#awkward fluff collab

[100vern]

ex-conomics | csc

you supported seungcheol through years of being an aspiring athlete, and all you got to show for it was your undergraduate degree and an awkward, stuttered apology when he dumped you to go semi-pro. now he’s back after an injury derailed his career, and there’s only one problem: you’re the only one available to tutor him. you - 0; the universe - 1. talk about no return on investment.

⚽ pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader ⚽ genre: exes to (lite) enemies to lovers; university au; angst, fluff ⚽ rating: while there is nothing explicit in this fic, there are two brief references to smut. while i can't stop anyone from reading this, i would prefer minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ⚽ warnings: cheol is some degree of famous, reader is a grad student/TA, mentions of an injury and coping with the aftermath of it, lots of economics talk that even i do not understand, swearing, one mention of alcohol, some misplaced jealousy, rom-com tropes, dino is kind of a loser but we love him anyway. probably a lot of other things i missed, but this is actually pretty tame for a fic of this length. ⚽ word count: 13.4k ⚽ thank you: a lot of people looked this over for me in the process and i'm sure i will forget some of them so if i do i'm sorry: @the-boy-meets-evil, @hot-soop, @highvern, and @haologram, who also gave me some wonderful ideas for the vlogs. thank you to MIT for opencourseware existing. i took microeconomics and dropped it, so i couldn't have done this without you. everyone in the discord server for helping me along the way and keeping me motivated. ⚽ author's note: i haven't posted a fic in nearly seven months, so i think it goes without saying that there are parts of this i like and a lot more i'm not 100% happy with. i'd love if this was more fleshed out and 10k longer, but i was able to write anything at all so it's good enough. this was written for the back to school with seventeen collab, hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you both for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories! everyone worked so hard and this collab was a ton of fun to participate in. <3

You look down at the paper. Back up at who handed it to you. Down at the paper again.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

The poor freshman kid laughs, all nerves, and even though the sound is grating, you remember what it’s like to be forced into work study. How far away graduate school seemed; how large your professors loomed over you with all their power and knowledge and credentials; how you constantly felt like the dumbest person in nearly every room you walked into for four straight years.

“Um—”

You sigh, just barely resisting the urge to slam your head onto your desk. “I—it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Your words do little to ease Freshman’s nerves. He’s still hunched over in the doorway of your office, wringing his hands as he shifts his weight back and forth, in for a lifetime of body pain with the way he’s squaring his shoulders. “You’re sure about this, though? Like, I’m really not being set up?”

“I don’t think so?” he offers, slowly starting to turn green right before your eyes. “Dr. Lee ga-gave me the paperwork himself, I don’t think he would’ve messed it up? Oh no, did I mess it up? Should I go back to Student Services and conf—”

Good god, this kid’s anxiety is gonna stink up your office for weeks. “No need!” you interject. “I’ll just…” Sign it, you want to say, but the longer you stare at the sheet of paper the quicker you’re losing your resolve.

TUTORING REQUEST FORM Student Name: Choi Seungcheol Degree: Undergraduate Major: Business Course: ECON04101 Introduction to Microeconomics Instructor: Lee Yeonseok, PhD. Recommended Tutoring: High (3-4 hours per week)

You curse under your breath. Of the two names on the paper, Dr. Lee’s does not come as a surprise. He’s a notorious hard-ass with an infamous attrition rate—most students don’t last more than a week in any of his classes—but he’s also the sole reason you were able to pay for someof your grad school tuition out of pocket with all the tutoring money you made.

That, however, was two years ago.

“Does he know I don’t tutor anymore?” Stupid question. The kid stares blankly back at you, as if to say I don’t know any more than the people in Student Services, let alone Dr. Lee. It is literally my first year here. “I’m Dr. Ahn’s TA this year. I’ve got my hands full with her bullsh… stuff—”

Immediately, you know you’ve said something wrong, because the kid’s eyes light up, all that previous anxiety disappearing like smoke. “Wait, the same Dr. Ahn that teaches the crypto course?”

