, open, maybe even wanting. He reaches out without thinking. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and sure, wiping away a smudge of flour you didn’t know was there.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do you. You don’t have to. The moment stretches, unspoken and delicate, like a string pulled tight but unbroken. There’s something in his eyes when you finally meet them. Something fragile and fierce all at once.

You look away first.

The cookies make it to the oven. You’re both perched on metal stools, watching the timer count down. The smell starts to fill the room. Warm, chocolate-laced, a little too sweet.

It’s not quite forgiveness. Not quite love, either.

But it feels like it could be.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, which translates loosely to I don’t have to be here for this.

Chan shakes his head, as if to say, You should be here.

The fluorescents of the hospital lights are unforgiving. The only warm thing in the hallway is the tupperware of cookies nestled in Chan’s death grip. Your fingers instinctively brush over his knuckles, and he loosens his hold enough to let the plastic grip.

You’re standing in front of the hospital room. Once again, you have that striking feeling that you don’t belong. That this isn’t somewhere you should be, not a story you should be a character in.

But Chan is looking at you with please written all over his face, and who are you to deny him?

Your throat works around the words. “Ready?”

He takes a shaky breath. “Give me a minute.”

You would give him the world, really, if he asked. The two of you stand side by side for a couple more moments, until Chan breaks it with words that are edged with a healthy dose of nervousness. “Do you remember the conversation we had at the cafeteria?”

You nod wordlessly in response. His eyes dart skyward for a moment. “I said you were missing the point,” he notes.

Right before he’d left. You’re missing the point.

You think of Minghao’s claws retracting enough to tell you about the people behind food. You think of the stories you’ve written, the voices that bleed into every single one of them. You think of your own mother.

You think of kitchens you’ve outgrown, and people you’ve loved, and you understand. You know, now, what the point is. To Chan’s mission. To your article. To everything.

Your hand rests at his elbow. You give it a gentle squeeze. This story is bigger than the two of you. It’s always been, hasn’t it?

Chan nods and pushes the door open.

It’s all a little clearer with context. The silver-haired woman you’d seen way back then is undoubtedly a blood relative of Chan’s. The same nose, same set of lips. She’s still unsmiling, still closed off, and the knowledge of what she’s gone through has the puzzle pieces in your mind falling into place.

She looks up when you and Chan walk in. She says nothing, though, even as Chan pauses by the door. As if he’s waiting to be yelled at, to be told to leave. It makes your heart clench in your chest.

Chan’s voice is impossibly soft as he pads further into the sunlit room. “Halmeoni,” he greets. “It’s me. I’ve brought… a friend.”

She glares at Chan, face devoid of recognition, before glancing at you. You raise your hand in an awkward wave before folding into a clumsy bow. Chan’s grandmother says nothing about your abysmal manners.

You’re a stranger to her. That adds up. But Chan being a stranger to her—

You feel the sudden urge to cry. You have to glance away from this shell of a woman lest you actually do start sobbing. This moment is not supposed to be about you.

Chan approaches her as if he were nearing a particularly skittish animal. “I’ve brought you a snack,” he says, already popping the top off the Tupperware. His fingers are shaking as he says, “Do you want to try one?”

The smell of chocolate and sugar wafts through the room. Something shifts in the old woman’s expression. The slightest twitch. You watch, wretched, as Chan perks up.

His grandmother reaches into the Tupperware. Her bony fingers bring the cookie to her mouth, and she takes the smallest of bites.

Despite having already said earlier that the cookie is nothing like the one he used to have as a kid—too sweet, too crumbly, too obviously made by someone without experience—Chan looks devastatingly hopeful. He doesn’t look his age. He looks like a child waiting in the pleats of his grandmother’s skirt, hoping to be handed the love that was his since the moment he was born.

His grandmother chews, careful and slow. Considering, you want to believe.

She keeps chewing. She takes another bite.

Nothing in her face changes.

Chan’s shoulders fall.

You’re at his side in the next moment. You don’t say anything, don’t do anything drastic. A hand at the small of Chan’s back. That’s all you offer. A reminder of what has been done, who has been loved. Despite, despite, despite.

Chan looks towards you and breathes. In, out. An inhale that bears the weight of memory. An exhale that lets the grief unravel.

“Well,” he says, managing a smile, “I guess that’s it.”

You smile back at him. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it’s not, and Chan nods, even though he doesn’t think so, either.

Chan lingers for just a couple minutes more, giving his grandmother updates about his day even though she says nothing in response. She just works her way through the cookie, blank eyes fixed on Chan as he talks about his parents and the dance studio.

Eventually, Chan catches your wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We should head out,” he says. “Visiting hours are over soon.”

You nod. You look to his grandmother who still has crumbs at the corners of her mouth.

“It was nice meeting you, halmeoni,” you say, and though you’re not quite sure why, you feel compelled to add, “Thank you.”

That, at least, makes Chan’s smile a little more genuine. Like he understands the weight of you thanking her. He keeps his hold on your wrist as you two turn away.

When his grandmother speaks, it’s with the musicality that undoubtedly runs through Chan’s veins. You catch the way her eyes crinkle—a joy that is inherited, passed down. Pressed into a grandchild’s hands at family gatherings.

“Where did you get this cookie, boy?” she asks Chan. “I think my grandson would like it.”

The cashier offers you a free cookie at the register—some kind of promotional thing—and Chan immediately shakes his head.

You glance at him. He glances back. A shared look. A brief pause. Then, unbidden, a laugh slips from your lips. It startles you in its ease. He chuckles, too.

You take the cookie, cradling it like something precious. “Old habits die screaming,” you say as the two of you slide into your seats.

Chan grins fondly. "Some things are worth keeping alive."

You sit across from each other, mugs nestled between your palms, steam curling into the space between you. The café hums around you. Low music, clinks of cutlery, snippets of conversation that blur into background noise. It acts like a privacy screen. Cocooning. Comforting. There’s a subtle stiffness to it, like a page that’s been folded one too many times.

It’s been a couple of months.

After the hospital. After your deadline. After you had to text Chan that the story was being banked for a bit, and he responded with a GIF of a cartoon otter sobbing. Romance didn’t click into place like you thought it might; it’s not like you were owed that, either. The two of you didn’t really keep in touch, but the tension nonetheless lingered in every pastry listicle, in every dance video, in every article about being one step closer to a cure for Alzheimer’s.

You were the one to eventually invite him out for coffee. You made it a point to choose a place that hadn’t been on his map, which had been a near-impossible feat.

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” he says first, thumb grazing the lip of his mug, his voice pitched low.

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “Life just shifted.”

Shifted. That’s one way to put it. Chan nods, taking the grace. “My grandmother’s back home now. Out of hospice,” he tells you.

Your breath hitches a little at that. “That’s good,” you say, and there’s nothing feigned about your enthusiasm.

“It is. I’m with her most days now. She doesn’t always know who I am, but…” He cracks the smallest of grins. “Sometimes, she smiles when I sit beside her.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, bruised kind of way. You reach across the table, let your pinky hook against his. The contact is small. It feels monumental. “I’m glad she has you,” you say.

He gives you a look you can’t quite name. It lands somewhere between gratitude and grief. “And you?” he asks, pinky curling around yours like muscle memory. “What’s the story these days?”

You shrug, take a sip of your coffee. It’s a little too hot, but you welcome the burn. It grounds you. “Got assigned something called The Joy of Food.”

Chan’s face lights up. That same rare brightness you’ve always been drawn to, like a match flaring in the dark. “That’s your Story.”

You tilt your head, smile lopsided. “You’d think so. But I’ve spent more time polishing yours.”

He mimics you. Head tilted to one side, grin crooked in an endearing, confused sort of way. “Mine?”

“It’s not ethically sound to show an interviewee the final article,” you say, trying for professionalism. Failing miserably. You’re nervous. More nervous than when you pitched the sugar conspiracy article to Minghao.

“But—” you say, “I could show my boyfriend.”

Chan’s brows shoot up so high they disappear behind his bangs. Then, he laughs. Really laughs. Wide and real, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that familiar way you’ve come to adore. It makes something in your chest loosen. “Are you asking—”

You shrug again, casual in that not-so-casual way. “Depends,” you say, too quick to be casual. “Are you saying yes?”

He leans across the table, hand sliding over yours. “Let me have a taste first,” he hums, “and then we’ll figure out the rest.”

You meet him halfway.

