jwiloves

[jwiloves]

this is so cute (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ my legs are kicking while reading this 😆❤️

Kiss Me, It’s for Science - Junhui

Pairing: jun x reader

synopsis: Jun and Y/N are both psychology majors. For their thesis, they must observe the chemical reactions of romantic attraction... using themselves as test subjects. Bonus, Their “experiment” is being live-blogged by classmates on a fan account.

wc: 4.1k

genre: Romantic Comedy, Academic AU, Mutual Pining, Group Chat Chaos, Soft but unhinged friendship dynamics

warning: Swearing (mostly in the form of chaotic group chat energy and Seungkwan’s emotional rants), Secondhand embarrassment (via live-blogging, secret kisses, and overly dramatic classmates), Mentions of stress

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY JUNNIE!!! was actually laughing at myself for even writing this in the first place, but i had fun :) Special thanks to @hhaechansmoless and @flowerwonu for beta reading for me!

1. Hypothesis: Jun Is Not That Pretty. Probably.

The list of things you expected when you picked psychology as your major was short and kind of embarrassing. You thought you'd learn how to read minds (nope), how to fix people (wrong again), and maybe how to stop crying in front of professors (jury's still out on that one).

You definitely did not expect to end up in a research lab about ‘neurochemical responses to romantic attraction.’

Even less expected was being partnered with Wen Junhui—resident pretty boy, dance major turned psych convert, and the guy who once tried to hypnotize a TA for extra credit. It almost worked.

Jun was already at your shared lab table when you arrived, feet up on the second chair, flipping through the experiment handbook like it personally offended him. He looked up as you approached, expression unreadable. Then he smiled—wide and kind and borderline smug.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re early,” you shot back, dropping your bag with a dramatic thunk. “What are we even doing this semester? I skimmed the syllabus, and it sounded like a dating sim disguised as science.”

Jun’s grin widened. “That’s because it is.”

You blinked.

He patted the seat next to him. “We’re going to fall in love. For research.”

You stared at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

He pulled out a laminated page from the handbook and slid it across the table like he was revealing a clue on a game show.

You read aloud: ‘Students will pair up and conduct a series of controlled experiments designed to measure physiological and psychological markers of romantic arousal and bonding.’

Your voice cracked a little on arousal.

“...This can’t be real.”

Jun leaned his chin on one hand, hair falling just slightly into his eyes. “It’s supervised by Dr. Kang. She’s been studying oxytocin and dopamine pathways for years. I think she’s trying to get a paper out of it.”

“So we’re lab rats.”

He raised his brows. “Hot lab rats.”

You rolled your eyes so hard, you didn’t think it was possible.

Still, you glanced back at the paper. Heart rate tracking, skin conductivity, pupil dilation, mood journaling, regular surveys. One prompt literally said, ‘Have participants hold hands for 60 seconds and record any notable emotional or physiological changes.’

This had to be a joke.

“Why are we doing this to ourselves?” you muttered, dragging your hands down your face.

Jun tapped the edge of the page. “Because it’s fifty percent of our final grade. And because it’ll be fun.”

You gave him a look.

He gave you the Jun look, which basically meant the same as a wink but prettier and more annoying.

“And,” he added, “because apparently, someone’s already live-blogging our class.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

Jun pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and slid it your way.

On screen: a Twitter account titled @JunYNSocialExperiment.

Pinned tweet: “Day 1 of Jun and Y/N’s slow descent into thesis-induced madness. Sparks may already be flying. 👀 #Psych4Luv”

You blinked again. Harder.

Jun just shrugged. “Welcome to the spotlight, partner.”

You wanted to crawl under the lab table.

Instead, you groaned and flopped onto the chair next to him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Not the most romantic start,” he said, mock-pouting.

You glared at him. “You better not fall in love with me, Jun.”

He grinned, and this time it was all teeth. “Too late.”

—

2. Variables Include but Are Not Limited to, My Crush on You

Live-Blogging Account: [@JunYNSocialExperiment]

Tweet 13: Jun just held Y/N’s hand during the oxytocin baseline. Her hand was shaking. His wasn’t. That man is too calm. Suspiciously calm.

Tweet 14: Someone check if he practiced this in the mirror. #SmoothOperator

Tweet 15: UPDATE: Jun said “your hands are soft” in a tone that should be illegal in educational settings. #HRViolation

—

You don’t know who’s running the live-blog account, but you’re at least 80% sure it’s Minghao. Maybe Seungkwan. Could be both.

“Should we be worried we’ve gone viral on CampusTok?” Jun asks, voice way too relaxed for someone whose heart rate was just logged mid-hand-holding session.

You, on the other hand, are a wreck. You can feel your pulse in your teeth.

“It’s not viral,” you mutter, not looking up from your lab notes.

Jun holds up his phone: 27.4K likes on a clip of you nearly dropping your water bottle when he smiled too hard during Eye Contact Session 1.

You stare at the number. Then you stare at him.

“This is your fault,” you say.

He feigns innocence. “I’m just being a good lab partner. You’re the one getting flustered.”

“You smiled like a romance anime protagonist.”

“I was following protocol. Stimulus Response Theory. Emotional cues. It’s for science.”

Inhale. Exhale. Murder is illegal….

Dr. Kang appears at that exact moment, armed with clipboards and a polite but terrifying smile. “How are my favorite guinea pigs doing?”

You both reply at the same time:

Jun: “Deeply in love.”

You: “Deeply in denial.”

Dr. Kang nods like that’s perfectly normal and flips to the next page in her binder. “Excellent. Today we’re doing proximity tests. Sit close, back-to-back, no talking. We’ll be monitoring tension levels.”

You blink. “Tension levels?”

“Muscle stiffness, heart rate, skin conductivity.” She pauses. “And maybe some vibes.”

Jun snorts. You do not.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting back-to-back with Jun on a mat on the floor, too aware of the warmth radiating from his shoulder blades and the fact that you’re pretty sure he smells like green tea and expensive dreams.

You hear him breathe in, like he’s going to say something, then stops. A beat of silence follows.

“I can feel you overthinking,” he murmurs, voice low enough only you can hear.

You elbow him in the ribs.

He laughs silently.

—

Live-Blogging Account: [@JunYNSocialExperiment]

Tweet 16: They’re back-to-back right now. She keeps adjusting her posture. He hasn’t moved once. I’ve never seen a man so comfortable with romantic tension.

Tweet 17: Someone said he’s the embodiment of a smirk. Accurate.

Tweet 18: If this doesn’t end in a kiss during the Final Trial, I’m demanding a refund from the psychology department.

—

You finally snap when someone in your group chat sends a meme of your blushing face photoshopped onto a squirrel. Caption: "Me when Jun breathes."

You hold up your phone to him, nose wrinkled. “Why are they like this?”

Jun glances at it and grins. “Because we’re adorable.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I am.” He pauses, then tilts his head. “But also you.”

You freeze.

Jun shrugs like he didn’t just ruin your nervous system. “Just an observation. Scientific.”

You toss a pen at his forehead.

He catches it—of course he catches it—then raises a brow. “Aggression noted. Possible sign of repression?”

You nearly scream.

—

3. This Is Definitely a Crush, But Let’s Pretend It’s Academia

Live-Blogging Account: [@JunYNSocialExperiment]Tweet 19: Jun just adjusted Y/N’s necklace for the "touch sensitivity test." That was not science. That was foreplay.

Tweet 20: We’re 3 sessions away from them inventing eye contact pregnancy.

Tweet 21: The TA had to step outside to breathe.

—

Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)[Hao]: do u think if i bump into jun in the hallway and say “do you believe in fate” he’ll crack and confess

[Boo]: no but he’ll probably quote some philosopher and flip his hair

[Vernon]:  i’m still not over how he called y/n “sunshine” in that deadpan voice like bro who trained you

[Dino]: should we start a betting pool for when they kiss

[Hao]: i already started one. dps due friday

[Boo]: why friday

[Hao]: because dr kang is making them share a blanket for the “comfort dependency module.”

[Hao]: i am not joking.

—

“I think Minghao’s spying on us,” you mutter, scrolling through the live-blog account while sitting next to Jun at a coffee shop.

Jun glances over, sipping his iced americano like nothing phases him. “I think Minghao’s rooting for us.”

You choke on your muffin.

He pats your back in a very not platonic way. “You good?”

“Define ‘good,’” you cough, “because emotionally I’m hanging on by a single neurotransmitter.”

Jun smiles, utterly unhelpful. “Let’s hope it’s dopamine.”

—

In today’s lab, you’re asked to complete a “Shared Intimacy Memory Test,” where you’re supposed to tell a meaningful memory to your partner and rate how emotionally connected you feel afterwards.

You stare at the blank paper in front of you.

“Do I tell the story where I cried in front of my professor?” you ask. “Or the one where I got stuck in a revolving door?”

Jun hums. “How about something you’d only tell someone you trust?”

You side-eye him. “You first, Casanova.”

And then he tells you about his mom’s garden.

About how she used to wake him up at 5 a.m. to water the tomatoes.

About how he hated it—until he moved out and realized he missed the smell of basil more than anything.

You look at him, quiet for a long moment.

“That’s kind of beautiful,” you say, softly.

He shrugs. “Kind of like you.”

You stare.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

The TA coughs behind her clipboard.

—

Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)[Boo]: he just called her beautiful

[Boo]: i have ascended

[Dino]: do you think if i fake a nosebleed they’ll get distracted long enough to kiss

[Hao]: no but worth a try. bring a ketchup packet.

[Vernon]: i’m just here for the free drama. this is better than any kdrama i’ve ever seen.

—

Later that night, Jun walks you home after the lab.

Your shoulder brushes his.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to either.

“You ever think we’re just playing chicken with each other?” you ask suddenly, stopping near your door.

Jun blinks. “In what way?”

“I mean—who’s going to crack first. Say it out loud.”

He steps a little closer. “Say what?”

You look up at him, heartbeat louder than logic.

“That this... doesn’t feel like an experiment anymore.”

Jun doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he reaches up like he might touch your face, then stops.

“I’ve known since Day 2,” he admits.

You blink. “Known what?”

“That I like you,” he says simply. “Everything else has just been… peer-reviewed confirmation.”

Your heart crashes somewhere into your lungs.

But before you can reply, he adds, “I’m not asking for an answer. Not yet. But just know I’m not pretending.”

You don’t sleep that night. Your lab notes the next morning are absolute garbage.

—

4. The Blanket Test and Other Forms of Emotional Torture

Live-Blogging Account: [@JunYNSocialExperiment]

Tweet 21: If you thought they couldn’t get more domestic—today’s module is: Shared Thermal Regulation.Tweet 22: Translation: THEY’RE SHARING A BLANKET FOR SCIENCE.

Tweet 23: Jun said “you can have more if you’re cold” and tucked the blanket over Y/N’s knees. I am now legally married to this ship.

—

Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)[Boo]: shared. thermal. regulation.

[Boo]: dr kang is a menace and also my hero

[Dino]: they’re gonna die of tension before hypothermia even kicks in

[Vernon]: y/n just told jun “you run warm” and i had to physically leave the room

[Hao]: if they don’t kiss today i’m deleting my degree

[Hao]: this is not psychology this is foreplay 101

—

Jun adjusts the blanket so it drapes evenly across your legs. You're sitting side by side on the floor of the lab’s observation room, backs against the couch, trying very hard not to make eye contact.

“So,” you say lightly, “how do you think this affects the dopamine system?”

Jun leans over. “You want the scientific answer or the ‘I like the way your voice sounds when you’re flustered’ answer?”

Your whole nervous system malfunctions.

“That’s not—” you choke, “That’s not a real research angle!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Says who? Should we test it?”

You open your mouth to argue, but then he shifts closer, shoulder to shoulder now, and all your cognitive functions dissolve.

You pretend to look at your notes.

He pretends to look at his.

Neither of you are fooling anyone.

—

Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)[Boo]: jun said “you smell like vanilla and chaos” and i SCREECHED

[Hao]: i am going to physically force their faces together i swear

[Dino]: update: i told the TA i had to “check the fire alarm” so i could eavesdrop

[Vernon]: i heard jun say “i dreamt about you last night”

[Vernon]: i have not recovered

[Boo]: WAS IT SEXY

[Vernon]: no it was weirdly soft

[Vernon]: he said “you were laughing and I wanted to keep the sound”

[Hao]: i need a sedative

—

“You’re staring again,” you murmur without looking at him.

“I study human behavior,” Jun says smugly. “This is observational data collection.”

You snort, eyes still on the psych textbook in your lap. “Uh-huh. What’s your conclusion?”

He shifts a little closer. “That I’m probably completely in love with you.”

Silence.

Your fingers twitch under the blanket.

He doesn’t take it back.

You look up at him—finally—and the look in his eyes makes the air feel heavier.

You say, quietly: “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Jun smiles, a little crooked. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… don’t run.”

“I’m not running,” you whisper.

He nudges your knee with his. “Good.”

—

Later, back in your dorm, you open your phone and find 18 missed messages from Hao.

[Minghao]: :DID YOU KISS??

[Minghao]: DID YOU TOUCH HANDS??

[Minghao]: DID HE WHISPER YOUR NAME LIKE A SAD VICTORIAN POET

WE’RE DYING HERE

[Minghao]: answer or i’m going to publish the live-blog as a case study

You roll your eyes and finally respond

[You]: no kiss

[You]: just confessions

[You]: maybe next time

[Minghao]: CONFESSIONS??

[Minghao]: LIKE LOVE ONES??

[Minghao]: be so serious rn. i’m calling dr kang and declaring this a success

[You]: don’t

[Minghao]: too late. already printed matching lab coats that say “subject a’s boyfriend”

—

5. Hallway Kisses and One (1) Witness Too Many

Live-Blogging Account: [@JunYNSocialExperiment]

Tweet 24: Okay. Okay. Okay. I’m shaking.

Tweet 25: THEY THINK THEY’RE SNEAKY. THEY’RE NOT.

Tweet 26: Seungkwan caught them kissing outside the lab and texted us “GUYS I JUST WITNESSED EMOTIONAL NUDITY”

Tweet 27: Anyway, we won.

—

It happens between modules.

You and Jun are standing in the hallway outside Dr. Kang’s office, both slightly breathless after a long presentation on “emotional synchrony and physiological arousal,” which is ironic considering you haven’t been able to calm down around Jun for weeks.

There’s no one in the hallway. The lab door clicks shut behind you.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed loosely. Jun’s in front of you, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking from your face to your mouth and back again.

“You did well in there,” he says softly.

“You too. Especially that part where you explained heart rate increase as ‘mutual attunement’ and looked directly at me for the entire paragraph.”

Jun tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You noticed?”

You roll your eyes. “I notice everything.”

There’s a beat.

Then he takes a half-step closer. “Do you notice how close I am right now?”

Your breath hitches. “Jun—”

“If you don’t want me to kiss you, say something.”

Silence.

You look up at him, and whatever’s in your expression makes him breathe in sharply. He leans in—

And kisses you.

It’s gentle at first—tentative, warm. But then you’re pulling him in by the collar and he’s tilting your chin up with one hand, the other braced against the wall beside your head. The kiss deepens, and the world narrows to the space between your mouths.

Then—

“Oh my GOD.”

You both freeze.

Seungkwan is standing ten feet away with his lunch tray, mouth agape.

There’s a long, long pause.

“…Please pretend you didn’t see that?” you say weakly.

Seungkwan drops the tray on the floor with a clatter and bolts down the hall at full speed, yelling, “I NEED MY PHONE. I NEED THE GROUP CHAT. I’M TELLING EVERYONE.”

—

Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)[Boo]: EMERGENCY BROADCAST

[Boo]: RED ALERT

[Boo]: THEY WERE MAKING OUT OUTSIDE THE LAB

[Boo]: I REPEAT

[Boo]: LIP-LOCK LEVEL: ADVANCED

[Hao]: OH MY GODDDDD

[Hao]: I KNEW IT

[Hao]: LOVE IS REAL

[Boo]: jun had his hand on the WALL

[Boo]: WALL ARM

[Boo]: THE KDRAMA WALL ARM

[Dino]: i am crying. this is the most important academic day of my life

[Vernon]: are we still live-blogging or is this now a fan shrine

—

Later that night, Jun sends you a text.

[Jun]: did we break seungkwan

he walked into the kitchen and handed me a banana without saying a word

[You]: i think he’s grieving

either our friendship or the fact he wasn’t the first to know

possibly both

—

Dr. Kang enters the next lab session with a small smile and a stack of feedback forms.

“Before we begin, I’d like to commend Subject A and Subject B for their… commitment to the experiment.”

You and Jun exchange panicked glances.

Dr. Kang continues. “Some of your classmates have submitted observational reports. Very thorough. Some might say emotionally invasive, but—” she shrugs, “—that’s academia.”

You are going to kill Seungkwan.

—

Live-Blogging Account: [@JunYNSocialExperiment]Tweet 28: they’re holding hands in the presentation now

Tweet 29: jun just whispered something and y/n smiled like a foolTweet 30: we’re calling it

Tweet 31: experiment conclusion: it was never about science

Tweet 32: it was always about love

—

6. Confessions & Crashes (Live from Psych 301)

The final presentations were scheduled to start at 1:00 PM sharp, but the lecture hall was already packed by 12:40. Not because anyone particularly loved behavioral psych, but because the entire Seventeen Group Chat had gone rogue.

—

Specifically:

Subject: Jun and Y/N’s final presentationSubtext: Will they combust? Will they kiss again? Will Seungkwan faint in public?

[Group Chat: SEVENTEEN Studies (🧠🔥)]

[Boo]: IM OUTSIDE THE LECTURE HALL

[Boo]: I REPEAT THE KISSERS ARE ON CAMPUS

[DK]: omg

[DK]: omg

[Joshua]: don’t cause a scene

[Boo]: TOO LATE I’VE ALREADY SWEATED THROUGH MY SHIRT

[Mingyu]: i brought popcorn

[Vernon]: i brought existential dread

[Woozi]: i brought a taser

[Soonyoung]: I BROUGHT POSTERS

[Jeonghan]: what

[Soonyoung]: [attached: “KISS ME IT’S FOR SCIENCE” banner]

[Jeonghan]: I regret asking

—

You and Jun sit near the front. There’s a half-meter of space between your seats, but the tension could punch a hole through concrete. You’re both quiet. Too quiet.

It’s been three days since the kiss.

Three days since Seungkwan caught you in the hallway and shrieked so loud the janitor dropped his mop. Three days since your group chat transformed into a fanfiction-writing frenzy, culminating in Minghao sending a 20-slide PowerPoint titled “The 19 Stages of Academic Yearning (ft. Jun and Y/N).”

And three days since you’ve said anything real to Jun.

Because how do you follow a kiss like that?

A kiss that wasn’t part of the experiment. A kiss that wasn’t data or methodology or "mutual gaze-induced arousal via stimulus proximity." A kiss that felt—

Real.

—

Your names are called. You step up.

You’re shaking. But Jun smiles at you, soft and grounding. Like he’s saying, We got this. I got you.

You start with the basics—hypothesis, procedure, variables.

Jun picks up the analysis, voice steady. “We measured cortisol levels, pupil dilation, and heartbeat synchronization during various physical and emotional interactions. Our aim was to determine whether affection, simulated or genuine, could create measurable physiological bonding.”

He pauses.

You glance at him. His jaw tightens.

Then he turns to face the audience. “But somewhere along the way,” Jun says quietly, “it stopped being simulated.”

Your stomach drops.

The room is silent.

“Somewhere between testing proximity and shared secrets… I stopped seeing this as research. And started feeling something real.”

You blink.

Oh no.

He’s doing this. Here. Now. In front of fifty students and one very emotionally fragile Seungkwan.

You step forward, whispering, “Jun—”

But he looks right at you.

“This wasn’t in the protocol,” he says, voice suddenly trembling. “You weren’t supposed to matter this much. But you do. You do.”

—

The lecture hall explodes.

[Group Chat: SEVENTEEN Studies (🧠🔥)]

[Boo]: HES CONFESSING

[Boo]: HE’S CONFESSING IN PUBLIC

[DK]: OH MY GODDDD

[Joshua]: I’M CRYING

[Woozi]: shut up i can’t hear

[Minghao]: [screenshot of Jun’s face mid-confession, zoomed in 300%]

[Soonyoung]: CAN I THROW FLOWERS

[Jeonghan]: NO

[Soonyoung]: TOO LATE

[Jeonghan]: ARE YOU ACTUALLY THROWING FLOWERS

[Soonyoung]: [attached: photo of daisies in mid-air]

[Mingyu]: THE TA IS CRYING

[Vernon]: i’m also crying but i think it’s unrelated

[Boo]: HE’S HOLDING HER HAND

[Boo]: I’M GOING TO ASCEND

—

You’re stunned. Frozen.

Jun steps closer, voice softer now. “Y/N, you don’t have to say anything. But I had to tell you. Because this was supposed to be a study in emotional bonding, and somewhere along the line, I fell in love.”

You stare.

And then you laugh—wet, shocked.

“Jun,” you whisper, “I was in love with you four weeks ago. When you spilled tea on my laptop and offered to buy me a new one.”

He blinks. ���Seriously?”

“Yeah,” you say, grinning. “But the hallway kiss helped.”

The entire room loses it.

—

You’re still holding hands when your professor says, “A+, obviously. But please consider my blood pressure next time.”

Jun bows politely. You wave, dazed. The class claps like you just ended a K-drama. Someone’s live-streaming. A flower lands on your head.

—

[Group Chat: SEVENTEEN Studies (🧠🔥)]

[Joshua]: does this mean they’re dating

[DK]: DO WE THROW A PARTY

[Woozi]: i’m making a playlist

[Jeonghan]: i’m making a drinking game

[Soonyoung]: IM MAKING A TIKTOK

[Minghao]: i’m making a legally binding marriage certificate

[Boo]: [attached: selfie, red-eyed, cheeks blotchy, surrounded by tissue]

[Boo]: love is real

[Boo]: i need electrolytes

—

7. Commence Emotional Graduation (w/ Seungkwan’s Fanclub)

Graduation day arrives like a fever dream. Caps flying. Gowns flapping. Sunglasses hiding tears. A dangerously unstable crowd of proud parents, confused siblings, and one emotionally possessed group chat ready to combust.

You’re standing in line to cross the stage, half-listening to the Dean’s speech and trying not to cry into your honor cords. Beside you, Jun is adjusting his gown and whispering nonsense like:

“Did you eat?”

“Is your cap on straight?”

“Do I have something in my teeth?”

“Should we kiss after we get our diplomas?”

“Too much?”

“Yes,” you whisper back, heart soft. “All of it. But I love you anyway.”

He beams so wide you almost cry again.

—

Meanwhile...

[Group Chat: SEVENTEEN Studies (🧠🔥)]

[Boo]: LISTEN UP

[Boo]: THE TIME HAS COME

[Joshua]: oh no

[Woozi]: what have you done

[DK]: i’m scared

[Boo]: I AM OFFICIALLY LAUNCHING

[Boo]: THE JUN × Y/N FANCLUB

[Minghao]: of course

[Jeonghan]: we knew this was coming

[Soonyoung]: DO WE GET SHIRTS

[Boo]: ALREADY MADE

[Boo]: [attached: “I Believed in the Science” t-shirt]

[Mingyu]: bro

[Vernon]: incredible

[Boo]: there’s a tier system

[Boo]: GOLD = saw them kiss live

[Boo]: SILVER = cried during the final presentation

[Boo]: PLATINUM = emotionally unwell since week 4

[Joshua]: so we’re all platinum

[Woozi]: against my will

—

You cross the stage.

Your name is called. The applause is normal—until SEUNGKWAN SCREAMS from the back row, holding a hand-painted fanclub banner. (Soonyoung is next to him tossing mini confetti cannons.)

You’re pretty sure the Chancellor flinches.

Then Jun crosses.

The crowd, already unstable, reaches concert-level intensity. Someone blows a kazoo. Vernon is live-streaming. Mingyu is crying. The professor who gave you an A+ on your final project wipes a single tear and nods like she’s raised you both herself.

—

After the ceremony, the chaos continues.

You’re bombarded with hugs, selfies, and “tell us everything” questions from your group chat. Seungkwan makes you pose in front of a giant “Science of Love” poster he made himself. Soonyoung forces Jun into a glitter-filled TikTok. Woozi plays an acoustic guitar version of “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” while Joshua harmonizes.

Jeonghan casually hands you a champagne bottle and whispers, “You survived academia and fell in love. You deserve this.”

—

Later, you and Jun sneak away. Sit quietly on the edge of campus, overlooking the courtyard full of chaos you’ve come to love.

He nudges your shoulder. “So... post-grad. What now?”

You smile. “We keep experimenting. With this. Us.”

He leans in. “For science?”

You laugh into his kiss. “For love.”

—

[Group Chat: SEVENTEEN Studies (🧠🔥)]

[Boo]: THEY’RE KISSING AGAIN

[DK]: I’M CRYING AGAIN

[Woozi]: we should’ve majored in drama

[Minghao]: we basically did

[Soonyoung]: LET’S THROW A REUNION EVERY YEAR

[Joshua]: …we’re still on campus?

[Jeonghan]: shut up and let the moment happen

[Vernon]: i’m writing a poem

[Mingyu]: i’m hungry

[Boo]: i’m full

[Boo]: FULL OF EMOTION

[jwiloves]

This is so good, I love it❤️ i already liked your other post that is for an event and I'm yet to read it🥹 I don't wanna come off like I'm spamming at all😭

so disconnected 📵 jeonghan x reader.

if jeonghan's 'boyfriend material' posts are on point, well— you can thank his girlfriend.

★ jeonghan x social media manager!reader. ★ word count: 2.6k ★ genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff!!!, txt's soobin is mentioned, down bad!jeonghan, jealous!jeonghan. some smau elements. not proofread; we go out swinging, baby. ★ footnotes: "kae if i wake up to a single shred of jeonghan on ur page..." ¡sorpresa, @diamonddaze01! no further notes, your honor.

🎧 now playing: disconnected by 5 seconds of summer — i admit i'm a bit of a fool for playing by the rules, but i've found my sweet escape when i'm alone with you.

Click.

Jeonghan hasn’t even looked up and yet he already knows what he’ll find when he does. Sure enough, when he shifts his weight onto his other foot and glances away from the TikTok he’d been watching— there you are. 

He wishes he could see your beautiful face. Alas, it’s obstructed by the sight that he’s grown used to associating with you. 

Your phone at eye-level; its camera, trained on him. 

“Yah.” His high-pitched bid to feign annoyance is a futile one. Everybody knows that Jeonghan could never be truly irked by you, no matter how masterfully you pushed his buttons sometimes. 

After clicking away for a couple more minutes, you finally lower your phone. 

There you are. 

Jeonghan swears he’s not a sap, not what those people call ‘simps’. But something about your smile always makes him a little weak in the knees, makes him want to be The Best Boyfriend In The World, bar none. 

He gestures for you to come closer. Once you’re within reach, Jeonghan is already wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you in.

“Don’t do that,” you snipe as he brings you into his chest. “We’re in public!”

Jeonghan can’t hide the way his eyes roll. “I don’t care. This isn’t public. It’s the parking lot of your apartment building,” he says dryly. 

“Still public.” 

“Still don’t care.” 

You go to shove at Jeonghan’s chest. He responds by tightening his hold on you, a sound of protest rising from the back of his throat. 

“C’mon, just a minute.” He buries his face in the top of your head, breathing in the soothing scent of your shampoo. It makes something in his chest flutter. “I’ll let you go, just— give me a minute, sweetheart.” 

He can sense that your acquiescence is begrudging, but he takes it nonetheless. A win is a win, he thinks smugly as he takes the opportunity to hug you a little tighter. 

It’s been three months since you finally agreed to try dating Jeonghan, though you had insisted that it be kept on the down low. Something about decorum, discretion. Workplace violations? Jeonghan doesn’t really remember; he had been a little too excited at the prospect of finally being yours that he wouldn’t have minded any condition in the world. 

The past weeks have unironically been some of the best in Jeonghan’s life, though there were probably some things he could do without. 

“It’s my day off, you know,” he mumbles into your hair, “which means it should also be your day off.” 

You giggle, and the force of it has your shoulders slightly shaking against Jeonghan’s chest. 

This is how he knows he loves you: Your laughter always felt like a small victory. Even before, he’d crack jokes in staff meetings and his eyes would immediately go to gauge your reaction.  

He liked making you laugh. He liked being the reason behind your smiles. And, God, did he like you. 

“Let me think about it.” There’s a hint of teasing in your voice, followed by a little ‘hmmm’ of faux thoughtfulness. 

He’s about to bite back at you when he feels your hand at his hip, somewhat leaning into his embrace, and he instead channels his energy into holding back a dreamy sigh. You go on, “No, I don’t think so. Go pose by the wall for another picture.” 

Jeonghan leans back a bit, just enough so that you can see his furrowed eyebrows as he whines, “But I’m Daesang winner Yoon Jeonghan!”

The title is a new one. Five days recent, in fact, and Jeonghan is hoping it will cut him some slack. 

“Okay, Daesang winner Yoon Jeonghan,” you say without missing a beat. “Go pose by the wall.” 

Jeonghan peels himself away from you with a grumble. He knows he’s acting a bit like an overgrown child— stomping as he walks, pouting when he leans— but he trusts that you’ll find it endearing. 

You pull out your phone’s camera app. Jeonghan is ready to frown the entire way through, maybe sass you that you only told him to pose by the wall but you didn’t say how he should look. 

But then, instead of “One, two, three…”, you call out something else entirely. 

“I love you, Daesang winner Yoon Jeonghan!”

He can’t help it. 

He laughs, and you click away.

jeonghaniyoo_n ♫ Jesse McCartney - Beautiful Soul

jeonghaniyoo_n hang up the telephone and just be here with me Liked by pledis_boos, vernonline, and 1,932,049 others View all 2,109 comments

One pro of dating your social media manager, Jeonghan would argue, is all the ‘vacations’ that the two of you can go on. You’re there for every tour stop, every concert, and Jeonghan absolutely revels in the hour or two he can steal away with you. 

If only he could get you to stop working. 

He knows that you’re technically on the clock more often than not. Managing an idol’s social media presence was no small feat, and your entire shtick was about making Jeonghan look as desirable as possible on SNS. You’ve been doing a terrific job so far, if his steady rise in followers was anything to go by. 

Still. Jeonghan has been attempting to give you the cold shoulder for the past 15 minutes. Attempting, because you don’t even seem to notice that he’s gone quiet— too busy on your phone to pay him any heed. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets and clears his throat. He doesn’t even have to glance at your screen; he knows you’re probably on Lightroom, fine tuning the press photos of him from earlier this morning. 

At the twenty-minute mark, Jeonghan finally huffs, “I’m ignoring you.” 

“Hm?” you say distractedly, and he resist the urge to chuck your phone into the nearby lake. 

“I said,” he repeats. “I’m ignoring you.” 

You glance up at him, unamused. “You are literally talking to me,” you note. 

“Well, I was ignoring you before that.” 

“Were you?” 

“Yes. You didn’t notice, so I thought I’d inform you.” 

The beleaguered sigh you let out is not a new thing. Jeonghan has been on the receiving end of your exasperation for as long as he’s known you. 

At least there’s a hint of guilt on your expression as you tuck away your phone. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Everybody’s posting follower ranking listicles since it’s the end of the year. I wanted to see where we were placing.” 

Jeonghan is supposed to be sulking, but that small word— we— has him fighting down a smile. It’s his account, his digital footprint, but you’re the mastermind. You’re the one behind the man, the myth, the legend. 

He’s down so bad for you that it’s not even funny anymore. 

“And?” he prods, his earlier chagrin smoothed out into something that sounds a lot more like resigned affection. “How’s it looking?” 

The frustration that takes over your expression makes Jeonghan want to coo. It’s nothing short of a miracle that he manages to hold himself back. 

“We still haven’t beat out Choi Soobin.” You frown like the other idol has personally wronged you by having a higher follower count. “His boyfriend material photos are too damn good.” 

“His what?”

You whip out your phone. Jeonghan watches with growing incredulity as you pull up Instagram, and he’s less than pleased that user page.soobin is already one of your more recently searched accounts. 

When you shove your phone underneath Jeonghan’s nose, he’s treated to the sight of Soobin’s feed. “Boyfriend material photos,” you double down, like having a visual might somehow explain things away. 

Jeonghan snatches your phone from you. “I heard you the first time,” he says irritably. “But what does it mean?” 

“It means that he looks like somebody’s boyfriend,” you shoot back. 

Oh, Jeonghan does not like that. 

He doesn’t care if it’s just a term for a type of photo. The thought of you perceiving anyone else as ‘boyfriend material’ makes a muscle in his jaw tick. 

“Do you think,” he says coolly, keeping his eyes trained on your screen, “he looks like ‘boyfriend material’?” 

“I mean, yeah—” 

You’ve barely gotten to the end of your sentence before Jeonghan is handing you back your phone. “Where are you going?” you call out as he marches a couple of paces away. 

He looks equal part determined and peeved when he turns to face you. You have your eyebrows arched upward, but he’s more focused on making sure his good side is angled towards you. 

“Get some photos of your actual boyfriend,” he grumbles.

jeonghaniyoo_n ♫ ZILD - Lia

jeonghaniyoo_n we put the world away Liked by xuminghao_o, min9yu_k, and 1,000,289 others View all 2,109 comments

The day you tell Jeonghan about your plans of resigning, his first thought is Well, that was good while it lasted.

His attempt at being unaffected is a shaky one. You can tell by the way he holds his paper cup just a little too tightly, the way he keeps smoothing out invisible wrinkles on his coat. His poorly concealed distress makes your expression soften, which is somehow worse.

He didn’t want a civil breakup. He’d much rather go out kicking and screaming than have something amicable.

And he most especially didn’t want to be broken up with in some random café in Tokyo. He has half a mind to ask why you couldn’t have waited until the two of you were back home. 

Jeonghan swallows hard, like it might somehow help him swallow the panic simmering in the pit of his stomach. 

“Good for you,” he finally manages to respond. “You’re overworked here, anyway.” 

“That’s not the reason why I’m leaving.” 

Jeonghan hates how calm you look. The two of you had watched— and judged— one too many dramas, and so he’d imagined a breakup with you would be something like that. A rain-soaked street, choice words that neither of you could take back. 

Not you stirring sugar into your coffee like this is not a relationship-defining conversation. 

When Jeonghan doesn’t respond, you continue. Your voice goes a touch softer, and he’s struck with the fear that you’re trying to let him down gently. 

“I’m resigning because of you, Hannie.” That nickname— the one that once felt like a Daesang in its own right, when you first bestowed it on him— now makes Jeonghan’s heart feel like lead. 

“Because of me,” he repeats. 

His mouth is dry. His hands are clammy. He’s thirty seconds away from getting on his knees and begging you to stay, the rest of the café’s patrons be damned. 

Your next words are spoken like an unshakable truth. “Because I love you.” 

You— 

The look on Jeonghan’s face must be priceless; you start to laugh, and the sound of it eases some of Jeonghan’s fraying nerves. 

“I love you, and I want to be with you. Properly.” Your lips purse for a moment. “Well, as properly as being with an idol will allow, anyway. At least I won’t have to worry about getting called in by HR if I’m working someplace else.” 

Workplace violations. Right. That had been a thing. 

All the emotions hit Jeonghan like a truck. Relief (that you’re not breaking up with him), then affection (that you’re willing to do this for him), then guilt (that you’re willing to do this for him). 

He reaches across the table to place his hand on top of yours. Your eyes instinctively glance around your surroundings, checking to see if anyone is looking your way. Jeonghan tugs at your hand and shakes his head. Focus on me, he’s wordlessly saying, and for once, you do. 

“I love you, too. More than you know,” he says. “But I don’t want you to throw away your career for me. Who’s to say you won’t resent me down the line because of it? I— I couldn’t live with myself, sweetheart.” 

You squeeze Jeonghan’s hand reassuringly. “I’m not throwing anything away. I’m just compromising.” 

“I don’t want you to have to compromise anything for me.” 

“Compromise is part of a grownup relationship, Hannie. It’s a good compromise.” 

He must not look convinced, because you take things a step further. Instead of just clasping his hand in yours, you move to intertwine your fingers. There’s some comfort in the familiar feeling of your fingers in between the spaces of his. 

“Nothing is being thrown away,” you repeat, your tone brooking no argument. “I will not hate you tomorrow because of this.” 

Here’s the thing: Jeonghan trusts you implicitly, and not only with his SNS passwords. He trusts your no-nonsense attitude, your unshakeable feelings, your typically sound judgement. 

He wants to trust you now. He wants to believe so, so badly that there is something on the other side for the two of you, and that something would be exactly what the two of you deserve. 

He tongues the inside of his cheek as he considers your words. When he speaks, his voice is a lot smaller than he intends. 

“What about the day after tomorrow?” 

The initial confusion that flits over your expression is replaced by that grin he adores. 

“I’ll still love you the day after tomorrow,” you promise. 

He presses, “And the week after that?” 

“The week after that, too.” 

“What about the month after?” 