“No, that one died,” you say quickly. Kid deflates. “Anyway, I don’t really tutor anymore, especially for econ. As you can see”—you gesture vaguely around the cramped four walls of your office—“they’ve upgraded me. They even put my name on a little placard by the door! Go look! They spelled it wrong! If that doesn’t sum up this university I don’t know what does.”

You heave another sigh. Try to school your face and tone into something that exudes professionalism and finality. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I tutored Dr. Lee’s students for, like, three years in undergrad so I’m sure they just… forgot that wasn’t my actual job here. Who’s in charge of tutoring these days? I’ll shoot them an email and explain all this.”

Freshman gives you a name, and it takes less than a second to find them in the employee directory. You expect that to be the end of it, but he’s still taking up space in your doorway. You quirk an eyebrow. “Yes?”

The hand-wringing returns, along with an embarrassed flush that disappears beneath the neckline of his school-branded sweatshirt. “I just—um. Maybe you could, uh. Send that now? Before I get back there?”

You blink. “Don’t you have to go all the way back across campus? How slow do you think I type?” He shrugs, and you give up on the idea of getting rid of him. “Fine. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Lee Chan. I’m a sophomore. Do you know that guy?”

“Oh. I thought for sure you were a freshman, but you’re gonna need to be more specific, Lee Chan, Sophomore.”

“The guy they want you to tutor.” You freeze. The guy they want you to tutor is—“Choi Seungcheol,” Chan tacks on, and, yeah, you know—knew, you correct yourself—someone with that name, once upon a time.

But there are a lot of Chois and a lot of Seungcheols. It’s been years since you’ve spoken to the Seungcheol you knew, and that was when he’d broken up with you to—“I heard he’s a football player? Well, used to be, I guess. The girls in the office were freaking out so I guess he’s pretty famous, but I don’t know anything about sports, do you? They said they have photocards of him. I thought they only did that for idols.”

You think about being kids together in Daegu. Think about the exasperated looks you’d share when your parents would drag the two of you to festivals: Palgongsan in the autumn, Biseulsan in the spring; transformation and rebirth. Think about being eight years old and watching your father cram into the small space of the Chois’ living room, standing around the TV with Seungcheol’s dad, shouting at Park Jonghwan. Daegu FC made the FA Cup quarterfinals that year, and you think, of everything, that’s what you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

You think about falling in love slowly. Sixteen and clueless, the pair of you were. Didn’t really know any different, just that you’d look at him and feel butterflies. That you’d hold hands in secret. Text beneath the dinner table. That you’d watch him on the football pitch and be consumed by pride. That the future felt impossibly far away, that life would never catch up to the two of you.

You think about all the football jargon you didn’t understand—the academies, the teams, the implications. You think about, I’m thinking about trying out for the FC Seoul U-18, I just don’t think there’s much more I can do here in Daegu. You think about replying, Oh, I applied to university there.

You remember thinking it must’ve been fate, how easy that had worked out. How easy that first hurdle had been overcome.

You think about how fast everything happened. The try-out, the acceptance, the explosion. Remember being unable to go anywhere those first few months without seeing Seungcheol’s face, touted as the next big thing. Think about applying for scholarships when he was applying for international visas. Think about studying for midterms when Seungcheol was studying English for interviews.

You think about the last few weeks of your relationship, when it felt like you were desperately trying to cling to ghosts. Think about how Seoul had once felt endlessly big, both in opportunity and size, and how it now felt suffocating. You think about, So you’re just giving up? Is that what you’re saying? Think about, I don’t know what else to do. It doesn’t feel fair to you.

You think about all the places you’ve watched him. On countless football pitches; shy glances in school hallways; in the passenger seat, wracked with nerves on the drive to Seoul; poised above you in bed, hairline dotted with sweat as he rolled his hips, telling you how much he loved you.

You think about watching him walk out the door, and how you never watched him again.

So you fire off your email, concise and to the point about why you can’t tutor Choi Seungcheol in Introduction to Microeconomics, and turn to Lee Chan, Sophomore.