His lips are soft, a little coffee-warmed, a little sugar-slick. There’s a stillness to it, the kind that comes after a storm. You feel the curve of his mouth against yours, and so you let yourself smile, too. Let the kiss be nothing more than a kiss. Not a story to tell, not a metaphor for anything else.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Sweet.”

“Like cookies?”

“Even sweeter.”

You groan, but it’s affectionate. He kisses you again just to prove a point. You pull back this time, breathless and just the right amount of dizzy. “Don’t you want to see my first sentence?”

“Let me kiss my girlfriend for a little more,” he argues, mouth already chasing yours.

The Google Doc glows faintly on your phone screen beside the mugs, open but unattended. It bears the title you agonized over for weeks. The cursor blinks after the last sentence.

You don’t care if a thousand people read it, or if only one does. You don’t care if it wins awards or garners likes or clicks. It holds everything that mattered, all in a few thousand words.

It’s not your story anymore.

100% ▼ | Normal text ▼ | Arial ▼ | - 12 + | B I U A

In a Seoul hospice, there is a grandmother who loves her grandson more than anything in the world—even if she may not remember him.

385 notes · View notes

hey-dokyeom · 12 days ago

Text

you've got boba eyes, dude | lee chan

SYNOPSIS. You’ve carried nothing but bad luck bouncing between jobs. However, after managing to land a spot as a lifeguard at Carat Bay for the summer, your curiosities start to drift towards the waterpark’s prideful boba shop owner, Lee Chan, who somehow always ends up in your lane—both literally and figuratively. You came for a summer job, not to dive headfirst into a bantering game of cat and mouse. PAIRING. boba shop owner!lee chan x mat racer attendant!fem!reader (ft. soonyoung, seungkwan, vernon, a mention of joshua, & nayeon from twice) GENRE. fluff, crack/humour, slightly suggestive, enemies (more like annoyances?) to lovers WARNINGS. cursing, so much banter, bickering, and flirting between them, chan flirts like a competitive sport and yn is tired of his shit but loves it anyway, mention of weed and alcohol drinking, shirtless chan moment, kissing WORD COUNT. 11.5k

notes: this is definitely not my proudest fic, sadly not proofread and rushed and the plot was not plotting, but i hope u all enjoy nonetheless! also sorry for having not posted any fic in a while, but i promise new exciting things are coming!! this is for the @camandemstudios carat bay collab !! pls check out the other fics by the other wonderfully talented authors in the collab as well <3 i'm so happy i was able to write for dino again hehe 🥺

You certainly did not expect for your resume to land you a job at the Carat Bay Waterpark. But you would probably take anything at this point𑁋the awful luck you’ve been having with going through over a dozen dead-end gigs is enough to make even a lifeguard position of watching people belly flop off slides seem like divine intervention.

At least the uniform you have on is cute. Kind of.

You find yourself staring down the six-lane, neon-striped monstrosity of a slide, watching as kids, teenagers, and adults race down atop of foam mats at death-defying speeds. Your job? Blow your little whistle, make sure the guests adhere to the requirements, give a thumbs-up, and pray to the heavens above that no one faceplants on the way down.

The only thing worse than getting sunburnt in the literal summer heat is doing it while babysitting overly enthusiastic kids and pretending you know what you’re doing when you definitely do not. But alas, faking customer service seems to be one of your quirkiest perks when you’ve had experience juggling between three jobs back in your early college days just to pay rent.

You sigh as you rest against the post of the mat racer startling line, feeling your shirt stick to your back from sweat like industrial glue. It’s only the first day, and you have no idea how you’ll be able to get through the rest of summer without evaporating.

Then, a rag is suddenly thrown in your face, snapping you back out of your thoughts.

“Break time, girl,” Nayeon coos with a smirk as the rag falls uselessly in your lap. “Go hydrate before you traumatise some eight-year-old.”

You immediately stand up at that. “God, you’re a saint.”

Normally, it’s hard for people to make friends on the first day of the job. However, Nayeon was quick to breeze her way into your shift as if she owned the damn place. She’s already dubbed herself as your “waterpark big sister” and seems very determined to make sure you don’t die from dehydration or despair before the week is done𑁋apparently it’s common with new employees, and you’re just one of the stubborn ones who hasn’t dipped on the first day.

“Thirty minutes is kinda a lot,” You say, dabbing at the sweat on your forehead with the rag under your hat. “Got any good places to go to?”

Nayeon lets out a contemplative hum, before her face breaks into a grin as if she’s been waiting her whole life for someone to ask her this. “Do I ever!” Then she crosses her arms mischievously. “You like boba?’

“Who doesn’t like boba?”

“Well, you’re in for a treat, babe,” Nayeon replies cheekily. “Go past the Lazy River. There’s a little boba shop near the churro cart. Called Chan’s Bubble Bar.”

You snort a little. “That’s seriously what it’s called?”

“Yep, unfortunately.” Nayeon clicks her tongue. “Owner is the most insufferable boba genius and flirts like a competitive sport. So, take that as you will.”

With that cryptic warning, she excitedly shoos you off like a mom sending her kid off to kindergarten on the first day of school. You navigate past crowds of sunburnt tourists and overly sunscreened children wielding ice cream cones light lightsabers, heading past the Lazy River.

You spot the shop in question. It isn’t that hard to miss.

The sign overhead is clearly hand-painted, the letters uneven but bold. There’s a small chalkboard menu sitting right at the entrance, and your eyebrows knit together as some of the absurdly ridiculous names for drinks listed on there. Seriously, what the hell is a Don’t be Chai, Better Than My Ex, and a Trust Me, Bro drink?

Rolling your eyes, you push the door open and head inside, immediately met by the smell of sweet tapioca syrup and fresh fruits. The cool air from the air conditioning is an absolute godsend compared to the boiling sun outside. It’s a tiny space, somewhat cozy in some odd way you can’t exactly explain.

On one wall, there’s a column of colourful surfboards, and there’s a section where you spot a bunch of polaroids and neon post-it notes containing handwritten reviews from customers.

There isn’t anyone at the counter, but you hear the faint sounds of music playing from somewhere in the back𑁋the door to the back is just a bunch of hanging beads of what seem to be seashells.

You’re about to call out when a head pops up from under the counter𑁋followed by a startled yelp.

“Jesus!” You both blurt out in surprise at the same time.

You stumble back a step, and the guy straightens up. He looks around your age, his dark hair is tousled, wearing a sleeveless black top that conveniently shows off his large ass arms, a chain necklace dangling around his neck, with an apron exclaiming YES, I’M THE OWNER LEE CHAN. God, he’s built like the exact epitome of a summer fling in an awful summer YA novel. And he looks way too pleased with himself for someone who nearly gave you a heart attack.

When his eyes lock on yours, it lingers. Just a little.

“Do you live under there or something?” You ask breathlessly, clutching at your chest.

Chan grins, shaking his head. “The universe likes to break the register sometimes. Little discrimination for small business owners, I guess.” He wipes off a matcha stain on his apron. “Anyway, you don’t look like one of my regular customers. Too tense, awful posture, and lifeguard-y. First day?”

You blink at that. “That obvious, huh?”

“You radiate the whole I-just-signed-my-life-off-for-minimum-wage deal,” Chan says matter-of-factly, dramatically motioning over your figure.

You roll your eyes. “Jeez, do you always psychoanalyse your customers? Read out their horoscope descriptions or something?”

“Only the cute ones.”

You nearly choke on air at his words. Chan doesn’t even flinch, just flashes you a smug, lopsided smile like he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s cute𑁋you curse at yourself for mentally thinking that. You hate that he’s cute. And hate that you know he’s probably going to be an absolute pain in the ass for your summer.

Chan leans on the counter, clasping his hands together expectantly. “Alright, rookie, what will it be?”

You pretend to think, trailing your eyes over to another menu displayed on a little stand right next to him. All the drinks listed on there seem like they were created by an entire frat house, and you aren’t sure if it’s helping with your appetite or not. Either way, Nayeon did say he’s an insufferable boba genius.

The insufferable part is right on point.

“Surprise me,” You tell him with your arms crossed, already feeling like you’ll regret saying that.

Chan’s obnoxious grin only widens at that.

“Dangerous game,” he quips, tapping his fingers on the counter rhythmically. “Give me a few minutes to work my magic.” Then he turns to the back to yell out, “Soonyoung! Get me the watermelon popping pearls!”