“I’ll do you one better— the year after, too.” 

You’re laughing, laughing in the way that he’s always tried to make you laugh, and it’s all Jeonghan needs to trust that things are going to be okay.

jeonghaniyoo_n ♫ Pritam, Mohit Chauhan, Irshad Kamil - Tum Se Hi

jeonghaniyoo_n my getaway, my favorite place Liked by ho5hi_kwon, everyone_woo, and 2,000,001 others View all 2,109 comments

Click. Click. Click. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What,” Jeonghan huffs, “A guy can’t take photos of his girlfriend?”

You throw a pillow in Jeonghan’s direction, though your terrible aim has it soaring right over his head. 

Ever since you left his company, Jeonghan has enjoyed an array of benefits that come with dating someone who is not your co-worker. The biggest of which happened to be all the time he’s now free to spend with you, most of which he’s happy to kill in his apartment. 

He’s still a little bit petulant about your new job, though, and he likes to voice it out as often as he can. 

“I bet Soobin has tons of photos of you,” he grumbles.

You pretend not to hear him. Jeonghan tries again. 

From the foot of the bed, Jeonghan begins to crawl over your legs. Your annoyed tsk goes ignored as he takes your laptop and sets it aside, dragging you away from your social media planning for page.soobin.

“He better not fall in love with you,” Jeonghan warns.

You let out a low hiss before swatting at your boyfriend, trying to get him off of you. He doesn’t budge, instead caging you in with his arms on either side of you. 

When he goes to kiss you, it bears none of the threatening front that he’s trying to put up. It’s a slow, sweet thing. A glimmer lighting up his cotton sheets. 

He only pulls away when he can no longer physically manage to keep kissing you. There’s the beginning of a grin on his face as his breaths come out in short pants, as his eyes stay closed. He’s savoring the moment, trying to remind himself how damn lucky he is even if the cost involves running his own SNS accounts henceforth. 

“I’ll give you your laptop back,” he murmurs, satisfied to have had an ounce of you.

But then you’re laughing, your fingers threading through his hair. You tug Jeonghan back down despite the fact that you’re just as breathless, and his lips curl into a full-on smile when they meet yours. 

He’d been happy with an ounce, yes, but who is he to complain when you give him the whole damn lot? 

jeonghaniyoo_n ♫ 5 Seconds of Summer - Disconnected

jeonghaniyoo_n Do not disturb. 📵 - YJH Liked by sound_of_coups, joshua_acoustic, and 3,392,034 others View all 30,109 comments

diamonddaze01 NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ylangelegy just fell to my knees 💔 happy for you, king yourusername :-)

[jwiloves]

of linked arms and bruised hearts (you are the reason i keep on going) ➵ masterlist

non-idol!ji changmin x reader, slight non-idol!jacob bae x reader

you and changmin have been best friends since high school, having seen each other at their best and worst. now in your second year of university, you are given the opportunity to work with the unattainable 5th-year you have had a crush on since—jacob bae. with your best friend on the receiving end of your rambles, you could only hope for something to come out of your time working with jacob. that is until changmin decides he wants something more out of his relationship with you.

general genre/warnings ➵ friends to lovers, slow burn, so much FLUFF, afab reader (they/them pronouns), slice of life, drinking, suggestive themes, so much platonic love in general, expect a lot of sentimental talks and bantering between changmin and reader, a lot of publication talk (sorry i am a writer), sunwoo is a shithead (and a terrible wingman), sweet angel jacob with his SIGNATURE SMILE!!!, also he may not be unattainable after all???, too domestic (not for the faint of heart), light angst on jacob's end though (i'm sorry baby), kissing and poetic words both from reader and changmin, a lot of tearjerker moments

word count for official parts ➵ 72.5k words

taglist ➵ @deoboyznet @kflixnet @blankjournal @winterchimez @sungbeam @miusgirl @jenoscafe @sweet-unicorn-world @mosviqu @vernyangel

playlist ➵ tongue tied by grouplove // supercut by lorde // falling behind by laufey // bad by wave to earth // ribs by lorde // bunk beds by dori valentine // bloom - bonus track by the paper kites // invisible string by taylor swift // apple pie by lizzy mcalpine // with you by seth arlan // love you twice by huh yunjin // captivated by iv of spades // i choose you by adam melchor // if there's nothing left... by niki // pancakes for dinner by lizzy mcalpine // around by niki // huwag kang matakot by reese lansangan // love. by wave to earth // old with you by grentperez // pasilyo by sunkissed lola //i <3 u by boy pablo // lucky by jazon mraz and colbie caillat // home by reese lansangan // sunny days by wave to earth

a/n ➵ hi everyone! welcome to the "of linked arms and bruised hearts (you are the reason i keep on going)" universe </3 making a series masterlist was long overdue tbh but surprise!! i don't plan on letting this pairing go easily, so i needed a proper way to have every part and drabble from this universe together!! i hope you guys enjoy this universe as much as i did writing it, and i hope you'll be seated for the little oneshots/drabbles that will come out. i would really appreciate it if you could take the time to reblog this.

want to be part of my taglist? send me an ask! masterlist

official parts ➵ one

you and changmin have been best friends since high school, having seen each other at their best and worst. now in your second year of university, you are given the opportunity to work with the unattainable 5th-year you have had a crush on since—jacob bae. with your best friend on the receiving end of your rambles, you could only hope for something to come out of your time working with jacob. that is until changmin decides he wants something more out of his relationship with you.

➵ two

you expect that spending time with your crush will only have you falling harder for him. yet, you find yourself unsure of ever having a relationship with him. you need time to sort through what you want with jacob, but a trip back to cheongju for the winter break only brings you newfound emotions toward changmin.

➵ three

now face-to-face with your newfound affection towards changmin, you struggle to determine whether this is platonic or romantic in nature. but with time, you realize that it is not so bad to be in love with your best friend after all.

drabbles/one shots ➵ side-by-side bylines

when you first meet ji changmin, you note him as the intimidating friend of kim sunwoo. but when you are tasked to work with him in your high school's publication, you learn that he is not so bad after all. (in other words, how you became friends with changmin)

➵ used-up cotton pads

in every party, your best friend never fails to take care of you. (in other words, how changmin makes sure to take off your makeup before going to sleep)

➵ tossed-up bouquets and unworn heels

hanhee and byungho are finally getting married, and you and changmin are left with the duty to make sure everything is in order. (in other words, you cannot help but wonder how married life would turn out for you two)

➵ from start to end

to wake up in changmin's embrace means to go to sleep in his arms as well. (in other words, your domestic life with the preschool teacher | sort of an epilogue)

[jwiloves]

well damn—

EVERYBODY FREEZE

[jwiloves]

Love-30_the masterlist

🎾 pairing: college athlete! tbz Changmin x campus reporter!reader

🎾 a social media (solely twitter) au with fluff, cracc, and Sangyeon portrayed as a meanie :_( (but he isn't one irl i swear!!)

🎾 study the subject from a distance. once you get emotionally involved, your prose becomes too personal. got it?

the subject: Changmin, deobi university's newest rookie ace tennis player.

you were warned to not get too close.

🎾 status: completed ♡

❕️PLEASE DO NOT SPAM-LIKE ❕️

0. the profiles

1. is Sunwoo okay?

2. Love-All

3. Younghoon: first college crush

4. duuude he's flirting

5. strike one

6. roomie healing time

7. step back or come closer?

8. new crush confirmed?!

9. house party (gone wrong!! not clickbait!)

10. sus..

11. Sunwoo, you did well

12. Chanhee knows all

13. moving on

14. bad timing

15. Sunwoo freedom!!

16. spilled

17. we're the boyz!

18. Sunwoo in glitch mode

19. truth or dare from hell

20. not manifesting but fr

21. telling the friends

22. where is Younghoon?

23. d-day

24. the end is just a new beginning

25. jeju-don't kill the vibe

26. rebirth

27. sleepoverrr

28. finally, jeju

29. they know ur worth when ur gone

30. healing

31. always believe [FINAL CHAPTER]

taglist: @semanticbias @sunoo-bby @baekhyuns-lipchain @sickvision @yogurteume @xavi-in-kpopland @lilyujin @lumixen @chewryy @jeonnyread @kyufessions @alohajun @hursheys @ksunwooqt @ilovechanhee @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @maybeifyoutrieddd @jwnghyuns @nindzilla @deobijjang @sulkygyu ♡ ask to be added!

[jwiloves]

Pairing: Older Siblings! Younghoon and Sunwoo x Younger sister! Reader

— In which Younghoon found out that his younger sister ditched her Math class.

A/n: I apologize if this isn't any good. I'm just testing the waters on writing smaus, since I'm planning on writing/creating one.

Note: this is a practice or a pilot smau😅

[jwiloves]

(⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤ I love the way this is written. Balanced angst and fluff.

Missing Out

Word Count: 509 Summary:“You’re quiet tonight,” you said softly, taking a seat beside him. A humorless chuckle left his lips. “I’ve been thinking.” Pairing: Kun x reader

Taglist: @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @Zaycie @lezleeferguson-120 @kunkunlele

Navigation

Kun had always been the type to think things through, to consider every possibility before making a decision. It was one of the many things you admire about him, but tonight, it was the very thing that made him feel so distant.

He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, fingers intertwined as he stared down at the floor. You could see the war waging inside him—the quiet pull of doubt gnawing at the edges of his usual composure.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said softly, taking a seat beside him.

A humorless chuckle left his lips. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That much is obvious,” you teased, nudging him lightly. But he didn’t smile. That was when you knew—this wasn’t just any fleeting worry. This was something deeper.

Kun exhaled, rubbing his face with his hands before finally turning to meet your gaze. “I feel like I’m holding you back.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You deserve someone who can give you everything. Someone who isn’t constantly working, who doesn’t come home exhausted, who doesn’t—” He hesitated, his voice thick with emotion. “Who doesn’t make you wait for him.”

Your heart clenched at the weight of his words. Kun was always so selfless, always thinking about what was best for everyone else, but right now… he was breaking his own heart with assumptions that weren’t even true.

“Kun,” you murmured, reaching for his hand. “Where is this coming from?”

He let out a slow breath, thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly. “I see the way your friends talk about their relationships—the spontaneous dates, the carefree adventures, the way they don’t have to plan weeks in advance just to see each other. And I just… I don’t want you to look back one day and regret choosing me.”

You squeezed his hand, shaking your head. “Kun, look at me.” He hesitated before lifting his gaze, vulnerability etched in his expression.

“I don’t care about spontaneous dates. I don’t need extravagant trips or nights out just for the sake of it. I need you. And if that means planning around your schedule, waiting a little longer just to be with you, then I’ll do it. Because I love you, and nothing about this—about us—feels like missing out.”

His lips parted slightly, as if trying to find the right words, but for once, he seemed at a loss.

You cupped his face gently, your thumbs tracing soothing circles against his skin. “You’re not holding me back, Kun. You are what I choose, every single time.”

His breath hitched, and before you knew it, he was pulling you into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around you as if he was afraid you’d slip away, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You deserve everything, Kun. And I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, the weight on his shoulders seemed a little lighter.

[jwiloves]

The ending doesn't suck, it's so well written❤️ I love it🥰

synopsis. jaehyun’s wife has been away on ‘business’ on and off ever since they’ve moved into their new flat in seoul. additionally, your husband has been taking trips to hong kong and japan continuously since you moved from gyeonggi deeper into seoul. through your loneliness, you and jaehyun find each other. friendship. fondness. love. but can you really love each other, can you accept his pursuits of you, and both still be blameless? after all, your spouses did the exact same to you.

warnings. cheating (on both sides, kind of?), unhappy marriages, mentions of an allusions to sex, mentions of children and pregnancy, drinking, lots and lots of angst, somehow only one swear word!

word count. 17.1k

notes. i had analog trip jaeh in mind for this fic… just so you know… also let’s all pretend the ending doesn’t suck!

𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟎년 서울

𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟎

THE EARLY SUMMER HEAT simmered under the warm lights that lit the narrow hallway of the Hong and the Lee’s apartment building, clinging to your already dewy skin as you politely directed the movers this way and that, instructing them where to put your or your husband’s things. After he’d gotten his promotion, your husband had decided that it would be a good idea for you to move deeper into Seoul as the season changed. You’d agreed, of course, having nothing more to do in Seoul than you had in Gyeonggi.

Flashes of red and gold and green flitted through your vision as Mrs Lee’s paper lamps swung overhead, above one of the particularly tall movers’ heads as he lumbered past, your precious tableware in hand. It had been a wedding gift, passed down through your husband’s family; from his great grandmother, his grandmother, his mother, and finally to you.

Frowning at a stack of comic books placed carefully onto your dark, maple coffee table, you picked them up with caution. “This isn’t ours,” you told one of the movers as he passed by, placing them from your delicate hold into his strong one. “It must’ve gotten mixed up from next door.”

The mover—a man with a nametag that read Duri—nodded dutifully, striding out of the room to surely return it to the neighbours, who were moving in today as well.

A few doors down, an empty flat lay silent and barren, save for the thump of the ceiling fan and the few boxes laying around on the sitting room floor and in the master bedroom. A man walked through each and every one of these rooms, his curious, bespectacled gaze flitting across every corner before strolling into the kitchen, the most busy room in the flat at present. He wiped a stripe of sweat from his brow, frowning in irritation at the heat. The Jeongs were supposed to have moved at the beginning of winter, but his promotion had been postponed, and they were only permitted to move houses when the season turned.

Jaehyun stared, perplexed, at the collection of romance books that had been ceremoniously placed upon his kitchen counter, wrestling with the uncertainty of whether or not they were his wife’s. “These books aren’t ours,” he told one of the movers as he passed by, carrying a collection of his comic books. “They must be from next door.”

“Oh.” Duri sighed, having thought he was finally free of his load, before picking up the leather bound books, nodding. “Apologies, Mr Jeong.”

Jaehyun said nothing, turning back to the bland beige walls that surrounded him. He’d have to paint these, soon; the monotony of the entire flat bothered him, made something in him itch. He remembered the house he’d lived in—a wedding gift, from his parents, painted in bright whites and browns, a spacious place with roots deep in tradition and even deeper roots in the countryside. Now, he was here, in the city. Surrounded by the same four walls as everyone else in the building, left to decorate a blank canvas all by himself again.

“Mrs Kim!” he heard someone yell happily. It was the old landlady, Hong Dahye, probably calling on his new neighbour. Jaehyun had only seen both women in passing, though the former did not seem like his kind of person. Neither did the other landlady, Mrs Lee. “Look at this place! You’ve already made it so beautiful.”

You smiled timidly, waving your hand as if it was nothing. “Oh, it’s not that big of a deal, Mrs Hong. But, thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”

“Say, where’s your husband?” the old woman asked. With a kind, weathered face and a mane of curly white hair, your landlady was the picture of Korean elders round the country. “He should be helping his beautiful wife move!”

You shook your head. Mr Kim, your beloved husband, was nowhere to be seen, rather opting to move his things into his new office a few streets away. You didn’t take much offence to it—neither you nor your husband owned many things, and you’d hired a whole moving team to help you, so it was not nearly the struggle Mrs Hong was making it out to be.

You and your husband didn’t do every little thing together, but were still happily married; you did practically everything contrary to what tradition had you believe.

Both of you were in your twenties and had not yet had your own children, nor had you given up your work after you’d gotten married to him, and he was more than happy with these courses of action—he’d, in fact, insisted upon them, given the fact that he wished to climb higher up the social ladder before bringing children into this world. You understood, for the modern world was only going to get more complex and more expensive as time went by. For now, both of you stayed childfree and career-oriented.

The same could be said for the Jeongs next door. They hadn’t made the executive decision, rather it came naturally. Jaehyun and Mrs Park had simply been too busy to think of children, and the latter enjoyed her job far too much to give it up in the name of caring for her child.

You stepped out into the hallway after another moved passed through, gently removing your cardigan, letting the soft material fall limp in your arms. It was as charming as it was cramped, the building, you thought, bowing in apology as you bumped into a mover before stalking on, deeper down the hallway.

Jaehyun was leaned on the wall right next to his front door. A cigarette balanced between his thumb and forefinger, his free hand clicked a lighter on, lowering it to the little flame that had gathered before his plump lips. A plume of smoke gathered around his face as he exhaled deeply, blowing it upwards and into the hot summer air.

“Afternoon,” you greeted, smiling politely at the older man. He only seemed to notice you then, eyes widening before he bowed, cigarette in hand. “My name is Mrs Kim.”

He smiled softly. “Hi. My name’s Jeong Jaehyun; pleased to meet you, Mrs Kim.”

Jeong Jaehyun was an attractive man, you had to admit. Tall, tanned, and with a certain sly glint in his eye that you’d only be able to catch if you paid extra attention. Dark brown locks in a tousle of waves, and dusted pink lips stuck in a permanent pout, there was something about the way he looked at you that made you want to bolt in the other direction.

You returned his bow, coming to rest at the side beside his, both of you on either side of his front door. “Are you moving in today?”

“Mm. We were supposed to move in at the start of the winter, but had some complications to deal with before we could,” Jaehyun elaborated, taking another drag from his cigarette.

You frowned. “‘We’?”

“Oh, right.” The older man chuckled. “My wife and I. I’m married.”

You perked up. Another married couple, living right next door to you! How fine that would be. “That’s lovely! Where is she?”

“Work,” said Jaehyun. “She’s a receptionist for a car company, so moving’s up to me today. She enjoys her work, so you probably won’t see her around much.”

He must’ve seen you deflate with disappointment, because he laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’d enjoy meeting you. What about your husband? Shouldn’t he be helping you move?”

“He’s at work, as well,” you said. “He’s an employee at a very big transport company, so he’s usually very busy. But, it’s no worry,” you assured kindly. “We don’t have many belongings, so moving is no problem for me.”

Jaehyun hummed. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, glancing at you from under his black spectacles as he took a long drag. “Well, good luck with that,” he said, summer-warmed cheeks growing red under the hallway lights. “I should be getting back to my own moving, actually.”

Smiling, you took note of his way to end the conversation. A bit abrupt, not like most men you’d spoken to, though you took the hint. “So should I,” you agreed, bowing in adieu, before finally taking your leave, slipping back into the flat.

Jaehyun watched in polite curiosity as you went, paying little attention to how your steps seemed as light as your voice, how the sway of your hips contrasted the formality of your words. Then, with a final drag, a final decadent exhale, he retreated back into his flat, already thinking of the next chapter of his comic book.

Your boss had let you go home early on account of the overtime you’d worked throughout the week, so you went home on Friday, an hour earlier than you usually would. With your husband away on business for the week, you didn’t have much to do around the house besides read.

You flipped boredly through a women’s magazine, before stumbling upon a foreign recipe. Rice cakes. You’d had them before at your husband’s insistence, but had never attempted to make them yourself. Struck with the inspiration that came only to a bored woman on a hot day, you cut out the section of the paper containing the recipe, tucking it into your handbag as you slipped on your outside shoes.

The market was rather busy today, with several people clamouring around farmers’ mothers selling their sons’ fresh produce and fishermens’ wives selling their husbands’ fresh fish. You’d need to walk through the bustling scene to get to the supermarket, though the prospect of it didn’t seem too daunting. You weren’t entirely accustomed to Korean markets yet, but the chaos was something one easily got used to.

Several colours entered your field of vision as you made your way past the many stalls, wonderfully mismatched smells wafted through the air as you walked through the street. The calls and hollers of vendors momentarily stole your attention, echoing in your mind like the keens and croons of an opera singer in the great ambience of a concert hall.

Jaehyun was leaned against one of the many carts lining the city streets, exchanging polite conversation with one of the younger men in the crowd who was assisting his mother with her shopping. Another man who worked at the same law firm as Jaehyun, they were dressed in nearly identical crisp black suits. Several plastic bags hung limply from Jaehyun’s arms, indicating a busy day around the town for the man. With his wife away on business for the week, all the cooking and cleaning had been left to him; a feat he’d taken up happily.

He smiled when he saw you, the corners of his mouth turning up only the slightest bit in formal greeting.

“Hello, Mr Jeong.” You bowed, though not the full ninety degrees, before walking past, jostled on by an older woman who clearly moved with more purpose than you did. “Oh—!”

Jaehyun’s coworker gave him a curious glance, subconsciously loading his mother’s groceries into a bag she held open for him. “Who’s that?”

“My neighbour,” said Jaehyun, hands itching to reach into his back pocket for a smoke. “We moved in on the same day a few weeks ago.”

This happened quite a few times—yours and Jaehyun’s paths crossing. It wasn’t uncommon of you to walk past one another on your ways to and from work, or on the morning walks you took on your days off. You’d always walk past, nodding politely, before completely forgetting of one another the moment you weren’t in each other’s sight anymore.

It happened again while you were on your way home from work one evening, walking up the stairs with your cardigan shrugged loosely over your shoulders. Your ears perked up as a second set of steps joined you, and you turned to see your neighbour just a few steps behind you. As if by natural instinct, your face split into a smile—one which was returned happily by Jaehyun.

“How was work?” he asked, only picking up his pace so that he could be level with you.

“Oh, as interesting as a receptionist’s job can be,” you chuckled. “My most important chore today was making coffee for my boss. Yours?”

“Mm. Stressful.” Jaehyun shook his head, sighing. “There’s tons of drama at the firm; someone embezzled billions of wons that were supposed to go into the workers’ bonuses at the end of the year.”

You gasped softly. “Really? That’s horrible!”

Jaehyun chuckled. “What’s worse, it was my boss.”

Rounding the corner that lead to your flats, you and Jaehyun bid one another a hushed good night, locking open your front doors in harmony.

Stepping into your flat, you frowned to see that the door had been previously unlocked. You could’ve sworn that you’d locked it before you went to work that morning, and double-checked it before finally leaving. Gaze flitting over your home, you saw that everything was untouched; the paintings that adorned the four walls of your living room were not a centimetre off centre, the carpets and candles and paper lanterns were in each and every one of their designated places. Every single bit and bob was in its place.

…Save for the throw pillows on your couch, which had previously been delicately arranged into a perfect little pyramid, that now sat in disarray, as if someone had taken a seat and left the couch in a mess.

Stalking down the hall that lead to your bedroom, you saw that the bed had been unmade, as well. Something that you, ever the stickler for a clean home, did not make a habit of.

Your husband popped his head out of the en suite bathroom, running a comb through his slicked back hair. “My lovely wife,” he greeted, and you smiled. You’d forgotten that he’d returned from his trip a few hours ago, and would of course make himself at home once he got back. Pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, he asked, “How was your day? Did anything interesting happen?”

“No, my love. Nothing of note,” you replied. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t greet you properly. If I’d have remembered that you’d be back today, I’d have prepared a homecoming feast for you!”

Mr Kim tutted. “Hush, that’s not necessary. We can go out tonight! I hear there’s a very good restaurant just down the street.” He patted your shoulders encouragingly when he didn’t receive an immediate response. “Come on, let’s treat ourselves, no? We never do.”

You nodded, slowly coming around to the idea. It wasn’t often that you and your husband ate out, much less together. “I don’t think that’s a bad idea, actually,” you said. “I just need to get ready; I’m in no position to go out looking like this!” you said, gesturing to your perfectly adequate outfit as if you were wearing rags.

“Ah, you women and your clothes,” he sighed, but didn’t protest. “I’ll be waiting by the door; don’t take too long, now!” he added, on his way to the bright red phone that hung on your kitchen wall.

You sat in the corner of the restaurant, in a booth rather secluded from the rest of the people inside. The lights were low, warm on your skin as you took your seats, evenly opening your menus as a waiter drifted by and took your orders. Lively music floated through the air, accompanying the sounds of several conversations, acting as a foreground to all the talk that threatened to take your attention off of your husband.

He wasn’t looking at you, his attention rather focused on the soju in front of him. He’d allowed for you to share a bottle, something that he did rarely. He didn’t like you drinking too much, so you never really asked, rather waited for him to offer. When he wasn’t focused on making himself seem presentable, you could see the stress flitting across his face—a frown marring his dark brows, his pink lips quirked downward in an unhappy fashion. You wondered whether you should enquire, whether you should ask your husband what bothered him so.

“My love,” you started. “What’s the matter? You’ve barely spoken a word the entire evening.” Because for Mr Kim, the entertainer, the observational comic, that was something highly out of the ordinary.

He hummed in a disintered sort of resignation, as if he couldn’t will himself to listen to you. “Mm? Oh, it’s nothing, my wife, really. Work has just been stressful these past months, and with the move…”

It’s just been even more difficult. You knew. Even for you, ever the quietly resilient soul, the change had been a force to reckon with. You didn’t even want to know how Mr Kim, who worked twice the hours you did, took it.

You reached across the table, taking his hand, turning his ring over in your hold. “Is there anything I could do to make it better, my love?”

He sighed softly, shaking his head. “No. There’s nothing you can do,” he said, and you felt the earlier hope you’d had for his mood to pick up vanish.

Before you could say more, a call of your name prompted you to pick up your head, opening your eyes to a scene outside of your booth. It was Jeong Jaehyun, with his wife hanging on his arm as if she were some prized trophy, his hand securely on her hip. If only your husband could hold you like that. For a fleeting moment you had the seething thought, before you got over your momentary ungratefulness and smiled at the sight of your neighbour.

“What a coincidence to see you here!” you said, offering him a polite smile. You could see your husband look up, though you missed the recognition flashing across his face as he glanced at the couple. “My husband and I decided we’d treat ourselves tonight, in honour of his return.”

“Funny you should say that,” Jaehyun said. “Mrs Park and I had the exact same idea. Didn’t we, dove?”

At that question, Jaehyun’s wife finally looked at you, eyes having been trained somewhere else, and nodded.

Dove. A fitting nickname for a woman so beautiful, you had to admit. With flowing black hair nearly reaching her slender hips, and a cherub-like visage, you clearly understood why Jaehyun had married her. Even looking through the eyes of a happily married woman, you could see Mrs Park’s appeal.

“Oh, certainly,” she replied, and her voice flowed like honey when she did. “I’ve just come back from a business trip to Japan, and my husband insisted that we eat out tonight to celebrate my return. A silly thing, really, but I accepted nonetheless.” At that, she bumped her hip with his, and he chuckled.

“W-well, why don’t you two come sit with us?” Scooching closer to you, your husband gestured at the booth space opposite you that he’d occupied until that moment, inviting your neighbours to join you. Your cheeks flushed at the sudden proximity, and you had to hold in a smile at how close your husband was sitting to you; closer than he’d been in a long time.

“You don’t mind, do you, dear?” he asked, turning to your for confirmation. When you shook your head, Jaehyun and his wife shared a look, before taking seats opposite you.

That’s how you ended up ordering for the table, each of you picking a dish and sharing it with one another. Yours and Jaehyun’s spouses got to talking, and that’s when you realised that they’d had more in common than you’d anticipated.

Where you thought you’d be able to bond with Mrs Park over books or films, she had long-lasting conversations with your husband about the current political state of the country, about cars, and other such things. You assumed, since both of them were working at car companies, that that’s what prompted the connection.

You had to admit, it was nice, not having to carry the conversation. And the joint orders were a change from your usual routine of separate plates, though you knew that was just because your husband didn’t like to share his food, and your taste was not his.

At some point during the night, Jaehyun’s gaze drifted to you, taking in your reserved posture. It was an almost cinematic comparison; your husband, bathed in the booth’s light as he passionately discussed complex political matters with Mrs Park, and you, half in the shadow, half in the light, smiling in a gloomy manner, offering limited additions where you could.

“I started reading Much Ado About Nothing.”

Snapping your head up to meet Jaehyun’s gaze, your mouth formed an enquisitive line in silent question.

“I saw a copy of it, that day the movers accidentally switched our books,” he elaborated. He spoke softly, in a way that made it certain only you could hear him. A shrug. “I was intrigued, and went out and bought a copy. It’s good. Funny.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Do you… usually read foreign books?”

He exhaled through his nose, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not a laugh, necessarily, but a sure show of amusement. “No, I don’t. In fact, I don’t read much at all, outside of comic books. But my curiosity got the best of me, and I bought a real book for once.”

“I’m sure comic books are real books,” you said, though you couldn’t help the warm feeling that bloomed in your chest. “Are you, er, enjoying it, so far?”

He nodded. “Very much. Romance books have never particularly interested me, but this one in particular is especially entertaining. I like the way the characters all interact; they’re all a bit ridiculous, in the best way.” He paused, then added, “I feel books should be a bit ridiculous, every now and then.”

Almost poetically, just as you were about to speak, the second orders of food came, and you were all roused from your respective conversations. The dinner continued in a amiable fashion, given the inherent common ground your age and relationships bade you. The night didn’t last long, however, for words murmured over shot glasses and through mouthfuls of each other’s food could only keep you in your seat for so long. You all had work in the morning, and couldn’t abandon routine on account of one nights’ spontaneity. Though, you had to admit that the change of scene was nice. You’d grown tired of packing away dinners and going to bed alone because your husband was away, or working late.

After a considerable amount of bickering, your husband and Jaehyun decided to split the bill between them, and you were on your way home for the second time that day. You bid each other good night, each of you retreating into your own flats as they sat next to each other, kicking off your shoes and sliding under your covers.

Unbeknownst to you as you happily retreated into your bed, dressed in the softest silk pyjama set, a gift sat on your bedside table, wrapped in expensive paper. A perfume, probably, that your husband had bought while he was in Japan. He always did that: bought you little things, souvenirs and gifts from places he’d travelled to. Handbags from Hong Kong, shoes from Singapore, and perfume from Japan.

Your boss’ office was an extremely uninteresting place. He had never had quite the decorative eye you had, so his walls lay bare, and every item was just a darker or lighter shade of the same colour. It was only your desk that brought some life into the place, with your few action figures and personal books stacked up on top of one another, and the several coloured pens that lay the desk full.

The room was brought alive by the familiar clicks and clacks of your typewriter as you typed up a document your boss had requested, as well as the frequent riiip! as you removed a paper from the typewriter, adding it to the stack you’d accumulated since the beginning of your shift.

When the phone rang, you glanced up at your boss, who seemed to be preoccupied with something else. He waved you off, indicating that you should get it. Standing up, you took the green device into your hold, keeping it to your ears. “Hwang Hyunjung’s office, how may I help you?”

“My wife,” came the voice of your husband. “I’m here at a mall in Tokyo, and I’m wondering which scent I should get for you. Floral, or fruity?”

You chuckled softly. “You know me well, my love.”

“Ah. Floral.”

No. Oriental. “Correct, my love. Is that all?”

“That’s all. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your important work. Bye-bye, now!”

“Goodbye, my love.”

Click.

“Who was that?” Mr Hwang asked as you took your seat again, going right back to typing up the document. “Your husband, I hope. It would be odd for anyone else to call you while you were at work.”

You exhaled, smiling. “Of course it was, Mr Hwang. No one else is that important to me.”

In an office surprisingly close to your own, Jaehyun was finishing up the last of the day’s work, having been occupied with a particularly harrowing case for the past month. After his boss’ money laundering was brought to light, he’d had to take over half of the workload that the old man had left behind, and the rest of the office were left to pick up the pieces.

One of Jaehyun’s coworkers, Sicheng, sighed, plopping down into the seat next to his as he entered the break room, eagerly clicking on a cigarette he balanced between his lips. “I feel like dissolving into a pool of tears.”

Jaehyun chuckled, though it was not without its thinly veiled hysteria. He was on the edge of insanity, but had to hold it together for the rest of the firm’s sakes. When you were a higher up in an institution like this, your own emotions didn’t matter in the least. “You’re not the only one, Win.”

Setting down the documents he’d collected from the rest of the lawyers, Jaehyun added, “I’m thinking of calling it a day. It’s…” Sighing, he lifted up his sleeve to reveal his watch—a gift from Mrs Park. “…It’s after nine. Too late to be able to get anything else done. Go tell the rest of the office; quitting time.”

Sicheng nodded dutifully, sighing a small sigh and squaring his shoulders, taking a drag of his cigarette before walking back to the offices to alert everyone that the day was over. Jaehyun collected his own blazer and briefcase, and soon enough, he was making his way down the stairs of the firm, several of his employees following. Dongyoung, one of his senior colleagues, had invited him to after-work drinks, but Jaehyun declined on account of a made-up headache.

As he made his way through the deserted city streets, his fingers itched to reach for a cigarette. His lips longed for something to wrap around, something to breathe in.

The light tips and taps of heels clicking against the ground caught his attention as he rounded the corner to the apartment building, and he saw you start to take the stairs one and a time, a cardigan hung loosely off your shoulders. He smiled slightly at the familiar sight, having grown used to seeing you on his way back home from work.

You only noticed him when he caught up to you, smiling in greeting at your neighbour. “Mr Jeong. What a coincidence seeing you here,” you joked, and he wanted to laugh at the way your lips curled into a self-satisfied smile at your own quip.

“Truly,” he said.

“For how long is your husband away this time, you said?”

Resisting a carnal urge to sigh, you placed down another card in front of you. ��Two weeks, Mrs Hong, doing business in Shanghai.”

The old woman’s eyes widened, surprised both by the time you’d given her and the fact that you hadn’t celebrated your second win in a row. “Well, that’s an awfully long time to spend away from your wife, isn’t it? Doesn’t he miss you?”

You smiled. “Of course he does. But he calls me every day, before work to tell me good morning, and before bed to tell me good night. And he sends me gifts! Plenty of gifts.”

“Oh, don’t think I haven’t seen your new shoes, Mrs Kim!” your landlady jested, and you chuckled. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s away often. When will you ever get time to have children?”

You froze, caught off guard by the nature of the question. Even a month later, you hadn’t spoken to your husband of children. Of course you hadn’t—you were both too busy to even be intimate for pleasure, now you’d have to do so for purpose? The idea itself seemed foreign to you, foreign as the glyphs that stared back at you when you tried to read one of your husband’s books.

Smiling in discomfort, you shook your head. “That’s none of our concern these days, Mrs Hong. We have more important things to do than worry about babies. Times are changing, you know? Couples are waiting before they have them.”

You could tell the old woman wanted to say more, but she kept her mouth shut, simply sighing and continuing with the game as if she hadn’t already noticed you win.

Next door, Jaehyun was faced with a similar affliction; that affliction being his landlady probing about his personal life while absolutely destroying him at cards.

“So, where is your beautiful wife off to this time?” Mrs Lee asked, placing a card down. There was a vicious sort of curiosity in her eyes, and he knew she knew the effect it had on him.

“China, Mrs Lee,” Jaehyun sighed. “For two weeks.” She hadn’t said specifically where in China she’d be doing business, but Jaehyun trusted her enough to believe whatever she told him. After all, she was his dove. She never lied.

“How odd,” the old woman commented. “You know, back in my day, only the husband was allowed to work. His wife was to stay home and raise their children.” She quirked a brow. “Do you two have any children yet?”

This is not the kind of question you’d like to be asked just as you’re taking a sip of coffee. Jaehyun realised this as, when she posed her question, his brain seemed to have short-circuited, and so did his ability to swallow. Mrs Lee chuckled, thoroughly amused by the young man’s surprise.

“No,” Jaehyun said eventually, still half-choking. “Not yet.”

Children weren’t in the Jeongs five year plan, as far as the couple had discussed. Mrs Park eagerly wanted to work and make as much money as she can, while Jaehyun himself was more focused on climbing higher in the firm’s hierarchy. He’d always wanted children, and had been keen on them until he met his wife. She wanted to wait, she said, and he respected her decision. After all, who was he to demand such a thing as pregnancy of his wife when he merely had a bout of baby fever?

The man tried for a smile, setting down a card. “We’re waiting for a bit. Mrs Park wants to work for a bit longer, and I won’t deprive her of that pleasure.”

Self-consciously wiping at some of the coffee that had dribbled down his chin, Jaehyun wondered what his wife was currently doing. And, hearing the cackling laughter from next door, he was wondering if you’d been caught in the same predicament as him.

The day had been positively chaotic. After running through several meetings with the Chinese businessmen, Mr Kim was left to complete all the work that his colleagues couldn’t finish. It had been a tiring week, to say the least, and now he had another wild day to put behind him.

Bright lights shone overhead as Mr Kim made his way through the hallway leading to his hotel room, sighing with great fatigue. He fumbled for his keys, before the great crimson door opened on its own. His ears perked up at the sound, and he lightly pushed the door open, having a slight suspicion as to who was already in his room.

True to her words, Mrs Park was waiting for Mr Kim in the kitchen of his hotel suite, sitting with her legs coyly crossed over one another on top of the kitchen counter. She looked the picture of beauty, with her blue-black hair neatly done into a bun, and her face made up with the prettiest colours, her lips painted a daring red. You never wore red, too afraid to stand out and be seen. Mr Kim liked red.

“Hello, handsome,” she greeted, slinging her arms over his shoulders as he neared, scooping her up into his arms.

“Evening, beautiful,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to her lips, before pulling away with a smear of red staining his face. “Where shall we go tonight, hm? I feel like going out. Maybe we can go to that new restaurant down the street, share an order.”

Mrs Park rolled her eyes. “You always want to go out and share food. It’s ridiculous. Who’s paying for all of this?”

Mr Kim smiled. “Me. Always me, gorgeous.”

It had been going on for six months, the affair. They weren’t sure precisely when or how, but it blossomed long before they moved into the same apartment building. They’d met a year ago, working at the same car company, and could only make it as colleagues for six months before that grew into something more. Aside from surface level attraction, they claimed, they were drawn to one another not only because of similar interests, but because of like boredom with their respective spouses.

It wasn’t that they were bad, or abusive, or even all that uninteresting.

There was just something that Mr Kim and Mrs Park saw in each other that they couldn’t ever think to see in you or Jaehyun.

“When do you plan on telling her?” Mrs Park asked, hours after they’d gone out and enjoyed a passionate night in each other’s arms, now lain next to her secret lover as he rested next to her. He turned to her with a quirked brow. “Your wife, I mean.”

He sighed, the deep sigh of a man who did not wish to explain himself at present. “I don’t know. When do you plan on telling him? Your husband.”

She stilled, crossing her arms over her bare chest as she thought. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, okay. How about this? What was the most difficult thing to get used to when you moved to Korea?”

You frowned, brows creasing in thought. You chewed thoughtfully on your food, hands curling around your cup of tea. “Probably the people,” you decided, to which Jaehyun quirked a brow. “Koreans are very loud compared to the people in my home country.”

“I can’t relate,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been in America before, for work, and people are exactly the same there as they are here.” He chuckled. “I can only wonder how peaceful your country is.”

The tea house was busy, bustling with people moving in and out of the dark, comfortably decorated building. You and your neighbour sat on either side of a small table, legs crossed as you discussed a variety of things as they crossed your minds. It had been a chance encounter, with Jaehyun inviting you to sit down with him when he saw you come in to pick up an order you’d placed at home.

It had also been somewhat of an awkward encounter, considering that Jaehyun must’ve been the first man you spoke to alone since you’d gotten married. You wondered how his wife would feel if she knew of it, or how your own husband would feel if he knew of it. But they were both away, gone overseas on business, only to return in the near future.

You enjoyed his conversation, however. He was a rather engaging person to talk to, and someone who you could consider a friendly acquaintance. You didn’t have many of those, real friends even less.

You hummed, placing the rounded cup down onto the table. “Have you finished the book yet?” you asked, meekly posing the question as a nonchalant enquiry.

Jaehyun smiled easily. “I have, actually. It was one of the best books I’ve read in a while. Do you know of anything else like it?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever read a book quite like Much Ado. It’s one of a kind, I’m afraid.”

Your neighbour tsked, pouting in disappointment. “Cripes, I’d have loved to read another book like it. The inherent silliness of it all really is captivating. Now I suppose I’m left to entertain myself while I’m at the office.”

You raised a brow. “What, and not work?”

“Of course not,” he quipped, and he flashed a smile that would’ve made any other woman’s knees buckle. But not you. You had your own husband, whom you loved, and admired, and couldn’t wait to see again.

A beat of silence followed, with you suddenly growing conscious as to how wide your smile actually was. You tapered it, got your emotions under control. Here you were, grinning like a schoolgirl while in conversation with a man who wasn’t even a friend, much less something more.

Jaehyun himself seemed pensive, eyes glazing over under his obsidian-rimmed glasses. “Where does your husband work, again?” he asked, lifting his head to look in your eyes.

You paused, unsure of why exactly he was asking. “At a transport company that foresees cars for overseas businessmen when they travel. Why do you ask?”

He shook his head. “No reason. He… travels a lot, right?”

You nodded. “He’s in Shanghai this week.”

Jaehyun nodded slowly, seemingly taking in information that you were not privy to. “Your wife travels a lot as well, doesn’t she?” you asked, needlessly.

“Yes,” Jaehyun said softly. “She’s currently working in China.”

After that interaction, your meetings with Jaehyun grew scarce. It’s never as if they hadn’t been, of course. He was only your neighbour. You passed him a few times in the marketplace, though you seemed to miss him whenever you walked to work in the morning or walked home at night. Perhaps his hours had changed, you reasoned. You heard from plenty of your husband’s colleagues that their hours could change whenever their boss decided it should.

Speaking of, your husband was back from overseas, finally staying at home for the month. You got to see him when you woke up in the morning, and you got to fall asleep next to him each night. For a moment, it felt as if he were growing close to you again, but only then did you realise how far he’d grown from you.

He’d made himself scarce since he’d come home, keeping to his work when he was at home. He took his meals in your bedroom, where his desk was, and only switched his light off when you decided to go to bed. Each morning that you went to work, when he’d be getting ready to go as well, would only be able to offer you a distracted kiss on the cheek before running off, briefcase in hand.

Over the course of the next few weeks, you wondered when this rift had started to form. You were twenty four, now, Mr Kim twenty eight. You’d been married for three years, since you were twenty one and he was twenty five, and during all that time, you’d never felt more estranged from your own husband than now. He’d always shared stories with you when he came home from work, and always talked your ear off if he was overseas for the week. He kissed you dizzy whenever he got the chance, and, as indelicate as it may have sounded coming from your mouth, intimacy was a frequent activity you delighted in. You shared food, lay down in each other’s arms anywhere possible, and spent every waking moment together.

Now, you could barely get three words from his mouth when he was at home, and he only called when he wanted to buy you the same gifts you already had six of. His kisses were rare and chaste, and that in and of itself made any further intimacy impossible. His food was his own, his space was his own, and his time was his own. It was as if you were simply flatmates who happened to share a bed and a contract legally binding you together.

Yet, you didn’t say a word to let him know you’d caught on to his distance. Mostly because you didn’t know what to do with that information further. What would you do, if you told him, made it known that you could feel him disappearing from your life like sand falling through an open, eager hand? Would you confront him? Leave him? No, you couldn’t do that. There was too much at stake if you even tried.

So, what better could you do than let your thoughts run wild, let them consume your very being as each and every notion grew darker and darker and your hope grew smaller and smaller?

You studied the typewriter in front of you, looking at how your fingers trembled as they rested on the keys. The diamond on your wedding ring glinted tauntingly in the low light of your boss’ office, and Jaehyun’s voice rang through your head.

“Where does your husband work, again? He… travels a lot, right?”

“He’s in Shanghai this week. Your wife travels a lot as well, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. She’s currently working in China.”

The phone chord curled around your finger as you picked it up, holding it to your ear as you punched in the number of Mr Kim’s office. It was picked up on the third ring, the line humming to life.

“Mr Kim’s office, how may I help you?” asked the voice of your husband’s colleague and deskmate, Youngho.

“Oh, evening, Youngho-ssi,” you smiled, hands trembling. “Is— is my husband nearby, by any chance?”

On the other end of the line, Youngho frowned. Kim had left earlier than usual, saying he was on his way home, while his wife was clearly still at work. “No. He left about an hour ago, Mrs Kim.”

You chuckled, grip around the phone tightening. “Oh, right! Silly me. I forgot he was going home earlier to rest today. Thank you, regardless, Youngho. Good night.” You slammed the phone back into place before the older man could answer, and covered your mouth in an attempt to catch the words at the tip of your tongue; Mr Hwang was still at his desk a few metres away.

“May I go home?” you requested, not looking at your boss.

He didn’t look up from his papers, brows raised. “I don’t see why not. There’s nothing more you can do for me today.” He chuckled. “You’re relieved of your duty for today, Mrs Kim.”

You nodded, smiling stiffly as you slung your handbag over your shoulder, briskly walking out of the office.

𝟑시간 전

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨

Jaehyun yawned, stretching his arms far above his head. His spine released a cathartic crack! and he sighed in relief. It was nearing sundown, and he had a particularly productive day under the belt. Sicheng was only a few desks away, floating on the same cloud as his colleague.

Standing up, Jaehyun waltzed over to the office phone, and dialled Mrs Park’s office number. She picked up on the third ring, singing, “I hope this is my love calling~”

Jaehyun chuckled. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Mrs Park straightened in her seat. “N-nothing, dear. I’m just… excited to hear from you. It’s been such a long day, and it’s only going to get longer for me.”

“No, have they got you working overtime again?” he gasped.

Mrs Park sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. I can’t make it to dinner tonight. We’ll have to reschedule that booking you made.”

Jaehyun pouted, frowning in disbelief. It’s almost as if ever since she came back from China, her workload had tripled. Every other night she was working late, or having drinks with colleagues after her shift. Never did she have time for him. But, he said nothing. If his wife wanted to work, he’d let her work without complaints. After all, he wasn’t a dependent toddler. He was a grown man, twenty eight and counting!

“Alright, my love,” he said. “Will I at least see you tonight?”

“Of course, my husband,” she assured warmly.

“Okay. Remember to take breaks,” Jaehyun said. “Goodbye. I love you.”

“Goodbye, Jaehyun.”

𝟏시간 전

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐨

Frowning, Jaehyun’s impatience only grew with each second that passed as he waited for Mrs Park to pick up. It had been two hours since the last time they spoke, and he just wanted to let her know that he’d also be working late tonight, and that she shouldn’t lock the door when she got home.

“Where is she?” he muttered. He checked his watch. Only half past eight. Was she in the middle of a meeting, or an errand, or what?

After the tenth ring, the phone clicked, and the line hummed to life.

“Kia Motors, may I help you?” answered the voice of Mrs Park’s colleague, Park Sooyoung.

“Evening, Sooyoung-nim,” Jaehyun smiled. “Is my wife nearby? I spoke to her a few hours ago, and she said she’d be working overtime. I just have a message to relay to her.”

The woman hesitated, frowning at his sentiment. “Apologies, Jaehyun-ssi, but Mrs Park left two and a half hours ago. She asked to go home earlier today; I thought she’d tell you that.”

Silence.

Jaehyun’s eyes widened beneath his glasses, his breath growing shallow. His fingers, which had been drumming absently on his desk, were now balled into a fist that waited to meet the hard surface of a desk. “Oh.” He exhaled, inhaled, working on his jaw all the while. “Right. Sorry. I must’ve forgot. Thank you, anyway, Sooyoung-nim. Have a nice night.”

The line died abruptly before the younger woman could return his farewell.

You could hear voices next door.

After rushing home, you returned to find your flat empty. Bed made perfectly, couch untouched, and the food you’d prepared that morning gathering flies. Food you’d prepared for Mr Kim—your husband.

You wrung your hands, trying to figure out where he could be. Maybe he was just out with friends, colleagues, and didn’t feel it was important enough to mention to you. But Youngho had still been at the office, and as far as you knew, the two were thick as thieves. They always went out together. While you thought, and paced, you could faintly hear voices from the conjoined wall behind you. You hadn’t seen Jaehyun on your way home, so perhaps he’d returned home earlier. You couldn’t make out exactly who the voices were, but you could discern one female voice and another male voice. It had to be Jaehyun, or a brother, or a father, or…

…Maybe you were just imagining it. You’d been working longer hours these days, getting less sleep. And you were getting close to your monthlies. Perhaps you were just overworked and exhausted and hormonal and were imagining there being more than one voice. Maybe Mrs Park enjoyed having conversations with herself—a pastime you’d adopted as well.

Sighing, you steeled your nerves and marched to the front door of the Jeongs flat. Someone laughed, a woman, and you raised your hand to knock. When you did, the voices died out, and you could hear hurried footsteps to the door. The moment you saw Mrs Park, your heart fell to your stomach.

Messy hair, her lipstick smeared as if someone had tried to kiss it off of her. There was a glow about her, one that you hadn’t seen in yourself for almost a year.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs Park.” Your voice came out weak, and you sounded far away in your own ears. “I just heard a commotion, and I wanted to know if you were alright.”

The older woman chuckled, nodding as she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. One of her earrings was missing, too, probably lost in the sheets of her bed.

“No worries, Mrs Kim,” she assured. The name Kim sounded too familiar in her mouth for your comfort. “It’s just me here.”

You nodded, giving her a warm smile before going back into your own flat, and you heard your door shut behind you, though you couldn’t remember closing it.

Steam fogged up the mirrors and windows in your bathroom, made your vision clouded and hot. Boiling water cascaded down your back, warming your spine, and you scrubbed at your skin until it was raw. The sound of the shower running was enough to drown out the pathetic sobs that racked your body, was enough to silence the hushed whispers that echoed from next door.

You weren’t sure who told you, but someone once said to you that when things get difficult in your personal life, work offers a type of asylum that no human could bid you. The following month, that was your experience.

Nights spent helping Mr Hwang at the office had become your new favourite thing to do, considering the fact that your husband always had to work late. You went to work as early as you were allowed to, before your husband woke up, and you came back only hours after he fell asleep.

You took your meals at work, took your calls at work, and bought groceries during your breaks and stored them in the office fridge until you got home. The only time you were doing something besides sleeping or bathing at home was when you made your husband lunch, placed it neatly in the fridge with a simple note.

내 사랑. My love.

As predicted, your husband didn’t notice the change, too caught up in his own life to really care. Perhaps he was under the impression that you were working harder because you wanted a promotion, unaware that it was impossible for you to be granted such a pleasure. Your neighbour was in a similar predicament, of which you wouldn’t know, because he hadn’t spoken to you since you sat down together at the tea house.

Almost as if spurred on by the mere thought of him in your pretty head, Jaehyun called you that night, at the office. You frowned when you answered, and heard his voice respond.

“Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

You paused, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, you asked, “Right now?”

“…Yes. Why not?”

Inclining your head, you weighed your options. You’d worked overtime the entire week now, and Mr Hwang was starting to get worried. You didn’t want to raise so much suspicion that he’d make a call home and ask your husband anything, so maybe working less hours tonight would do you good. Besides, it’s been a while since you actually went out somewhere that wasn’t work or the supermarket.

“Where?” you asked. You heard a sigh of relief on the other side, and found yourself smiling at his antics.

“How about that little diner down the street from your office?” Jaehyun suggested, and it was then that you remembered you only worked a few streets away from one another. “Their coffee is really good, and the seating is better than most diners in the area.”

You accepted, disconnecting the call and packing up your things, telling Mr Hwang that you’d be going home early. Well, technically on time, but that would count as early considering the hours you’d been working.

That’s how you got where you were now—sat across a crimson red booth from Jaehyun, stirring your cooling coffee as it warmed the gold-rimmed mint green cup it had been served in.

Jaehyun looked tired. Still handsome, you admitted. Of course you admitted it, because anyone could see it, even a married woman with a husband just as handsome. But there was something about the way he carried himself, about the circles starting to form under his eyes, about the near bird’s nest that was his hair, that made him look unspeakably tired, more so than any man his age should be. You didn’t know that he was thinking the same, wondering how someone as young as you could look so burnt out, as if your happiness was running thin, as if you needed a shoulder to cry on, arms to fall asleep in.

“I like your shoes,” he commented, bumping his foot with yours.

The action made you freeze, before you realised it was really just a harmful gesture. “Thanks,” you smiled. “My husband got them for me when he was in Singapore a few months ago. I’ve got a few more pairs in different colours.”

He hummed. “Do you know which store he got them from? You always look so put-together and chic wearing them. I want to buy a pair for my wife.”

“Mm, I’m not sure,” you said. “I’ll ask my husband. Do you know what size your wife wears?”

He scoffed softly. “Only a bad husband wouldn’t. She’s a size six.”

Nodding, you said, “I’ll ask him to pick up two pairs for me next time he goes, so that I could give your wife the second. It’s great that we’re the same size.”

A beat of silence followed, before you softly said, “I like your watch.”

Glancing at the shiny glass surface, Jaehyun nodded in thanks for the compliment. “Thank you. My wife got it for me when she was in Thailand.”

“Do you know which shop she bought it from?” you questioned, taking a sip of your coffee.

Jaehyun shook his head, taking a sip of his own coffee, savouring the bitterness as it seeped into his tastebuds. “M-mm,” he murmured. “But I’ll ask her, and let you know when she comes back to me.”

“It looks familiar, though,” you said, inclining your head. “I think I’ve seen it somewhere.”

Silence.

“My husband has a watch just like that.”

Jaehyun ducked his head, smiling brokenly.

“My wife has a pair of shoes just like yours.”

You sighed softly, falling back in your seat. For someone who’d been very good at being silent and serene for the past month, you were feeling very much like crying as hard as you did when you first knocked on Mrs Park’s door only to find that she’d been ‘alone’, and your husband was nowhere to be found.

Jaehyun glanced at you from beneath his lenses as the light reflected off of them, plump lips forming an unsure frown. Your brows were furrowed as if you were angry, though he could see the tears forming in your eyes, brimming with emotion. You looked so sad, so hurt, that he wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and take your hand. But, even when Jaehyun didn’t know much about you, he knew you were loyal to your husband, even when the bastard couldn’t even return that loyalty.

“I’ve had my suspicions for a while,” he admitted, finally breaking the silence.

“Since when?” you asked, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as you elbow touched the table. You harshly wiped at your eyes, hoping he hadn’t seen the tears gathering there.

“Since we had dinner together, about six months ago,” he said. “My wife doesn’t talk about cars with just anyone.”

“And my husband doesn’t talk about politics with just anyone,” you added.

Jaehyun smiled. He found himself chuckling, snorting bitterly at the idea of your spouses together. They didn’t even make a bad match, he had to admit. They worked in similar industries, always travelled, and clearly shared more common ground than any of you had thought. You couldn’t help your own morose grin, your head falling into your hands as you shook with silent laughter.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you said eventually, trying to taper your laughter. “I seriously have no idea how to proceed with my life.”

Jaehyun shook his head, clamping a hand over his mouth to silence himself. “Neither do I,” came his muffled voice.

You laughed together for a few moments, in virtual silence, save for the deep breaths you took in between hysterical giggles.

Jaehyun removed his hand from his mouth then, running it through his hair as his eyes widened slowly. He shook his head for a second time, as if still processing the information. Your own attention had gone from the situation to something more present: your coffee. Your painted fingers swirled around the rim, sliding easily along the green porcelain as the man in front of you settled his gaze elsewhere.

The lights above you flickered, and you became aware of the other conversations floating through the air, accompanied by melodious music. You were just every other person in this diner, in your own little world, discussing your own little dilemmas, feeling as if your world would come crashing down at any moment—and no one else in the restaurant would know, or care, just like how you didn’t care about their conversations or the state of their lives.

“We won’t be like them,” he promised, speaking his words of honour into the deafening silence.

You stared at him wordlessly, fingers trembling. “I don’t think we will,” you agreed softly.

The early autumn breeze filtered through your half opened windows, nipping at your thinly covered skin. You rolled onto your side, your hip hitting something soft—a pillow, probably. Your arms ached from the book you held high above your face, tired eyes flitting over the words on the page. Jaehyun chuckled at the sight, seeing how you overexerted yourself with the way your arms shook.

“How’s the book?” he enquired, his own fingers moving deftly across a page as he scrawled down words upon words of melancholy rhapsody.

“Good. The love interest was just introduced,” you said.

Your neighbour quirked a brow. “How do you know it’s the love interest, then?”

“Because the protagonist has been describing his hair for three pages now.”

Jaehyun’s laugh echoed through your small living room, and you nearly shot up from your position to shush him. He gave you a look, rolling his eyes. “I’m just visiting my neighbour for coffee and a chat,” he protested. “If Mrs Hong or Mrs Lee hear me, that’s what they’ll think. They think far too highly of you to assume you’d have me over for obscene reasons.”

You sighed softly, though that was the truth. The average person’s mind was far quicker to draw the conclusion of infidelity when it came to a man hosting a woman in his home, rarely the other way around. You plopped back down onto the couch without another word, going back to your book.

“How’s the song coming along?” you questioned, turning to a page where the protagonist finally moved on to describe her love interest’s eyes.

Jaehyun shrugged. “Alright, I suppose. It’s no Frank Sinatra, but it’s coming along.”

You smiled. “No one besides Frank Sinatra is Frank Sinatra. Don’t beat yourself up about it, Jaehyun-ssi.”

He snorted, before going back to his writing.

“I finished that comic you gave me, by the way,” you added, turning another page. You turned your head, glancing at him from your spot on the couch. “It was good. A bit ridiculous, but I think comics should be ridiculous every now and then.”

“Funny you’d say that,” your neighbour said. “I happen to think so, too.”

Time had passed more quickly than you’d anticipated, and before you knew it, a month had passed since you’d had coffee with Jaehyun that night, since you’d both uttered the words “We won’t be like them.” You supposed it was only natural, then, that you gravitated toward each other after you’d made your promise to one another.

You tilted your head. “Are you hungry?”

Jaehyun looked up, thoughtful. “I could eat.”

“Well… coffee, a chat, and lunch doesn’t sound too suspect, does it?” you asked, already sitting up.

He shook his head, smiling. “I don’t think so, no. Although, I’m biased, given the fact that I’d never say no to free food.”

Only natural that you’d become friends, that you’d fallen back into your previously forgotten routine of running into each other on your way to work or in the marketplace, this time purposely walking together, meeting each other at the crossroads where your two universes met.

“Can you pass the kimchi?” Jaehyun asked, and you dutifully gave him the little bowl of pickled cabbage for him to use. “You know, I think you’ve finally perfected how to grill your meat,” he said, through a mouthful of rice.

You smiled, warmth blossoming in your chest. “Really? I thought maybe this time it wouldn’t come out as good as last, but I’m glad you like my cooking.”

Only natural that you’d find solace in each other, having found one another in identical loneliness…

…Right?

With the inky black sky hanging so high above you, you felt smaller than ever, wrapped in your too-big raincoat, dwarfed by your massive umbrella. Jaehyun was taking long, and you were starting to wonder whether he’d show up at all. Rain was lashing from the heavens, soaking passersby rushing to get home and forming little rivers wherever it fell.

You didn’t lose hope in him, rather leaning against the wall behind you, and waited on the sidewalk that connected your route to work with his. Soon enough, you heard the scuff of dress shoes on the wet pavement, and you looked up to see Jaehyun jogging toward you, holding his blazer over his head.

You quickly ushered him under the umbrella, but not without accidentally taking his eye out as you forgot just how tall he was. “Why didn’t you bring a raincoat?” you asked. “You’ll catch a cold only wearing your suit! The radio said there was ninety percent chance for rain today!”

“Aren’t I a little old to be having my radio on all the time?” Jaehyun sassed, and you had to keep your scoff to yourself. “It’s no matter, anyhow. You would’ve let me under your umbrella regardless, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t say anything, rather fixing him with a playful glare.

Jaehyun fell into step next to you as you walked uphill, him walking on the outside while you stayed shielded from the cars on the inside. “I talked to my wife today,” he said. You shared a glance, and he continued, “She still doesn’t know that I know, or that you do, for that matter.”

You sighed, staying wilfully silent as you made your way up the street. You could see your apartment building nearby, and waited for the silence to reach Jaehyun so that you could walk on in peace. The older man noticed this, of course. It was hard not to, with the way you looked like you’d rather be listening to rocks falling onto a tin roof than him. So he stayed silent as well, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked.

The steps leading up to your flats had been housing a steady stream of rainwater, leading Jaehyun to fall back and walk behind you. His hands twitched whenever you seemed like you were going to lose your balance, ready to catch you if you fell, but you never did.

The walk to your homes was filled with a palpable silence, neither of you saying so much as a word. You dug your keys out of your coat pocket, jamming them into the keyhole, turning them as quickly as you could. You weren’t sure if your husband was home yet, but judging from the fact that the door was locked, he’d be working another ‘late night’ tonight.

“I’m really sorry, you know.”

Eyes widening, you turned to the man next to you, giving Jaehyun a surprised glance. He sighed softly, unsure how to proceed.

“I know no one deserves what we got,” was what he settled on. “No one, no matter how uninteresting or unattractive they are, deserves to be cheated on. But I’m specifically sorry for you.” His eyes finally settling on yours, he added, “You don’t deserve to be treated the way your husband is treating you. You deserve better.”

Glancing up at him, you could only muster a weak smile. As much as you didn’t like discussing your spouses’ infidelity, you knew Jaehyun was going through the same things you were. You were the only other person who knew how he felt, what he thought.

“I know,” you said. “So do you.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, your visits with Jaehyun became more and more common. Your husband had left for Singapore, while Mrs Park was off in Europe visiting friends. Jaehyun couldn’t go on account of his work, and neither could you. So, the weeks that your spouses weren’t home were filled with light, friendly conversation that you’d never had before.

It became apparent to you early on in yours and Jaehyun’s friendship that your husband had deprived you of a world you loved every bit of, no matter its faults. He’d never allowed you more than a few words exchanged between his colleagues or his own friends, and that hadn’t gotten you the opportunity to make friends with anyone else, male or female.

Jeong Jaehyun made for stimulating conversation, and for a lovely travel partner. You found out more about him than you’d ever thought you would, and vice versa. You learnt that Jaehyun had wanted kids since he was sixteen, and Jaehyun learnt that you had a passion for painting. He wanted to go to an art museum at least once in his life, and you wanted to go to Paris before you turned thirty.

It was easier to talk to him, you assumed, because he was married as well, and because he was close by. You were both adults, married, albeit to cheaters, and weren’t held back by the societal norms of only needing to discuss certain things rather than whatever you pleased.

He had an odd liking for chicken and beer, and you were a better cook than you let on. He enjoyed Shakespeare in secret, and you appreciated the artwork of the comics he lent you. Your friendship was almost transactional, like that.

“I was thinking of inviting Mr Jeong over for coffee,” you told Mrs Hong, who was nursing her own cup at your dining table. “He’s had some time off these days—”

“Didn’t you hear?” the older woman interrupted. “He’s deathly sick! Came down with a terrible cold a few days ago. I think it’s because he’s been walking to work without an umbrella.”

You stopped, face contorting with worry. He hadn’t told you that he’d gotten sick, nor had you gotten the impression that he was. Then again, he’d made himself scarce this week; now you knew why.

“Oh, no,” you murmured, taking a seat opposite your landlady. “Has he shown any signs of getting better?”

Mrs Hong shook her head. “I brought him some food this morning, but he whined that all he wanted to eat was hotteok.” She chuckled. “He may be twenty eight, but he certainly behaves like a child when he’s sick.”

You hummed. Hotteok. You’d had it before, but you’d never attempted to make it. That would change today, it seemed.

𝟑시간 후

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬

It had been a challenge and a half, learning how to make hotteok. You’d taken one of your trusted housewives’ magazines and flipped through it until you found a recipe, and got to work. The first few were less than ideal, some burnt, some lumpy, some… hideously deformed, until you finally got the hang of it. You decided to make a syrup with it, just because Mrs Hong mentioned Jaehyun had wanted something sweet, as grateful as he was for her food.

You stacked them neatly onto a plate, both the pancakes and the syrup, making sure nothing spilled or sudated, before heading next door, knocking lightly on the Jeongs’ front door.

It swung open a moment later, revealing a disheveled Jaehyun. He was bundled in blankets, his hair a mess, and his nose rubbed red and raw. You nearly wanted to coo at the sight, but contained yourself for your dignity’s sake.

Your friend frowned, before breaking into a tired smile. “Afternoon, Mrs Kim,” he greeted, and you wondered how he even mustered up the energy to be jokey when he was on Death’s doorstep.

You held up the plate of pancakes, saying, “I made hotteok.”

Jaehyun’s red-rimmed eyes widened, and his face split into an astonished smile. He snatched it from your grasp, saying, “I’ve been craving these all day. How did you know?”

You shrugged. “I happened to make some this afternoon, and I thought you might like it. Call it a coincidence.”

“You’re late.”

“I told you, I was going to work overtime tonight.”

“I called your office, and your colleague said you’d gone home early.”

Sigh.

“Fine. Do you want to know where I’ve really been?”

“…Yes.”

Silence.

“Mrs Kim?” Your lip started to tremble, and you could feel the tears gathering in your eyes, waiting to roll down your cheeks in a steady flow of overwhelming emotion. “Mrs Kim?”

“I can’t do it,” you choked out. “I can’t do this.”

Jaehyun sighed softly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He rested his chin on your head, rubbing comforting circles on your clothed back. “This is just a rehearsal,” he chastised. “What are you going to do when you actually have to confront him, huh? You can’t just burst into tears.”

You sobbed, desperately wrapping your arms around his middle, your head resting in the crook of his neck. His hold was so gentle, softer than you’d ever felt before, as if you were made of glass, as if he was afraid of breaking you. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when he’s actually standing in front of me. I don’t think I can even do it.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You can do it.” Letting go of you, Jaehyun took your hands in his in a chaste gesture. “You just don’t have to do it right now. Come on.” He leaned back, giving you some space. “Let’s try with me, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jaehyun cleared his throat. “You’ve been very distant lately.”

You sighed, trying to emulate Mrs Park’s sophisticated nonchalance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know very well what I mean,” he said.

These rehearsals were odd, sometimes. You weren’t used to acting, much less having someone else act as your spouse and you as theirs, all for the sake of preparing yourselves for a confrontation that might never come. And, much less acting out these situations in a rented hotel room where nothing but conversations happened.

Jaehyun continued, “You’ve been closed off with me recently, and you never used to be. Something’s the matter, dove.”

Dove. It seemed it was a genuine mistake, given your friend’s apologetic expression, and yet, your heart ached nonetheless.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish.

“It’s okay,” you assured, smiling sadly, before clearing your throat to continue. “Nothing’s the matter. How can it be, when we barely see each other?”

“That’s the problem I’m talking about. You’re avoiding me.”

“Perhaps I simply don’t want to see you every day.”

“But you never see me.”

“…I’ve been having an affair with Mr Kim from next door.”

“For how long?”

You shrugged as Mrs Park. “I don’t know. A year and a half? It’s hard to tell.”

“Do you love him?”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly started bleeding. “Well, I must. After all, there’s only so much physical attraction can do for you.”

Silence.

Jaehyun pursed his lips, opening his arms for you. “Oh, come here,” he said, gently taking you into his hold. Your body shook with sobs as he hummed comfortingly, keeping his arms wrapped around you as you cried into his shoulder.

Everything about this felt so overwhelming, so wrong. You felt filthy, speaking the words your spouses spoke to each other. How did they even make it through a day without collapsing with guilt? Did neither of them think that far, care that much? How was it that they could go behind your backs for nearly a year and a half, yet you felt guilty just accepting a hug from someone else’s husband?

“Shh, shh… it’s okay,” Jaehyun assured. “You’re going to be alright.”

You sniffled, disentangling yourself from his arms. Your posture was deflated, your expression dejected. You felt so tired, wanted nothing more than for all this to be gone. You enjoyed Jaehyun’s company, but you had a husband who you wanted to spend time with, who you wanted to love. It was just…

…Why couldn’t he see it that way? Why did he go anywhere but you for love?

When Jaehyun stared at you, taking in your heartbroken appearance, your tired, sunken eyes, your trembling lip, the tips of his fingers brushing yours, he realised you were never going to leave your husband.

When you opened your door to a brisk knock, smile ready for your friend, you were not expecting to see your landlady in his place, looking very much like she knew something that you didn’t.

“Mrs Kim!” she greeted, and you swore she put an extra emphasis on Kim before she rushed into your flat, a woven basket in hand. “How are you? How’s your husband? Is he well? I hope he is.”

As she whizzed past you, switching on your kettle and taking out cups and coffee powder as if she owned the place, you turned with a quizzical expression, a bit afraid to ask what’s got her so whipped up in a frenzy.

“I’m quite well,” you said. “I’m sure Mr Kim is, too. He’s in Singapore for work, but he hasn’t gotten the opportunity to call me these days.” He’d called you once, to brightly ask which shoes you wanted this time. That was a week ago.

“Oh, that’s lovely.” Mrs Hong smiled, nearly ripping open your fridge for the milk. “You know, I hear of a lot of women travelling with their husbands when they go to work overseas.”

You paused.

“And Singapore is so nice this time of year, or any time of year, really, that I think you should consider becoming one of those wives!” the old woman continued, none the wiser. “Your work here may seem important, but it’s so labourous, and I think you’d just love Singapore. Have I said it was lovely this time of year?”

“Mrs Hong,” you started, struggling to keep the hurt out of your voice, “do you want me gone?”

“What?” She clearly hadn’t expected that straightforward of a question. “No, no, you’re mistaken, Mrs Kim!” she laughed, rushing over to you and taking your shoulders. “No, I don’t want you gone. What a silly thought! I just…” She sighed, looking at you as if you were a lost lamb. “You are lonely here, I think, without your husband to keep you company. And… and I see that you’ve made friends with Mr Jeong from next door, but if you’re not careful—”

“I may fall prey to his charms and become unfaithful,” you guessed, nodding. Of course she did, because to women like Mrs Hong, men besides their husband were merely temptations put there to test them, rather than real, flawed human beings who just may not exist as sexual devices, waiting for you to stray.

You shook your head. “You don’t need to worry, Mrs Hong. Jaehyun-ssi is just a friend to me, and that’s all he ever will be. I love my husband very much, and he loves his wife just as much. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Mrs Hong sighed a great, relieved sigh, putting her hand over her heart. “Oh, you’re so strong!” she praised. “It’s good that you and Mr Jeong know not to grow too fond of one another. Goodness knows young people these days don’t have your kind of sense.”

Jaehyun was in love with you.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Or how, for that matter. It seemed that somewhere between making that pact with you and your last ‘confrontation’, his feelings for you turned from platonic fondness to ardent, passionate love. When he realised that you wouldn’t leave your husband on account of your weakened heart, it hurt him so much more than it should’ve. Why? Because he wanted to be married to you? Or simply because he’d been deprived of intimacy for so long that he was beginning to think like his wife, to go for who’s nearest?

And yet, even as Jaehyun contemplated the possibility of that being a reality, he knew it wasn’t just because he liked the way you looked. He liked everything about you. The way you looked, the way you spoke, the things you spoke of, the way you tried to brush off genuine, thought-out gestures and attempted to remain blasé, the way your hips swayed when you walked, the way you dressed, the way you laughed, the way you cooked, the way you read. Everything you did, Jaehyun found adorable.

He also wasn’t sure how to approach it. He knew that you loved him as well. He knew it. But he also knew that you’d been depriving yourself of so many things—enjoyment, revenge, a goddamn break—and would never, ever think to leave your husband. You were too afraid, because then you’d have to confront him about his affair, which could lead to him leaving you, which meant divorce. Divorce meant spending money that you didn’t have, dividing things that he would probably get the bulk of, all on account of him being a man, and you being a woman.

That’s also partly why he didn’t want to divorce Mrs Park. He didn’t love her the way he used to, clearly she didn’t, either, but he didn’t want to leave her out to dry just because of that. He was a lawyer; if they divorced, he could, and probably would, be able to leave her in the dust, penniless and pitiful. But he didn’t want to.

“We won’t be like them.” Those were the words Jaehyun uttered to you, those were the words you agreed on. You’d only be as bad as them if you left them in the name of revenge, if you started an affair of your own. But by God, it would’ve been a much easier promise to keep if you weren’t so… you.

And Jaehyun loved you.

Thoughts like this running through his mind, Jaehyun was preoccupied the whole day. He barely paid attention at work, rather letting the workload fall back onto his colleagues; he couldn’t eat, and as he was making dinner, he almost burnt the rice because his mind was in a much more important place. He didn’t even notice the door open until he heard the click of it shutting.

The first person that came to mind was you, and Jaehyun internally scolded himself for that. When he turned, he came face to face with the exact opposite.

His wife stood in front of the door, several shopping bags hanging from her slender frame, her suitcase trailing behind her. She was white as a ghost, her usually made up face a mess of mascara smudges and desolate eyes. Her hair seemed a mess, and Jaehyun wondered if this is what he usually looked like when he worked as long as she had.

“My love,” he greeted, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek and relieving her of her load, taking the shopping bags and setting them down on the kitchen counter. “How was your flight? Not too bad, I hope.”

“No, it was fine,” she smiled, though there was something fickle about it. “Nothing of note.”

Jaehyun was reminded of how you looked before you burst into tears, the way you tried to bite your trembling lip in an attempt to stop an onslaught of hot, messy tears. His wife was doing that exact thing, now. Funny, how you seemed to have become the default. It always used to be her.

He hummed, unconvinced. “Is there something you want to tell me, dove?”

Despite the nickname slipping out earlier in the week, Jaehyun hadn’t called his wife by her special name in a long, long time. He knew it would prompt her to cave; she pitied him that much, at least.

“I…” She swallowed, and reached to grip onto the kitchen counter, as if steeling herself. With a turn, almost an anguished flourish, she settled her gaze on Jaehyun. “I’m pregnant.”

Okay. What the fuck?

Jaehyun’s eyes widened, and he was suddenly made very aware that nothing would’ve prepared him for those words coming from his wife’s mouth. And, what would’ve been a blessing in his life at any other moment, what would’ve made tears of joy spring to his eyes if she’d said it in any other universe, now made his insides churn, now made his mouth run dry with terror.

Mrs Park tried for a smile, opening her arms as she awaited for her husband to embrace her. “It’s a miracle, my darling,” she said, smiling nervously. “Aren’t you… aren’t you happy? We’re going to have a baby!”

Jaehyun, leaned against the dining table, arms crossed over his chest, said, “We haven’t slept together.” It took everything in him not to burst into tears and throw himself out of the nearest window.