There’s a sudden loud crash from the back, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone tripping. Then a few seconds later, a new guy emerges out from the curtain of seashells. His hair is half-dyed red and black, and there’s a slap of flour on his cheek that he rubs away. You watch him𑁋Soonyoung𑁋shoot a glare towards Chan, clearly showing this isn’t the first time he’s been summoned.

“Do I look like your kitchen elf, dude?” Soonyoung remarks annoyingly, grumbling under his breath.

“Hey, I pay you with unlimited access to the lychee slushies. Emotional damage is part of that too,” Chan retorts back while already preparing your mystery drink like he’s on some sort of culinary show.

Soonyoung just scoffs, teasing over the jar of tapioca pearls to Chan with the perfect underhand. He shoots a brief glance to you, then to Chan, before disappearing to the back, the beads clinging behind him.

Your eyes shift back to Chan, watching as he breezes through the process with an annoying kind of confidence. As if he’s done this a thousand times before. As if he knows this is going to impress you, which dammit, it kind of is. He shakes the cup, mixing all the mystery ingredients with a dramatic flair, his brows furrowed in concentration that should not be as attractive as it is.

When he finishes, he slides the cup over to you on the counter. It’s a swirl of pale green with watermelon tapioca pearls. You eye the drink curiously, taking it in your hands, the cold surface of the plastic cup and melting into your hand.

“Honeydew base, watermelon pearls, splash of coconut milk, and a dash of lime zest,” Chan announces like he’s showing off a Michelin-star dish. “Coined the Existential Crisis.”

He watches as you take a tentative sip of the drink.

You swear your soul nearly leaves your body. Because of course it’s good. Really damn good.

You take another sip, more confident this time, trying to not let your face betray the fact that Chan just changed your entire trajectory of your entire breaktime snack expectations. But Chan seems to see right through it, already wearing that smirk to his face.

“Holy shit.”

Chan’s face practically beams. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say it was good.”

“I believe holy shit translates to amazing.”

You feel your face flush at that. As you take another generous sip, you reach for your wallet to pull out some cash, but Chan stops you with a hand.

“It’s on the house,” he says.

You blink at him. “What? Why?”

Chan shrugs, resting his elbows atop the counter. “Consider it a welcome gift to the Carat Bay ecosystem, rookie.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him.. “Let me guess. Next time it’s twelve bucks and emotional manipulation?”

“Right on target!” Chan exclaims enthusiastically.

You shake your head, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips as you start backpedaling towards the door. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?”

“Get used to it.” Chan shoots you a wink while wiping down the counter. “See you later, rookie!”

When the door shuts behind you, you find yourself taking sips on the drink while heading your way back to your post. The thought of Chan keeps flitting back in your mind with every step that you nearly bump into a child wearing a life-sized otter floatie.

Suddenly, summer is going to get a lot more interesting.

Back in the shop, Soonyoung reappears from the back like an aunt getting ready for gossip. He leans on the counter with his arms crossed, observing Chan whistle to himself as if he didn’t just flirt his entire soul with the new employee.

“Wow, Casanova,” Soonyoung starts amusedly. “Should I start planning wedding invites?”

Chan shoots him a side-eye. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I haven’t seen you this smitten ever since that influencer chick two summers ago,” Soonyoung continues. “where you wrote her a haiku on a napkin. A fucking haiku!”

Chan groans, running a hand down his face. “First of all, that haiku came from the bottom of my heart. And second𑁋” He points towards the door where you just left a minute ago. “𑁋I was not smitten. That was polite customer service, thank you very much.”

Soonyoung snorts. “Oh, my God! You’re down bad for the rookie and you don’t even know her name! This summer is going to be lit.”

“Get back to work, hyung.”

“I am at work.”

Chan chugs a rag at the older boy before flipping him off. “I hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Romeo.” Soonyoung grins as he catches the rag with ease. “Just remember that I will be playing sad Taylor Swift songs during closing if you get heartbroken again.”

“We already play sad Taylor Swift songs during closing.”

“Exactly! I’ll just turn up the volume even more,” Soonyoung declares eagerly. He waits for a moment for Chan to retort back, but as he catches the slightly pensive look on his face, he adds reassuringly, “She’ll come back, dude.”

Chan sighs, glancing between the door and from your cup stood on the counter.

“...yeah, I hope so.”

There’s a child crying in front of you. A little girl.

You and Nayeon are staring at her like she’s the spawn of Satan.

Not because she’s done anything wrong𑁋she hasn’t, exactly. In fact, she’s probably the most tragically adorable thing you’ve seen the entire day, with her two pigtails and frilly Frozen swimsuit, her apple cheeks and eyes red from crying. She’s probably around six years old.

But you’re both attendants and clearly not trained in early-childhood emotional breakdowns. And this one is clearly at maximum level.

Nayeon leans over to you and whispers, “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” You hiss back to her. “I was just drinking my water and then bam𑁋she appeared like a ghost.”

“What is she, a Pokémon?” Nayeon rolls her eyes, before crouching down to be eye-level with the little girl. “Hi, honey, what’s your name?”

The little girl sniffles, wiping away the snot at her nose. “Jiyu.”

“Okay, Jiyu, can you tell me where your parents are?” Nayeon asks softly, but Jiyu’s lip wobbles in response, as if she’s trying to hold in another round of tears.

You glance frantically from where you’re high up on the Mat Racer post, but it’s obviously the most useless thing to do when the entire waterpark is just one big chaotic mess. You can barely spot the nearby bathrooms, so spotting a lost child’s parents is quite literally like finding a needle in a haystack. And if her parents were really trying to find her, then they clearly aren’t making themselves known.

“Mommy said… that she went to get boba,” Jiyu croaks out in a series of hiccups. “But she didn’t, um… she didn’t come back.”

“The boba shop?” Nayeon questions, trying to keep her tone light and soothing.

“The one with the big loud man,” Jiyu sniffles again, motioning in a direction that could probably mean at least fifteen different shops, but there’s really only one singular boba shop in the entire waterpark and one with a ‘big loud man’.

You swear your head almost falls off your neck.

“Chan,” You utter his name out like the universe bestowed a curse on you.

Nayeon rises up from the floor, turning toward you. “Here, I’ll radio security to see if any report has come in. You can take her to the boba shop and see if anyone recognises her, yeah?”

You groan dramatically, wanting to protest. “God, you want me to face the tier A level himbo?”

But Nayeon is already fiddling with her radio pack, her back turned towards you. And before you can say any last minute attempt to escape, Jiyu is already latched onto your leg like a barnacle, her tiny hand pulling at your finger which seems to ultimately mean that you’re officially her unofficial legal guardian for the next hour, or however long it will take for her mother to come back.

The walk is awkward, because how the hell do you talk to a six-year-old who just sobbed her eyes out at the top of Mat Racer? At one point, she quietly asks what your name is like any curious child and you respond in kind. Then you try to lighten the mood by pointing out a duck floatie that was casually floating down the stream of the Lazy River, but all Jiyu does is give a small nod and an indecipherable mumble.

Well, you tried.

You have to mentally prepare yourself with a deep breath before walking into the boba shop. You push through the door with one hand, the other clutched around Jiyu’s. You saunter past a few customers heading back outside with their illegally delicious-looking cups of boba and come to a stop right at the counter.

Unsurprisingly, Chan is whipping up another drink like he’s got a PhD in Mixology, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal his annoyingly attractive forearms. His hair appears almost damp from sweat𑁋clearly from heat, you remind yourself, not because he looks good like that. Definitely not.

When Chan turns around, his eyes lock with yours, and his face lights up in a way that’s completely unfair. Then his gaze drifts downward, catching sight of Jiyu tied to your leg like a clingy koala.

“Wow, rookie,” he starts. “Two weeks in and I find out you have a child?”

You give him a flat look. “Yes, and I was pregnant for exactly zero days.”

“Well, you’re glowing,” Chan remarks playfully. “Must be that post-pregnancy aura.”

You roll your eyes, immediately regretting every life decision you made to come here𑁋it’s clear that Chan has less of an emotional maturity than Jiyu (or so you believe). You step closer to the counter and motion helplessly to Jiyu down at your side, who is still clutching at your hand as if she’s trying to merge her existence with yours.

“She said her mom went to get boba and never showed back up, so congratulations,” You remark sarcastically. “you’re part of the mystery too.”

Chan’s eyes furrow at that, and he leans on the counter, expression softening towards Jiyu.

“Hey, kiddo, what’s your name?” he asks, and the way his voice is all of a sudden soft is enough to make your head spin in a rather… an uncomfortably comfortable way.