She faltered. “Wh-what? No, don’t be ridiculous, honey,” she laughed, her tone becoming frantic now. “We did, just a few weeks ago!”

“You were on your monthlies then,” Jaehyun reminded her, “and that was two months ago. We haven’t slept together at a time where you could’ve fallen pregnant, I made sure of that, because you told me you didn’t want children yet, and you wouldn’t want them for a long while. That’s why we always planned around your fertility window.”

She scoffed, though he could see her starting to panic. “Stop it, Jaehyun. You’re lying. Don’t lie to me. We slept together, and now I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father.”

He sighed softly. “I’m lying? My wife, look me in the eyes, and tell me, I’m the one who’s lying.”

“I just did!” she cried. “You’re going to be a father. We’re going to be parents, and that’s that.”

“Does he know?” Jaehyun asked.

“Does who know?”

“Your lover.”

Silence had never settled more quickly over two people. Mrs Park shook her head, her teary eyes widening in horror. “No,” she said. “No. I didn’t— I don’t—”

“It’s alright,” he sighed. “I’ve known for a while, now. I mean, all those overseas business trips with the workers from the other transport company? The watches we wear? The shoes you come home with? You don’t think I’ve noticed the similarities, the fact that they’re all identical?” He scoffed, shocked beyond words. “You must’ve thought you’d married an idiot.”

Click. Click. Click.

Smoke clouded Jaehyun’s face as he took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling deeply, letting the smoke fill his nostrils, overpower his senses in any way they could.

Click. Click. Click.

He didn’t look up when you came down the steps of the apartment building. He guessed you were dressed in more casual clothing, as today was your day off. He then wondered why on Earth he knew that, and reminded himself that you knew him and his schedule just as well.

“Jaehyun-ssi.”

Your voice was soft, agreeable in the same way you were as a person. You reached for his arm, fingers curling around his bicep in your own unique way of greeting. He didn’t like the fact that he could feel your wedding ring digging into his skin, where his sat on his bedside table, long forgotten.

He tried for a smile, grasping your hand. You probably hoped the action was friendly rather than fond, and he couldn’t fault you for it. “Evening,” he said. “You out on a stroll?”

You chuckled. “About as much as you are.” You settled on the wall next to him, your touch leaving his skin cold and wanting for more. You crossed your arms over your chest, and Jaehyun indicated his cigarette. You glanced at it curiously, but accepted it and took an experimental drag.

Coughs racked your body as you immediately handed it back to Jaehyun, who was laughing lightly at the sight. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot you don’t smoke.”

“And I don’t much feel like trying after that,” you wheezed.

Your friend scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t be dramatic,” he chided. “It wasn’t that bad. You barely even took a proper drag!”

You shook your head, signalling to the older man that it had been that bad.

A silence enveloped the two of you, calm and welcome. Jaehyun’s cigarette lit a small, red light in front of his eyes, lighting up his face, his tanned skin, his dark hair. You stayed next to him, fingers tapping gently against your own arm, wedding ring burning against your skin. It burnt with the same intensity as your husband’s kisses, scorching you like hellfire. It was not the gentle, pleasurable warmth that you felt when your hands brushed Jaehyun’s, nowhere near as gentle or gladly received. Of course, Mr Kim was none the wiser. Didn’t even know that you’d slipped out of bed to go see someone else, didn’t even know that what he thought were kisses covering up his infidelity made your skin crawl with disgust.

It had been a hard week for Jaehyun to power through, especially without you to fall back on for company. His wife barely ever spoke to him unless they were discussing plans on how to proceed with their relationship, unless they were attempting to keep face in front of the elders’ keen eyes. Nor did you, on account of your husband finally returning from his travels. The man had been attached to your hip since he walked through that door, and it made Jaehyun sick because he knew. Knew what you didn’t. What he didn’t know, however, was that your husband’s presence had been as well-received by you as it had been by him.

“I’m moving into a new flat across town,” Jaehyun spoke into silence. He rubbed at his eyes, as if tired. “I leave at the end of the month.”

Your eyes widened, shocked. Hurt.

“Gongmi and I are getting a divorce,” he added. They hadn’t spoken further after she revealed that she was pregnant, had only agreed that it would be best for Jaehyun to move out, a feat he gladly took up. He shrugged. “Just decided it’s for the best.”

“Oh… Well, I’m happy you found the heart to do it,” you said, because you know you never could. Thinking of having to leave your husband, it made you so afraid. What would you do, if you didn’t have him?

Jaehyun chuckled with the same kind of bitterness as that day he realised Gongmi was cheating on him. As if your mere words caused him immense distress and anger just to hear. He wished you could leave your husband. He wished he could be with you. He wished you could be with him.

“Yeah. Me too. I wish you would, too, but I know you won’t ever leave your husband.”

As of late, you found yourself staring at Jaehyun’s face, analysing his every expression or word, every little laugh he gave, whether it was good or bad, every twitch of his nose, every quirk of his lips. It was the same thing you used to do if you had a crush on someone as a little girl. You’d look at them for hours on end, memorise every centimetre of their face, and hope they wouldn’t see.

You’d never looked at Kim Myeong like that.

Jaehyun looked hurt, even though you knew he was wearing an expression that tried to cover it up. He looked at you with the softest eyes, as if you held his heart in your hands like a prized possession. You sighed shakily, smiling.

“I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me.”

“I didn’t, either. I was only curious to know how it started. Now I know. Feelings can creep up just like that. I thought I was in control.”

The winter storms came early this year, ripping through the city like a vengeful deity wreaking havoc upon a civilisation who wronged him. The roads grew slick and slippery with ice, and people’s noses turned red from the cold. Layers upon layers were shrugged on to no avail, for the frost always found its way into one’s bones.

Jeong Jaehyun’s new apartment building had better central heating than the previous one had. When he stepped inside the meticulously decorated flat, he could shrug off at least two of the four layers he’d been wearing, could gather in front of his desk with a cup of coffee without needing to wrap himself in a blanket.

It had been two months since he last saw you, spoke to you. You’d returned home that night, wiping tears from your eyes. Jaehyun didn’t follow, too scared he might grasp your arm too hard, too scared his voice may crack with hidden emotion if he tried to utter your beautiful name.

He now sat at his desk, glowering at the bright green phone that hung on his wall, just sitting there and taunting him, egging him on, saying, Go on. Call her.

What would he even say to you? When you parted ways that night, you made your stance clear. You would never leave your husband, you wouldn’t even confront him about his affair.

Speaking of, Jaehyun’s divorce with Gongmi had been swift. Not a clean break, per se, but thanks to Jaehyun’s profession, it took half the time it would’ve if he hadn’t been a lawyer.

Sighing, Jaehyun wondered when she’d actually tell Myeong that she was pregnant. It wasn’t his business in the least to tell anyone, but it was eating away at him, day by day, with every second that passed.

He glanced at the telephone again, before lurching forward, punching in a familiar number.

“Hwang Hyunjung’s office, how may I help you?”

The sound of your voice was enough to stop Jaehyun’s heart in its tracks, picking up pulse as it began to beat erratically. On the other end, you frowned. “Hel—?”

“Hi,” he greeted, breathless.

“…Jaehyun. Why are you calling me at the office?” you enquired lightly. Despite the clipped words, your tone was pleasant, as if you were letting him in on a joke. “I’m working.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he admitted.

God, he was pathetic. Spending his day off thinking of someone else’s wife, writing shoddy songs about her, all while not even being able to face her.

You smiled. “Oh. Then, hi, Jaehyun-ssi.” It had just occurred to you that you hadn’t greeted him properly. “How was your day?”

“It was alright,” he sighed. “I’ve finally finished moving in, and handed in the last of the paperwork to finalise the divorce. How… how have you been?”

Have you left him yet? is more what his question sounded like. You sighed softly, toying with the telephone chord between your fingers. “I’ve been well,” you said.

That was it. No, ‘This and this happened at work,’ no, ‘I finished this book yesterday,’ no, ‘I left my husband and I’m ready to admit that I’m in love with you.’

He exhaled, releasing a frustrated little moan. You were so young, only twenty four, and still you were more adult than Jaehyun had ever been, he thought.

Or were you, truly? you thought. He’d had the heart to leave his wife and move out, completely removing himself from a situation that wouldn’t have done him any good if he’d stayed longer. Perhaps you were afraid, rather than mature, staying with a man who didn’t love you when there was one who did.

Myeong didn’t love you. That, you had to remind yourself of whenever he kissed you, whenever he twirled the bottom of your dress in his fingers. He loved Park Gongmi, Jaehyun’s w— No. Not Jaehyun’s wife. Not anymore. Whenever he had the time, he went out to see her. He still worked late hours. He still went on business trips with her. Still kissed her behind closed doors, still promised to tell you about her sooner rather than later.

You sighed softly, your shoulders slumping. These thoughts, these thoughts running through your head. How would you proceed? You had to think about this logically, yet sometimes the urge to simply pack your bags and run away into Jeong Jaehyun’s arms gripped you like a vice.

“I’m going to Paris,” Jaehyun said promptly, in that same, abrupt, Jaehyun-esque fashion. “Next week.”

The line stayed silent, and he could imagine your expression. He didn’t want to.

“If…” He hesitated, his fingers beginning to tremble. “If I had an extra plane ticket, would you go with me?”

Once again, silence. You shifted unsurely, leaning against the wall of Mr Hwang’s office.

“Jaehyun-ssi…”

Sigh.

“…I know.”

몇 시간이 지났습니다

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬

Winter was in full swing. Several snowstorms a day, slick, slippery pavements coated in frost, your home like a winter wonderland in the worst way possible.

You weren’t exactly sure what you were doing, walking to your crossroads at this hour. Navigating your way through a sea of inky black skies and warm paper lanterns, however, you took the steps two at a time, narrowly missing hitting your head on one of them as you passed. The only lights illuminating the street were the lamps that lined the concrete, the only sounds were cars passing by, each carrying salary workers on their way home.

Several conversations swirling through your head, you rounded a corner, nearly tripping over your own shoes with how fast you were running. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Myeong’s desperate voice crackled in your mind like an announcement over an intercom.

“Yet you didn’t,” you’d said evenly. “And you lied to me for a year and a half.” You’d simply shaken your head, waving the older man off. “You don’t love me anymore. Part of me wonders if you ever did… Or if I ever loved you.”

You’d not the slightest as to what could’ve possibly possessed you to act so brashly. Perhaps you’d finally had enough, enough of the lies and the pretending. Perhaps you’d finally come to your senses, realised that a life lived in a lie was not a life worth living. All you knew was that you were running, and Jaehyun was going to Paris next week, and you ran faster the moment you spotted the familiar plume of smoke rising from the crossroads.

Jaehyun wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, waiting at the crossroads until this hour. After your conversation—could one even call it that?—something strange had possessed him to take a walk, and his legs carried him here. It was as if his body knew nothing else, knew only to wait there, not sure what he was waiting for, until he saw you run around the corner.

You looked as if you’d run several blocks to get here, and he wondered why. You’d have finished up work a few hours before, and should’ve been resting at home currently. Except, of course, you weren’t.

You were here. With Jaehyun.

Your pace slowed to a light stroll, ambling over to him with legs weak and gawky from running. You never had been a runner, not for any man.

Jaehyun said nothing as you approached him, stopping in front of him. He could hear your shallow inhales deepen as you regained your breath, could smell the perfume he’d bought for you in secret and disguised as a thank you gift one night. Oriental, the soft, warm scent of cinnamon and patchouli clinging to your skin. He could see your shoes enter his line of sight, those cute black kitten heels you always wore to work.

He finally looked up at you when he heard you sigh softly, as if readying yourself for a speech; a rant, at the very least.

Yet all you said was,

“I don’t want to go home.”

And that was enough for Jaehyun.

It had been a mess of kisses then, the moment you two stepped foot in his flat, a clash of lips and teeth in the most spectacular way possible. He’d all but ran home with you in his arms, not even waiting for the door to open properly before pressing his lips to yours. His hands were everywhere; in your hair, on your hips, eagerly shrugging off your coat, and then your shirt, whatever he could find.

“Jaehyun-ssi,” you’d breathed, barely grasping onto his shirt before you were enveloped in his arms, his hands circling your waist from behind. His glasses hung low on the bridge of his nose, threatening to fall off if you hadn’t pushed them back into place.

“Yoonoh,” he corrected, softly pressing his lips against your neck. “My name is Yoonoh.”

You could barely speak, could barely even utter the first syllables of his name before he called yours, his warm, strong hands digging into your skin. He reached for your hand, stopping his movements then, as he held it over your shoulder. Your wedding ring was nowhere to be found, and he almost wept with joy. He stayed like that for a moment, drinking in the sound of your breaths mingling, the sight of you from this angle, the feeling of your skin against his.

Yoonoh turned you round in his arms, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume marrying with his, cinnamon and patchouli and myrrh and tonka, clinging to your dewy skin like an invisible halo. He pressed a kiss to your neck, then your forehead, and finally to your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered later that night, your cheek pressed against his bare collarbone, your lips resting in the crook of his neck. “So much.”

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. His gorgeous bleary brown eyes, and his wonderful swollen pink lips, and kissed them softly. Your hands deftly threaded through his dark hair; it was longer now, splayed across his pillow like a halo. “I love you, too, Jeong Yoonoh.”

𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟓년 서울

𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟓

The early spring breeze was light and cool on your skin, blowing through your dress, through your hair and in your face as you lay back on the checkered blanket beneath you, listening to the delightful sound of your daughter’s little laughs as she played a game of tag with her father. It was holiday season for the salaryworkers and students, so you and Yoonoh had plenty of time off to spend with one another.

Jeong Byulyi squealed as her father scooped her up into his arms, trying to wriggle free of his strong grasp to no avail. “Appa!” she whined, pouting that familiar pout she’d inherited from her father. “Lemme go.”

“Mm…” Yoonoh feigned thoughtfulness, making sure to squeeze her tighter as he did. “No. I don’t think I will.”

Contrary to his words, he let Byulyi finally worm herself out of his grasp, running to you instead. “Eomma,” she whined, making sure to drag out the last few syllables. She practically threw herself into your lap, expertly ignoring the way you wheezed at the sudden weight, sighing dramatically. “Appa won’t listen to me.”

You chuckled fondly, twirling a strand of her hair absently. “Appa doesn’t listen to me, either,” you assured. “He’s a pain in the neck sometimes, isn’t he?”

“Mm.”

Scoffing at your antics, Yoonoh plopped down onto the blanket beside you, moving your head into his lap out of instict. His fingers deftly moved over your lips, shushing you. “Don’t listen to Eomma, Byulyi,” he chided in a stage whisper. “If there’s one person I always obey, it’s her.”

“Really?” you asked, widening your eyes in feigned wonder. “Gosh, when were you going to tell me this?”

“Shut up,” he murmured, the fond smile on his face counteracting the nature of his words. “You know I’m loyal as a dog.”

“I know,” you whispered back, hands reaching up to cup his face. “As am I to you.”

Five years you’ve been married to Jeong Yoonoh, been introducing yourself with his name attached, been wearing his ring, been bathed in the perfume he’d gifted you. Four years you’d been the mother of his child, loved her with the same passion as you had him, attending parent-teacher meetings with the man who’d once been nothing more than a friend, a faraway desire.

Five years since you’d divorced Myeong, and he’d started a family of his own. He was happy, too, you assumed. The push he got from you had apparently been the push he needed to stop lying to himself. You were glad he could finally live, be free of you, and you be free of him. The same went for Gongmi; you wished her and her new husband and their child nothing but the best.

Five glorious years you’ve spent with the people most important to you. You couldn’t have asked for a better life, in your opinion, even with the difficulties that had come with attaining it.

Yoonoh dipped down to press a longing kiss to your lips, holding both your hands in his as you rose the slightest to meet him halfway.

Your daughter stuck her tongue out in mock disgust. “Eomma, Appa, gross!” she chided.

Breaking from the kiss with a chuckle, Yoonoh reached for your daughter with a, “Come here, you little pest!” and she squealed with laughter, running into your arms once more.

[jwiloves]

Not gonna lie, I'm very tempted to write something like this again😆

“The moon is beautiful tonight, my sun.” I muttered just enough for him to hear, I saw him smile in my peripheral view and that instantly made me smile as I look up to the sky. “I love you too, my moon.” He replied, placing a hand on my cheek to face him. He placed his forehead on mine and look straight into my eyes. I love these moments, where it’s just me and him, where the sky witness our love grow as each second passes by. “I miss you so much, Sunwoo.” I whispered, he smiled at me and chuckled. “I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m not going anywhere.” He replied, kissing my forehead and pulling me closer to him. “I’ll always be with you, my home is wherever you are.” He whispered.

‘Would it be a sin, to ask for a little bit more time with you?’ I spoke in my head. I buried my face on the crook of his neck, scared of letting go. I closed my eyes, picturing him in my arms inside my head in fear that I might forget him. But, as I open my eyes once again I only see myself hugging his picture under our favorite tree in the woods.

Warnings: Character death

Pairing: Kim Sunwoo (The Boyz) x GN! Reader

Genre: Angst

[jwiloves]

reblogging 'cause I want to read it again❤️

❥between two breaths (m)

↳ Navigating the realm of transitioning from fan-turned-trainee is difficult enough for you, but only half as difficult as the challenge of navigating the fact that your relationship with Sunwoo has long since moved beyond fan-and-idol to a very secret friendship.

And worse than that, is the way that your forced proximity is going to continue to evolve, and your long held decision to never take things a step further will truly be put to the test. Perhaps at the cost of both of your careers.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [105k wc COMPLETE] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 + authors notes

note from the author: for narrative purposes, company details have been altered from reality. additionally, though this work is meant to include certain aspects of idol and trainee life, details pertaining to weight management and diet culture have been mostly if not wholly omitted on account of the fact that i do not like them and i think they're bad <3. all characters in this work should be assumed to be aged 20 and above.

𝕒𝕔𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕖: 𝕡𝕣𝕖-𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕦𝕥

𝚘𝚗𝚎 | 𝚝𝚠𝚘 | 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 | 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛

𝕒𝕔𝕥 𝕥𝕨𝕠: 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕦𝕥

𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 | 𝚜𝚒𝚡 | 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 | 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 | 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎 | 𝚝𝚎𝚗

𝕒𝕔𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖: 𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕜𝕚𝕖

𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 | 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎 | 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 | 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 | 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 | 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 | 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗

[jwiloves]

I love it so much(⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

we overlap.

☆ lee hyunjae x fem!reader — warnings: fluff; fem!reader who wears makeup, more feminine clothing, and has implied long hair that can have fingers run through it; mild miscommunication; drinking; cursing; unspecified small age gap; use of sunbae, hyung (sorry); hyunjae (deserves a warning of his own); flirting; kissing; a lil cringe ☆ 16.6k words, not proofread — author's note: writing style probably changes a lot, this took me a while to write and i am writing academically once more so that affects my writing. it also just took three months, i'm very slow. this is a stand alone work and the only expansion i'm willing to do is what i choose to write and publish, or small asks about their dynamic! thank you so much to my icon and savior @heedeungism for hyping me up and beta-reading. and also obligatory shout out to @cloudykyu sorry i sent you the draft and posted before you replied i love u so bad

You’d always known of Lee Hyunjae.

Not personally. He was popular, a distant figure you’d heard about via whispers in the comms department, a cool upperclassman that people looked up to. Smart. Handsome. You’d heard some people call him friendly and sweet. (Namely, your own friend, Sangyeon, who shared a friend group with the man. You’d never run into Hyunjae yourself despite this, preferring one-on-one hangouts with your, self-proclaimed, older brother.)

Most commonly, you heard that he was unapproachable. He didn’t go out much.

Which is why it was so surprising to see him walk into the math lab, holding a huge box of materials. It must’ve been heavy, his forearm muscles clearly straining as he maneuvered it on top of one of the linoleum tables against the wall. 

“Hey, Sangyeon,” Hyunjae pokes his head out in the hall, and you perk up at the mention of him. “Where am I putting the books?” You can’t hear the muffled reply, but you watch him walk back to the table, only to unpack textbook on top of textbook and slide them onto shelves.

You only regain your focus when a pencil jabs your side. “Ow!” You whine, whipping around to glare at Jimin. 

She smiles at you sweetly before responding, voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re drooling. Focus on pre-calc.” You huff, looking back over at Hyunjae. He is handsome, you decide, admiring the tight black shirt and his arm muscles. You can’t see much of his face, just a furrowed brow as he tries to organize the materials.

“I’m not drooling,” you reply finally, lamely, to your friend as you twist back towards the table. “I’m… admiring.”

She scoffs. “Right. Well, you can admire after you pass your exam,” she points the pencil at you before shaking her head and sighing. Rude. “Besides, we’re meeting Ryu in like an hour. Hurry up.”

Right. Ryujin had dance practice this morning and demanded to be taken out for lunch after. And you didn’t want to argue with her, ever, but especially not when she was hangry — you swore up and down that your life flashed before your eyes the one time you made that mistake in high school. You still had nightmares.

“I don’t understand any of this,” you whine, looking at the jumble of print on your worksheet. “Can I give up?” You pout at her. She shakes her head ‘no’ and keeps scribbling on her own paper, so you ignore her to lay your head down on the table and watch as Hyunjae breaks down the box. Sangyeon pops his head in and waves at you before checking the time.

“We gotta go, Jae,” 

Hyunjae hums, following Sangyeon’s eyes to where you rest. You smile, the small corners up one for strangers, and he gives a small smile back before turning back around. “Then c’mon.”

After a few beats of silence and the faint ding of the elevator, you turn back to Jimin. “So, um, what… what department is he in?”

She laughs, bright and genuine. “You, my friend,” she ruffles your hair and you whine, trying to smooth back the strands as you lean away from her. “Are helpless.”

“I can’t be curious?” She smiles at you. Smugly. Knowingly. Damn her. “Jimin!”

“Alright, alright,” she raises her hand in surrender. “He’s in comms, just like you.”

You hum, smiling softly. He was your upperclassman, technically, more than he was hers. Every department had one of those, right? It didn’t matter. He seemed to live up to the hype you’d heard — helpful, handsome… damn, what other ‘h’ adjective could you tack on?

“You already knew that.” Her words cut off your train of thought and you give a shy nod. “I know just as much about him as you do. If you want to know more about him, why don’t you just ask Sangyeon? They’re in the same friend group.”

“It’s not that easy,” you sulk, doodling roses in the upper right corner of your worksheet. In an ideal world, you’d get extra credit points for making the math prettier. “Sangy will think I’m into him.”

She levels an unimpressed stare at you and sighs, packing up quickly. “Then suffer. I don’t know.” You scrunch up your face in distaste at her words, but hold her water bottle without complaint as she finishes cleaning off your table. “Let’s go. I would kill for some pho right now.”

Her words spur you to scramble after her towards the elevator. Worries about Sangyeon’s nosiness aside, you hadn’t eaten since seven-thirty and you were almost positive that you were starting to see noises as the hunger got to you. 

Jimin told you that you were insane. You took it as a compliment.

Sangyeon invited you to his birthday party with his closest friend group. They had planned it, apparently as a surprise but he told you they were god awful at hiding it.

You were a bit hesitant, since you were awkward around new people, but you wanted to be able to celebrate his birthday with him for the first time since you’d become friends. You’d met in late November last year, when you were crying over finals. He’d never let you live it down, but you were glad it happened, as embarrassing as it was. When you’d confirmed, he’d grinned and made you pinky-promise that you wouldn’t flake on him.

So, here you were, the day before his birthday (unfortunately for him, it fell on a Monday), staring at your closet like it had personally offended you. Everything seemed too dressy or way too casual, and despite his reassurances that you could show up in pajamas and be fine, you were worried about what you were going to wear. You wanted to make a good impression on the people he cared about.

You settle on jeans and a black shirt you had definitely bought for a job interview at some point. You slip your lip tint into your bag and study yourself in the mirror. Was your eyeliner uneven? Before you can fix it, you get a text from Sangyeon lighting up your screen — telling you that the “surprise” went well and it’s at his friend’s place. 

The address comes in seconds later and you sigh. No going back now.

When you show up, you wish you had brought a jacket, the wind having bit your arms on the way over. You ring the doorbell, rocking back and forth on your feet until it swings open to a smiley face and then — “Sangyeon, your girl is here!”

“She’s like my sister!” He doesn’t even miss a beat in shutting down that teasing, appearing in the doorway a few seconds later. “Hi, Y/N-ie.”

You smile and hug him. “Hi, Sangy,” you shift closer to his side as they shut the door. “Nice to meet you…” you trail off and look at the guy who answered the door. You should know his name. Why don’t you remember? (You’d had Sangyeon give you a crash course over text last night, after you practically begged him to send you pictures with their names. But you didn’t remember seeing anyone with long, wavy black hair, so you realize the pictures must be old and practically useless.)

“Kevin!” He doesn’t seem to mind you not knowing. That eases the tightness in your chest. “You can put anything you got him over here on the table—” and with that, you’re dragged away from your friend, helplessly shooting him a wide-eyed look. “Or if it’s something we can’t see, in a closed room…”

The wiggle of his eyebrows offends you.

“Oh, god, no. He really is like my brother,” you laugh. “He found me crying over finals last year and took me under his wing.”

Kevin hums. “I knew he couldn’t pull!”

You let out a startled laugh before you can help yourself, and look over your shoulder to make sure Sangyeon didn’t hear. “Well, nice to meet you, Kevin,” you smile at him softly. “He wanted to introduce me so…” Kevin waves you away with a good-natured smile as you make your way back over to Sangyeon, where he’s talking to Hyunjae.

It stops you in your tracks. Yes, you knew they were friends, but it was different seeing him in front of you. (And that definitely wasn’t because you were shy, knowing you spent like ten minutes looking at the picture of him Sangyeon had sent, where he’s all bundled up in a winter coat and when you hold down on the live, you can hear him laughing, boyish and sweet. And it wasn’t because he was handsome either!) 

It was just weird to see a senior your whole department practically adored in a more casual setting. And everyone said he never went out, so it was just like you’d spotted a rare creature. 

That was all.

And, well, despite the rumors, Hyunjae didn’t look like he never went out. There’s a small necklace dangling on his neck and it leads your eyes down to a distressingly low V-neck, showing smooth planes of skin and muscle. His jeans fit him well, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up perfectly. It looked like he had his going-out outfit down to a T, and you feel your face burn when he looks up from his cup and waves you over. 

You hoped he didn’t see your stare.

“Hi, Y/N, right?” He smiles at you and you nod, looking at Sangyeon curiously. “He talks about you a lot. Nice to meet you, I’m Hyunjae!”

“I know,” you squeak out, wincing at how high your voice pitches and the awkwardness of it. “I mean — well, I’m also in comms… everyone looks up to you, sunbae…”

He shakes his head. “Ah, don’t call me that. I feel old.”

You nod shyly, fidgeting with your fingers. “Sorry…”

“It’s okay,” his smile is warm and you relax slightly. 

“Well, nice to meet you, Hyunjae,” you try out his name on your tongue. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” His brows raise. “Good things! A lot of people talk about how handsome you are…” You trail off, frowning and furrowing your brows. “Sorry, that was weird.”

Hyunjae laughs. “I don’t mind being called handsome. I think it’d be weirder if I did mind.”

Sangyeon comes back and you startle, not having realized he even left. He hands you a can of Milkis, and you realize it’s your favorite flavor. “Did you buy these for me?” 

Sangyeon smiles. “I have to have something other than coffee for you when we hang out. C’mon, you’ve got to meet everyone else.”

After a dizzying round of introductions and some chatter, you all end up sitting in a deformed circle. Eric — a math major and comms minor, he’d told you just a bit before. It was curious how you’d never run into him before — wanted to play truth or dare, and you perch anxiously on the edge of the sofa, fiddling with a pillow’s cover.

It’s hard to keep up with the laughter and noise, eyes darting back and forth as jokes and teasing jabs fly over your head, clearly based upon years of friendship and memories. When you’re finally asked, it takes a second to register that it’s directed towards you. “Um…” you look at Sangyeon and then to the guy asking you, Sunwoo, whose eyes have a devilish glint that makes you nervous. “Truth?”

“Is that a question?” he asks and you shake your head. He sighs. “I got it! Who do you think is the hottest in the room?”

You frown. You have a feeling picking dare would’ve been the same question — but with the caveat you had to kiss them. Sangyeon hands you the soju shot wordlessly, seeing how you tense up. With one last glare at Sunwoo, you take it, shuddering and wincing at the burn. 

Sangyeon gestures over at Jacob (you think it’s Jacob) and leans over to whisper a question for him into your ear. “Ask him if he actually asked his crush out for lunch like he said he would.” Your eyes widen but he urges you on.

“Jacob, truth or dare?” 

He stares at you before picking truth, which everyone must have expected by the chorus of sighs that the group lets out. “Did you actually ask out your crush like you said you would?”

His face falls. “Hyung!” He whines. It is an unfair question, you realize belatedly. If he drinks, it’s a ‘no.’ If he answers, he’ll get grilled regardless of the response.

Sorry! You mouth at him. He smiles at you, then not your fault before downing the shot.

Sangyeon cackles next to you, pleased with his orchestration of events. The game crumbles for a bit as everyone turns on a now beet-red Jacob, sinking behind the pillow he’d been holding like it can hide the blush high on his cheekbones.

“It’s not that I didn’t ask her, I just—”

They seem used to his dodging though, with Juyeon going “like you didn’t accidentally run into her after her lectures for weeks?”

A chorus of rowdy laughter. He really waited for her lecture to end? That’s cute. “Okay, so, maybe I didn’t ask her yet. Someone else drink, I didn’t have to take a shot if you’re going to press anyway.” He whines.

Sangyeon takes the penalty with a grin. 

The next person that has you in their sights is Changmin. “Truth or dare, Y/N?”

You feel like it’s risky, but you want to seem a little cool. At least, until they get to know you better. “Dare.” Changmin’s brows raise, pleased, and he whispers back and forth with Chanhee for a bit.

“Dare you to send a risky text to someone.”

You groan. “I don’t even have anyone to send a risky text to. I know like three people.”

Changmin grins. He looks a little evil and you wonder if he’s always like this. “You can send a risky text to a friend.”

You roll your eyes. “Can I send it to Sangyeon?” He’s ruled out quickly because he’s there and knows it’s not real. (Which sucks, because he wouldn’t care anyways. He knows you’re not into him and he’s not into you.) You could send it to Jimin, but you think she’d show up at your house, worried about you. And Ryujin was busy, you didn’t want to send her a weird text and confuse her when she has a big project coming up. “Give me the soju.”

They give you a bigger penalty glass and you look at the amount, a little worried. You weren’t huge on hard liquor (or any liquor, really. Only fruity cocktails were tolerable). But before you can steel your nerves, a hand brushes against yours and the glass is whisked away. Your head follows the movement before you can register what’s going on, and you watch Hyunjae down it smoothly.

His brows don’t even furrow, and he gives you a lazy smile, eyes sparkling with humor, as he sets it down on the table. “You know you owe me a favor for each one, right?” You nod. “Ask your question.”

There’s a round of cat calls and you squirm under the attention, asking Eric for a lame dare. You know his question for whoever he picks will take the eyes off you. 

You turn to Hyunjae. “Why’d you take it?”

“You looked like you might throw up just from the idea of it,” he deadpans, and you frown. “Kidding. You just didn’t seem okay with it. I’ll take them if you don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” He smiles. “You do owe me a favor each time.”

Your head bobs in a nod, eyes silently tracing his features. “What kind of favor?”

He shrugs. “I’ll figure something out. Nothing weird. I’m not a creep.”

You giggle. “I didn’t imply you were. You’re awfully defensive.”

“Hey!” he exclaims, and you watch a blush crawl slowly up the back of his neck. “This is what I get for being your knight in shining armor? The first time we’ve met and you already call me weird?”

Chuckling, you shake your head. “I didn’t call you anything.”

“You implied it,” he huffs, childish and petulant.

After a few more rounds of questions, you’re exhausted. Everyone is getting more drunk — and, somehow, louder, with the exception of Sunwoo, who crashed like twenty minutes ago onto Younghoon.

“Hey, Sangy, I think I’m gonna head out.” You whisper to your friend, drawing his attention from the new game of Jenga (where they got it from, you’re not sure). 

“Okay. You think you can get home safe?”

“Mhm!” You chirp, smiling sleepily at him. “Happy birthday.”

You run into Hyunjae coming back out of one of the bedrooms. He’s changed clothes into a nice sweater, a little worn. It looks soft. 

“Heading out?” You nod. “Hey, before you go—” his voice stops your hand on the doorknob. “You don't actually think I’m weird, do you?”

Snorting, you shake your head. “No. Definitely not.” You study him a little longer, the slightly parted lips and hopeful glint in his dark eyes. “Can I get your number..? For help with school, you know. Just in case I need a really cool sunbae to be my knight in shining armor again.”

Hyunjae grins. “You got it.”

You and Hyunjae don’t talk again after Sangyeon’s party.

Both of you were busy with exams and final projects, and, well, he never asked you for the favors you owed him. You thought you’d run back into him at some point and remind him then. It felt weird to text him out of the blue — the only message you’d sent being you saying, hi, this is Y/N! that you’d sent after the party so he could save your contact.

With a new quarter comes new classes, where you likely don’t know anyone in it and dread the inevitability of a group project with strangers.

When you walk into the classroom for your three p.m, you’re hesitant. You’d heard great things about the professor, and it was marked as a multicultural class focusing on world religions (an actual variety of religions, using texts written by scholars and actual practitioners. No long sections just discussing Christianity, which was exciting). But you didn’t know anyone there, and some of the seats were already taken fifteen minutes before it was meant to start. You didn’t want to just sit down next to someone you didn’t know, instead scanning for the emptiest section of the room before walking across the threshold.

You find an empty chair near the end of a row at the back, away from the dotting of people who’d already found their seats. It had a decent enough view of the podium and projector so you claim it, putting your bag down as you fold the pull-out desk over your knees.

“Mind if I sit here?”

You really try not to jump at the sudden noise, but the smile you see on Hyunjae’s face as you bolt up and turn around tells you that you failed. “Yeah— I mean, no. No. I don’t mind. You can…” you sigh and slap your cheeks, trying to slap some sense back into yourself. “Sorry. Yes, you can sit there.” 

Hyunjae chuckles softly and sets his backpack on the ground. “How have you been, Y/N? It’s been a bit.”

It takes a bit for you to respond, focusing on lining up your pens how you want. “Um, okay… you know, same old. Just existing.” You don’t have any fun stories to regale him with. Really, you just studied, spent time with Jimin, Ryujin, or Sangyeon — or with classmates you had become kind-of acquaintances with in preparation for a hard exam. You liked to cook for yourself and your roommate, Lily, who was nice enough and easy to live with, so you did that too.

The only thing you could remember going to solo (for fun, not for school) even semi-recently had been a play the theater department was putting on, because you didn’t have the heart to tell one of the girls you sometimes studied with that you hated Shakespeare adaptations. (She had made the props and wanted to show them off.)

Hyunjae tilts his head. “Nothing for fun?”

“Not much.” You mumble, suddenly embarrassed. ”’m a homebody.”

There’s a clamor up front as a group of friends stumble in and try to find seats together. You sigh as you watch them, a little envious. “Nothing wrong with that.” Hyunjae chuckles. “Remember those favors you owe me?”

You sit up. “Yeah!”

“I know what I want.”

“Okay..?” you trail off curiously, turning your head to look at the sparkle in his eyes.

“You have to study with me and Eric. No backing out. All semester.” He grins at you like he didn’t just completely claim a huge part of your schedule as his own. Before you can even open your mouth to whine, he shakes his head and does a shushing motion. “You owe me like five favors. This will count for all of them.”

He jerks to attention as the professor comes in and you chew on your lip. Fine. He was smart, so it couldn’t be too bad. Maybe he could give you answers for classes that he’d already taken. 

“Okay, well… I guess we need to figure out when and where we’ll meet, right?”

Hyunjae nods. “It’ll be fun.”

The three of you were free from four to six on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so that became your dedicated study time. The location? Wherever worked, in Eric’s own words. 

That Thursday, the first time you all meet, you end up at a small square table in the corner of an on campus coffee shop connected to the library. It’s always super busy, which is how you find yourself crammed against the wall and struggling to even hear what’s being said.

Eric and Hyunjae are working on homework for some math class they’re both in. You wouldn’t be of any help, even if you were in the same class, so you quietly put due dates in your planner and start on a longer reading.

You don’t know exactly how long it takes you to get through half of the article and take notes, but when you take a break to straighten your posture because of the ache in your shoulders and lower back, you find yourself getting distracted by Hyunjae and Eric bickering about the best flavors of Pepero and Pocky. 

Hyunjae is defending the honor of Pepero coated in white chocolate against Eric’s matcha green tea Pocky. Your eyes drift up to the snack stand where, sure enough, there is a box of classic Pocky right in your line of sight. 

You figure that’s how they got to the topic.

“Ready to work on comms, guys?” You ask softly, brows raising as they get more heated. Eric coughs and Hyunjae gives you a sheepish smile, head bobbing in a small nod as he pulls back out his binder. (He keeps all his classes in the same multi-subject one, and, honestly, the folder sections are stuffed comically with papers. You wonder how he can even find what he needs in there, seeing as most of the pages are dog-eared and crumpled against each other.)

“Did you finish the reading you were doing?” Hyunjae asks as he tugs out his printed lecture notes. “We can wait.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to focus on Buddhism when there’s a riveting debate about Pocky in front of me,” you drawl, a teasing smile playing across your lips. “I’ll finish it later.”

Eric takes the lead on the study session, and you’re trying your best to follow along. (Really, you are! It’s not your fault your coffee cup is empty. Well, actually, it is, but you don’t want to go get a third one for the day when it’s five p.m.) You’re a little distracted, though, when Eric delves into coerced admissions, their legality, and the confessions of innocent people.

It was a class on legal communications. But you were tired and confused, putting your head down on the table with a whine as the two men seemingly have no difficulty parsing the laws and imagined scenarios in front of them.

“Y/N—” Hyunjae’s voice, oddly close to you. And then, a hand on your thigh. “Want help?”

You nod and sit up straight, probably a bit too quickly, looking down at the worksheet in front of you. Hyunjae’s explaining it — you’re sure he is, from the way Eric is taking notes while he talks and Hyunjae drags his pen across the words and scribbles notes in the margins for you — but you don’t even hear the words. He’s so close to you, hand warm where it rests on your leg, and he smells really good.

Why does he smell so good?

And then, with a brief glance out of the corner of your eyes, you feel your breath being taken away. He’s gorgeous, with his hair falling gently into his brows and eyes, and your throat dries as he delicately flicks it away and furrows his brows.

He’s warm, even if his hand wasn’t on your thigh, like a heater in your personal space. Not that you mind.

“Got it?”

You nod dumbly. “Um, yeah. Got it! Thanks, Hyunjae.” You smile sweetly at him and his eyes crinkle as he smiles back before sliding back to where his stuff is. Suddenly, you’re cold.

“Hyung, can we please go get food—”

“We have thirty minutes left, Eric.”

“Please?” He drags out the ‘e’, whiny and endearing. “I’ll pay.”

Hyunjae laughs loudly. “I’m holding you to that. Y/N, you coming?”

You shake your head. You had dinner plans with Ryujin. And you think that’d be good for your sanity, to hear her talk about her dance classes. “Maybe next time.”

Hyunjae was a lot more social than you expected, given his reputation within the department. On top of your study sessions twice a week, he often texted you about homework (the one time you got a frantic text from him at one a.m. asking if you saw the essay requirements posted for religions, you felt your heart stop beating for a moment. If he was struggling, how were you going to survive?). 

You weren’t necessarily close, but apparently he considered the two of you close enough that he invited you to parties sometimes as a way to get you out and meeting people (that was surprising too. You didn’t know he was into that scene, but you supposed his and Sangyeon’s friend group was big enough for everything to turn into a party). 

It was sweet he didn’t want you to rot in your dorm all the time, though. 

He’d sulk some when you turned down the invite, sending “so you hate me?” with a string of frowny faces and crying copypastas. If you disliked more than three, he’d stop whining and move on like nothing happened. 

Tonight was different. You were more than tired of looking at homework, and everyone you knew was busy. So when Hyunjae messages around seven asking if you want to go to a party (“smaller, this time! just me and sangyeon’s friends. and some girls the other guys are into and their friends. some of them are in comms, and you know all of us…”) 

You don’t tell him that’s still a lot of people. Instead, why should i?

please please please please please please please fills your screen. i’ll take you home the second you’re bored. You heart that message. Barely a second later, he’s calling you.

“Are you going to come? Please say yes. I’m not above begging.”

“I don’t know you like that, Hyunjae. Keep that to the bedroom,” you tease lightly. “I’m holding you to your promise to be my chauffeur though.”

You hear him sigh softly before laughing. “Okay, okay. But seriously, are you coming?”

You hum and look at a skirt hanging on a rack in your closet — Jimin got it for you when you went shopping last time after you eyed it for a bit. It still had the tag on since you’d never had an occasion to wear it. “I guess I could make an appearance.”

“Guess?” Hyunjae drawls, and you can practically hear the pout on his face. “Or know?”

“Pick me up and it’ll be a yes.”

“Deal.” He answers before you can even try to figure out plans. “See you in twenty.”

He showed up in exactly twenty minutes, and you were beyond grateful you hadn’t removed your makeup from the day yet. Your hair was still a little messy and you were fixing your eyeliner to be heavier when the doorbell rang.

At the house (you’re not even sure whose), Hyunjae grabs you a cocktail. You tilt your head at him curiously but accept it, wondering if the fact you’re not into other alcohol is written somewhere on your face. 

After a few awkward introductions and fifteen minutes stuck to Hyunjae’s side like a leech, you start to relax a little. Maybe it’s the cocktail, perfectly sweet, or maybe it’s the way the party really does seem small and chill compared to most on campus. You’re not really sure, but it doesn’t matter anyways, as Sunwoo ropes you into a game of beer pong with a promise he’ll drink whatever cups you two lose.

He’s laughing, boyish and charming, as you sink a cup against Eric and tell him to “suck it!” when he tries to protest his fate. Sunwoo’s arms wrap around your shoulders, clinging onto you as he gets more and more drunk (outside of the game, not just the beer in the cups. Chanhee kept mysteriously appearing with KGB and shots of soju every so often and goading Sunwoo into drinking. You have a feeling he has an ulterior motive for the night). 

You don’t mind, though, relaxing into his hold and cheering as the two of you defeat Eric (and a girl you think he might be into, from the way he smiles and comforts her. Unfortunately, you didn’t catch her name). 

“We make a good team, Sunwoo,” you giggle softly, and you feel a little warm from the alcohol. He smiles back at you, face wrinkling up happily. You squish his cheek firmly until he yelps. “Do you wanna go find Sangyeon? I think he was setting up something.”

Sunwoo starts dragging you towards the living room before the words even finish leaving your mouth, both of you giggling as you stumble down the hall. “Guys—” he announces before you’re even across the threshold, tripping over the next words as he stumbles into the room. “This is my new game buddy, Y/N.”

You nod solemnly. “We have a pact.”

It takes only a second or two of unimpressed stares for you both to start laughing again, falling into open seats in front of one of the couches, right in front of Sangyeon and a girl from comms — you think her name is Hyeri. Sangyeon helps you balance on the way down, smiling fondly when you try to whisper that “Sunwoo’s fun!” to him.

“Is he?” Sangyeon asks, smoothing out your hair. You nod eagerly and he seems content that you’re having a good time. “Well, we’re going to watch a movie. That’s also fun.”

You nod, leaning into his knee as the group bickers and figures out what to play. You’re tired now, energy drained from the amount of people around you. The blanket that hangs by your side is interesting enough, and you find yourself picking at the fluffy fibers as the noise dies down enough for the movie to be audible.

Your eyes drift to Hyunjae, sitting by a girl named Soobin. You’ve had a class with her before, and a god-awful group project to boot. She was smart and nice, and you appreciated her being a voice of reason when your other members dragged their feet on every aspect of what was due. She’s looking at Hyunjae, too, you realize, looking at the way her expression softens as she shifts a little closer to him.

A ball forms in your stomach, brows furrowing as you take in the sight. Maybe the alcohol was getting to you and that’s why you felt something turning over in your stomach, but you’re not quite sure that’s the cause as she leans and whispers something — a joke, you assume, about the scene flickering across the TV — in his ear.

Hyunjae smiles, laughs, charming as ever and nods, leans over to whisper something back before turning his attention back to the glowing screen. Sangyeon’s hand on your shoulder snaps your focus away and you sigh, a little embarrassed.

“You okay, Y/N-ie?” He asks softly, and you tilt your head up to see his eyes, soft with concern. “You can go home if you want, I know you’re not huge on parties.”

Nodding, you swallow the sudden lump in your throat before croaking out. “Yeah, Hyunjae’s my ride. I’ll ask him when we take a break for snacks or something.”

He doesn’t seem content with your answer but nods, hand sliding off you. You appreciated the way he read your tense shoulders and backed off, reading your overstimulation and reducing it. 

Sangyeon calls for a break maybe ten minutes later and whispers that you should go as he stands. You rise, eyes finding Soobin and Hyunjae again as you gather your things. 

People are quiet, asleep or filtering into the kitchen to get snacks and drinks, and you hear her — soft spoken and easy to miss, but sweet as can be — ask if “he’d like to go out sometime?” and that she thinks they get along well. You pause in your tracks, and the way Hyunjae’s smile drops, expression cold and disinterested as he rejects her, with no ambiguity, has you feeling more sick than the drinks or seeing her lean on him earlier.

Soobin looks like she might cry, but she takes it with more grace than you think you could manage — a nod, a smile, and thanking him for being honest with his rejection.

When she walks off, Hyunjae’s eyes flit to you and he raises his brows. “What’s up?”

“Just ready to go home.” You mumble, hearing the ring of him saying there’s no chance, and I’m sorry if I made you think there was. I wish you well but don’t contact me again, if this is the intent in your ears. “Did you drink?”

Hyunjae shakes his head. “Want a ride?”

“Um…” you pause. “It’s fine, actually. You were liking the movie, right?” Hyunjae nods slowly. “I’ll get an Uber. Just wanted to say bye and make sure you knew I left — I didn’t want you to worry. I’m tired.”

Hyunjae smiles at you, the normal boyish grin that you’re used to seeing. “Okay, rest well, Y/N!” and, then, you make your way out, with a wave to Sunwoo and not one more look behind you. 

A girl’s day was long overdue, so when your schedule aligns with Jimin’s and Ryujin’s for lunch, you’re dragged to a nearby Greek place that Jimin’s friend, Yizhuo, had mentioned. They were beyond excited that you didn’t back out of lunch (not that you had a tendency to do that. They just knew you had gone to a party and would be tired, hungover, or both and less willing to come because of that). 

Once you’ve placed your orders, Ryujin squints at you from where she sits across the table. “How was the party?” The ‘you look tired’ is unsaid, but you don’t feel hurt. It’s true, you were tired, having tossed and turned trying to understand Hyunjae’s sudden switch up with Soobin when he seemed so receptive to her jokes and closeness. (When you did fall asleep, it was restless, and your head was throbbing now despite taking hangover cures.)

“Fine.” Your voice is softer than normal, and somehow wavers on just one word. Jimin’s eyes narrow as you fiddle with the corner of a napkin. “I made a friend.”

You’re talking about Sunwoo. Of course, you already knew him, but it felt nice to be closer to another person in the group. You don’t say more. (Mainly because you didn’t want to think about why you were so bothered by Hyunjae rejecting Soobin — you didn’t really know her, you weren’t privy to Hyunjae’s romantic life, understandably, and he wasn’t necessarily mean, just… too firm for your tastes).

“What’s bothering you then?” Ryujin asks pointedly, and you scowl at her. “Don’t frown at me! You’re sulking.”

With a long sigh, you shake your head. “It’s nothing. Stupid.”

Jimin pats your hand, an attempt at soothing contact without pressing too far into your space. “Babe, it’s bothering you. That’s not stupid.”

Damn her.

“It’s just — you all know Hyunjae. And how we’re friends? He took me to the party, which was really nice, and this girl — Soobin, she’s super pretty and sweet, I had a project with her last semester. They were flirting, or at least being close? I guess. All night. But when she did actually ask him out, he was suddenly super cold and it just… it was weird, you know? Not how he normally is.” You pause, a little embarrassed by your rambling. “I took an Uber home.”

Silence.

“He invited me.”

Then, a knowing ohh from Ryujin and a frown on Jimin’s face. 

“You like him.” Jimin hums after a few more seconds of silence, taking a sip of her water like she didn’t just say something world-changing and earth-shattering. “And you’re worried he’d do that to you.”

“No?” Your voice is high and strained, stunned. You can’t even begin to track how she got to that conclusion, and you can’t believe she’s saying it so confidently either. “It’s just out of character for him!”

“You don’t know his character that well yet,” Ryujin cuts in, fighting back a smile. “We know you think he’s hot. Jimin told me about when you were studying in the math lab…”

You think your face might catch on fire with how hot it feels. “That doesn’t mean I like him!”

“Sure…” she laughs, and she’s so lucky you’re not at your apartment because she deserved a pillow to the face to wipe the smug smile off.

Jimin rescues you. “If you don’t like him, that’s fine. But would you be weirded out if… I don’t know, Younghoon did that to a girl?”

Shaking your head, you lean back against the chair and stretch. “But I don’t know him, really. I study with Hyunjae all the time, and I feel like I’m actually friends with him and Eric. Like, yes, it’s mainly based on school, but we’re close… for my standards. I guess it’s just weird because he seems so warm and bubbly that seeing such a quick and complete rejection was unusual.”

Ryujin hums. “Well, at least he didn’t lead her on?”

“Yeah, because making a girl almost cry is better!”

“It is…” Jimin says softly. “I mean, it’s not great, but it’s better than her getting more attached and him using her and keeping her around just for the attention.”

You hated when she was right. 

She normally was. You think you’d be used to it by now, but you still sulk and pout at her clear and concise understanding of situations.

“I hate making friends,” you whine. “Can’t I just keep you two and Sangyeon, that’s it, forever?”

Both respond with variations on no quickly, and you pout more. “So you hate me. And you don’t want to be friends.” You’re being dramatic, but you have to be. It’s somewhere in your DNA.

“You’re stuck with us,” Jimin soothes. “But you like having friends, even if getting close is hard. You’ll be happier.” She pauses, thanks the waiter as they put down your food. “Besides, hot guys always have something wrong with them. This must be his — he’s an iron wall man.”

“What the hell is an iron wall man?” Ryujin asks through a mouthful, and you throw a napkin at her for it. She sticks her tongue out at you after she’s done chewing, but you know she’ll finish her next bites before talking again.

“Guys who put up clear and obvious walls and are super hard to get close to and have the attention of,” Jimin shrugs. “Seems like he gets a lot of attention but doesn’t want it. If he rejects girls like that, it stops.”

You sigh. “Hot men do always have something wrong with them.”

“Why do you sound like you’re in mourning?”

“I’m mourning the concept of a decent boyfriend,” you whine back without a moment of pause. “Is it too much to ask for a hot and normal guy?”

Ryujin nods. “Also, Hyunjae isn’t normal.”

“You don’t even know him!” You protest quickly.

“He’s friends with Sangyeon,” Jimin points out. “He has to be a little weird.”

You end up with Ryujin and Jimin at your place, setting up an honestly ridiculous amount of blankets on the couch and floor to watch the classic Barbie movies. The three of you had raided the nearby convenience store and set up your coffee table with snacks and drinks to last the whole marathon. (The convenience store was your favorite nearby. The woman who owned it loved you, and often gave a small bag of chips or some other snack, on the house even if you said she didn’t have to and shouldn’t. Sometimes, you brought her extra food from making dinner in a Tupperware as thanks).

After rifling through your skincare, you’d found face masks that suited all three of your needs (even if you did scold Jimin for saying her skin looked dull recently, since she was literally glowing). Ryujin had found nail polish you forgot you owned, buried at the bottom of the small closet in your bathroom. She’d triumphantly showed the forest green bottle and shoved it towards you. It was what your nails would have to end up as now.

You’re maybe halfway into Princess and the Pauper when your nails finally feel dry enough to do anything without the polish shifting or chipping, so you carefully make your way to your room.

Somewhere in your desk, you’d shoved a bunch of charms and trinkets you’d bought for the two and forgotten to give to them for months. It was one of your bigger flaws, being forgetful of small things like that. You’d gotten some for Sangyeon too, but remembered to add them to his birthday present. 

Triumphantly, after five minutes of searching, you emerge and find them in their face masks. You snap a photo of them quickly despite the complaints that they “look awful!” and the threat that “if you post that, I’m blocking you.”

When you toss them at them, their threats and jokes soften. 

“But I don’t have anything to give you…” Jimin pouts, spinning the cute black cat keychain around in her fingers as she investigates the details painted on. “I feel bad.”

“You two are always here for me.” You shrug. The silent reference to lunch goes unsaid — the ‘thank you for dealing with my whining, thank you for reassuring me, and for putting up with my codependency as I try to be more social and improve’. (Of course, it wasn’t just because of the gossiping about Hyunjae. It was that they, as much as they teased and joked, wanted the best for you and knew when to stop or change their approach.)

Ryujin finally looks up from the sticker sheets you gave her, muttering curses under her breath as she struggles to pick off the smallest ones to put on her phone case. “Love you, Y/N.”

It’s weird. She doesn’t say it often. A good weird, though, sparking a warmth in your chest. “I love you, too,” you grin, pulling out your phone and swiping to the camera app. “Can you say it again?”

“I’m not giving you evidence against me.”

(By this point, as Jimin excitedly puts on Barbie in the Twelve Dancing Princesses, you’d pretty much forgotten about the Hyunjae thing. Besides, it’s not like you’d ever been asked out or done anything with a guy —maybe his approach really was the best one to reject people you were into. You didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, ultimately, and you knew he’d still be your friend just as he was before the party.)

The temperature had dropped starkly in the past few weeks, taking with it the sun. By five-thirty, it’s dark out. You’re cold and tired, and honestly, grumpy. You’d stayed up until three. Most of that was sneaking out of the dance building at two a.m. with Ryujin after helping her for a few hours, just workshopping awkward parts of a routine she had to choreograph.

The other hour was spent getting ready for bed and scrolling through Instagram until your eyes couldn’t stay awake. No one could fault you for ending up in Hyunjae’s tagged photos — he didn’t post much anyways, and a lot of them had Sangyeon. And your other new friends too. It was only natural.

By the evening, you’re tired. But you didn’t want to leave Hyunjae hanging (Eric had some club meeting), so it’s just you two, working quietly in one of the study rooms in the library. It’s cozy, with lamps newly added this semester (and thank god they were, with the room feeling so dark, cold, and unwelcoming in semesters prior without any windows), and a nice warmth compared to the way wind bit your skin when you walked over to the library.

Warm light washes over your notes and you sigh, resting your head down on the table. Your hand hurts, and this professor required handwritten assignments. It’s intended to be a short break, but the way your chin nestles and your shoulders relax is so comfortable you can’t bring yourself to get back to work, even after five minutes of silently staring at nothing. With a sigh, you shift to slump further in the chair and let your eyes drift to Hyunjae.

He’s studiously working on one of his classes — you’re not in it, and thankful for it. The printed letters on his assignment sheet alone hurt your head. His dark green sweater looks comfortable, a little large on him, and around the same color as the chipped nail polish that remains from your last girl’s night with Ryujin and Karina. His hair is darker than it was when you first met, with less sunlight adding warm blonde tones. It also seems curlier, but you’re not sure if your eyes are playing a trick on you, narrowing your focus on a stray strand that he keeps flicking out of his eyes. 

“Why are you staring at me?” Hyunjae asks without a pause in his writing. “Is there something on my clothes?”

You shoot up and slam your knee into the underside of the table, whining in pain. 

“Are you okay?” Hyunjae laughs softly, fondness taking over his gaze as he leans over and moves your drink from the edge towards the center. “That sounded painful.”

“It was,” you whine. “And I wasn’t staring.” The second part is weak. You don’t even believe yourself, eyes darting away from the way the golden lamplight shimmers in his eyes now that he’s turned to face you.

His hum is disapproving. “Liar.”

You shake your head stubbornly. “I wasn’t staring at you. It was your hair.”

“Which is part of me.” Hyunjae deadpans. “Why? Does it look weird?”

“No, just… is it curly now?”

Hyunjae tilts his head. “Yeah. My hair is naturally curly.”

“Huh.” It does suit him, you decide. Not that you’d tell him. “We, um, we should finish our work.”

While you say that, Hyunjae packs up his things haphazardly in his criminally organized binder. “You look exhausted, Y/N-ie. We can call it for the night.”

YN-ie. Sangyeon called you that. And it felt good coming from him, but the familiarity and softness of Hyunjae’s voice makes your stomach turn.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You mumble, looking at the small smile on his face. Did he see you how Sangyeon did?

It comes up again when you’re walking through street food stalls with Sangyeon.

You’re holding both of your dalgona by the wooden stick as he chats to the stall owner, picking out new flavors of jeon for you to try. Somehow, the conversation drifts to the man’s kids, and Sangyeon coos at the grainy film camera pictures in the man’s camera roll. 

The fondness in both their voices is cute. How Sangyeon talks to you. How Hyunjae spoke to you in the study room.

“Hey, Y/N-ie, come on,” Sangyeon urges and you look up, accepting the rolled pancake in the small cardboard container. “What’s on your mind?”

You hum, skipping over the lines of the cobbled street, keeping count of how many you pass in eights. “Fondness.”

There’s so much of it around you. Families walking by, attempting to keep their little children in line as they scamper from sweet food stall to sweet food stall, amazed by the colors and smells of each dessert. Couples, hands locked together, wrapped in a small bubble of intimacy separating them from the throngs of people hustling and bustling by. Sangyeon, concerned about your silence.

“Are you a philosopher?”

“I try to be,” you smile softly. “Just thinking.”

“That’s what they do, isn’t it?” Sangyeon tears a piece of his jeon and hands it to you. “Think.”

“They also talk a lot.” You mumble before finishing the bite. “Ooh, what flavor is this?”

“Fondness,” Sangyeon laughs at his own joke and you scowl.

“How do you know when a guy thinks you’re like a sibling? Like you see me?”

He pauses and falters in his step before rematching his stride to yours. “Suddenly?”

“Not that suddenly.”

Sangyeon’s eyebrows raise. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

Your turn to pause. With a frown, you shake your head and look away pointedly. “There isn’t one. I just want to know. You know I have no experience with any of that.”

“Keep walking.” He doesn’t even need to look at you to know, and that annoys you even more. With a huff, you catch up to him. “I can’t believe you like a guy. They grow up so fast.”

“I’ve been an adult since you met me.”

Sangyeon hums. “And you’re still a baby.”

“Can you at least answer my question?”

He ruffles your hair. “Well, you see, when a guy likes a girl—”

“Okay.” You sigh. “You’re not helpful, you know that? I’m going to keep this dalgona.” You wave his in front of his face, twirling it around. “Stop teasing me.”

“But it’s so fun, can you blame me, Y/N-ie?”

He takes pity on you, eventually. 

“If he likes you, you’ll be able to tell. It might not be certain, but his behavior will change from how it was. If he views you like I do — a little sister, a little annoying—” he yelps as you smack his shoulder. “It’s true! And as I was saying, you’d know if he saw you like that.” Sangyeon snatches his dalgona from you. “The fondness you’re thinking about would be a little exasperated.”

“So you’re sick of me.”

“No, don’t put words in my mouth and hurt your own feelings,” he cuts you off quickly. “I love you very much. But you annoy me in many ways. None of them make me want to kiss you. A guy who really likes you would want to kiss you anyways.”

You hum. “So if I want to see if he’s into me?”

“Be more open about your feelings and ease up around him. If you hint at it, he’ll probably give himself away.”

You think you’ll take his advice, falling into contemplative silence as you snap the edges around the triangle stamp in your candy. 

Ryujin had been antsy for weeks. Maybe even months.

You think her nerves paid off, if your shaky video of her performance drowned out by you cheering so loudly you can’t hear half the instrumental is anything to go by. Your throat is hoarse by the time you manage to slip backstage and jump to hug her, whisper-yelling that ‘I have flowers in my car for you!’ so she can hear you over the thrum of noise as staff and students prepare for the next set of performances.

When you spot Intak, her dance partner for the night, you compliment him too. He blushes shyly and bows, clearly delighted with the outcome of the night. 

“Seriously, Ryu, I can’t believe you’re not famous,” you lament from where you’re cuddled into her side, clinging to her waist as you rest your chin on her shoulder. “Everyone should know you.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Then you’d have to be in line to be my number one fan.”

“I already fight Karina and your other friends for the spot,” you mumble. “I can handle a little more competition if it means you succeed.”

Her giggle is so comforting, pure joy and relief as she can finally stop worrying about this performance. She’d bitched about it enough that you felt like you were preparing to dance on stage with her (not that you could’ve held a candle to her or matched Intak’s skill level). She’d complained mostly about the fact it was a duet, scowling as she realized her grades weren’t dependent on her own performance and skill, but you were able to see the respect that she had for Intak.

He’d always been a good dancer and you’d known that — having seen him on a few other performing nights, and a few dance practices Ryujin snuck you into — but the way she spoke was different.

It was probably because they were done working together, and her frustration with the assignment stopped projecting onto him.

Intak lights up as the door creaks open and you look up, tilting your head curiously as Hyunjae comes into view under a, frankly, ridiculous amount of flowers.

“Did you buy out a florist?” You ask softly and he chuckles.

“It’s for both of them. They all have tags with letters from who they’re from. I got used as a pack mule.”

“Poor baby,” you coo sarcastically, a fond smile taking over your face despite your tone. You detach from Ryujin while she and Intak look through the bouquets, watching as the smile grows on their faces until both their eyes crinkle. They deserved it.

Intak perks up after reading a message and then, suddenly, “Y/N, you should come with us as Ryu’s plus one! We were going to have a celebratory dinner.”

You try to shake your head and back away, but Hyunjae’s hand behind your back keeps you from getting to the door. You glare at him before smiling at Intak. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m nervous around people I don’t know that well. I’m not that fun.”

“That’s okay, this is how you can get to know them!” 

With the way he’s so eager and his eyes light up, something tells you he won’t take no for an answer. You begrudgingly nod, relaxing slightly as Hyunjae adds he’ll come and Ryujin mentions Jimin meeting you all at the restaurant they chose. Intak’s friends were apparently coming, too, so you mentally brace for the amount of conversation that will inevitably go on.

Most of the time you’re in the diner, you’re flattened to the booth chair and listening to the conversation around you. A lot of it is spent praising the performers of the hour, but as it dissolves into inside jokes, you feel more and more exhausted with trying to keep up. 

Hyunjae feeds you a fry at one point, dipped sneakily in Ryujin’s milkshake. That’s a highlight of your night. 

When everyone finally starts to scatter, Hyunjae walks you home. It was nice that he lived nearby, but he promised you (with his pinky and everything!) that he’d walk you home anyways, because a girl shouldn’t be walking home alone late at night, especially if she’s tired.

“Yeah, so, the project is going okay—” he’s talking about a math class. How there’s a group project in a math class, when there’s barely even numbers in the math he’s in is beyond you, but you nod anyway. “I think we’ll be able to turn it in early, which is nice. I’ll have time to do stuff.”

“It’s always nice to finish early,” you sigh, stretching your back. That booth had been stiff as a board. “I’d use it to hibernate.”

“You’re always hibernating,” he teases softly. “It’ll give me more time to talk to this girl before we go on a date, so that’s nice. I think we get along well. We’ll see.”

You perk up. “Date? I thought you didn’t like dating?”

Hyunjae laughs. “I never said that? I don’t do it often, but it’s nice to talk to a pretty girl.” You deflate a little, hoping he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t seem to, checking his phone before swiping away a notification with a small smile. “What gave you that idea?”

“Must’ve been the voices.” You hum, voice deceptively light. “They tell me things.”

“Weirdo.” Hyunjae chuckles, ruffling your hair.

“Meanie,” you poke your tongue out at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Mm.” Hyunjae smiles at you, obviously sleepy himself. “I’ll see you soon?”

“When do you not?”

Sangyeon figured you out. Somehow.

You almost choke on a noodle in your pho when he brings it up randomly during lunch. 

“How long have you liked Hyunjae?”

It takes a second to breathe right and you hold your palm out to him, a silent plea for him to stop. “What are you talking about?”

He smiles at you and the sparkle in his eye sends a shiver down your spine. “Well, a little birdie told me that you thought Hyunjae didn’t date anyone… and when you pair that with you whining about wanting guys to not see you like I do…”

The thing he is implying with how he trails off is, honestly, offensive.

“I don’t like him like that?” You scoff, setting down your spoon and chopsticks. “I genuinely thought he didn’t date — I mean, we all saw how he shut down Soobin when we watched movies that one time.”

Sangyeon scoffs. “Who is we?”

You frown. “Me? And Sunwoo? And everyone else there?”

“No one was paying attention to them like that, Y/N-ie. I think you were jealous.”

With a huff, you grab your phone and check your schedule. You didn’t have any excuse to leave, but you could come up with one. “I have an assignment I forgot about…”

“Liar.” Sangyeon doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s okay if you like him. Even if you don’t. That one day — that fondness shit, where you were possessed by a philosopher. Was that about him?”

With a small sigh, you nod. “Yeah. I want to be seen as an equal and a friend. Not like a baby sister. How he treats all of his friends.”

“Well, then you’ve failed already. He’s extra nice to you.”

Your shoulders drop, rounding in. “Yeah. I’m the annoying kid sister type, huh?”

Sangyeon’s smile is weirdly knowing. “I don’t think it’s like that. But I mean, hey, he doesn’t hate you. That’s enough, isn’t it?” You nod. “Just don’t get your hopes up about dating him.”

“I don’t want to date him!” You grumble and he just laughs.

Asshole.

Hyunjae did, in fact, like you — like he did all his friends, not like a little sister.

You had gotten closer to him and his friends (Sangyeon’s friends, too), enough that you would occasionally go out with Kevin and Jacob or spend time chatting with Haknyeon on the phone. It was… overwhelming, to have gone from having a small circle to so many more.

But it was nice.

Hyunjae was nice, too, as finals crept closer. At study sessions, he’d buy your coffee (since you predictably got the same order every time) before you even arrived, and tell Eric to shut up if he laughed at it.

You even wore his hoodie a few nights, when the two of you were staying until the library closed. They were large and comfortable, and you had been tempted to keep them when you saw them in your room the next morning, still smelling of his cologne. 

It took great effort to wash and return them, but you did it with a smile (and when Hyunjae said you didn’t have to wash them, you’d jokingly called him a creep for wanting to wear something you had worn without cleaning it. The wide-eyed, red-cheeked look he had after was priceless). 

Even more nice was how much more often you talked. It felt like you had graduated from school friend to real friend, often seeing texts from random hours (one time, a heinous 4:52 a.m.) sending you memes and Tiktoks and whatever thought happened to cross his mind he thought you’d enjoy.

Apparently, you seemed like a girl who enjoyed the dad jokes he found and screenshotted from the depths of the internet, grainy and hard to read. You didn’t enjoy them. But you hearted each one he sent you and would take the fact you hated them to your grave.

The one that got your hopes up — that maybe, somehow, you are special to him, like Sangyeon implied, when he said Hyunjae was extra nice to you — was after a hard test you’d been dreading and complaining about.

Hyunjae showed up with your favorite coffee and a hug, letting you vent and complain, voice muffled into the fabric of his sweater. The embarrassment you felt seeing a hint of makeup on his shoulder was quickly squashed when he laughed and said “huh, a mini Y/N for my day. Score!” with a voice so light, you thought you misheard him.

“I’m sure you did great,” he whispers, more sincerely and sweetly, moving a stray hair away from and off your temples. “You’re really smart, you know that?”

“Not compared to you,” you mumble, chest still tight with anxiety.

“Yes, compared to me,” Hyunjae hums, grabbing your bag and walking you towards the dining hall. “In many ways I am not.”

It’s so real and you know he means it. “You don’t need to comfort me, I’m not a baby…”

“I want to.”

God, he was so sweet. 

“Thank you,” your voice is soft and genuine, a little awed by his kindness.

“Don’t thank me for the bare minimum,” he scolds. “You should thank me for being really hot and sexy.”

You scoff. “Please shut up.”

And there was normal Hyunjae again, the you-specific extra kindness melting away.

It’s when you realize you don’t want anyone else getting that sweetness that you get that you realize you do, in fact, like Hyunjae. One could even say you have a crush.

You’re in a cute little black dress, makeup and hair done, wearing some jewelry that Ryujin just got you, and you’re tipsy.

Chanhee had been feeding you KGB and soju shots like he had to Sunwoo when the two of you were beer pong buddies and got close, and your face is warm, and everything is a little blurry and the world spins a little around you.

Or maybe the world is spinning around Hyunjae. 

You think it should. He’s so stunning, and you spend some time looking at his dark curly hair — worn natural, for once, pretty where it lands on his brow, eyes sparkling and bright as he laughs and chats with the people he stands with. Even the way he holds the red solo cup is pretty, and you stare at the new bracelet on his wrist curiously — where did he get it? you wonder, but the thought vanishes as quickly as you had it when he smiles and waves at you.

You wave back, smiling too. And then your eyes drop to the rest of his outfit, and the amount of skin his shirt showing is, honestly, criminal. It’s like you took another shot, the way heat pours through you as you study the necklace that leads your eyes to his collarbones perfectly. 

How planned. How scandalous.

Jimin finds you maybe ten minutes later, glued to your spot and swaying, staring at Hyunjae and the conversation across the room with big, wide eyes. “Babe, how much did you have?” She asks softly, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Dunno, ask Chanhee,” you mumble, words slurred as you smile at her.

She grabs your arm and you stumble, letting yourself be dragged outside. The night air is cold and welcome on your heated skin. “Stay here. I’ll find Ryujin and we’ll go back to yours, okay? No more drinks.”

You pout at her but nod, sitting down on the stair to the deck. The sky is pretty, stars twinkling overhead. It doesn’t take long before your eyes flutter shut, though, letting all the overwhelming things around you fade away.

It’s cold now that you’ve been outside for a few minutes, your dress too thin for respite, and your jacket draped on your chair back at home (because “I don’t need it, Ryu, I’ll be fine!”). 

You jump when Hyunjae calls your name and settles next to you, but the warmth he radiates is comforting. His thigh rests against yours and even through his pants, it warms where you have goosebumps.

Shuddering, you tilt your head at him. “Hi.” Your voice is soft and small, a little giggle slipping out as you look at him.

“Hi,” he echoes, squinting. “Are you getting sick? You’re shivering.” The concern in his voice is cute, but you wish he was drunk enough to be staring at you like you hung the moon up next to the stars overhead. 

You think you’re probably looking at him like that.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, smile playing on your lips for no reason. “I feel great, honestly.”

Hyunjae’s brows furrow. “How much did you have to drink?”

You hum, looking at your fingers as if they’ll tell you. “Chanhee gave them to me. So a lot, I think.” You wonder if Hyunjae even heard you from the silence that follows, but you just settle against him, leaning into his side. He’s big and firm next to you, and he blocks the wind, and god, he smells good.

But he stiffens how he never has before from your proximity.

Oh.

“Sorry,” you mumble, belatedly realizing you complimented his cologne out loud. Your hand slips off his leg — you’re not sure when it ended up there, honestly. “I’m out of it.”

“I know,” his voice is a little tense and your eyes sting suddenly. “I’ll call you an uber. You’re really drunk, Y/N-ie.”

It’s like someone poured ice water over you. “No, ‘s okay,” you can’t bear to look at him, suddenly terrified his eyes will be like they were when he rejected Soobin. “Jimin is getting me home.”

Hyunjae doesn’t move. But you don’t speak and neither does he.

The only goodbye you get is a small and stiff smile and a nod to Jimin as she loops your arm over her shoulder and brings you to the front.

For a week and a half, you manage to avoid Hyunjae and sulk.

It really does feel like the world is ending, having realized you have a crush on him and he, clearly, did not reciprocate. But he was your friend and you couldn’t avoid him forever, as much as it stung to see him while you were nursing your feelings.

Case in point, when he and Eric show up on your doorstep unannounced on a Tuesday. 

“Why are you here?” You grumble, arms crossed. Thankfully, Lily was out so you wouldn’t have to worry about them disturbing her.

”To study,” Eric grins at you, boyish and charming. “You haven’t been coming! So we came to you.”

You sigh heavily. “Come on in, then.”

Honestly, you are a little miffed. But you’re touched, too, knowing they care and were worried enough to show up and pull you out of whatever sulky mood you were in. Hyunjae mouths ‘you okay?’ at you, so you know the main reason was concern if you were okay, not studying for the legal communications final.

But it’s perfectly fine, and Eric makes ramen (you’d have to buy more for your pantry, since using six packets for the three of you was, in your opinion, excessive).

Hyunjae doesn’t seem to remember the party. Or if he does, he has the decency to not embarrass you. You’re not sure which you’d prefer.

After that day and how awkward you felt, you stopped avoiding them and everything seemed… normal.

Studying, hang-outs with their friend group (yours, now, too you supposed), conversations that were just you and Hyunjae on the quad — studying, doom scrolling, eating, really whatever struck your fancy that day. 

The most memorable one was an oddly warm day for the fact it was November, with the sun out and not behind clouds. The two of you were capitalizing on the small bit of warmth and vitamin D, lounging on a far too small towel and chatting.

Hyunjae was done with his work, so he was scrolling Tiktok while you lamented over the article you were reading. He had the answers too, having done this class the semester prior, but your pride refused his help. 

Instead, he settled for resting with his head next to your knee, sprawled out as he watched (what you hoped were) animal videos. Your train of thought is interrupted when he shows you one — his screen blocking your vision of your messily annotated print-out and you focus instead on the pout on his face.

“Watch!”