Jiyu shyly peeks out from behind your leg and whispers, “Jiyu.”

“What a pretty name. My name is Chan,” Chan coos, and the smile he wears isn’t that familiar shit-eating one, but gentler, slightly lopsided. “Jiyu, do you remember what your mom was wearing?”

“Um…” Jiyu begins warily, glancing up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers. “Flower… A flower hat!”

You let out a useless groan. “That’s, like, seventy-percent of the moms in this entire waterpark.”

“Yikes. Fortunately I did have a lady come in here wearing that exact description,” Chan says with confidence. “But she came in as fast as she left𑁋said she had to take a phone call and then ran out after I finished making her drink.”

Your feet threaten to sink into the floor. “Great.”

Chan only chuckles, turning his attention back toward Jiyu. “Well, Jiyu, since rookie here𑁋” He gestures toward you. “𑁋is clearly incompetent, what do you say you help me make a drink, yeah? Your mom will be coming back soon, I promise.”

You watch𑁋half-amused and half-terrified𑁋as Jiyu slowly lets go of your hand to toddle her way into the employee’s side of the counter, seemingly accepting the boy’s trust way more than what you’ve given her in the past fifteen minutes. Chan helps Jiyu climb up a small step stool that for some reason he already had, as well as helping her put on some kid-sized apron that’s about three times her size, like this isn’t the first time a kid had seized control of his shop.

“Jesus, are you Mary Poppins or something?” You taunt snarkily, crossing your arms together.

“Unlike you, I seem to actually care about a child’s well-being more than anything else,” Chan retorts, before turning back to Jiyu. “Alright, Jiyu, what’s your favourite color?”

Jiyu motions towards a particular syrup in front of her. “Pink!”

“Isn’t this equivalent to child labour?” You ask mindlessly.

“Only if you report it,” Chan replies, and you can already see his smirk without him having to turn around. He hands Jiyu a spoon, and she grasps it with her tiny hands in pure wonder. “But I’d say it’s morally justifiable if she walks out with a smile.”

You shake your head at that, but can’t draw your eyes away from how Jiyu and Chan are interacting𑁋the two of them going back in forth about the drink, Chan letting her pick whatever toppings she wants, and Jiyu giggling every time Chan exaggerates about how much talent she has for a little girl. At one point, Jiyu asks for your input on the drink, and you suddenly find yourself being a boba shop worker for three minutes.

It’s infuriating and adorable all at once. Infuriatingly adorable.

About twenty minutes later, Nayeon texts you that they found the mother in question, and that she was on her way to pick up Jiyu. And right now, Jiyu is sitting beside you on a bench outside the boba shop, sipping on her drink that she and Chan firmly called The Pink Princess Special, which was now a new addition to the menu.

You’re about five minutes into zoning out when a drink is suddenly shoved in front of your face.

“For the babysitter,” Chan says smoothly.

You blink up at him, before taking the cold cup in your hands. Then he sits down right next to you for God knows why, his kneecap briefly brushing against yours.

“So, rookie,” he begins, and you already know you aren’t going to like this. “Do I finally get to know your name?”

You take a sip of the drink, and the refreshing flavour of mango strikes at your tongue, immediately cooling off your body. “No.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Chan whines. “Don’t I deserve to know the girl I co-parented a child with for the past hour?”

You shoot him a glare. “If you ever said that in a courtroom, you’re getting your ass beat.”

“That’s not very co-parental of you.”

“Oh, my God, stop calling us co-parents𑁋”

“Are you two married?” Jiyu’s small, curious voice suddenly cuts in.

You’ve never whipped your head around so fast in your life. You nearly choke on your mango drink.

Chan lets out an amused laugh. “What do you think, Jiyu? Do we look like we’re married?”

You swear your one word away from kicking Chan’s shin into the Lazy River, because you absolutely do not look like a couple. Not even close, not even in a way that would be cute in a cheesy coming-of-age movie. But of course, the oblivious, honest, and unfiltered six-year-old beats you to the punch.

Yes, it’s sort of true you’ve been avoiding telling him your name like it’s the plague. It really isn’t for a particular reason𑁋okay, maybe there is kind of a reason, but that’s none of his business. Besides, giving your name to him feels like an ego boost that he doesn’t deserve to have. It’ll definitely be a weapon for him to wield against you.

A really annoying, charming, effective weapon.

“You two argue like my mommy and daddy,” Jiyu chirps, sipping on her drink while her little legs swing back and forth on the bench. “And then they kiss right after.”

You’re about to fling your drink into the burning sun. Getting sweeped up by a tsunami doesn’t seem to be the worst thing to happen right now, or perhaps time travelling back to the moment you chose to enter the boba shop and instead hurl yourself into the wave pool.

Chan is practically vibrating right next to you, wheezing his lungs out in a fit of laughter. Gosh, does his laugh have to be the most insufferable sound you’ve ever heard? Why does it have to be so infectious, loud, and make your stomach do a flip one too many times?

“Jiyu, that’s…” Your voice trails off, because you honestly don’t know what to say to that.

Chan wipes away a fake tear rolling down his eye. “Man, I love this kid.”

“Of course you do,” You shoot back with narrowed eyes. “Probably bribed her or something.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Chan quips. “With the low price of tapioca pearls and a spot on being Employee of the Month.”

You scoff. “Don’t you literally have only, like, two people working there?”

“Exactly. It makes the competition fiercer.” Chan offers you a wink in return.

Right next to you, Jiyu glances curiously between the two of you, innocently sipping on her drink as she wears a deceptively sweet smile. And just as you and Chan are continuing to bicker, there is an almost-near bombshell that drops right at your feet.

“Mr. Big Loud Guy, I know her name!” she exclaims excitedly. “She told me her name when we were walking!”

Chan raises a brow and leans in, and he’s close enough for you to smell the faint scent of brown sugar and fruit syrup. His knee brushes against yours again. It should be illegal for him to be blessed with looking like that all while being able to easily entertain a child right under his fingertips.

“Oh, the betrayal,” he gasps, clutching at his chest theatrically. “Hey, Jiyu, if you tell me her name I’ll make sure you can make another drink on my menu.”

You barge in immediately, clenching your teeth together as you nudge him with your shoulder. “Jiyu! Want to see me spill my drink in his pants? Then I can𑁋”

“Her name is Y/N!”

That’s it. You’re going to die right here, right now. But your death isn’t caused by a heatstroke or dehydration𑁋no, it’s from complete and utter embarrassment, caused by a six-year-old Cupid in disguise and a boy with large forearms and an unnecessarily attractive laugh.

Chan shifts his eyes back to you, and you catch the mischievous glint that shines in his pupil that’s definitely not from the sun. As he’s about to open his mouth, you quickly shut him up with an aggressive shhh, which promptly translates to shut the fuck up.

“One word out of your mouth and I’m filing a restraining order.”

But Chan obviously doesn’t play by the rules.

“Y/N,” he drawls, and you don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him just to shut him up. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N…”

“Isn’t it a pretty name?” Jiyu beams from the side, not fully realising the hole she just shoved you in.

You groan audibly, burying your face in the palm of your sweaty hand, because of course the child you emotionally stabilised and trudged through an entire waterpark with has betrayed you in the most lethal way possible. Throwing yourself into the Lazy River doesn’t seem enough𑁋you’d rather willingly fall into the koi pond so all the fish can nibble away at your pride and sanity.

“It is pretty,” Chan responds smugly, though you swear there’s that pinch of softness too, as if he actually means it. You feel your face burn hotter, unsure if it’s completely from embarrassment or something else. “Y/N. Kinda rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

“I liked you better when you didn’t know it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“You’re right. I didn’t like you at all.”

“Okay, but you do look like a Y/N.”

“What does that even mean?” You counter back with a scowl. “Are you saying I look like a noun?”

Chan tilts his head, pretending to think. “A… pretty noun.”

You turn your head sharply to hide the way your lips threaten to twitch upward at that. You’re not smiling𑁋you’re actually frowning so hard your face might as well crumble apart in pieces. And that warm, fluttery feeling that blooms in your chest? Oh, it’s just good old classic indigestion from how impossibly delicious this mango boba is.

A frantic voice suddenly cuts through your thoughts. Thank the heavens.

“Jiyu!” There’s a panicked woman running up in your direction, her flower hat nearly falling off her hand from how rushed she is.

Jiyu immediately springs up from the bench and hops onto the ground, dashing into her mother’s arms. “Mommy!”

The woman catches Jiyu in her arms with a relieved gasp, sinking down to her knees. “Oh, sweetheart, I was so worried𑁋are you okay?”

“Yes! I made two new friends!” Jiyu motions over to you and Chan. “And we made a drink together!”

At that moment, you and Chan exchange a look with each other. It’s clear that the two of you obviously didn’t mean to, but it still happens. It lingers for a moment too long to be brushed off as pure coincidence.

The mother lets out a barrel of apologies before smiling to the both of you. “Thank you both so much. I was so worried!”

“She was in good hands,” Chan says gratefully, standing up casually and pretending that he wasn’t just blackmailing a child for your name two minutes ago. “Made a killer drink for the menu, probably the next bestseller.”

Jiyu’s mom chuckles, standing up and reaching down to hold the little girl’s hand, mimicking a waving action. “Say thank you, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Y/N! Thank you Mr. Big Loud Guy!” She gives the two of you a precious, delightful wave before walking in the opposite direction, still clutching the drink in her hands as if it’s a memory she knows she’ll cherish.

Gosh, no matter how nightmarish kids are these days, your heart still feels full knowing you made at least one’s day better.

But then you remember that Chan is still next to you. Yet, your heart doesn’t seem to want to deflate from the thought of that.

“I say we make a great team,” he inputs with a cheesy grin.

You roll your eyes. “No, you were better with her than me.”

“Is… is that a compliment I smell?” Chan eyes you up and down with suspicion.

“I’m sure a straw through your head would compliment you dearly.”

“Romantic.”

You flip him off over your shoulder as you’re walking away to return back to your post. You cannot wait to explain all the shit that’s happened in the past thirty minutes and explain to your supervisor why the hell you were gone for so long.

“See you later, Y/N!” You hear Chan call you from behind.

You’re not smiling.

You’re definitely not smiling.

God, you’re so screwed.

So, you can probably say the past month of working at the waterpark has been… chaos. Just pure, unrelenting chaos.

On one side of the deep end, you have to deal with screaming toddlers afraid to go down the giant Mat Racer slide; and on the other side of the deep end, you have to suffer through hearing a particular boy’s annoyingly perfect laugh.

You’ve really tried to not think about Chan and all your interactions thus far. Either way, he probably does this with nearly every other worker he comes across𑁋flirts a lot, teases a lot, gets under their skin a lot. Maybe you’re not that special. Maybe you’re just another Wednesday at Carat Bay for him.

But why does the thought make your heart ache?

Chan may have the ego and confidence the size of a fucking mountain, but the worst part is that he knows what he’s doing. He knows the effect he has on people, on you. And somehow, he’s become a permanent fixture in your shifts𑁋whether it’s by bickering with you until the end of time, or by secretly sending you over free drinks to your stand (where you have to joy to watch Nayeon get jealous).

“Is he always like this?” You ask Soonyoung as you’re sipping on a drink on Chan’s menu called the Don’t Be Chai. “Like, is he always a pain in the ass?”

Soonyoung raises a brow at you from the other side of the counter. Chan was currently out in the back during inventory or whatever with his sleeves rolled up like the menace to society he is. You finally clocked out of your shift and decided to hopelessly confide in the boy’s henchman, which may or may not be the best idea at all.

“I’ve dealt with his ass for the past ten years,” Soonyoung says while wiping down the counter. “Trust me, it gets better.”

Your posture straightens. “Does it?”

“No, it gets worse.”

You slump back in the seat.

Soonyoung lets out a small laugh as he slowly drags the rag from one end of the counter to the other.

“But you know, you get used to it,” he adds. “Teasing is like his love language or whatever.”

You blink up at him. “His what?”

“His love language.” Soonyoung repeats, giving a casual shrug. “That little shit would rather piss his pants than say ‘I like you’, so instead he’ll annoy you into oblivion. Behind those dumbass eyes? He cries to strangers’ wedding proposals on TikTok.”

You almost choke on your drink at that. “No way in hell.”

“Oh yeah! I wish I was kidding.” Soonyoung’s practically beaming at this point. “Man tries to keep his little hopeless romantic heart lowkey though. But the second you say anything genuine to him? His brain absolutely short-fucking-circuits.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to process everything.

“He’s probably like this with everyone, you know,” You mutter quietly, trying to hide behind the rim of your drink as if it’ll save you.

This earns you a loud scoff from Soonyoung. “Trust me, dude, I know him like the lines on the back of my hand.” And then he stares at you, trying to decipher the contemplative look to your face. “Do you like him?”

You blink again, then look away. It’s safer, probably𑁋less revealing.

“I think I’d rather swallow pool water,” You counter back, but it’s useless.

“So… that’s a yes.”

“That is not a yes.”

“It sounds like a yes in my vocabulary.”

You groan defeatedly, because of course this boba shop is run by idiots.

“If you say a word of this to Chan, I will throw my drink in your face the next time I see you,” You threaten, holding a tight grip around the cup like a weapon.

Soonyoung holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I swear on his fourth grade spelling bee participation award.”

You scrunch your face up at that. “He has one?”

“Yeah. It was pure trauma. He refuses to spell the word onomatopoeia to this day.”

The image of a young Chan shaking in front of a large crowd while probably trying not to break down swearing vengeance on the spelling deities makes you laugh𑁋an unguarded, stupidly fond laugh.

Unfortunately, it’s the exact moment when Chan walks back inside too.

He emerges from the curtain of beads, wiping his hands on a towel and raising an eyebrow between the two of you. His hair is a fluffed up mess, his sleeves rolled out as usual, and there’s a faint smudge of something sugary on his cheek. His dumb, pretty cheek.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, throwing the towel over his shoulder.

You can feel his annoyance radiating onto you, but all you do is lean in slightly on the counter, still giggling. “Hey, Chan, can you spell ‘onomatopoeia’?”

Chan gasps as if you’ve offended every cell in his body, and he turns to Soonyoung with a glare. “You told rookie about the bee, didn’t you?”

“It’s a core memory, how could I not?” Soonyoung retorts back. “You stuttered so hard up there the judges thought you spelled it with three m’s and eliminated you.”

“Oh, my God,” Chan groans, dragging his hand up and down his sweaty face. “I’m going to fucking sue you both for emotional damages.”

This only makes you laugh even harder, barely noticing the way Chan is practically staring at you while you do so. He’s wearing that dumb grin on his face, and you swear that if you look close enough, there’s a flush creeping up his neck as well. But you’re too busy relishing the fact that for once, you aren’t on the small end of the stick this time.

As your laughter resides, you finally meet Chan’s eyes again. He’s just standing there, and you find yourself considering your next move.

This is probably a very stupid idea.

“You got a little thing up there,” You say, motioning to the spot on your cheek.

Chan blinks a few times, before swiping up at his face on the wrong side.

“Nope,” You say amusedly, the tone of your voice a little more sweeter. “Other side.”

He tries again, but misses the spot by about three millimetres.

You roll your eyes, straightening your posture and taking a few giant steps around the counter before you’re quite literally standing in front of him. And before he can try a third time, you lean in and swiftly swipe your finger over his cheek to wipe it off yourself.

Everything stills the second your skin touches his. His breath audibly hitches as if something got lodged in his throat. His entire body tenses up and freezes. His eyes lock with yours like a deer caught in headlights.

“There,” You mutter, thumb lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Much better, you helpless idiot.”

Chan simply stands there like someone cut through his neural pathways enough to paralyse him on the spot. His mouth is practically hanging open, and his ears are reddening. Reddening. You’ve never seen him like this𑁋and you’ve never felt so damn proud for putting him in his place for once.

He watches as you grab your bag and your drink before starting in the direction of the door as if you didn’t just completely knock the wind out of his lungs.

“Good luck on closing tonight, boys.” You give both Chan and Soonyoung a wave while pushing the door open, eyes lingering a little longer on Chan before stepping outside into the evening night.

Soonyoung waits exactly five seconds after the door closes to burst into a fit of laughter.

“You have fucking boba eyes, dude,” he cackles, slapping a hand down on the counter. “Your brain just went 404, holy shit!”

Chan’s system is still buffering. He picks up his head slowly, still staring at the door half-expected for you to come back, but you don’t. “Did that just happen?”

“Oh, it happened, loverboy. It so happened.”

As you’re heading back to your car, innocently sipping on your drink, you can’t help but smile to yourself.

Because you learned two things today:

Teasing may be Chan’s love language, but flirting back to him?

That might be his kryptonite.