So you do, giving the appropriate horrified gasp when the cat in the video (Waffle) smacked the dog of the house (Maple) for daring to lay down in its own bed. 

“Isn’t it so mean?” Hyunjae laments as the video loops, and he mutes it quickly. “What did the poor doggie do?”

You hum. “Exist, probably. Cats are assholes.”

“Cute assholes,” Hyunjae nods sagely, the pout still stuck on his face. “Why are they like that?”

You chuckle, shoving your work to the side and stretching out slowly. “We let ‘em get away with it.”

“Who is we?”

“People who have them. And who are liked by their family dog.”

His offended gasp makes you chuckle. “Take that back!” Hyunjae whines, jostling your shoulder. “I am so nice to him.”

“And he still doesn’t like you…” you trail off, trying to hide your grin and failing. “It’s okay. Everyone has something wrong with them.”

Hyunjae shakes his head. “I’m perfect.”

“Add big ego to the cons list.”

Work forgotten, the two of you bantered and laughed until it got too cold to stay outside, and your heart was so fond and you were so into him. It was enough to be his friend, though, to bask in some of the light and love he had.

The weather is too cold for studying on the quad, and the library coffee shop is always packed to a level that is claustrophobic. Naturally, without any real discussion, the study group moved to Hyunjae (and Haknyeon)’s apartment.

It was a nice place, and you realize it’s where Sangyeon’s surprise birthday party was held. Hyunjae mentions another roommate, but apparently he doesn’t care if people are over and spends most of his time at his girlfriend’s place.

It’s how you find yourself, a week before winter break, stressed out of your mind as you sit cross legged on Hyunjae’s bed. Eric had left for some dinner plans a few hours ago and Haknyeon needed the living room.

Hyunjae’s room is nice, and shockingly clean. He has pictures of friends and family scattered about, a neutral and green color scheme, and an expensive looking gaming setup he now sits at while you work. He had finished all his work already, so you’re left struggling with your math homework alone. 

Your eyes are tired and his comforter is soft. You don’t even remember falling asleep (it’s impressive you did, since he had been bickering with whoever he was playing with on the mic). When you wake up, it’s dark. Your homework and pens are scattered next to you and you hear Hyunjae humming along to soft music.

When a wet wipe touches your cheek, it wakes you up enough to look at him and try to sit up. “Sorry,” you mumble, staring at the makeup wipe in his hand curiously. You don’t think you want to know why he has them. His touch is gentle and soft, and he carefully wipes off your base makeup. “What time is it?”

Hyunjae smiles, booping your nose as he wipes off the last of your foundation. “One,” and then he’s quiet again, wiping away your eye makeup carefully, only speaking to tell you to open or close your eyes.

You sit up quickly and try to gather your things clumsily, crumpling the worksheet some as you do. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I’ll head home.”

“It’s okay,” Hyunjae soothes, one hand grabbing your shoulder as he holds you down. “Just stay for the night, I don’t feel okay letting you walk home at this hour.” He brushes your hair back and smiles again, and the flickering fondness and light in his eyes has your heart racing. 

His proximity is nerve-wracking, and you wonder if he might kiss you, this close, this fucking pretty, smelling as good as he does. He doesn’t. “Are you hungry?”

You nod shyly.

“I’ll make something. You can pack your things but don’t you dare slip out and go home,” his tone is light but you know he means it so you agree and quietly gather your things while you hear movement in their kitchen.

He comes back a bit later with chapagetti, and your stomach rumbles at the sight. Once you’re finished eating, he hands you his unlocked laptop and says “pick any of the ghibli movies I have saved.” Then gone again, to do the dishes.

You settle on Princess Mononoke and really try not to stare while Hyunjae tugs off his shirt and changes into a different one. You fail miserably, burning the sight of his back muscles flexing and rippling into your brain. He gives you a toothbrush and you get ready quickly before awkwardly perching on the side of his bed, suddenly nervous when he’s dressed down and laying there. 

It’s too domestic, for you to be friends and do this.

“I don’t bite. Come on.” He pats the bed and you quietly crawl in, holding your breath every time his hand or arm brushes against you as he settles the screen where you can both see it.

Light from the window wakes you in the morning. Somehow, you curled into him in your sleep, coming to with a steady heartbeat thrumming under your head and your limbs curling around him.

Fuck, you were screwed, heart skipping a beat from the proximity. You study the gentleness to his features, the fluttering of his eyelashes as the light shifts higher, and you know your time is limited. 

But god, you wanted to stay like this.

Over winter break, you were practically always on a call with Hyunjae or texting. You feared how your phone bill was going to look, but the financial repercussions couldn’t tear you off — it wasn’t even that interesting, mostly silence or small jokes and conversations as you two went about your day, too far apart to spend it together.

You wouldn’t trade it for the world, heart fluttering any time he changed it to a facetime, or when he sent a picture of a snowman he made, saying it was you. (When you asked why it was you, he said it was because it was cute, as if it was obvious as the weather that that was the reason. You might’ve screenshotted it and saved it to a folder, simply titled with the blue heart emoji, which is just dedicated to Hyunjae. It’s filled with texts, facetime photos, and that one photo Sangyeon had sent you so many months back — the live photo of him in the snow, laughing. Who could blame you?)

Back in person, it feels like your dynamic has shifted. It's weird, a good weird, with you more on his side than Sangyeon, Ryujin, or Jimin’s — where the first person you think to tell news to is him, and vice versa, where he shares updates with you before anyone.

Part of you wonders if he likes you back, but you don’t dare press it or test the waters in case you lose his friendship. Selfishly, you liked him too much to picture a life without him in it and would have him any way you could get him.

Halfway through the first week of the next quarter, when everyone is back on campus, you all have a get together at Kevin’s. Initially, it was meant to be you helping him learn how to bake, but with everyone trying to make plans, it just became a drop-in and hangout.

You spend most of it in the kitchen with Kevin.

“Kev, oh my god,” you gasp, a little stunned. “That is so much sugar.”

“They’re meant to be sweet!”

“Yeah, but they’re not meant to use four cups of sugar…” the mountain of plain granulated sugar on top of the butter in the mixer hurts your heart. “Do we have more butter?”

Kevin pouts. “Yeah. Did I fuck up?”

“Not enough that we can’t fix it,”

Haknyeon pipes up from where he sits at the island, spinning on the bar stool. “Do not bring those cookies near me when they’re done.”

“I’ll force feed them to you,” Kevin scoffs grumpily, handing you two more sticks of butter per your request. “Shut up.” Haknyeon raises his hands in surrender but mouths ‘crazy’ to you once Kevin turns his back to him.

You snicker and help Kevin fix the dough, praying it will turn out alright despite his “measuring sucks” approach and the fear it instills in your heart.

Hyunjae shows up at some point — you think it might’ve been when Kevin asked if you had to hit ‘start’ for the oven to start preheating. In his own apartment. He’s quiet for the most part, chatting quietly with Younghoon and Changmin.

The first time he speaks up is when the cookies are finally baking and you have a break. “Hi, Y/N-ie,” you hear him croon and you make your way over, smiling at him. It’s tired but genuine, and he hugs you quickly. “Free?”

“For now,” you sigh, rubbing your temples. “Who knew it was such a chore to bake?”

Hyunjae shrugs, keeping his hand by yours. The brush of his fingers on your wrist startles you slightly, and you look over to Sangyeon on the couch — he must feel your eyes on him, because he turns around and studies you two suspiciously. Your phone buzzes.

‘You two seem close’ is what you manage to read, eyes flicking back up in time to see Sangyeon wiggle his brows. You scowl and turn your attention back to Younghoon and Changmin’s stories until Kevin drags you away when the timer goes off.

They’re surprisingly tasty. A little bit bitter from a heavy-handed pour of vanilla extract, but you drizzle some melted chocolate over top and deem them “good enough!” for Kevin to call everyone who wanted some in.

Hyunjae doesn’t move so you go to him with a cookie, and he studies it carefully, hesitantly. “Are you poisoning me?”

“If anyone is, it’s Kevin,” you laugh. “And no. I tried them first. They’re pretty good.”

He scrunches up his nose. “I don’t believe you.”

“Damn. Got so close to killing you by cookie,” you play up a sigh. “Time for Plan E.”

“What were the other four?” Hyunjae laughs, and he takes a bite of the cookie anyways. 

“Well, the cookie was Plan D but I’m too good at baking,” you giggle, leaning your head on top of his. “The others are secrets.”

“I’ll have to keep my guard up then.”It’s not until later you check your messages, and see one from Hak — Hyunjae hates cookies. What did you threaten to get him to eat one? — that you think he may like you back.

And, of course, you have to test your theory. Haknyeon’s theory. God’s?

It doesn’t matter, not really. Hyunjae has an exam early in the semester, and he’d been stressed about it for days (“It’s going to ruin my GPA! What if I can’t call myself an academic weapon anymore?” and then: “Hyung, you aren’t one anyways.” You never knew Eric was a liar). 

You make a picnic basket that morning, and your face burns with heat when Lily asks you what it’s for. You stumble over a high-pitched “nothing!” and her laughter had been ringing in your head since.

Sandwiches, cookies (of course. This was Plan E — the E stood for ‘eating this means he likes me, because I want to think he does’), his favorite Milkis since you had gotten him hooked on them, and a bunch of cut up fruit. 

He looks exhausted when he walks out of the building, sighing and eyes heavy. He does his best to match your energy when you run up, but he can’t. It’s alright.

“Hyunjae!” you smile, and he smiles back, bemused, looking at the basket. “I made lunch.”

Hyunjae’s smile becomes a genuine grin. “For lil’ ol’ me?”

“Yeah,” you hum, and walk slowly towards the willow tree on the quad, making sure he’s following you. “You had a hard exam. Why not?”

“You’re sweet,” Hyunjae chuckles, and you watch the way he stumbles over his own feet when he speeds up seeing that you set up a blanket too. “Can we watch movies?”

You sigh, knowing exactly what he’ll pick. “Get your laptop out.”

His giddiness is childish and adorable, and your heart races watching how at home he gets in your presence, how quickly he does so, as he pulls up Howl’s Moving Castle for what must be the thirtieth time. 

He enjoys the food, and you quietly observe him — you’re sure it’s creepy, how your eyes dart around his face and watch him, but you will write it off as making sure he’s not too out of it from the all-nighter he did. If he asks.

And you do notice that he avoids the cookies.

“Jae?”

“Yeah?” He asks, after a startled pause. You wonder what caused it.

“Are the cookies any good? I tried a new recipe.”

He takes the bait, eating one. “They’re delicious.” He sounds genuine, but the way he tries to gulp water when you pointedly look away tells you everything you need to know.

Jimin was right. There is something wrong with every hot guy — how on earth could someone hate cookies? 

“Don’t you hate cookies?”

He hums, looking up from where he’s pillowed his head on his sweatshirt. “Just—” he clears his throat. “Just bad ones.” The lie falls flat, and he knows it too.

“So mine are an exception?”

Without missing a beat — “always.”

Nothing really happens after that picnic.

You still think he’s one of the most beautiful people on the planet, so handsome your heart aches when you look at him. But you think you might end up moving on from your crush — not because you don’t want him, you do, but because you think he’ll never make a move. And you know you won’t.

But your resolve is destroyed at a pool party (one he convinced you to go to by begging on call for thirty minutes while you failed to make progress on an essay).

He’s shirtless. That alone is enough for your skin to feel hot when you look at him, but any thoughts of ‘do I actually have a crush or do I just like his attention?’ are dissolved when (and, yes, you do definitely have a crush on him still) you see him laughing and smiling when a girl named Dahyun talks to him.

He’s in the pool, hair curly and dripping water he keeps wiping away, and god, that makes his muscles flex. He looks beautiful in the golden hour light. You know Dahyun notices too, by the way her lashes flutter and she wades a little closer. It makes you feel sick.

Trying to distract yourself from the jealousy that twists and churns in your stomach, you go inside and raid the cooler for a shitty beer. It’s disgusting and cheap, but the alcohol is something else to focus on. You grab a second to hand Sunwoo, who had been setting up at the table next to yours.

“Damn,” he whistles playfully, a small smirk on his lips when you hand him the beer. “A pretty girl getting me a beer? I must be in heaven.”

“Maybe if you saved all your game for the girl you actually liked,” you laugh when he scowls at you. “But thank you, you’re not too bad yourself.”

It’s a silly bit that started a few parties back (you honestly don’t remember when), where you’d hype one another up. Juyeon had asked one time — you think he was concerned — if you actually had a crush on Sunwoo. You didn’t, but apparently it seemed real.

Which is why it was all the weirder when you feel a wet hand grab your shoulder. You glance up and sideways, trying to meet Hyunjae’s gaze. It’s trained on Sunwoo and he squints, frowns, before smiling at you and murmuring a quiet “hi.”

The air feels charged. Sunwoo shifts anxiously and eyes the two of you, and you think you see him sigh in relief when Eric calls him over for something. 

“Hi, Jae,” you whisper softly, turning to fully face him. His expression is unreadable. “You okay? Headed out?”

Hyunjae shakes his head, and you flinch back at the small bit of water landing on you with a playful pout. “We’re gonna play Marco Polo. Wanna join?” It takes one glance at Dahyun, whose attention is still trained on Hyunjae, before you nod in agreement.

You hold onto his arm for balance as you pull off your cover up. “Let’s go,”

Hyunjae slips on the wet tile in his hurry to follow you, and you giggle at the shock on his face as he catches himself. The water is cold, but you dip under and get your hair wet to acclimate and twirl to face him, beaming. 

“C’mon, Jae, we gotta win,”

Sunwoo and Changmin keep bringing you drinks in between rounds, and you definitely have a buzz by the time the sun has finished setting and the game fizzles out as people head home.

You’re shivering while you pack up your things, and your teeth chatter when you try to say something to Hyunjae — your ride this time.

He laughs and wraps your towel around you tightly, using the fabric to tug you towards him. He’s too strong for his own good, and the warmth of his bare chest against you has you speechless. “Want help drying your hair?”

You nod dumbly, and let him spin you to face away. Your back is against his chest, and you shiver again as he tugs the towel away again. You really hope he’ll think it’s from the wind, and not every nerve of yours lighting up as his back presses against you and he carefully towel dries your hair with a touch so gentle it feels practiced.

It’s quiet, with just the buzz of bugs and chatter somewhere inside to fill the air. It feels heavier and more intimate without noise, and you’re hyper aware of every brush of his hand or skin against yours.

“Jae?” you ask, barely above a whisper. 

The toweling pauses. “Yeah?”

You don’t have the courage to ask him what you want, and you don’t want to lose the warmth of him behind you, basking in his attention and the buzz you have going. “Nothing,” you mumble, letting him spin you around to check if your hairline is dry enough. Your eyes flutter open when his hands pull away, and you know your gaze lingers on his lips for several beats too long. 

Hyunjae puts up your towel, hands you your cover up, and smiles. “Homeward?”

“Homeward.” 

‘help with hyunjae sos’ is what Haknyeon’s message reads when you look at it at eight p.m. on a Monday. You reply, simply, with ‘???’

‘he’s forcing me to do math :( make him stop.’ You react with haha, and head over to their apartment after gathering your homework — you figured you could study with Hyunjae and that’s what Haknyeon was getting at.

You don’t find Hyunjae chasing Haknyeon with a packet of his terrible math class homework. When Haknyeon answers the door alone, he says “in his room” before you can even ask the question.

Frowning, you make your way over and knock on his open door. He’s sitting at his desk, head in his hands, and he jumps at the sound. There’s tear stains on his cheeks and you can feel your heart break a little looking at how he’s curled in on himself.

And you feel like a shitty friend. You’ve always thought he had everything together and never really struggled, and you never questioned that perception. “Oh, Jae, sweetheart,” you coo softly, the pet name barely registering before it slips out. He welcomes your hug, melting into your arms with soft, broken sobs and shaky breaths as all he can get out.

You trail your fingers over his back and soothingly rub over the fabric of his t-shirt until his breathing slows and gets more normal. When you try to pull back, his fingers clutch at you and you stop in your tracks. 

“Let’s work on it together, okay?” You offer softly. You know you’re not much help with math, but it’s at least something to offer it. Even if you end up just being a good distraction. 

Hyunjae shakes his head. “‘M done. I… I can’t.”

“Okay,” you soothe, brushing a hand through his hair and tilting his head up so you can meet his eyes, glassy and tired. “Then let’s watch some movies. You get ready for bed, I’ll set it up.”

And he smiles for the first time since you got there.

By the time he feels better, it’s too late for you to get home, and he doesn’t need to say much to convince you to stay over (you like being near him, but this also doubles as making sure he’s truly and genuinely okay).

“Is it okay if I shower and use your shampoo and stuff?” You ask softly.

Hyunjae smiles. “Yeah. Here, you can have some clothes too.” He tosses sweats and a shirt and you pull at the fabric.

“I don’t know if it’ll fit, Jae,”

“It’s big on me. It’ll fit.”

He was right. Honestly, you look ridiculous in it, drowning in fabric. You should’ve expected that, considering how muscular he is. 

When you finally begin drifting off, his arms are wrapped around your waist and his breath tickles the skin of your neck. It’s that way when you wake up, too, and it takes Herculean effort to climb out of his embrace (instead of remaining snuggled into him).

After waking up enough, you decide to start making breakfast for you, him, and Haknyeon — french toast, thank god they had ingredients in their fridge and pantry (Eric’s still haunts you). You make coffee as well, humming songs stuck in your head as you work.

The clink of a mug catches your attention, and then your mouth is dry.

Hyunjae. Shirtless. It takes a few seconds for you to even register that he’s showered, curls having droplets trail down his toned torso. You stare shamelessly at one that rolls down into his sweats, looking at the light that catches on his bare skin. 

“Um,” you clear your throat and take a big sip of coffee, face on fire. “What classes do you have today?” 

Hyunjae sighs softly, happily. “Just a senior seminar. My other one got cancelled.” If he noticed how pitchy and weird you sounded asking the question, he doesn’t say anything.

Haknyeon seems too tired to comment on the way you stare at Hyunjae all morning. Or maybe he’s grateful enough for the food that he chooses to be kind and keep his mouth shut.

It feels like it’s been years since you hung out with just Ryujin and Jimin. And with the somersaults your heart does every time you see Hyunjae, it was also far overdue. It takes well over an hour to explain your crush and every little thing you’ve read into (and hoped meant him liking you too), because you kept getting derailed and telling mini-stories.

Neither of them mind, though Ryujin does comment that she needed popcorn to get into your rant (honestly, you think it would’ve added to the experience if she had it).

“I’m… I don’t know, it just feels like I’m in limbo, you know?” You finally start wrapping it up. “I like him so much. But I’m terrified of ruining what we already have, and I don’t know how to read him. I can’t.”

Jimin nods. “There is something wrong with every hot man.”

“I know!” you whine. “You’ve said. He doesn’t like cookies. Surely he’s not afraid of commitment too.”

Ryujin snorts. “He could so be afraid of commitment.”

“Not helpful,” Jimin chides. Then, to you, “she’s joking.”

After being jabbed in the side, Ryujin sighs and nods. “I mean, it sounds like he likes you, yeah. Why else would he glare at Sunwoo?”

“Because he thought his friend was being weird and hitting on me?”

“And why would a friend care about that?” Jimin asks.

“Because he’s a good person?”

Ryujin groans. “Because he’s jealous. Girl, please open your eyes.”

You blink at her. “They’re open.” You can feel the cussing out she wants to give you bubbling up, so you quickly apologize. “Okay, I’m sorry. I just… do I go for it?”

“Yes.” and, then, “if you feel ready for it.”

Ryujin snatches your phone off the couch and you see her screen light up with a message from you: Y/N shared a contact: jae 💙🪻. “Thank me later,” 

You watch her quickly type a text, and you feel your heart sink. “Ryujin!” 

She grins. “Trust me.”

“What did you say? Seriously, this is so not cool.”

Jimin watches the two of you like a tennis match as you pick up a pillow and whack the other girl, chasing her around and around your living room until the two of you topple over, breathless. And she still refuses to tell you what she said.

But it gets defused and forgotten about by the time you all make Ghirardelli box brownies, eating them with a scoop of vanilla ice cream as you begin gossiping about their crushes and life updates.

By midnight, all the brownies are gone and you’re practically starving. You hadn’t refilled your pantry since Eric’s latest raid, so with several reassurances that “yes, I’ll be safe” and a resharing of your location with Ryujin and Jimin, you go to the nearby convenience store.

The one owned by the woman who loved you (and you, her).

You’re pondering what Selection ice cream to get for you and Lily to have in the freezer when you hear the door chime and running footsteps.

“Is it true?” Hyunjae asks, forgoing even a ‘hi.’ He’s breathless, sounding and looking almost frantic. His bag is half unzipped, clutched in his right hand. “Is it true?” He asks again, softly, hand grabbing your wrist.

“Is what true? Elaborate, Jae.” You zip up his bag and look at him curiously, watch his heaving chest as he catches his breath. “I thought you were studying in the library for another hour.”

“I was. I…” Hyunjae takes a moment. “Do you not know what Ryujin sent?”

Your heart skips a beat. “No, just that she texted you. She refused to let me see it.”

Hyunjae takes a deep breath and — his hands are shaking as he draws his phone out of his pocket. Your frown deepens, and you watch him unlock it and navigate to the two messages in the conversation.

‘Y/N has a crush on you, do something about it’ and ‘she’s at the convenience store a block away now, you can catch her if you hurry’.

You swallow, suddenly wanting to look anywhere but at him. But you can’t help it, can’t help yourself as you look at him and the softness to his lips and eyes, the sharpness of his bone structure, the delicacy of his features. Even the mole on his nose catches and hooks your attention. 

You couldn’t say you didn’t have a crush on him. You did. God, you did. But it’s so hard to just say it. “Depends,” you chuckle, forcing bravado and a confident front. “What are you gonna do about it, if it is?” 

Don’t reject me runs through your head like a prayer.

“Y/N,” Hyunjae says, eyes softening. His voice is equally soft, warm and gentle. There’s a desperation and rawness to it too, and your heart speeds up in anticipation despite your fears. “Is it true?”

You swallow. No turning back. A soft nod.

Hyunjae’s entire body relaxes. “Say it.”

“It’s true,” you whisper.

“Good,” he steps closer, and your pulse thrums with excitement as his hand slides up the back of your neck and his thumb rubs over your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

His bag falls — and then his mouth is on yours, and his other hand holds your hip as he tugs you into him. His head tilts and matches your rhythm as if it was his own, as natural as breathing. The world spins as you lean into him, gently curling your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

He smells good, and he’s warm, and he’s soft, and he’s kind, and he’s kissing you until you have to pull back slightly, breathless. You leave your forehead against his, and you swear you could count stars in his eyes as he drinks in the sight of you.

“Y/N,” he whispers softly and you nod, “I like you too. So much.”

You initiate this time, softer and slower. He melts into you, weakens against you — sighing when you pull away as he quietly chases your lips for a beat longer before his eyes flutter open again.

His hand laces with yours, wordless. It’s like he can’t find them, mouth still slightly parted as he studies you — and you, him, admiring the red flush high on his cheekbones and the slight sheen on your lipgloss on his mouth.

“I think I’m done studying for the night,” is what he manages after a few minutes.

“Yeah?” It comes out as a small, amused huff. 

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I have something much more important to do.”

“Care to share?”

Hyunjae blushes. “I have to ask the girl I like to be mine.”

— thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, consider replying, reblogging, sending an ask, or in some way telling me your fav parts!

[jwiloves]

I love the way my tears formed while reading this.

Heart And All

pairing : a relationship that has never been defined! liu yangyang x gender-neutral!reader

genre : sick fic. angst.

warnings : sick fic! mentions of hospital and the typical hospital related warnings (sickness/dying/medications etc)

summary : you visit yangyang in the hospital.

You're a little nervous, unsure about whether or not you should be there or if you even deserve to be there. His friends know you as a rendezvous that they're used to on a Friday night. His family know you as a regular face during some early morning breakfast with easy conversations.

It was a casual situationship that bordered on relationship and friendship, crossing the barriers more often than not. But it was fine. Labels weren't necessary neither were they scary.

Until now

The smell of antiseptic was once a comfort to you. You ceased to understand why people would find it traumatic, you found it soothing, healing.

Now, you understood.

A little.

You find Liu Yangyang, jokester. Pain in your ass. The only person who seems to understand you body and soul. Heart and all. Looking too frail and weak on the hospital bed.

His soft eyes, and soft conversation with his mother halts at the sight of you by the entrance.

"Hi darling," Yangyang's mother sweetly smiles at you, "Come in."

"You came?" Yangyang questioned, a little touched. You look pretty as per usual. But hes super excited by the sight of you. Finally someone that isn’t his family that hover over him, nor his friends that sneak him shots of alcohol only to drink them themselves seeing his state.

You nod, a basket of fruit sitting awkwardly in your hands.

"That doesn't suit you," He comments and he's quickly chastised by his mother swiping him across the chest. You see the way he smiles, almost as if he's chasing the normalcy of being told off by his mother for his cheeky retorts.

Yangyang's mother excuses herself, rubbing your shoulder before exiting.

"Thanks, dickhead," You huff, and Yangyang's mother loves the laugh that escapes her son's mouth as she wanders down the hallway to give the two of you space. Her arm quickly wrapping around her husband's in a tight grip and an emotional sniff of breath.

You kneel beside him on the bed, eyes trailing across his body with wide eyes.

"Do I look that terrible?" He snorts and he expects you to laugh. To smile. Be the normal he craves. You know he does.

But,

Your expression crumbles instead, and he's alarmed by the pure emotion that glazes your eyes over, "I'm sorry."

He frowns, leaning over to wrap you in an awkward embrace, courtesy of the wires he's plugged into and the IV drip, "Why are you sorry?"

"I wasted too much time," You confess, gluggy in the throat and stuffy in the nose, "All this time."

"It's not too late at all," Yangyang chuckles, "Tell me what you want to."

"I like you," You vent, "Have for ages. So much so that I think I love you now..Surprise!"

His body shakes with laughter, but even he can feel his eyes welling with unshed tears, holding you, "I love you too."

He listens to the slow rise and fall of your chest. And you feel the warmth of his body soothing you. You've got your chin hooked over his shoulder as if you're the sick one.

His arms are like pillars, strong and inviting. And you feel the butterflies as his soft hair brushes against the skin of your shoulders and lightly touches the skin of your neck.

It's quiet.

But you enjoy it.

Basking in the hold a little longer before visiting hours end. You don’t talk and neither does he.

It’s serenity.

He smells like baby soap and bandages but you can’t help but settle into it. Committing it to memory.

Warmth like you’ve never felt before.

"This is comfy," You whisper, pulling away. Laughing softly as his head follows your body, "Are you sleeping, love?"

‘Love’ is a first, but you hope to use it more often starting right now.

You laugh because you don't know.

And you only stop laughing when you see.

Your body moves on auto pilot. Feeling the rush of movement around you. He sleeps and sleeps. Even when his friends and family plead with him. Bargain with him and with people they can't see.

Even when they push on his chest.

Even when they record the time.

He sleeps and doesn't wake up.

author's note : ❤️

[jwiloves]

I love it so much❤️

girl code ⋆ na jaemin

pov: your best friend's former situationship started hitting you up. what could go wrong?

pairing: college student!jaemin x college student! yn

featuring! winter of aespa, nct members

note: this is my first work here. there will be three parts; this is part one. i hope you like it; your comments will be highly appreciated. ♡

check part two here: part 2 | part 3 (final)

── .✦

You and Winter have been best friends for as long as you can remember, inseparable since high school. Back then, you were the duo everyone recognized, always having each other’s backs. But now, in college, life has taken you to separate universities.

You’ve remained a consistent dean's lister and an active member of the campus newspaper, carrying the title of "no boyfriend since birth." Your focus has always been on academics, firmly believing that boys would only be a distraction.

Winter, on the other hand, has been part of her university’s cheer team since her freshman year. For her, cheer takes precedence over academics, and she’s had more talking stages than actual relationships. She’s the embodiment of "pretty privilege."

A classic pair of opposites, perhaps a little cliché. Despite your differences, your bond has always been unbreakable—until a boy enters the picture.

Speaking of the boy, there’s Jaemin, Na Jaemin.

“Na Jaemin!” Jeno, Jaemin’s best friend, yells from outside his apartment, accompanied by the relentless blaring of his car horn.

“I’m not leaving until you open the damn door, Jaemin!” Jeno laughs, still pressing the horn.

“Are you insane? It’s almost midnight. Stop honking the car,” Jaemin grumbles over the phone, peering out his window to spot Jeno grinning, clearly amused. Jaemin shakes his head, slipping on his jacket and grabbing his keys before heading out.

“What took you so long? I told you we’re going to Johnny’s party. You don’t have a say in this,” Jeno remarks as Jaemin climbs into the car. “What were you doing anyway?” he adds.

Jaemin takes a moment, lighting a cigarette before replying, “Homework.”

── .✦

“He looks good—flawless. God’s favorite child,” Winter remarks, scrolling through Instagram as she admires a boy on her screen.

“Who?” you ask, leaning in curiously.

“Oh, just my failed talking stage,” Winter replies casually.

“It’s a failed talking stage for a reason, yet you’re still simping over him,” you tease with a smirk.

“You should get a boyfriend,” you suggest for the thousandth time, genuinely concerned by the growing list of Winter’s failed talking stages and situationships.

“No, you’re the one who needs a boyfriend,” Winter fires back.

“No boyfriend in high school, and now we’re in college, still no boyfriend!” she complains dramatically. You roll your eyes, amused by her antics.

“Boys would do me no good,” you counter.

“Yeah? What about Mark and Haechan?” Winter quips, referencing the two boys you’ve been close to since the start of college.

“They’re different—exceptions,” you retort firmly.

“Whatever,” Winter mutters, waving you off.

── .✦

As the typical college student you are, you decided to pull an all-nighter. Currently on a Discord call with your college friends, Mark and Haechan, what was meant to be a study session had derailed—Mark was already fast asleep, lost in his dreams.

While typing up a draft for an article for your campus newspaper and listening to Haechan’s playlist, your phone buzzed with a text from Winter.

Winter: “Please pick me up. I’m at the local club near your university.”

You frowned, puzzled as to why Winter was partying near your campus and not somewhere closer to her own. A quick glance at the clock showed it was already 2:00 a.m.

“I stayed up all night to be productive, not to fetch an alcoholic from a club,” you muttered under your breath. Still, you knew you couldn’t leave Winter stranded, so you began saying goodbye to Haechan. Winter could be a handful, but you weren’t about to let her fend for herself.

“Want me to come with you?” Haechan offered as you started to log off. “It’s late, and I don’t mind. We can just leave Mark here,” he added, the two of you laughing at Mark’s sleeping figure still visible on the screen.

“Sure, so are you driving?” you teased.

Haechan rolled his eyes playfully. “Yeah, yeah, like I have a choice,” he quipped, grabbing his keys.

── .✦

You felt the strange stares as you walked into the club, clad in a hoodie and sweats, phone pressed to your ear as you called your best friend. The line was picked up almost instantly.

"Winter, where are you?" you asked, only to hear a man’s voice reply.

"This isn’t Winter," he said.

"Who are you? Where’s Winter?"

"Smoking area. Come quick," he answered before hanging up, leaving you no time to respond.

When you reached the smoking area, you were greeted by the sight of Winter hunched over, puking. Beside her stood a boy casually scrolling through his phone, holding her bag like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Winter!" you called, drawing the boy’s attention.

"It’s a school night," you muttered in frustration, moving to help your best friend.

"Right," the boy murmured, barely audible but clear enough for you to hear.

"I ran into her inside," he explained, finally looking up from his phone. "She said she felt like she was going to throw up."

You froze momentarily, caught off guard by his appearance. He looked good—like God’s favorite child, visuals with no imperfection in sight.

"Do you two know each other?" you asked, not directing the question at anyone in particular.

"Yes!" Winter chimed in, her voice still tipsy.

The two of you exchanged a glance as Winter wiped her mouth, straightened up, and grinned as if she hadn’t just been throwing up moments ago—far from her usual composed self.

"Please take me home," Winter slurred, swaying slightly.

── .✦

“Who’s that?” Haechan asked, leaning casually against his car as he spotted you and Winter, who was currently being carried by an unfamiliar boy.

You shrugged. “No idea, but apparently, they know each other.”

“He looks fine,” Haechan remarked, his eyes trailing over the boy. You couldn’t argue with that, but you stayed quiet.

The boy gently helped Winter into Haechan’s car, her giggles filling the air as she pinched his cheek. Haechan grimaced at the interaction.

“Stop being a hater,” you said, nudging Haechan lightly.

Turning your attention to Winter, you asked, “Are you okay? Do you need water?”

Winter cooed dramatically, “You’re such a sweetheart!” Her voice was loud enough to make you, Haechan, and the boy flinch simultaneously.

Winter’s attention shifted back to the boy as she poked his cheek. “You’re a sweetheart too. You should date my best friend,” she said, her words slurring slightly.

Haechan snorted at the comment. “She’s been single since forever,” Winter added with no filter, causing Haechan to burst out laughing.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Shut up,” you muttered, placing Winter’s bag beside her in the car.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, which didn’t escape the boy’s notice as he smiled at the scene. His smile didn’t go unnoticed by you either.

── .✦

“Where were you?” Jeno exclaimed as he approached Jaemin outside the local club. Jaemin flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the trash as Jeno arrived.

“I ran into Winter,” Jaemin replied casually, prompting a frown from Jeno.

“Winter? As in Winter, your former... situationship?” Jeno asked, his tone laced with curiosity. Jaemin nodded in confirmation.

“Good thing her friend showed up to pick her up,” Jaemin added, earning an understanding nod from Jeno.

“You're lucky because if her friend hadn't shown up, you’d probably have been the one stuck taking her home,” Jeno teased with a chuckle.

Jaemin nodded. “Exactly what I was trying to avoid. You know I don’t want to have anything to do with Winter anymore.”

── .✦

It was just another day on campus when you entered the lab room, which was unusually crowded as your professor had combined your class with another.

“I wonder who my lab partner will be. Will I be paired with someone from the other class?” you mutter as you sat down and got comfortable, but almost immediately, a voice from beside you interrupted.

“Is this seat taken?” a deep voice asked.

Looking up, you were met with a familiar face—the same guy from last night, the one you suspected knew Winter. Once again, you were struck by his looks. He seemed even more handsome now, his features more defined under the bright lighting.

“Oh, it’s you,” the guy said, sitting down next to you without waiting for you response, his neutral expression replaced by a playful smile.

“I didn’t say the seat was free,” you remarked, watching as he settled into the chair.

He ignored your comment, instead glancing at your university ID. After reading your name, he wrote your name and his on a piece of paper.

“What are you doing?” You asked, watching him scribble.

The boy gestured toward the whiteboard at the front of the room, where it read:

"Look for a lab partner—by pair only! Write your and your partner's name on a sheet of paper. " You were momentarily taken aback as he casually wrote your name next to his on the paper, "Na Jaemin," it read, before standing up from his seat and walking to the front of the class to submit it.

As Jaemin walked back to his seat, you felt your cheeks flush for no apparent reason. Clearing your throat, you muttered softly, "I guess we're lab partners now."

Jaemin sat down and glanced at you, his head tilting slightly as a charming smirk appeared on his face. He thought your sudden shyness, which wasn’t there when you were picking up Winter, was quite adorable.

"I guess we are," he says, his smile widening slightly as he looks at you.

This was definitely going to be an interesting lab class for Na Jaemin.

[jwiloves]

This is the best Joshua Hong fic, I've ever read❤️

title: royally screwed [m]

pairing: joshua x f!reader

wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible.   notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings. very special thanks to @meiozis for all their help with worldbuilding and @wuahae for bearing with me through the endless drafts, scene changes, second guessing, horrible word choices, etc. you are the only reason this got done, and i love you to the moon and back <3 [read part 2 here!]

Here, in the dark, there is just you. 

The strobe lights press into your skin with all the brilliance of the sun, there's half a Modelo running down your leg, and you think you kissed the stranger behind you last week, but if you close your eyes, it's just you. No rules, no five second curtseys, no talk about the throne or whoever's ass happens to be keeping it warm at the moment. 

Here, you're nobody, and it's perfect. 

"I'm getting more champagne," Somi says, her voice careening over the music. "You sure Jihoon doesn't want any?" 

You glance back at him. He's flattened up against the back wall, holding your purse, like a raccoon caught going through the trash. This is one of the many trials he's forced to endure for your entertainment, but it's his job–not as your closest friend, but as your legally employed bodyguard. 

"No, he's on duty." 

"Right," she slurs. "Sometimes I forget you're a literal princess." 

If only it were that easy. Five drinks in and you think you can still feel your mother's vice grip on your arm and all the little white crescents of her french manicure. 

You love this song–at least, you think you do. You're too drunk to tell, but it doesn't matter. The dance floor is muggy, sardine-packed with one warm body after another, and it's heaven. The crowd moves, and you move with them. Shakira waits for no one. 