The next time you come into the boba shop, it’s on your off day.

You didn’t really mean to come here, honestly. But one of your college friends seemed way too adamant to get a sugar overload than you.

You were lucky to not be one of the chosen few attendants to be scheduled in the middle of a heatwave on a Saturday, which apparently meant that more than half the town collectively decided to seek refuge from the sun in the same ten-square-metre bubble tea shop.

Seungkwan drags you by the arm like he’s absolutely possessed. When he pushes through the door, the shop is quite… chaotic. The buzz of blenders fill the room, the scent of sugar and syrup more dizzying than ever. You find yourself having the urge to turn around, but Seungkwan just tightens his grip around your wrist.

“Come on, Y/N!” he whines, and you nearly trip as he pulls you back inside.

Seungkwan pulls you into the line of impatient customers. Okay, maybe you do feel a little bit bad that this place is run by only two idiots and it’s the peak of rush hour, but there’s no going back, and Seungkwan is actively scanning over the strange, questionable names listed on the menu.

“Trust me, Bro? Delulu Is The Solulu? Better Than My Ex?” Seungkwan reads off the names with a snort. “Rizz Me Up? What kind of deranged romantic named these drinks?”

You let out a sigh. “Chan.”

“Your Chan?”

“I𑁋He’s not my Chan,” You correct far too quickly.

Seungkwan gives you the most suspicious, skeptical, that-was-a-damn-lie-and-you-know-it look with his eyes. You could only face away from him for your sake and sanity, praying that this would just be a quick get-your-drinks and leave experience.

But the moment it becomes you and Seungkwan’s turn to order, you know that you’re going to be staying far longer than intended.

Chan doesn’t realise it’s you at first. His entire brain might have already turned to mush with the amount of customers he’s had to make drinks for in the past three hours. So when he approaches the counter like a customer service zombie on autopilot, he gives his scripted greeting without looking up.

“Welcome to Chan’s Bubble Bar, what can I get for𑁋”

And then he sees you.

His brain malfunctions again.

Because you’re standing there, clearly not in your uniform, clearly not in shift, and clearly looking way too good to be accompanied by some random guy he doesn’t recognise, whose arm is clearly wrapped snugly around yours.

The smile on his face fades before it could even fully form.

“Oh, hey, Y/N,” he murmurs. “Off-day?”

You give a shrug. “Yeah, off-day. Heard the weather was going to melt us all alive, so naturally, I got dragged here for a cold treat.”

Chan’s eyes flicker down to where Seungkwan’s hand is still comfortably looped around your arm. And maybe it’s the heat, or maybe it’s the fact he’s made at least fifty drinks in the past hour, but something prickles sharply underneath his skin.

It’s subtle, but enough for you to notice anyway𑁋the slight twitch at his lips, the tic of his jaw, the very unsubtle glance he shoots between you and Seungkwan. For some reason, it’s kind of… adorable. In some tragic, jealous-boy way.

“What can I get for you both?” Chan asks, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“Hmm…” Seungkwan presses his lips together. “You know, I really have questions about your unhinged drink names. But I’ll take the Delulu Is The Solulu. Put extra tapioca because I do not fear death.”

“One Delulu Is The Solulu…” Chan punches in the order on the register with a bit too much force under his fingertips. Then he looks at you. “And for you, rookie?”

You think for a moment, before smiling at him. “Surprise me.”

He stares at you for a few seconds as if you’ve just said something in a foreign language. Then he repeats what you’ve both ordered under his breath, punching a few buttons on the register, before giving the two of you a flat nod.

“Order number forty-nine. It’ll be out in a few minutes. Next in line!” he exclaims, flicking the receipt from the printer and tossing it in you and Seungkwan’s faces𑁋you barely manage to catch it before Seungkwan pulls you to the side.

You and Seungkwan both find yourself standing at the corner of the shop. From where you stand, you watch as Chan swiftly makes his drinks in his usual decorum, but it’s quite obvious to see how he’s a bit… on edge, turning his little bubble tea shop into his personal Hell’s Kitchen. You see how he pours the syrup and shakes the cups a bit too aggressively as if they’ve personally offended his ancestors.

“Goodness, did you see how he glared at me?” Seungkwan nudges you while whispering. “He looked like he wanted to throw a blender in my face. His cortisol levels must be through the roof.”

You try not to smile. You really do. “That’s just his customer service face.”

“Right, Sherlock. And I’m fucking Beyoncé, babe,” Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “I swear, if he bursts a blood vessel and it gets in my drink I will be suing.”

“Trust me, Boo. His drinks are amazing.” You assure to your heart’s content, because you’re not wrong𑁋his drinks have changed your entire world and standards on boba, honestly.

It takes about five minutes for your drinks to be made. A bell dings across the shop.

“Order forty-nine!” Chan’s voice loudly bounces off the walls of the shop.

You and Seungkwan head over to the counter where Chan places two drinks on top. The first one he sets down a bit too roughly the contents inside the cup of shake, but for the second one, he places it down more softly, sliding it over to you directly.

Seungkwan’s drink looks aggressively pink and filled with an abundance of tapioca pearls, nearly resembling some sort of rogue science experiment gone wrong. On the other hand, yours appears carefully crafted. The base colour is clearly your favourite fruit, topped with rainbow pearls, lychee popping boba, and a perfect drizzle of cream foam𑁋with the addition of a tiny heart drawn in the foam.

Cute.

Seungkwan takes an experimental sip of the drink, face wrinkling from the sweetness, before his eyes widen.

“Holy shit, this is good,” he huffs out with a laugh. “I’m definitely waking up with a sugar high the next morning, but damn, it hits the spot! But seriously, fourteen bucks?”

Chan shrugs from behind the counter. “Sorry, charged a little extra for yours with a flirting tax.”

You nearly spit out your drink on the first sip, and not because it’s bad𑁋it’s far from bad actually, practically perfection, but the absolute deadpan of a delivery from Chan was not what you expected at all.

Seungkwan chokes on his boba beside you. “I’m sorry, buddy, a flirting tax? What kind of emotionally repressed, capitalism-driven nonsensical softboy shit𑁋”

Chan just shrugs again, busying himself with wiping down the counter, but you can clearly tell he’s enjoying this. “Just doing my job, man.”

You’re trying very, very hard not to laugh, biting down on your lip to stifle the grin threatening its way across your features. Seungkwan looks like he’s about to jump over the counter Mission Impossible style to throw hands, while Chan just wears his familiar and annoyingly smug expression, clearly satisfied in the most petty way possible.

“Jeez, dude, trust me I am not trying not to steal your girl,” Seungkwan adds defensively, choosing violence as always. “And yes, for the record, she talks about you so much I’m going to need some earplugs.”

At that, Chan finally looks up, fingers halting mid-swipe. A flicker of surprise, then triumph, flashing past his eyes.

“She talks about me?” he asks slowly, carefully.

“The hell she does,” Seungkwan continues, seemingly completely unfazed by the way you feel like you’re boiling from the side, the coldness from your drink not helping at all. “At this point, I’ve memorised your entire birth chart because of her, and there’s clearly some sexual ten𑁋”

“Alright, Boo, I get it! You need love and attention!” You interject quickly, elbowing him in the ribs hard enough to make him shut up and wince. “Go to the timeout corner right now.”

Seungkwan merely chuckles proudly, skipping off to the corner with his overly sugary drink in hand. Of course your best friend just had to nearly ruin everything. You watch as Seungkwan stands at the side, beaming at the two of you with popcorn-level interest, before you turn back to Chan with a sigh.

He’s still staring at you, a small smile playing on his lips. It’s still laced with his annoying pride, yet there’s also something undeniable soft about it too. He opens his mouth to speak, but you swiftly put a hand up.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” You tell him.

Chan just smirks. “Too late.” Then he leans in on the counter. “You talk about me?”

You glance away for a second, the smile on your face refusing to fade. “Are you going to be more insufferable if I said yes?”

“Absofuckinglutely.”

You snort at that. Briefly, you glance down at the curated heart in the foam, then back up at Chan. Warmth bubbles between the crevices of your ribs.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” You admit quietly, masking away the confession with a sip of your drink.

Chan blinks, caught off-guard. “What?”

But you’re already turning on your heel to give him a proper response, instead only leaving him hanging with a, “Have a good rest of your day, Chan.”

He’s left standing there limply as you and Seungkwan slip your way through the door and back outside.

But then, a wide victorious smile crosses his face. It’s enough to fully recharge his energy and his heart.

The faint scent of weed and alcohol mixes in with the overwhelming smell of chlorine.

There’s this little staff-only after gathering at the waterpark. So far, it’s been nothing but gloriously chaotic𑁋a completely unregulated event where you and your fellow attendants, lifeguards, and store owners can cannonball off slides and utilise the waterpark attractions with zero supervision.

You expect Chan and Soonyoung to be here somewhere, but you haven’t seen either one of them at all this entire time. But to be fair, you have been sticking with Nayeon and a few other attendants in the lazy river for the past hour, floating down the stream on floaties with about three different brands of canned beers in your hands.

And honestly? You’re content. A little tipsy, damp, and relaxed in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

Fifteen minutes later, you𑁋and about fifteen other people𑁋are gathered in a circle in a wide picnic area near the cabanas. Beach towels, lounge chairs, and even floaties are all being used as makeshift seating. All of you are being obnoxiously loud, sharing various horror stories about the now closed waterpark with one another, and clearly very buzzed.

You’re currently sitting on your own beach towel, water dripping off your hair and body and onto the ground below. As you take another sip from your can, a sudden shadow looms above you.

“Hey, rookie.” The voice is immediately recognisable, and you look up to see him𑁋Chan, very much topless and sporting a pair of swimming trunks, a towel over his shoulder, and water glistening off his skin like he’s the epitome of a TikTok thirst trap that came to life. You take in the view for a second too long.

Your brain short-circuits for a moment. “Hey yourself.”

Chan drops down beside you on the towel, clicking open a can of beer for himself that he takes a long sip of before sitting it back down on the ground.

“You having fun?” he asks.

You chuckle lightly, nodding your head. “Yeah. Is this, like, a yearly thing or?”

“Sort of this team-bonding tradition that we have every year,” he affirms. “Helps us veterans get to know the newbies𑁋you know, like you𑁋a bit more. And a way to destress from this absolute shitstorm of a summer so far.”

Your fingers tap rhythmically against your can. “Hm, I don’t know. I’m starting to like this shitstorm of a summer.”

Chan turns to you, eyes beaming. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You meet his eyes momentarily, before shooting your gaze back down to your diamond-patterned towel and taking in a deep breath. “I’ve never enjoyed any of my other past jobs until this, you know. Thought I’d hate having to order kids around, but I guess seeing them scream their asses down a slide for eight hours straight is more appealing than you think.”

A laugh leaves Chan𑁋a full-on, unfiltered sound𑁋and it makes something inside you feel warm and fuzzy, and it’s definitely not entirely from the alcohol.

“Well, I’d say you’re quite a natural,” he says, playfully nudging you with his shoulder. “You ever think about… coming back next year?”

You have thought about it. After all, you did only apply for the summer position temporarily, because the pay is average and you��re getting closer to graduating with a degree that could hopefully land you in a full-time job. But you aren’t lying that the thought of leaving when the summer ends is a bit, well… disappointing.

Before you can answer his question, Soonyoung’s voice booms out from somewhere.

“Spin the bottle, truth or dare edition, losers! Everyone’s playing!”

A collection of groans and cheers leap into the air. You and Chan stand up to bring the towel closer to the circle, settling in between Nayeon and this other lifeguard named Vernon from the Wave Pool.

The bottle𑁋an empty, hastily-rinsed Sprite glass bottle𑁋sits in the very centre.

“Everyone should know the rules by now: spin the bottle, ask the person it lands on truth or dare, and if they don’t answer or do the dare then they take a shot,” Soonyoung explains enthusiastically, clasping his hands together like some sort of cartoon villain.

Soonyoung is the first to spin the bottle. He spins fast enough to have it roll off-centre. You watch as it slows to wobble, and you purse your lips together in anticipation at the odds of it landing on you, but it doesn’t.

It lands on Vernon.

“Alright, Wave Pool Prince.” Soonyoung turns towards Vernon with a mischievous grin. “Truth or dare?”

Vernon thinks for a moment, before casually answering, “Dare.”

“I dare you to call your ex and ask them on a date,” Soonyoung insists with confidence.

Vernon sighs, and you, Chan, and everyone else watches as he pulls out his phone, scrolls a few times, before bringing it up to his ear. You hear your other coworkers let out shouts and laughter of disbelief.

“Hey,” Vernon says into the phone, clearing his throat. “I was just calling to ask𑁋hypothetically𑁋if you wanted to go on a date with me?”

There’s a pause.

Then he nods. “Oh, cool. Yeah, uh… are you free this Monday?”

A collective gasp ripples through the air. Vernon puts down his phone and shrugs.

“She said sure.”

Soonyoung’s jaw drops to the floor. “What the hell? I wish my ex was as receptive as yours.”

It’s Vernon’s turn to spin the bottle, but he doesn’t spin it with much force. It only spins one entire lap around the circle before stopping right at Nayeon, literally just a hardly an inch from it landing on you.

“Shit,” she mutters, adjusting her bikini top like she was preparing to fight war.

Vernon chuckles lightly. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Nayeon answers.

Vernon leans back on his palms, trying to think of a proper truth to ask. A curious, yet devilish look runs across his face.

“Is it true I saw you hooking up with that one dude who works at the bar in the breakroom last week?”

Nayeon’s eyes nearly bulge out of her skull, and you nearly choke on your drink. You see the way she attempts to keep a straight face, but the guilt at her lips is far too obvious𑁋even a little kid could see she was hiding something.

“Okay, fine. He was cute, okay?!” she declares in embarrassment. “And I was hella stressed!”

Vernon just raises his can of beer toward her. “Honestly, respect, dude.”

Nayeon grumbles something under her breath before defeatedly clinking her own glass against his.

A few more rounds pass by, the truths and dares getting more absurd by the second. Another lifeguard named Joshua was dared to go skinny dipping in the Lazy River, but lamely declined it with a shot. Soonyoung, ever the partygoer, chose dare on pretty much every single time the bottle landed on him, even accepting one to do a cannonball in the shallow bit of the pool𑁋which thankfully, he didn’t break anything.

It’s Soonyoung’s turn again to spin the bottle. He gives it one wild spin, and everyone watches as it whirls around the centre, sending leftover droplets of water flying off its sides. It clinks against the concrete underneath, twirling a few times around the group.

It slows, wobbles a few times, and finally…

…lands on Chan.

“Fucking finally!” Soonyoung whoops excitedly, using his entire body to turn to Chan. “Channie boy, truth or dare?”

Chan pauses. There’s two ways out of this: choose truth and take the easy way out by letting Soonyoung ask him something stupid, or take the dare and do something stupid. Neither option seems exactly appealing at all. It’s Soonyoung, after all.

For a second, he glances at you, sitting there and waiting patiently for him to answer, while the chant of the word dare floats tauntingly around him. He throws his head back with a groan, giving Soonyoung a challenging look.

“You already know what I’m going to pick.”

“Dare it is,” Soonyoung quips gleefully. “I dare you to kiss the prettiest person in the circle right now. On the lips.”

There’s an eruption of absurd laughter at the dare. Chan feels a lump that he struggles to swallow down his throat, his expression frozen with a mixture of you’ve got to be fucking with me right now and I’m going to kill you, Kwon Soonyoung.

He lets his instinctively gaze sweep around the circle, taking in everyone else’s expectant faces. But obviously, he doesn’t even need to consider anyone else in the circle𑁋there’s only one person, and one person only that he has in mind.

His eyes linger on you beside him a little longer.

You, sitting there with strands of wet hair stuck to your cheek. You, who came into Carat Bay with the grumpiness of an owl and wormed your way into his heart from the very first day that you met. You, who always left his boba shop flipping him yet still seemed to be the highlight of his day. You, who makes him feel like the dumbass protagonist in a summer flick.

You, who is also looking at him right at this damn moment, as if you already know what he’s thinking.

Chan leans in just a tiny bit, gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up to your eyes again. Your breath hitches at the imperceptible movement, as if maybe, just maybe, he was going to do it.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol buzzing through his veins, or the look you’re giving that’s encouraging him to shove down all his nerves and just do it. But instead, he leans back, letting out a short, awkward, breathless laugh. He reaches for the bottle of soju next to Vernon’s feet and swallows down a long swig.

It burns down his throat, and he allows the taste to distract him from the way your eyes are still on him.

“Ugh, lame!” Soonyoung wails disappointingly. “That could’ve been your moment, dude!”