Somi must have secured another bottle of Cristal already. Soonyoung, your other partner-in-crime, hands you a flute and you take it, the glittery foam already bubbling over the lip. 

"Cheers." Out of his too-drunk mouth, it sounds like a new word altogether, but you bring your glass to his anyway. 

Tomorrow, you have a meeting with your parents. This, unlike all of your other involvements, is actually important, they said, and their voices had wound around you like a snare. 

When it gets late, Jihoon will sling your arm over his shoulders and haul you back to the palace, still tipsy and holding your stilettos to your chest like a shield. Tomorrow will come, and it's then when you'll have to try to be good. It's a useless, stupid affair, but you'll go through the motions anyway. 

But tonight, there is you and the music and the wonderful laughter of your friends, and you don't have to be anything at all. 

"Cheers," you tell Soonyoung, and you drink. 

--

There are four large topiaries in the palace garden: all lions. They stand tall in their planters, majestic and hairy with French lavender. Today you notice that the rightmost one's nose has been pruned off by accident, and he stands, snoutless, staring at his green brothers and sisters. 

You know this because this is the view from the study, and it has never changed. There is only one study in the east wing, and it is small and useless and the perfect room for your parents to sit you down and remind you that you do not, in fact, own a single thing about your own life. 

There is nothing new about this ritual. Even as a child, when you were more desperate to please, you could never be the right kind of daughter to your parents or princess to your country. Again and again, you landed yourself here, in trouble once more. 

So you stopped trying–you would find these four walls anyway, no matter what you did. Why not enjoy your Fridays instead?

By now, you’ve memorized the carvings on the armrest of the chair you’re in (a knobby column, then underneath, the whorl of a seashell). There are thirty-four terracotta stones on the way to the fountain, all spaced perfectly apart, sanded down to the millimeter. 

The scene remains unchanged. Your mother now stares down at you over the bridge of her nose, with that tight-lipped frown you've gotten so used to. Your father paces near the window, either wondering why you can't be softer, more pliable, like your older brother Jeonghan, or, alternatively, why one of the lions is missing a nose. Maybe both.

"Enjoy yourself yesterday?" your mother asks. 

"Yes," you reply, out of other answers.

"Wonderful. Then our early morning briefing with PR was good for something. You should be grateful last night's pictures won't make it out of the darkroom." 

Her voice, bitter and incisive, makes the hangover bubble up in your stomach. You and the tabloids weren't exactly on good terms, but it wasn't your fault so many people seemed to care about what you were wearing or who you were out with. 

"What did you want to meet about?" you ask, hoping to change the subject. 

You can't put your finger on it, but there's a cloying, heavy energy hanging on you. You feel as though you're on the precipice of something, although that could just be the consequences of all that Cristal ready to reintroduce themselves to your digestive system. 

Your mother clears her throat. 

"We have arranged for you to marry someone." 

And all at once, it seems as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. There's a sharp pain lodged somewhere between your chest, your stomach, and your unhappy liver. The larks sing emptily in the garden. 

"What?" Your voice sounds like it's unraveling somewhere in your throat. Quickly, frantically, you grasp at the faraway possibility that it can't possibly mean what you think it does. Marry? You can’t even remember the last time you thought of going on a second date with someone. Now you might actually throw up. 

"Prince Joshua, of the Hong family. The crown prince of–" 

"Acros. I know," you interrupt, the words jumping out of you in shock and anger. 

Of course you know who Joshua Hong is–Acros is a tiny, unremarkable country nestled into the border of your much bigger one, and Joshua their crown jewel. If you were the nation's problem, he was their darling. A bland thing to coo at when life got boring, the walking embodiment of a media training session. Smile and nod, smile and nod. He might as well be AI generated.

You wouldn't last a day with him. Not with your impatience, your opinions, or that loud mouth your parents always scold you for. Your mind swims with the mental image of the two of you on a gaudy parade float, doing that stupidly slow wave everyone seemed to insist on.

"Wonderful. So you'll pack a bag? The Hong family will be thrilled to meet you tomorrow," says your father.

"Why?" you ask. Your voice wobbles, treading over that childlike waver you never learned to control. "Is this to punish me?" 

"My dear, your brother will be ascending to the throne soon," your mother answers, looking you dead in the eyes. "It’s his face that needs to be on the front page, not you in another abomination of a swimsuit. The Hongs will keep enough of an eye on you.” 

She's right. She's always been right. Maybe not about the swimsuit, but you haven’t exactly been the PR princess your family needed you to be. If anything, you would think it made Jeonghan look better by comparison, but you know that your parents would prefer you to make appearances in something other than Deuxmoi’s Sunday Spotted. But the royal charade never fit you well either; it clings and sticks and bunches up at the seams like a cheap Halloween costume. 

"The Hongs thought their country would benefit from our money. It was an easy decision, really," your mother finishes, as if that makes you feel any less like a silly, bikini-clad pawn in a game of chess you never asked to play. 

"Does Jeonghan know?" 

"He sees its purpose,” your father says simply, like that was all that mattered. “You will too, in due time.”

He nods solemnly, which is how he closes every conversation–just another turn of the silent knife. As your parents turn to leave, their silken garbs trail behind them like ink in still water. Business as always, especially with you. 

"Your brother will be coming home from his press tour this week," your mother says on her way out. "You mustn't ruin this for him. The car leaves for Acros in the morning." 

There's a mean, barbed feeling in your heart. You don't know whether to scream or to cry, so you do what your mother taught you to do. You sit, stilled by a feeling of hopelessness, and let yourself be emptied. 

--

When you were thirteen, you learned how to ride a horse. 

Not the impractical, side-saddle way drilled into you when you were a little girl, with your skirt billowing over the fender and catching in the stirrups, but how to really ride a horse. 

It was on a night much like tonight–indigo and starless. Your brother had climbed up the marble trellis, his teenage, noodle body a perfect fit for scaling the lattice, and threw a stone at your window, just like you had seen in the movies. Jeonghan was still young, then, rebellious and unchanged by the throne. 

It was him who laced up your riding boots, hoisted you on your first horse, and pressed the reins into your palms. You remember the unforgiving hold of the leather saddle, not yet broken in. You were so sore the next day, you were bed-bound–truly a punishment worse than death, if not for another reminder that everything you do ends up hurting you a little. 

"It's great," Jeonghan had told you, breathless and haloed by the moonlight. "You can just ride. nowhere to go and no one to answer to." 

You had spent the summer this way. Every night, you learned the sound of the forest at twilight, chasing Jeonghan's mud-splattered palomino. In the mornings, breakfast consisted of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and whispering about whatever misadventure you had found yourselves tangled in the night before. 

That was before he had come of age. Before your father gave him the Throne Talk, and before he was whisked away into endless meetings and etiquette lessons and parliaments. Your inside jokes became foul, overripe in his newly coached mouth. He even learned to play golf, and he hated golf. 

Past August, you don't think you ever got your brother back.

You slide the oaken doors of the stables open, feeling your arms squeeze underneath your riding shirt. Here, it’s always quiet after sundown.

It hasn't changed since the day you first snuck in with Jeonghan. You let the green scent of the hay fill your lungs, the sleep-stir of the horses like music to your ears. Dokyeom has left the tack room open by "accident" once more, likely to avoid catching you picking the lock with a bobby pin like he had a few months ago. 

"Hey, you," you whisper, coming to the stall of your own horse. Astrid, a bay thoroughbred, was Jeonghan's gift to you on your 18th birthday, a wistful reminder of a summer now past its prime. "No surprise here, but I had a really, really bad day." 

Astrid, oblivious, noses at your palm in search of a nonexistent sugar cube. Somehow, this brings the anxious chatter of your mind to a crescendo—would Astrid come with you to Acros? When would that happen? More importantly, when were you moving? You think of a too-warm summer morning, the ridiculous, oversized brim of one of your mother's sunhats, and a moving truck. That, and a country ready to delete you from its ranks. 

It's now, with the bridle in your fists, that you hear the wheedling groan of the stable door as it slides open. Without thinking, you quickly push out the first excuse you have. "I apologize, I was—" 

"It's me." 

Jihoon. 

You would tease him about his fear of ponies—perhaps it's because he is quite literally the same size as them—but you think hearing another person tell you off would officially push you over the edge. You don't want to be dramatic, but you don't even know if Acros even had horses. 

That, and somehow he's both the first and the last person you want to see. The guilt feels a bit heavier when you know his life is about to change too, in no small part due to your own failings.

"Jihoon, I…" you start. There’s an apology that’s been sitting on your tongue, one you haven’t quite learned to spit up yet. You don’t know who it’s for—yourself, or everyone else—but Jihoon interrupts you before you can finish your thought. 

"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies. 

For once, you can't read him. You wonder if he's thinking about if he'd get along with the other bodyguards, but, more likely, he's probably pitying you. You're the last person in the world that should be in an arranged marriage, and even someone who kills people for a living could tell. 

"I'll be in the foyer." 

You don't exchange any more words. Jihoon knows that there is nothing he can say that will erase what's about to happen, and like always, he is right.

After you saddle up, Astrid takes you to the forest like usual. Honestly, you've lost count of the times you've come out here to cry, usually about a boy you don’t even like, or, worse, Jeonghan declining your weekly Facetime session again. But now, you think you both know this time is very different. 

"Astrid," you groan. "Joshua looks like a Ken doll from hell. He probably pronounces tomato like tomahto and has a closet dedicated to his tweed collection. I can't marry him." 

Astrid is none the wiser. You wish she was human for a moment so you could show her the crater-sized hole that "prince joshua google images" left in your browser history. 

"Do you think he only listens to classical music? I think a Kim Petras song would kill him instantaneously." 

The mental image of Joshua Hong being struck down by the first ten seconds of Throat Goat makes you laugh, but you still don't feel far away enough from the truth.

You remember your 21st birthday, a balmy spring Friday. Jeonghan had been helping out at the local youth theater, and the opening night of their production was coincidentally the same day. Jeonghan had never been one for theater (last time, he had fallen asleep during Mamma Mia, of all musicals). You knew the press turnout was expected to be huge, but the whole thing felt like one big charade to you. 

So you had planned your big birthday bash—you only get one 21st, after all—that day. The paparazzi fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Unsurprisingly, drunk, hot girls made for a better story than Greek theater. 

You remember the raw, stinging look Jeonghan had in his eyes the next morning. He didn't even have to say anything, but you knew. The memory carves out an abyss in your chest. You knew you should have done better for your brother, but he didn’t even feel like your brother anymore. 

Still, actions have consequences, and this was a hell of a consequence. Even out here, the inconvenient reality of it seems closer than ever. but you're out of time. The night fades fast, especially ones like these. 

So you press your heart to Astrid's mane, the pale moon high over the both of you, and you ride. 

--

Late spring is kind to Acros. 

The tulips push their bright heads out of the dirt, winking and blazing in the daylight, and the green fields stretch so far they look like water. 

You had spent the car ride with your nose pressed to the window, watching all the sun-bleached buildings zip by. You mustn't ruin this for Jeonghan. It spins around in your head like an old pair of shoes in a washing machine. 

Now you stand in the grand foyer, your parents on either side of you. Jihoon hovers behind, holding the overstuffed duffel bag you had rushed to pack this morning. 

A hushed arrival such as this was unbecoming of your family, but it was necessary. your parents had stressed that the arranged part of the deal was not meant to be public knowledge because it was bad for optics. To you, the arrangement was actually the entire deal. That, and you and optics never exactly got along. 

Waiting for Joshua and his parents gives you a moment to observe what could be your new home, although you’re still waiting for the miraculous plot twist that will save you from your fate. 

That being said: you’ve set foot in plenty of nice places, but if HGTV ran segments for castles, this would certainly be the blueprint. It’s smaller than the palace in Cotria, but you like that—it’s cozier, less cold-seeming. 

The filigreed ceilings vault dizzyingly high, and the chandelier above the muraled walls is set afire with the noontime sun. the blushing azaleas cascade from their pots, and they line the hallways with joyous pops of white and pink. breaking the spell is the distant staccato of several sets of footsteps on marble, and you straighten your back, as if by divine command. 

Three figures approach you: Joshua and his parents. Even from a distance, you can see the trained walk of royalty, their shoulders straight enough to hold water. You’ll give credit where credit is due—they look even less thrilled to meet you than you are to meet them.

Unfortunately, up close, Joshua is more handsome than the cameras would betray. He's taller than you had imagined, too. without trying, it looks like he jumped out of a shitty Disney movie, one where the prince says two words and still gets the girl. More than that, you notice how his face is like glass—unwavering, cruelly still. One wrong move, and you'd break him. 

"Your highnesses," you say, lowering your head in a pronounced curtesy. 

Joshua bows in response, like clockwork. He reaches for your hand, then brings it to his lips to kiss the back of it. 

At once, you feel your hackles jump up, even though many a man has done far nastier to you. You can’t tell what pisses you off more: a, the fact that he smells like a hotel lobby, or b, that he managed to get his mouth on you in less than five seconds. 

"I'm elated we have the privilege of welcoming your daughter into our home," Joshua's mother says. Like him, she is staggeringly elegant and even harder to read. "She's beautiful." 

Fortunately, she has picked the one compliment that your parents can agree on without lying through their teeth. You watch them laugh and titter amongst themselves, and it's now that you notice Joshua has been looking at you this whole time.

You think look is too kind of a word, though. It's something colder than that, more clinical, and you really don't like it. Your stylist had spent upwards of two hours today in front of your vanity this morning, mostly in a losing battle with a pair of fake lashes, and you wonder if one of them is crooked. That, or Joshua is similarly wondering just how he will endure a life wedded to you. 

"Joshua, please," his mother chides, and you watch him almost immediately pivot towards her, like he’s on wheels. "Where are your manners? You should show the princess around. Get to know each other a bit before press tomorrow." 

Press. Of course. Your least favorite word. You vaguely remember your parents mentioning it in the car this morning, but it must have gotten lost among all the other terrible things they'd told you. 

Your head starts to hurt. Joshua keeps smiling at you, empty, doll-like.

"Yes, I'd love that," you say, feeling like a deflating balloon. You were hoping his company will be better than watching four grown adults fall all over each other, but you're starting to doubt that. 

Joshua offers you his arm, and you take it anyway. 

"We'll be off then," he chirps before bowing once more. His freakishly shiny shoe nudges yours to remind you to do the same. Begrudgingly, you listen, watching your shellacked, angry expression in the patina of his loafers. 

Not a good start, but what did you expect?

You tamp down your irritation and let him lead you into the Great Hall. It's a shiny, golden tunnel, studded with glossy oil paintings of his parents, his grandparents, then the next set of old people before them. Their eyes stare at you, pools of hazy paint in their moon faces. You briefly imagine your painting up there, with Joshua's hand hovering meekly over your waist, unused to being more than two feet away from a woman his age.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Joshua says. "I think I've only seen you in pictures." 

He's referencing the one of many “encounters” you've had with the paparazzi, a la yesterday night. They take trashy photos, overexposed and grainy from the camera flash, with your ass most likely in the frame. 

You choose to let it slide—you have no choice, really. At least you have an ass. 

"The pleasure is mine," you reply. "I believe you were at the cricket championships a few months ago, right?" 

"Correct. Do you watch? I don't believe I saw you." 

"No, but my brother was there." Your footsteps echo against the marbled walls. "Just trying to think of your last public appearance," you offer unhelpfully, since you and he both know those are few and far between. 

"That's right. He mentioned you were busy," Joshua replies. "Glastonbury was that weekend, was it not?" 

He's right. It was, but you don't like the insinuation he's making. You weren't at Glastonbury anyway—your parents wouldn't let you attend, and Jihoon was unwilling to come up with a cover story for you. Because you would rather watch paint dry than attend another cricket game, you instead spent it with takeout and reruns of Rupaul's Drag Race. 

"Can't recall," you answer. "Doesn't matter. I'm not one for cricket, anyway."

"Didn't know you had a choice."

You watch Joshua halfheartedly gesture to the Great Hall. The seemingly mile-long dinner table is empty now, save for a gratuitously piled fruit bowl. 

Your country frequently hosts guests, but the Hongs are notoriously insular. You imagine the four of you, crammed together at one end of the table, making horrendous small talk every morning over wilted danishes and raspberry preserves. Somehow, your mood worsens even more than you thought possible.

"Can I see the library?" you ask in an attempt to pivot. 

"Of course. Do you enjoy reading?" 

"A normal amount." You pass by another set of windows and take note of the rose garden outside, verdant with the May sunshine. Astrid has a bit of a penchant for eating roses, which would definitely complicate your plan to smuggle her in. No matter—you’ve done worse. "I studied political science at university, so I got a healthy dose of it." 

"Didn't we all?" Joshua chuckles.

He pushes the door open to the library, which is just as lavish as the rest of the palace. You wonder how well-worn it is, how many spines have creases in them, how many dedications were speckled with a funny annotation or two. But judging by first impressions, you wouldn't be surprised if all the books still had their dust jacket on. 

"I mean, I read an insane amount of Dan Brown," you reply. "Not many of us can say we've solved the Davinci code, you know." 

You hoped this would crack a laugh out of him, but his grin is thinner than an eyebrow from the 2000s. Truthfully, you would compare this conversation to a death by a thousand papercuts, but somehow that feels preferable to the guillotine of discussing the terms and conditions of your rapidly impending marriage. You feel as though that would be violating some rule you aren't yet aware of, and you're unwilling to endure the patent leather consequences of another faux pas. 

"I've heard of it," says Joshua after much thought. "My parents were shuttling me between meetings and private lessons, so, unlike some, I was quite busy during university." 

You're not about to explain that you were equally as busy as him. Something tells you that he'd be too prideful to believe you anyway. 

"How difficult. Surely you were able to have some fun," you say, your voice betraying your distaste. "Or were you too good for that?" 

Too far. 

"I did what my position allowed," is Joshua's terse reply, and you know you've crossed a line. Still, it dazes you that the man standing next to you may have never done anything for himself in his life. Even Jeonghan did, before your parents really tightened the reins. 

The air buzzes with a silence sharp enough to make you bleed. You wish literally anyone else was standing next to you, but you realize there are no more horses or emergency cabs or Jihoons to rescue you from this one. 

"How about I take you to our room? I hope you'll find it comfortable." 

You glance to your right to catch a glimpse of Joshua. He smiles, a dutiful press of the lips, and you watch it ripple.

--

"Jihoon, it is so much worse than I thought." 

You sit on the plush carpeting of your bedroom floor, amongst your small disaster of things. Jihoon examines you, one eyebrow raised, as he leans against the bedroom door. 

"He's not around, right?" 

Jihoon shakes his head.

"I don't get it," you sigh. "I go out. I get drunk. I have a little fun on the weekends. I don't see how any of this makes me a bad person." 

"You know how traditional your families are." Jihoon bends down to pick up a hair bow that jumped ship from the vanity. "It's just how it is." 

"He treats me like some high school delinquent. I tried, but he has no sense of humor. No joi de vivre. I think he would actually explode if he knew I went out two days ago." 

"Give it time," Jihoon supplies unhelpfully. "I don't know French, but he can't be that bad. You just met him." 

“Yeah. Usually that’s a good thing. I’ve fucked people i know less about.” 

Jihoon shakes his head and laughs, one of those little cackly ones he reserves for your company. 

"Well, you have been with worse," he tuts. "Definitely worse." 

"Jihoon, be serious. This is the rest of my life we're talking about." 

“I know." He draws his lips into a line, likely searching for the right thing to say. "This sucks. I wouldn't be good at this either." 

"You're talking to me. I don't think there's a single royal thing I can do right."

He's out of words, so he bends down to awkwardly pat you on the head, which, in all your years of knowing him, is the most affection he can muster. This is why you prefer horses to Jihoon for therapy, although you appreciate the effort. 

"I'd stay, but they want me to go to some meeting," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow." 

So he leaves you, desolate and linen-covered. Back to square one. 

The room seems to echo with how empty it feels. The bare walls are painted champagne, a rich, indifferent color. They soar to an arched ceiling lined with baroque crown moulding. There's a large window facing the garden, framed by deep green velvet. Atop the vanity cradled to the wall, the ivy of the wrought mirror curls at the edges, as if escaping. The chandelier hangs low, fat and pear-shaped, and its crystals douse the room in gauzy lamplight.

At least the canopy bed looks comfortable. It's the one thing keeping you from calling this place a veritable jail cell, which still seems like an understatement. For once, you miss your own bedroom. Granted, it didn’t look much different on the surface. but despite all the paneling and the heavy velvet, you still like to think it had some personality. You still keep your pillow pet on your bed (a horse named Robert). The back wall is chipped from a Gossip Girl poster your mom made you take down.  

Before you’re able to get too sentimental, the unwelcome sight of your future husband steals you from your thoughts. 

"Evening," Joshua says, stepping into the room. He's so quiet, it takes you aback. "Still unpacking?" 

"Sorry." You gesture around you. "I underestimated my ability to overpack."

"You should have told the staff," he says, surveying the damage. "Do you need help?" 

"No," you insist. Somehow the prospect of him getting on the ground to sort out all of your things upsets you, even more than him touching all of your unmentionables. "No. Please. Just ignore me."

"Alright." 

Joshua seems to take no issue with that, gratefully. He takes a seat on the chaise at the foot of the bed. He's got a copy of Anna Karenina under his arm, probably to weigh the pros and cons of cheating on you. You don't blame him—in fact, maybe it would make your doomed marriage exciting enough to be tolerable. 

"PR event tomorrow," you start, folding up a nightdress. "Bet you're excited for that." 

“As excited as one can be before announcing their arranged marriage," he replies dryly. "But surely you have enough experience with the press for the both of us." 

So that’s how he wanted to play. Fine. You wouldn’t let him walk all over you a second time. 

"Well, I'd hope all those classes you took would be good for something."

"That's rich, coming from the case study on bad media training." 

"Oh, please," you snap. "At least I know how to have a good time." 

"I was having a great time before I was informed this was happening." 

"Forgive me. I had no idea you were so invested in my personal life." You huff as you heave an oversized armful of clothes to the closet. “Think TMZ has any job openings?” 

"Very funny," he retorts. Joshua holds up a skimpy black dress that's fallen from your pile, one well acquainted with the midnight grease of one too many nightclubs. "You dropped this, by the way. I don't really think the nightlife here will be quite to your taste, though." 

"Oh right, because this is where happiness goes to die, huh?" You snatch it back from him, feeling the knot of anger in your gut flare. 

The room seems to pulse with an uncomfortable silence, red-hot with unsaid words. You recognize the all too familiar way Joshua sets his jaw back, and you're transported all the way to the study in the east wing, snoutless lion, terracotta steps, and all. He’s not any different from anyone else, so you’re not sure why you expected anything else. 

You do the only thing you can do—bite your tongue. 

"Look," you finally say, gathering the wherewithal to call for a truce. "I know that we didn't ask for this." 

Joshua laughs. Actually, it's the first time you've heard it since you've met, and it would be an otherwise tolerable, even nice, sound if it wasn't directed right at you.

"Right, because who doesn't want to have to babysit someone for the rest of their life?" 

You take a hard swallow.  You've both done enough damage for tonight, although you'd love to see his expression when you call him the live-action version of Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe another time. 

Instead you think of Jeonghan, stuck in his meetings and sunk into this new, starched form of himself that you find difficult to recognize. Still, he's your brother, and you'd hate to see him suffer for it. 

"Stop. I'll be good," you say. "I promise. I know there's a lot at stake for the both of us." 

You can hear Joshua's long, drawn exhale. The furrow dug between his brows flattens out, and he seems to be reminded of everything they taught you both in Conflict Resolution 101. 

"I apologize. I got out of line," he says. You watch the cogs turn on that unfortunately pretty face of his. You hope he finally reveals that he has a much better, kinder personality that he was waiting to debut, but he doesn't. Instead he picks up yet another fallen item from your stash and hands it to you (this time, a much more presentable blouse). 

"I know we don't like each other—" You hold up a hand to interrupt him from lying to you. “—but we can do our best for the cameras. Because that matters. Hate me all you want in private." 

"Okay." He gives you a defeated look, which is all you suppose you'll get out of him today. "Deal." 

That night, there are no more backhanded compliments, quips, or mean-spirited attempts at sarcasm. 

You sink into your side of the bed, a damask-woven vat of quicksand, and watch the spears of light dance on the ceiling. If you had known your last outing was the one a few days ago, maybe you would have drank a little more, stayed out later. Maybe you wouldn't have even gone home. 

Joshua has been reading on the other side of the bed, which seems like oceans apart. The metronomic turn of his pages would have put you to sleep if it wasn't for this new fear, a black, trembling one, that's now taken residence in your chest. It feels like you are further from yourself than you've ever been, and you don't know how to get back. 

"Is it too bright for you?" Joshua's voice, now tempered by the stillness of the evening, pulls you out of your thoughts. "I can turn the lamp off." 

"It's ok," you groan. "Can't really sleep. Don't worry about it." 

He doesn't say anything. Instead you hear the oiled pull of the bedside nightstand before he places something on the bed beside you.

It's a book. Specifically, one of those trashy romances that they only sell at the airport because no one would be brave enough to read them anywhere else.

"It's no Dan Brown," he says. "Hopefully still to your liking." 

You sit up against the headboard and flip through the pages. The prince of Acros owning a book with the words "juicy", "mewling", and "best friend's brother" in the first fifty pages are enough to tide you over for the night. Probably the next week, to be honest.

"Yes, indeed, your highness. Of the raunchy summer fling." 

Joshua smiles, and this time, you think it's a real one. 

--

You hate mornings. 

You thought this one would be different, probably due to the fact that you would soon be standing in front of a few too many cameras to announce your tragic fate to the entire world. Unfortunately, it's like all your other mornings—rushed, nauseous, and now with all the added anxiety of a semi-non consensual public appearance. 

"Five minutes!" you holler as best you can, a hair pin wiggling in the corner of your mouth. Rule number one of a hard launch: don't be caught looking complacent. Even if the other half of the launch would rather be with anyone other than you. 

Joshua's in the attached bathroom doing his hair. Like everything else he does, it is painfully calculated. He might be the only person in the world who takes "pea-sized" seriously as a measurement tool. 

But even as he so carefully measures his pomade, pump by pump, you don't miss the way his eyes skim over your figure as you lean over the vanity chair to apply your lipstick. Maybe it's because your ass is practically vacuum sealed into your sundress, or maybe he's just looking for another fight to pick. Either way, there's a small part of you that takes pride in this, even if just a little. 

"Ready?" Joshua asks, switching off the bathroom light. You hate to admit it, but he looks good in a sports jacket. You remind yourself that you had to literally rock-paper-scissors this morning to use the vanity mirror because you fogged the bathroom up after your shower. "It's not a pageant." 

"Shush. You are so rude. Never interrupt a girl when she's getting ready." 

In the mirror, you watch Joshua huff behind you. Then he procures a little black box from his pocket, and a crazy sort of feeling washes over you before you remind yourself to be normal. Ten-year-old you would have cried and threatened arson if she knew this is how you would eventually be proposed to, but you have no choice. 

You're sure Joshua feels the same. He was probably hoping for something classic with all the works, and instead he's got a pissed-off Jihoon and you, internationally renowned harlot. Funny how things turn out.

"Any minute now," bitches Jihoon from the other side of the door. 

You close your compact and turn around to face Joshua, who's still fumbling with the box.

"I'm sure this is not what you anticipated," he says, finally cracking it open. “But—" 

"No speech. Just put it on." You stick your left hand out, still glittery from last week’s manicure. "Not like it means much anyway." 

"Yeah."

And just like that, it is done. You feel the shock of Joshua's huge hands over yours, then the unceremonious bite of the cold band. He doesn't linger. 

You hold your newly engaged hand in front of you. The ring must have looked better in the box—on you, it seems out of place, gaudy, yet another thing you can't quite fit into. It squeezes your finger a bit, but it'll do. 

"Ready?" he asks. 

"Let's get this over with."

If romance wasn’t already dead, then it died here, today, in your prison cell bedroom. 

You have no time to lament this, as Joshua’s already half out the door. Quickly, he seems to shed his foul, argumentative inside personality and slip into a second-skin, one that is more poised, gracious, and luminous.

Today's objective is supposed to be simple: friendly, premarital pictures to accompany a written statement to the public announcing your engagement. No paparazzi, no journalists. Still, you're starting to see why your parents decided it was a good idea to stick you with this guy. 

In the foyer, your families await you. It's as if their gaze can slow time—at least four people approved your outfit, and still, the weight of their eyes on you, ever appraising, is crushing. Immediately, your mother starts rearranging the strands of hair on the top of your head and fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, like you're some sort of doll. 

"Come, come," a member of the PR team urges. "Everything is set up. We'll be quick." 

There's a frenetic, tense energy over the palace. It's clear that this marriage is a gambit no one is happy with, and today would make it very, very real. 

Outside, there is a lone photographer. The sun, morning-ripe, reflects off his camera lens like a third eye. The lawn, freakishly green, sprawls out around you, and the blue spruce frames the scene, perfect by design. 

"I just need you to stand next to each other and smile," he says. "That's all, right?" he directs this towards your PR team, about seven too many for a task like this. One of them whispers something in his ear. Your parents watch from the shaded doorstep like wax figures in a museum. 

You and Joshua stand shoulder to shoulder, yearbook photo style. 

"Bit closer," the photographer calls out, and you smush yourself against his arm, close enough that you can appreciate he's got some muscle on him. "Alright. Hold still." 

Click. You've always hated the flash, but you root yourself obediently to the concrete. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Click. 

Your mother interrupts her conversation with a staff member—likely haggling over the minutia of the statement—and says, "Look happier," as if you're in some dystopian advertisement for a new car. 

"She's talking to you," Joshua says through the grit of his fake, pink smile. 

"Right, because you're such a peach." 

You just want to go back inside and have breakfast. 

You place a tentative hand on Joshua's bicep and turn to him, beaming like you would at a hot bartender when there are five other people waiting for a drink. 

There's a glimmer of surprise in his expression before he matches you. You can see why people dote on him so much—his cheeks get round, and his eyes magically gain the sparkles that people pay for on Facetune. God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him. 

"Move your hand up so we can see the ring." You obey, feeling the firm cord of his arm underneath you, and you wonder where the gym is in the palace. Joshua was certainly gatekeeping it from you. "Perfect." 

You stand there, living your America's Next Top Model nightmare, before the photographer hits you with, "A kiss for the camera, yeah?" 

All the blood drains from your face. You think you actually say Huh? aloud. Joshua opts to turn to his parents to intervene, which would be funny in literally any other scenario except this one. 

"You heard him," his father replies. "Act like you're actually engaged." 

Honestly, it was a fair request. No one wanted to take any chances. Plausible rumors of an arranged marriage would backfire spectacularly. Jeonghan wouldn't see the front cover of anything ever again, and the entirety of Acros would wonder just how deep in the shitter they were that Joshua was forced to marry you. 

Your parents were already so far into the conspiracy, you overheard them talking about using unpublished paparazzi pictures and rebranding them as times you snuck off to see your unfortunate lover. Point taken. 

"Okay, okay," you laugh nervously. "Of course." 

You face Joshua, steeling yourself, and lean in. The world seems to fall away, but not how you like—it feels as though you've been sucked out of your own body and dropped into a new one that doesn't know what a kiss is or how to do it. 

He's just like anyone else, you tell yourself. You're at the club. They're playing Everytime We Touch by Cascada. 

Soon all you know is the heat of your cheeks, the shaking flat of your palm over Joshua's shoulder, and the wet pressure of what feels like a pair of lips, soft but also very unwilling. 

Click. Click. Then it's over. Everyone huddles around the camera, like animals to a watering hole. Shame, hot and heavy, seems to drape itself over you. 

"Can we get one more?" the photographer asks.

Fuck. Your stomach drops. You can't even glare at Joshua. 

"Sure thing," Joshua says easily, unaware he was the reason it went so badly in the first place. 

You take a deep breath. You imagine a good Kylie Minogue song and a tall stranger with pecs that could fit into a bra, and your eyes flutter shut. 

You decide to go for it this time. Unfortunately, you and your inept partner are on entirely opposite pages again, and you almost miss each other by a mile. When you do get it right, it's messy, two teenagers fumbling in a closet with the lights off. 

Once everyone sees this massacre, it seems they resign themselves to the same conclusion you had long ago. Someone throws a thumbs up above their head, and everyone clears out so fast, it's like nothing ever happened. 

Soon, it's just you, Joshua, and your mother with a red pen and the manuscript. Your heart is still buzzing in your chest, even though you and Joshua are now standing at a distance that makes you believe in the cheese touch again. 

"Now that wasn’t so bad," she says, before escorting the two of you back inside. Perhaps lying cushions the blow of a bad decision, but you're already in too deep. The script, the cameras, even your mother's glossy words—your life is starting to feel like a permanent movie set, and you don't know how to clock out. 

The first thing you do is take off the ring. It's starting to look more and more like costume jewelry on your untrained, bumbling hand. Even still, you can still feel its ghost on your finger, see the glare of the camera flash in the laser-cut facets. 

Worse, you watch Joshua shrug off his sport jacket, likely wondering how exactly that went so wrong, and you can feel that same sensation, still warm, right over your lips.

--

"Save me, red wine, save me." 

Home, sweet home. You're back in Cotria for the rest of the week. This morning's stint was the only thing you had on the schedule, and you told Joshua you had some business to attend to at home. 

Said business was a Niçoise salad and half a bottle of wine, but no one had to know that part. Your struggle meals were your own business, and you think you will actually disintegrate on the spot if you have to sit through another conversation about World War II with Joshua's dad. The one you had at dinner last night was plenty. 

The restaurant you’re at is a familiar haunt, but not too familiar. The ass-kissers and the groupies have gotten good at keeping their heads on a swivel, and you’re not exactly planning on another encounter with a camera. But here, the crowd is quiet enough, the food good enough, the service fast enough. It’s enough, which you’ve come to prefer. 

That's the other thing about Cotria—there’s an overabundance of everything. Department stores, parlors, dog cafes, polished bars with overpriced cocktails. It’s almost a rarity to find a place like this, quiet enough to actually talk. 

"You must be in the fucking trenches," Somi says, shaking her head. "When's the press release getting published?"

"Next week," you groan. "The good news is that they want us to go to the derby afterward."

"Okay, miss horse girl," Somi says, clinking her wine glass against yours. "You betting this year?" 

"No, I shouldn't." You shovel another forkful of leaves into your mouth. "But I really hope I get to watch it instead of pretending to like a guy the whole time." 

"I didn't see you pretending in uni," Somi says, cocking an eyebrow up at you. "And those guys are ugly. This guy isn't." 

"Okay, wait," you protest. "Ugly cute. Don't get it twisted. And they don't act like sentient wet paint. This guy sucks." 

You're reminded of the moment before you left the palace this morning. Joshua saw that same black dress that he used against you make its way into your bag, and he gave you the dirtiest stink eye you'd ever seen. 

I'm not above tattling. They were the first words he'd said to you after The Incident. 

Good thing you won't have to, you replied. He didn't even see you out because no one was standing around to clap him on the back for being a good fake fiancé. 

"Whatever." Somi picks a tomato off your plate in exchange for some of her fries. "I wouldn't mind it, is what I'm saying." 

"You slept with the bouncer to get into Annabel’s." 

"Fuck off. He was actually really good. Club entry was just a bonus," she laughs. "That reminds me—you're coming to my birthday, right? Or do you have wifely duties now?" 

"Of course I'm coming!" you insist, feeling the word duty hit like an actual bullet to your chest. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." 

"Just making sure! You know I gotta have my people around." 

You had known Somi since you were in diapers. She's the cousin twice removed of a baron, or a count, or maybe even a viscount–you never were good at keeping track of those kinds of things. Even though you had seen her at countless brunches, coronations, and garden parties, you don't think you actually became friends until you ran into her at a college party in Mykonos. She sidled up to you, smelling like strawberries and the bleachy sting of hair dye, and handed you a cucumber margarita. 

The beer here sucks, she had whisper-shouted to you, right over the shell of your ear. Wanna dance? You were inseparable ever since. 

"It's going to be huge. There are, like, 200 people on the guest list right now. Soonyoung rented a villa, There's gonna be a champagne tower, and the music won't suck. Guaranteed." 

"That sounds perfect," you sigh. "Please tell me there's gonna be a pool. I need to show off my new swimsuit." 

"Duh." Somi rolls her eyes, glittery under her extensions. "The perfect opportunity to show the world that their hottest bachelorette is a bachelorette no longer. Also, we invited Pitbull.” 

“Shut the fuck up. Wait, is he actually coming?” 

”Dunno. Wouldn’t be very Mr. Worldwide of him to flake, though.” 

Pitbull or not, you think of the heat of the strobe lights, the electric trill of the too-loud speakers. You're dancing in a dress that looks like a chunk of the moon, with the little neon ties of your bikini top peeking out the sides. There's a peach highball in your hands and no one is telling you what to do, how to do it, or that you're doing it wrong. 

Then you think of Joshua. Maybe he'd loosen up after a few drinks. Maybe he'd dance with you, put those hands to use on your hips and kiss you like he should have earlier today. Maybe he'd even be good at it. The thought makes your cheeks sting.

“Should I invite Joshua?” Somi says, wrinkling her nose at how you immediately grimace. “What if he’s actually a blast?” 

"No! No. Absolutely not." 

“What if he’s—” Then she drops her singsong voice to a whisper. “Hung? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those pictures of him in the Galapagos.” 

Unfortunately, you have. A lurid, glassy image of your soon-to-be-husband in a sleazy pair of swim trunks comes into vision. You push past the smile, the unfair pecs, and remind yourself of that horrible, self-righteous twist of the lips that he always has. 

Yes, that’s right. That’s the Joshua you know. 

You grab the wine from her and drink it right from the bottle. 

–

Of course it had to be the one time you’re not late to an event that you forget you had swapped everything in all your purses around. You double check your bag—empty. 

You’re already down by half of your worldly possessions (still at home, your real home), and you probably left the other half on Joshua’s bathroom counter. Yesterday, you got derailed mid-task by Joshua lighting the grossest candle ever. You never thought you’d ever fight over candles of all things, but you couldn’t let him walk away from that conversation thinking wet dirt was a normal, socially acceptable, scent for a bedroom. (—It said moss on the label! —So, dirt. —Moss is not dirt. Maybe you need to go back to school.) 

You fling open the bathroom door, still checking the pockets of your handbag, before you collide into a big, sopping wet wall. 

“What the—?” You look up. The wall is not a wall. No, in fact, it is your fiancé, bare fucking naked. 

Your heart jumps up to your throat. It feels like you walked right into a porno, and you can hear Somi’s self-satisfied, witch cackle right in your ear. His dark hair seems to fall into his eyes just right, a nice change from how he normally gels it up, and you watch the beads of water from the shower, torturously glittery, run down his jaw, the hollow of his neck, right onto his chest. 

Men should not be allowed to have bigger boobs than you, at least, not dowdy Joshua Hong, who normally has the sex appeal of an eraser. And God forbid your eyes travel downward and confirm Somi’s sick and twisted hypothesis, past the washboard abs, the v-line, the trail down his— 

“Sorry, did you need something?” You blink again and Joshua suddenly has a towel wrapped around his waist. And he’s eyeing you like you ate a million cloves of garlic and then proceeded to spit on him. “Or are you just going to stand here and ogle me?” 

“I wasn't—no!” You start snatching things off the counter, anything really, and throwing them into your bag. “I just needed to grab stuff for my… my thing. You’re in the way.” 

“Right, because you need four q-tips and my razor to read a children’s book,” Joshua replies, plucking the offending items out of your purse. “It's almost 12:30, by the way.” 

“Shit. Fuck,” you stammer. You can’t glare at him anymore because you know where your eyes will end up and it is not on his face. “Stop distracting me. Whatever.” 

“Have fun,” is the last thing Joshua tells you before you close the bathroom door, that portal to hell, right back up. 

What you can’t do is return the image of what you saw back to where it came from, the wicked, glistening form of Joshua and his B cup tits. He looked so good, it makes you angry. 

Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again. 

–

The car ride to the derby feels like your own personal Saw trap, if Jigsaw wore a ridiculous hat and was actually your mother. 

Your engagement was announced to the public just a few days ago. It came with no fanfare, no warning. You were sitting on your bed, making your way through the smut Joshua called a novel, when the news app on your phone kindly notified you that you were now a taken woman. 

To some degree, the media uproar fascinated you. The idea that people with actual journalism degrees were writing headcanons about your honeymoon when you hadn’t even seen Joshua since The Bathroom Incident was surely entertaining, to say the least. But, like everything, the unsaid pressure of being a perfect princess, now part of an even more perfect couple, hangs heavy over you. 

You remind yourself this is supposed to be fun. A real couple would be pawing at each other in the backseat, perhaps pregaming with champagne or fan-casting their pick for Spirit the horse. Instead, you’re stuck rehearsing your pitch to the reporters when they inevitably ask you about how the hell this happened. You wish you could tell them you’re not quite sure either. 

Silently, you look at Joshua. Joshua looks out the window. The world rumbles under you. 

[10:15 am, race 1]

The air seizes, swirls with clay-colored dust in the morning sun. The clubhouse is already heady with the low buzz of conversation—you watch the freckled sunhats and oily toupees bob up and down in the swell of the crowd, deep in the morning’s small talk. You wonder how many of them are talking about you, given how recently the news hit. You’re used to people ignoring your media appearances, not celebrating them. 

Someone, tipping their head down to greet you, hands you a program. Joshua elects to tuck his in his back pocket. People don’t come to the derby to watch the races. Instead, it’s an excuse to gossip, day drink, and gamble, which would ordinarily be a good time for you if you weren’t overly invested in the racing circuit. 

All the way from the entrance to your seats, you were met with a tidal wave of camera flashes, all hungry for a glimpse of your first public appearance as a couple. Alongside this, a decidedly worse flurry of congratulations paired with an overly familiar touch to the shoulder or a limp handshake. Joshua is quick to respond with either a smile or some trite platitude. Your least favorite: We couldn’t be happier. Now he’s just lying for sport. 

“We should find the reporters doing interviews,” Joshua says the second his ass touches the chair, unfazed by the onslaught of perhaps a million different people. “The Sun probably wants to talk to us.” 

You’re not listening—you can’t let on that this whole ordeal is mildly terrifying for you. He has enough reasons to dislike you, and stage fright wouldn’t exactly be a good addition to the list. 

The racehorses have lined up at the track, their manes catching the daylight like holy fire. You like the one on the end. He looks like Peanut, Jeonghan’s stubborn palomino. 

Joshua says your name insistently, curdled with the annoyance that you’ve now become acquainted with, and you catch a stray camera flash from the stands. You have an audience, and the audience demands a show, even if they’re second-rate journalists like the scum from The Sun.  

“Darling,” you reply flatly. “Relax. Let's enjoy the races.” 

The horses stretch their long legs, anxious for the thunderclap of the starter’s pistol. Joshua raises a tired eyebrow before the same realization dawns on him. 

“Absolutely.” He clears his throat. “Darling.” 

You wrap a hand around his arm—somehow he makes hand-holding seem like third base—and watch his shoulders sink with a sigh, like you just popped him. 

Likewise, your highness. Likewise. 

A shot crackles through the air, and you’re off to the races. 

[12:43 pm, race 2.]

"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?" 

You know the duchess of Pemarlia to be beautiful and unashamedly nosy, and she has yet to prove you wrong on either account. 

The last time you saw her was on the beach at Lake Como last year, where she spent the entirety of your conversation asking if Jeonghan was single (and peeking into your bag to see what brand of lipstick you were wearing). Like everyone, she always seems to have a look of appraisal on her face. What makes her different is that she never really bothers to hide it; instead, she wears it like an en-vogue accessory. 

She eyes you with an intensity, sizing up your dress, your tawdry sunhat, your ring. You wonder if she’d agree that marriage didn’t look good on you, but any shorter of a dress, your mother would call you a stripper. And God forbid you leave the house hat-less. 

Now she’s no minotaur. This shouldn’t be much of a problem, save for one very small issue: you actually hadn’t planned your answer to this. You had quibbled over it briefly in the car, but you were too focused on your interview pitch to worry about minor gossip. 

"Well," Joshua starts. Through his smile, you can hear the warning edge of his voice. “It was quite ordinary.” 

"Actually," you cut him off. Not only would his version of this story be boring, it would also be horribly out-of-character for you. You did not come this far for your cover to be blown by Joshua’s lack of imagination. "Josh's parents hosted a—" 

"Brunch," Joshua finishes. Whether his teeth are gritted because he's grinning or frustrated is none of your business. “It was Easter brunch, wasn’t it, sweet pea? Four years ago?” 

The pet name makes you want to puke. Now he’s just trying to piss you off, but you know this is his attempt to play along. He's annoying, not dumb. 

"Yes, we sat across from each other.” You playfully dig your elbow into Joshua’s rock-hard side. “He was giving me the eyes the whole time.” 

You watch your hapless victim giggle, her spidery lashes wide with intrigue. Joshua is a little less pleased. 

“If you could call it that,” he replies. “I think you had chocolate on your nose.”

“Which you so kindly wiped off for me, dear.” You try to peek around the flaxen billows of the duchess’s blowout to watch the horses behind her, but to no avail. “After a morning of staring, we had to do an Easter egg hunt, planned by Joshie himself. I had no idea he loved silly little games like that.” 

“It's because people like the princess get so competitive,” Joshua says, with his laser beam grin boring into your eye sockets. “I believe I found you rummaging through the trash for eggs, like some kind of animal.” 

“Oh my goodness,” the duchess laughs. “How...charming.”  

You feel your eyebrow twitch. Only you’re allowed to ruin your own reputation, but you suppose that’s just another thing your horrible fake fiance gets to take from you. 

“Not as embarrassing as seeing Joshua leer at me from behind the corner,” you retort. “He was so enamored that when I invited him to join me, he got right down on his knees to look through the trash together.” 

“Well, did you find anything?” 

“Yes—”

“No—”

“Well—”

Fuck. Luckily, the duchess is either stupid or wildly entertained by the clown show playing out before her. Maybe both. 

“Cute,” she coos. “You must have been too smitten to notice.” 

“Absolutely,” Joshua says, as if there is a gun held to his pretty head. “Among all the garbage and the girl next to me, I suppose nothing else really mattered.” 

“If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks blithely. 

If only she knew. 

[3:45 pm, race 3]

The sun descends on the stadium, swollen and yellow with the afternoon. 

Last year, you and your friends had a betting ring set up during the racing circuit. Obviously, you had won—not too hard when your competition included Soonyoung, who only bet on horses named after food (sadly, it was not Tater Tot’s year). Somi was no better, and your brother thought every horse deserved a participation award.

This time around, things aren’t so simple. But you’d hate to say that you spent a whole day at the track and didn’t bet on a single race. Life could afford you at least one win for today. 

Again, the horses take their positions at the starting line, wound up like a line of rubber bands. The air heaves with bated breath. 

“Joshua,” you say, folding your hands in your lap as you find your target. “I'd like to propose a bet.” 

“You must be a glutton for punishment.” 

You bite back a laugh as you watch your favorite horse, the palomino, ripple in place. Fans would call her a charity case, but you know better. 

“Pick a horse. Mine is number Three, in the blue.” 

“And if mine wins? What’s in it for me?” he asks. Still, he leans forward, corded forearms on his thighs. You watch him squint as he surveys the field with renewed interest. 

“You pick,” you reply. “Choose wisely. I personally cannot wait to call in a favor from you.” 

“The chestnut one. Number Nine.” So he is competitive. “And likewise. Perhaps I'll hold it over your head until the wedding.” 

Before you can reply, you hear the starting pistol rip clean into the air. The racehorses surge forward, as if a silken ribbon through air. 

“Nine makes sense for you,” you say, eyes fixed before you. “He's flashy, the crowd favorite. Spotless pedigree.” 

“I'm picking your punishment already.” 

“I didn't say he would win.” You feel the lilt of your voice rocking upward, the tremulous beat of your heart against your ribs. “You see, Three’s had a rough season. There she is, passing Four right now.” 

“Nine is still first, though.” 

“It’s not about that,” you reply. “She does this, she starts all the way out back and then flies up. No one suspects anything—it’s like she likes proving people wrong. The first couple races of the season, she was just stretching her legs; they were small, small fry. It’s this one that matters.” 

The saddles are just blurs on the track now. To the march of the hoofbeats, Three lunges past Five, Six. The crowd roars. 

“This will be her first win. I'm counting on it. She’s come really close before.” 

Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so. 

“You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him. 

“How can I not?” Three coasts past One and Ten like she’s flying, until it’s just her and unlucky number Nine. “Oh my god. Go, go, go!” 

You and Joshua rise to your feet, as if drawn by a string, now wholly invested in the race. 

“Still beating you, you know.” 

“Not for long! Come on!” 

You watch your darling number Three, against all odds, pull past Joshua’s number Nine, burning a trail past the inevitable finish line. 

From somewhere inside you emerges a joy that you hadn’t felt since this whole ordeal started. You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive. 

[4:50 pm, races 4 and 5. mainly, the reporter from the sun.] 

The smaller races take place shortly after the headliner, for better or for worse. This forces you to finally face the music—the music being a dull-eyed, greasy journalist ready to sink his teeth into the public’s new favorite topic. 

Joshua is a good sport about it, or at least, he’s good at pretending to be one. 

“It was great,” is his answer to a question you didn’t hear. You’re busy going over the parts of the script that you remember. Your media team spent the better part of the morning repeating it back to you, which was helpful until it wasn’t. You weren’t sure how to tell them you’ve actually never been good at speaking to the press, since you had spent the better half of your life doing the exact opposite. 

“And what did the princess think? It’s not often we catch you for an interview, you know.” 

The eye of the camera seems to pierce through you. You can see your shellacked figure, long and distorted, in the reflection. 

“I—um,” you swallow hard. God. Pull it together. You can already hear the lecture you’re going to get on the way home today. “Yeah, big day today.”

“She’s had to really rein in her excitement, you know,” Joshua adds, chuckling. 

Briefly, you feel his hand brush against yours. Ordinarily, you’d pass it off as a fluke, but you feel the steady, insistent warmth of his palm again, first, to the inside of your wrist, then lower still. Before you’re able to really process what’s happening, he then takes your hand in his all at once, as if to say, I’ve got this. I’ve got you. 

You figure he’s cashing in his favor early–he’d much rather leave you out to dry, let you flounder a bit so you learn to read the PR memorandums the night before. I told you so, he’d say. That’s what everyone else would say, anyway. 

“The races are sure exciting, but I'm sure you’re even more excited about your upcoming wedding.” The reporter grins at you, as if he smells your fear. His hair looks like it’s glued to the top of his shiny head. “If I'm going to be honest, you were one of the last people we’d expect to tie the knot this year. We are all dying to hear more.” 

What? You force yourself to breathe, feel the air fill your lungs, to avoid making an expression you’ll regret. 

“Well, yeah, I'm sure it looks like it all happened quickly,” you answer, feeling your tongue trip over the words. Mostly because it did, in fact, happen quickly, but you can’t let them know that. “But Josh and I feel strongly about, uh, this whole thing, and—”

“Please, don’t spare us the details.” 

Telepathically, Joshua squeezes your hand. This, you understand. He’s telling you to lean on him, and you trust that. 

“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, almost too quickly, which makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward. He was definitely looking for an opening, but you, bizarrely, don’t mind at all. He turns to you and smiles. “What's the fun without a little mystery? It's been a wild ride, but I'm loving every second of it.” 

It’s this one, the lamest and most embarrassing dad joke of them all, that gets you. 

You laugh: a real one, big, loud, and unafraid. It's here, caught in the glare of the camera flash, where you find yourself hoping, even just a little, that this wasn’t just a favor, that this was a sign you could actually survive this arrangement. 

You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong. 

—

In the evening, you find yourself in the oaken parlor nestled away in the back halls of the Acrosian palace. 

There's a piano there, gathering dust. It's a Steinway, spindly and chestnut, almost identical to the one you have at the palace in Cotria. 

You and Jihoon had been unpacking your hodgepodge of things (unsorted, since the act of sorting would have forced you to stomach the fact that you were actually moving), when he had found your old lesson books. 

You should break in that piano, he had said. Either that, or wait for your fiance to find you. He seemed ok at the derby today. 

I guess. 

What Jihoon hadn’t seen was all the photographs you had to take after your interview with The Sun, where Joshua decided to remind you that you were supposed to hate him. By that, you mean that he managed to make every single one unbearable. (A tap of the foot: Stand up straight. A careful brush of the elbow: Let’s link arms. A discerning, tactful glance at your chest: Pull up your dress. That, or he was no better than the average man.) 

You and he hadn’t talked much after that. Hopefully, he’s fled to your cold, dark dungeon of a room to read, so he can finally leave you alone.

“Remember when your parents invited all their friends over and asked you to play?” Jihoon says, perched on the loveseat while he sorts through an old jewelry box. 

“Yeah, and I literally forgot everything?” you laugh. “Freaking Jeonghan had to check on me because I locked myself in my room for 24 hours straight. And then he had the nerve to laugh at me.” 

You thumb through the fattest book of the pile. The binding is soft; the pages now yellow and fuzzed over by time. 

On page 5, Chopin's Waltz in A-flat major. three four time or whatever, you had scrawled in defiant red ink. Page 37, a thick black line through Debussy's name on Arabesque No. 1. This is because you would always laugh at it during lessons, and you wanted to save yourself the trouble. 

“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.” 

You ignore him and start to play. You were never excellent—competent would be a better word. Still, it was enough for you. Soonyoung would ask you to play during drunk karaoke, and you could still keep up with Jeonghan when he played one of his overcomplicated duets. 

Your hands remember the velvet thud of the keys, the glide of the pedal. When you turn the page, there’s a scrawled in BITCH! next to a heavily circled allegro. Piano was one of the only things that your parents forced you to do that you actually liked. The kicker was that it didn’t even do you any good. You weren’t as talented as your parents would like you to be, meaning that, to them, you weren’t talented at all. 

It’s then that your fingers slip, and you miss a chord. In your defense, you have a fresh manicure. Always blame the nails. Your mom hated when you kept them long, even more than your hardass tutor.  

“The prince is helping with the theater production this year, right?” Jihoon holds a single earring up to the light. You think you lost the other one in Ibiza last year. “You gonna help out again?” 

“Maybe.” Another wrong note. You’re losing steam trying to read all the ledger lines and your smeared, illegible writing next to them. “I don't know. He probably won’t even want me to. I'm choosing a different piece, by the way. Bored of this one.” 

The truth about your 21st birthday was that you did actually intend to spend it at the youth theater. It was your idea before it was Jeonghan’s idea, but, at the time, you both still were a package deal.

You were on piano; Jeonghan was on whatever else he pleased. He'd always been indecisive like that. At the bench, you’d hoist the little ones on your knee and regale them with the classical version of the opening song from paw patrol. Jeonghan stole prop masks from the back, mostly to hide behind the curtains and scare people, you included. You’d both stay up late, paint spackled on your palms, trying to Michelangelo a backdrop with the combined artistic talent of a TI-84. 

The production became your thing, just you and him, no cameras, no press releases, no parents. But like everything else, neither you, Jeonghan, nor anyone else was able to keep those inevitable truths apart. The set pieces were repainted in Italy, the finger-painted fields turned luminescent with varnish; the pins and needles in the costumes swapped with mother-of-pearl; and, finally, you, replaced by a classically trained pianist from Juilliard. At least he was hot. 

Everyone knows the rest of the story—the red carpet, the empty seats, and the puffy pink balloons outside the mansion in Saint Tropez. 

“Oh please,” Jihoon wheedles. “You and I both know he wanted you there.” 

“Then maybe he should have fought harder.” You flip to a random page, this one marked up in pink gel pen. You remember it bled through all the pages behind it, making it a pain to read but awfully funny during lessons. “It doesn't matter. There’s probably wedding stuff i gotta deal with.” 

Jihoon lets you play this next piece uninterrupted. It’s not that it’s a sensitive subject for you—there were plenty of other things that filled the wedge between you and your brother—but it certainly didn’t help. 

You let your fingers wander over the stubborn keys. It feels good to play, even if you’re almost unforgivably rusty. You reach for the page, when you hear Jihoon again: “You know, you’re allowed to come in, your highness.” 

Immediately, your hands freeze. Like a scolded child, you become aware of how your fingers teeter over the keys, the stumbling, awkward clacking of your nails, the one or two missed quarter notes from the last measure. 

You turn to face the door, where Joshua stands, leaning against the frame like a sleazy model from an Abercrombie catalog. He probably came from the gym. Seeing him dressed down is still very weird, mostly because you can’t decide if it’s because he looks good or if it’s because it reminds of seeing your teacher at the grocery store. 

“Anyone teach you manners?” you ask, unsure if your hackles should be raised. 

“No, I was raised in a barn, just like those horses you like so much,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You’re not bad, you know.” 

“Thanks.” You eye him skeptically. “Thought you were gonna comment on the nails.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Preferably not, but it’s not like you‘d listen to me anyway.” You look for Jihoon’s reaction, but he seems to have conveniently disappeared. “Let’s play a duet. I’m cashing in my favor.” 

“Sure,” Joshua replies. “I'm no good, though. Might be more of a punishment for you.” 

You slide over on the bench, and he sidles up next to you. He smells like Le Labo and sweat, the sting citrusy and bright, close enough to linger. 

“No good?” You pick up another fat book from the stack atop the lid: The Joy of Duets. “Me neither.” 

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “And trust me, I tried.”  

“I’ll do top?” you announce. 

Joshua snickers, and you kick him under the bench (really, just a tap of your foot). 

You spend the next two minutes tripping over a Schubert piece. Terribly, this is endearing to you. You make somewhat of a couple—you, with your horrible form, and Joshua, now squinting at the key signature like it’ll make it easier to read.

“Buddy,” you exclaim. “Left hand goes here.” Laughing, you reposition his hand mid-chord to an octave below. You feel it tense beneath you before yielding to proper technique. 

“Aw, what?” he whines. “See, I told you I was no good. Give me a second.” 

You watch him puzzle over the next few lines, pretty brow furrowed. You conclude that Pajama Joshua is decidedly better than Prince Joshua. He’s funnier, kinder, warmer. Even his hands feel softer. 

“Also, about earlier today,” you start. The words are starting to dry up on your tongue, but you figure Pajama Joshua is an easier target than usual. “I didn't know they trained you in stand-up comedy.” 

“We laugh in this country too, you know.” When Joshua says this, he grins, bumping into your shoulder like you’d been friends for a long time. For once, it feels easy, natural. 

“Well, thanks anyway.” 

“I couldn't leave my fiancée out to dry.” The word must sound ridiculous even to him, because he laughs just the same as he did when he unloaded his ridiculous puns onto the unassuming world. “No really. We’re in this together, unfortunately. It’s my duty.” 

Duty, both the knife and the wound. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s only nice to you out of obligation. So is everyone else, and you don’t know why you thought it’d be any different, especially coming from him. It’s not like you’re wearing your ring now either; you suppose you’re just as guilty. 

“You cross over here,” you tell him, changing the topic. You slide your hand over his, and it bends to you. “Thumb under. Sorry, I couldn't help but notice.” 

“It's ok,” Joshua replies. “I only learned piano because I had to. When I stopped going to lessons, I forgot everything. Now I feel like I put this piano to shame.” 

“Really? Not to stroke your ego, but you strike me as the type to be good at everything.” 

“No,” he chuckles. “Only when I have to be. I actually wanted to learn how to play guitar.” 

“No way.” 

“Yes way. I wanted to have one of those woven guitar straps, get a little pick collection going, be able to play any song from the Beatles discography. All the cliche stuff.” 

“Well, why can’t you?” you ask. “Minus the Beatles thing. Pick better music.” 

“Back then, it never occurred to me. We all learn piano.” 

“That's silly,” you blurt out. “Who cares?” 

“That's a little rich coming from you.” 

You frown, feeling all the usual unpleasantries bubble up through your skin. 

“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.” 

“It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.” 

“Someone else? You mean you? The real you?” 

“Yes,” Joshua presses. “That's the point. I can't just do whatever I want. Sometimes the real you is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“Someone’s dramatic. If you do everything the same, nothing will change. Maybe getting into a little trouble isn’t such a bad thing.” 

“Forgive me,” he says, mid-chuckle. “You wouldn’t call this trouble?” 

He’s got you there. Childishly, all your pride hardens to a lump in your throat, one you’ve never learned to swallow. 

“Your family needed our help too, remember?” 

“Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?” 

You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.

What's worse is that he doesn’t even sound mad—you watch his fingertips ghost over the keys of a C-scale, rhythmically, methodically. Piano scales, this marriage, everything: just things to do on his never-ending list. 

A hesitant knock at the door interrupts any possibility of you coming up with anywhere close to the right thing to say. 

“Prince Joshua, the king and queen need to speak to you.” It’s an aide, probably sweating bullets deciding when and how they should intrude on this wonderful conversation of yours.

“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back. 

—

“You ready to get stuffed?” 

Good fucking morning to you—Somi’s voice, fluorescent through your phone speakers, seems to be enough of an alarm clock for you. Joshua, in the doorway dual wielding a coffee cup and the morning paper, raises a tired eyebrow.

After the events of last night, you’d wondered if he would somehow disappear at nighttime in an effort to avoid his eventual fate (you). Instead, you found him on his usual side of the bed, drinking his usual mug of chamomile tea, in his usual silence. 

You've heard that couples shouldn’t go to bed angry, but no one said anything about indifferent. Then again, you and Joshua are hardly a couple. 

“Ew,” you laugh. “No. Maybe? Should I be scared?” 

“Absolutely. You’re eating your weight in food today because I need your opinion on catering.” 

Smushing your phone between your cheek and your shoulder, you watch the mirror as your wavering reflection puts on a layer of mascara. 

“For your party?” 

“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.” 

“My IBS is none of your business. Besides, the real food critic is Jihoon,” you reply. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the only reason he still works here.” 

“You’re coming in an hour, right?” 

You check the clock. No, you are not. You’re only halfway through a full beat and if you don’t get any caffeine inside you within the hour, you will commit a crime. 

“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.” 

“I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”  

“As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.” 

“Whatever.” Click.

At this point, you feel like Somi’s party is both the proverbial and literal light at the end of the tunnel. No expectations, no rules, and no semi-arguments between you and your doomed fiance. 

Then you notice that Joshua’s disappeared from the room—he probably couldn’t stand listening to your end of the conversation. Briefly, you wonder where he is. Off running an errand for his dear parents, perhaps, or maybe at the gym you still haven’t discovered yet. Even from the hefty distance he keeps you at, you can still appreciate a man who looks like he’s touched a dumbbell. 

It's only when you’re halfway out the door, almost an hour later, juggling your purse and your phone and the distinct absence of a caffeinated beverage, that you find him. 

“Come to ruin my day?” you ask, maybe three-fourths joking. 

“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.” 

Jihoon, hovering by the car, chokes on his water. 

“Oh!” The surprise knocks the sound out of you. “Thank you. Really.” 

“Gladly,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

He holds all your stuff as you clamber into the car, before handing it back to close the door for you. You’ll admit it’s nice, but as Jihoon starts to drive, you feel a familiar twist in your chest.

“Interesting,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you were on a coffee order basis.” 

“We’re not,” you answer. You pop the lid open. It's a cappuccino, made the classic way, milk foam bubbling out the top. Not your favorite, but it’ll do. 

More than that, it’s an olive branch. Yesterday did get weird, but you’re getting the impression that it’ll always get weird. Undoubtedly, there is someone out there who’ll get Joshua. His schedules, his straight-backed obligation, the polished photo ops and the cappuccinos made to a perfect one to one to one ratio. You know this because this is the world you came from, one that should be home to you. 

Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror. 

—

On your arrival home in the evening, you return with two things: a few extra kilos and an absolutely horrendous copy of the Daily Mail, courtesy of Somi, who saw it at the grocery. 

"Great showing from the couple of the year," you say, shucking your copy at Joshua. "It looks like we're in Shark Tale." 

Even from a distance, the cheap ink-spackled cover shows more than enough. LIP LOCK FLOP!, it reads, although you wouldn’t really call it a lip lock. 

It was at the derby—Quick, they’re looking at us, you had said. Then what you would call a nun’s version of a kiss: you, already halfway out the door, and him, lips hesitant and pursed, as if he was asked to smooch his withering, dusty great-grandmother. 

"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Joshua answers, voice level. "It's not that bad." 

He puts his book down to pick the magazine up, holding it at a distance like the image will jump out of the page and bite him. You see his expression flicker, and that's all you need to confirm your suspicions. 

"Ok, it's a little bad." He places it on the nightstand next to him face-down. "It'll be alright. It's not like the wedding will be called off over one bad picture." 

"You know that's not the issue." You sit on your side of the bed, about a full meter away from him. You kind of want to look again just to see how bad it is, but you're sure it'll be inescapable by the morning. 

"Since when did you care what the press thought of you?" 

"Since it mattered." You stare at your lap, eyes fixed on the too-new, wiggly hem of your pajamas instead of him. You can tell he's still looking at you, though–you think those big, watery eyes have some sort of flashlights in them, and you don't like it. "It seems wrong if our mistakes take up space." 

You hear him make a small noise of agreement. Joshua still won't admit that you're right, but you suppose you like that a little. At least he'll be stubborn about something, even if it's about clearly not liking you. 

"What do you suggest?" he asks, putting his book down. “We didn't choose each other, so I'm not surprised there's no attraction." 

"Ouch." He's right, but you'd rather be the one saying it. "I'm a good kisser. You aren't." 

"I'm just not good at kissing you," he retorts. 

"Evidently." You shimmy towards his side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler under your thighs, the pillows still neatly arranged on the headboard. "What I'm saying is that we should at least try to look more realistic. Like–" 

"Are you saying we should practice?" Joshua looks at you over the frames of his glasses, incredulous. 

"Yeah," you say, now too far in it to back out. "Like exposure therapy. For unwilling couples." 

The room gets quiet, as if it wasn't unbearably so before. You watch Joshua pick up his book again. He puts the bookmark in, two-thirds from the spine of the book so as to not ruin the binding, and places it over the doomed tabloid. 

"Okay." To your surprise, he turns to face you. The lamplight catches the lens of his glasses and makes his eyes look warmer than they truly are. "How should we do this?" 

The way Joshua's gaze settles on you makes you feel like you're being evaluated. An exam in Kissing 101, except the test would rather not have anything to do with you at all. For the first time in your life, you let your eyes wander to his lips, rosy and full, and you feel the pit of anxiety in your belly grow wider. Somehow he's managed to take all the fun out of one of your favorite activities, but you'll be damned if he walks away from this thinking it's you who's the problem. 

"Just...let me lead," you say quietly, now leaning closer to him. You have to ease yourself into it. You let your body respond, feel the skip of your heart, a heady flush wash over your cheeks. He smells like spearmint and clover. 

You've kissed a lot of people. None of this should feel new to you. His eyelashes skim against your cheek, and you can hear the breath he takes, quivering, gentle.

Despite all this, the first kiss is no better than any of the other ones. his lips meet yours, hesitant before they start moving. He's shy, and it would almost endear him to you if he wasn't so annoying. But then the charade is over. His nose clocks yours and it startles you both enough to draw away, ever so slightly. 

"Not my fault," you murmur. You're so close, you can see your reflection in his pupils, glassy and dark. 

"Thought this was practice," responds Joshua, unfazed. 

So you lean in again, giving it another go. Two is better—sweet and succinct. a first date type of kiss. You can taste the berry of your lip balm on him. 

Then again, except this time it's him who goes in, chases your lips. 

The scary thing is that you thought this would be much harder. You had stood in the bathroom, looked yourself in the mirror, and psyched yourself up to do the impossible. 

But the moment you meet him, now so close there's no room to breathe, you feel an impenetrable, unshakable desire crawling up your bones. Your palm finds the flat of his chest. Even under the silk of his ridiculous pajama top, you feel the heat of his skin, the restless quick of his heartbeat, and your stomach flips. 

Four, five. You're losing count. Joshua's hand trails up your arm to cup your cheek, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel your breath catch in your chest. 

He's warm, so warm. When your other hand finds the back of his neck, he makes a small sound in his throat and you like it.

It's at this point you realize there is no point in pretending. Maybe you don't want to kiss Joshua at any other moment during any other day, but you do now. You really do. 

When your tongue meets the seam of his lips, it feels all too natural. At first, predictably, he buffers a bit. For a split second, you envision him pulling away and saying you've gotten more than a lifetime's worth of practice in. 

But he doesn't. Instead, an arm winds around your waist and that's all it takes for your body to stop listening to you altogether. Lips still connected, you lift yourself to straddle his lap, right over the folded up covers, and his hands, devastatingly strong, find your hips to keep you rooted there. 

You're starting to think he isn't such a bad kisser after all—maybe he really was holding out on you, but there's something weirdly rewarding about him waiting until he liked you just a little more. Whatever that means. 

You learn that his hair is soft, really soft, at the base of his neck. You learn that he likes when you bite his lips and you learn that his spearmint mouthwash does, in fact, taste as good as it smells. 

You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him. 

--end of part 1--

[part 2 -> ]

[jwiloves]

Oh I miss reading this

CW//Yandere

You cowered in your bed as the angry ghost threw things around your room.

“S-stop it! Please!” you said in a meek, pathetic voice but the ghost didn’t listen and continued his temper tantrum.

Your eyes were beginning to water and with how angry Renjun was, you didn’t know what was gonna happen next.

One of the things the ghost hated was you bringing guests over to your home. If it wasn’t anyone important, he didn’t see the point in you having anyone over, including family.

It didn’t matter what gender they were or even their age, Renjun was very possessive and if there was one thing he hated, it was your attention being on someone else other than him.

You’ve always had issues standing up for yourself and those issues became even more of a problem when the handsome ghost began befriending you since you were living in the home he killed himself in.

You thought if you just did whatever he wanted, he wouldn’t become mad and would continue being the sweet ghost who would sing you to sleep and such since Renjun was sweet despite his fiery temper.

It wasn’t like you asked Sicheng to come into your house or anything.

The handsome man was your neighbor. He was rather quiet, a bit awkward but funny and nice, his warm smile always giving you butterflies.

You were setting up a wind chime on your front porch when you fell, landing on the ground hard, spraining your ankle in the process.

Sicheng was outside as well, fixing his car when he saw you fall, and quickly put his tools down, running over to help you.

He picked you up carefully, asking if you were okay, his brown eyes filled with concern.

You told him you believed you sprained your ankle and he helped walk you up the steps and inside your home, asking you how you felt.

Once you two were inside, he sat you on your couch and you told him where your first aid was at, Sicheng running off to get it.

You felt a chill run down your spine when you were alone, knowing full and well that Renjun was not pleased and you knew no matter how much you explain, he wouldn’t listen.

Renjun always told you that you were his and his alone and you never fought back against his claim of you because he genuinely made you feel safe.

When Sicheng came back with the first aid kit, he took out some bandages and wrapped your ankle up.

You couldn’t stop the warmth coming to your cheeks from not only being so close to him but from also feeling his touch.

It wasn’t like you were a touched starved virgin or anything, it was more so that Sicheng was gorgeous and you couldn’t help but be infatuated with your neighbor.

You knew that Renjun knew of your crush on your neighbor but he never said anything about it.. but as you sat on the couch with Sicheng wrapping up your foot, you can feel the ghost’s stare burning your skin and though you liked how close you were to the man before you, you wished he hurried up.

Once he was done, he asked you where your kitchen was at and you told, him walking off.

He come back some seconds later with a bag of frozen fruit. He moved your coffee table closer to you and put your leg up on the table and placed the cold bag on your bandaged-up ankle.

After asking if you needed anything else, he left your house after telling you if you needed anything, to call him since you did have his number, laughing slightly about why you never texted him.

Renjun didn’t show himself to you at all throughout the day and you knew he was pissed off. And you were proven correct as the ghost destroyed your room in anger.

“Renjun stop!” you cried.

Suddenly, everything stopped and it become too quiet in your room, your sniffling being the only sound in the air.

You felt a weight on your bed and fingers caressing your face. You turn your head, looking at the ghost and you quickly blurted, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him into the house. I’m sorry.”

Renjun cooed at you, hushing you.

“I know my love, I know. That man just walked in here like as if this was his home. It’s not your fault, I know.” he told you in his soft voice.

You gulped nervously, your breathing shaky as you asked, “What… what are you gonna do to him?”

Renjun smiled at you, a murderous glint flashing in his eyes before his eyes becoming gentle and soft, the eyes that always gave you comfort.

“Let’s not talk about that my love. You should get some rest. You sprained your ankle, right?”

“Y-yes. But Renjun wha-“

“Shh,” he said, laying you down on your bed, laying down with you.

“Go to bed love,” Renjun whispered, his lips touching your forehead in a sweet kiss.

You closed your eyes, melting into Renjun’s embrace as his arms wrapped around you. If anyone knew you were in love with a ghost, you’d be put in the crazy house.

The thought of the danger Sicheng was in left you as Renjun’s sweet voice entered your ears as he sang you a lullaby.

[jwiloves]

Kings Serie Masterlist

Haechan x reader, Jeno x reader, royalty!au Summary: You, a pregnant servant of Jeno and abandoned by him, the future king of Suyon, wants revenge and goes after the only person who can help you. Haechan, the future king of Taegoji and archenemy of Jeno, accepts but on one condition: that you become his queen.

⨶ Chapters [FINISHED]

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Final | Special I

⨶ On Spotify 

⨶ Manips

One |

[jwiloves]

Jwiloves' Masterlist <3

Neo Culture Technology (NCT)

[NCT 127/NCT Dream/WayV/Dojaejung/NCT Wish]

-> Renjun - 12:37 PM

-> Haechan - 01

-> Yushi - 8 Letters

The Boyz

-> Sangyeon -

-> Jacob -

-> Younghoon -

-> Hyunjae -

-> Juyeon -

-> Kevin -

-> New -

-> Sunwoo - 01

-> Q -

-> Eric -