Right next to him, you’re quiet. You don’t say anything. You can’t tell if what you’re feeling is relief, or disappointment. You give him a tiny nudge on the knees with your own, and he doesn’t look back up at you, though you can clearly see the tight-lipped smile on his face.

From then, the game continues. The bottle spins. The dares become more scandalous. But Chan feels like he’s watching it from somewhere far away.

“Get home safe, girl!” You hear Nayeon call back to you from where you’re packing up your belongings.

“See you tomorrow!” You holler back, watching as the girl’s figure retreats in the direction of the parking lot.

Everyone else has left at this point. The waterpark has grown completely quiet, except for the sounds of crickets chirping and the gentle gurgle of water in the nearby pools. Chan has also left, though you didn’t specifically see him leave. Disappointment crawls up your skin as you swing your bag over your shoulder and grab an extra can of beer for the hell of it before starting your way out of the waterpark.

You pass by the closed shops, stands, and attractions, knowing that you’re most likely leaving by the time summer ends, which is approaching way quicker than you needed it to be.

You pause in front of Chan’s shop, the sign stating Chan’s Bubble Bar looming above you. All the lights are off inside, and you hardly ever thought how peaceful this place must be at night. Or chaotic, rather𑁋it’s easy to imagine Chan and Soonyoung being the dumbasses they are closing the shop late and creating new experimental drinks for the menu.

You smile at the thought.

You’re halfway across the bridge that overlooks the Lazy River when at the corner of your eye, you spot some movement. Your footsteps come to a halt, and you squint down to see something𑁋specifically, someone𑁋floating atop the water.

There, drifting down the slow current of the Lazy River, is Chan. His arms are spread out like wings over the water, head tilted to stare up towards the night sky. Compared to all your interactions and countless moments of bickering, it’s oddly serene to see him there just… living.

You snort a little under your breath, amused, and wholeheartedly decide to screw it.

You dash your way down to the Lazy River, stopping at a point where he was slowly floating towards. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

“I can’t tell if you’re dead or just lost in thought.”

The sound of his voice quickly catches his attention, and he picks his head up to notice you standing there with your arms crossed, watching him with a small smile. Chan swiftly adjusts his position, his legs shooting under the water as he paddles himself to stay afloat.

“Didn’t peg you for a midnight swim kind of guy,” You say, dropping your bag down on the floor.

“Yeah? Well, the more you know,” he quips back playfully. “I thought you were already gone.”

“I was leaving until I saw this dumbass floating here by himself,” You admit teasingly. “Mind if I joined you?”

Chan opens his mouth to answer, having this urge to say no, but quickly shuts himself up as he watches you peel your shirt off and throw it to the side, revealing the same swimsuit you’ve had on since earlier. He averts his eyes hastily, feeling the current pick up just slightly as you ease yourself into the pool.

“Hey,” You greet him, making him spin his head back around just to freeze when he realises how close you’ve swam up to him.

He tenses, then relaxes. “Hey.”

The Lazy River continues carrying the two of you downstream. The silence is surprisingly comfortable𑁋just you, Chan, and the stars twinkling above. The water ripples softly around you, cool against your skin, but your chest is feeling otherwise. At one point, Chan picks his head up to gaze at you, seeing the way the moonlight reflects off the droplets on your skin, how peaceful you look just beside him.

This is really the first ever moment of quiet between you two.

“You know,” You start. “I really hated you at first.”

Chan chuckles at that. “I believe that’s everyone’s first impression of me.”

“Yeah. You and your annoyingly cocky ass.” A small laugh leaves you. “I thought you were so full of shit. I wanted to shove every word you said down your throat and probably smack you.”

“Ouch,” Chan mutters, cringing lightly. “Let me guess, you still want to smack me?”

You think long and hard for a few moments, before ultimately shaking your head, a smirk crossing your face.

“Honestly? You have the most smackable face on the planet,” You downright confess. “But, unfortunately… you’re too cute, so no. Well, maybe sometimes.”

The two of you exchange a fit of giggles at that. Chan feigns a scandalised look, pretending to be offended, but you don’t miss the way his ears flush pink. Even in moonlight, he still becomes shy when you flirt back to him. Underneath the water, your knees accidentally brush, but neither of you seem to mind.

“I’m not always this confident,” Chan adds in, his voice coming off more sheepish. “Yeah, being an absolute prick is fun, but sometimes I wonder if I do it just to cover my ass when I don’t know what to say.”

You turn to him curiously, allowing the current to drift you closer to him.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he rambles on, and you let him. “but yeah, I never once had a crush who liked me back in that way. I’ve always driven them away with how I act. It’s like… I don’t really know how to just be when I like someone.”

The raw honesty hits you hard. Because in what other universe does the annoying, prideful, overly territorial, pain in the ass Lee Chan confess something like this to someone? In what universe has anyone seen this vulnerable side of him? Sure, you two can bicker like puppies and drive each other to the edge with playful threats, but this?

This is the real him.

“I like you,” You admit quietly.

Chan’s brows raise. “What?”

“I like you, Chan,” You echo back, more confident and louder this time. “And maybe I do want to drown your dumbass sometimes, I still like you.”

There’s that befuddled look on his face again𑁋a face you’ve grown to adore. You visibly see the way he struggles to process your words, his brain clearly malfunctioning yet again, or like it always does when you say something genuine to him. The river curves slightly, pushing the two of you even closer together to the point where your shoulders are almost brushing.

“Oh,” is all that squeaks out of him. “That’s… cool. Great. Fantastic, even.”

You blink. “Is that seriously your response?”

“I𑁋no, I mean𑁋I like you too,” he stammers out, voice rising an octave as he waves his arms, causing a small splash. “Like, a lot. Probably since the day you called me a pain in the ass.”

It’s hard to suppress the way your mouth is twitching into a grin. “You’re so fucking lame, you know that?”

“Let a guy panic in front of his crush!” he exclaims shakily. “I’m in uncharted territory! I didn’t know you’d actually mean it.”

“Well, I did,” You say simply, tilting your head as you float next to him. “Even when you’re being a smug idiot. Even when you didn’t kiss me earlier. I still like you, Chan.”

Chan winces at the memory. “I just… I’m sorry.”

You find yourself floating directly in front of him, close enough he can feel your body heat radiating onto his. He stares at you𑁋really stares at you𑁋like he can’t believe what’s real and what’s not. The fact that you’re even here right now sends his heart into a complete overdrive. He swears he’s going to burst.

“Then fix it,” You insist lowly.

Chan’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Kiss me, Chan.”

A small, disbelieving laugh leaves him. And then without another word, he starts to lean in. This time, there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing.

You meet him halfway.

One of his hands drift down under the water to rest at your waist, the other coming to cup your face. Your own hands settle on top of his shoulders, holding onto him as your lips brush up against each other, allowing the current to drift you both. But you barely feel it. All you can feel is him.

The kiss itself isn’t cinematic, grand, or an explosion of fireworks. It’s warm, clumsy, and sweet all at once. He tastes faintly of the soju earlier and from summer heat, like laughter exchanged in nights under the stars and something else that is undeniably him𑁋sweat, boba teas, and the endless teasing that follows him around. You melt shamelessly into it anyway, relishing how soft his lips are against yours and the jittery hands clutched onto you as if he still can’t believe that you’re real.

His nose accidentally bumps into yours, causing you to giggle into the kiss. The water continues to slosh around you as your hand comes up to cradle the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into you. There’s a small hitch of his breath that leaves him at the touch, sending shivers up and down his spine.

When you finally pull apart your arm, Chan is absolutely gawking at you.

“Holy shit,” he says breathlessly. “Someone pinch me𑁋did that just happen?”

You roll your eyes, reaching down to pinch him lightly on his waist.

“Ow!” He flinches, shooting you a small glare. “I meant it metaphorically!”

“God, you’re such a loser,” You say with an all-too-fond expression.

His eyes flutter to a close as he feels the way your thumb is rubbing circles on the skin at the top of his shoulder. For a moment, the two of you just float there, with your foreheads pressed together and completely ignoring the way your limbs are basically turning into prunes for being in the water for God knows how long at this point.

Chan giggles sheepishly. “We’re going to be so royally screwed when we go back to tomorrow, you know that, right?”

You steal another quick kiss from his lips again, and he completely forgot what he just said two seconds before.

“Yeah, well…” You allow your head to rest on top of his shoulder, his arms slipping properly around you under the water. “At least we’ll be screwed together.”

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hey-dokyeom · 16 days ago