“No,” you finally answer. “Never heard of him.”

For all intents and purposes, your rejection should’ve been the end of it.

A few days go by. You hold office hours, attend lectures, work on your thesis when you have both the time and the energy. Try to ignore the feeling of bees beneath your skin, anxiety needling each time you check your email. You were well within your right to decline the tutoring request, but you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. That someone somehow knows who Seungcheol was to you and will pull you up on it. That those girls who’d gushed about him to Chan are somewhere laughing at your expense.

But you don’t hear anything at all about it… until you do.

Sunday evening. You haven’t moved from your couch in hours, some variety show playing in the background, barely audible over your keyboard clacking. Much to your detriment, you don’t write many papers these days, so you’re out of practice. Feels like you haven’t done anything besides formulas in years, all of your academic knowledge reduced to fucking math, so you’re about ready to toss your laptop out the window long before the email even comes through.

You see, From: Lee Yeonseok. You see, Subject: Choi Seungcheol - Tutoring.

Your stomach plummets to the floor.

You scan the body quickly. You see the words personal favor… friend of his father… urgent matter… and your hands start shaking. Whether it’s from the sheer audacity of this man or anxiety, you aren’t sure, but it’s not like it matters. There aren’t a whole lot of people on campus brave or dumb enough to go up against him twice.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, bitter the only taste in your mouth.

Where did you go wrong to wind up here? You’d followed the script: got the grades, passed the exams, received half of the required education for the Respectable Career, helped a few others along the way chase dreams that may or may not have been their own. You’d fallen in love. Only had a broken heart to show for it, but that’d been in the script, too: The First Love, followed by The First Heartbreak.

The split from Seungcheol was supposed to have been the end of that chapter. You’d planned on never seeing him again, and you never would have, had it been up to you. Apparently the universe has other plans, participation required.

“Did you spill onion dip on the rug again?” You startle, sending your laptop flying. Kaori, your roommate, is perched halfway in between the living room and the kitchen like a cryptid, clearly not expecting your reaction. “Oh. Were you watching porn?”

Face burning, you fetch your laptop from the floor. “In a common area? Kaori, please, I have far more decorum than that.”

She snorts, resuming her trek to the fridge. “See, that’s what I thought, but then I walked out here and you threw your laptop so fast it was like watching my ex get caught watching furry porn all over again.” She pries the lid off a large container of yogurt. “You think this is still good?”

“Dunno. What’s it smell like?”

She sniffs it and pulls it back to check the label. “Vanilla, I think, which is concerning because it’s supposed to be strawberry.”

You shrug. “What’s the worst that can happen, you get extra”—you pause, trying to remember the correct order of things, before giving up entirely—“...biotics?”

“Mm, so close. Care if I just eat this with a spoon?”

Nose scrunched, you wave her off. “Couldn’t pay me to eat yogurt on a good day, let alone if it’s expired. All yours, babe.”

Spoon in hand and a pleased smile on her face, Kaori collapses onto the couch beside you. You try to return your attention to your paper, try to find your momentum again, and it works for all of ten minutes before you’re groaning and slamming the top closed.

You don’t even need to look over to know Kaori’s staring. “What’s up with you?” she asks. Before she can answer: “Wait, is this serious? Because I can’t have a serious conversation in this t-shirt.” You steal a glance sideways. Ask Me About My Hemorrhoid! it says, and you exhale loudly. “Don’t breathe at me, I lost a bet.”

“And continued wearing it?”

She jokingly rolls her eyes. “God forbid a girl has hobbies.” Nudges you with her foot. “C’mon, spill.”

Kaori doesn’t know about you and Seungcheol. Most people don’t, aside from a few old classmates from Daegu who found you on social media and tried befriending you once he started making a name for himself in Seoul. After that, it was just easier to keep things private while you were together. New friends knew you were seeing someone but not their name or how long you’d been together. Any curiosity surrounding why the Choi Seungcheol was following you on Insta had been waved away easily. Our parents are friends, we grew up together. Then you broke up, and there wasn’t any evidence to delete, and he wasn’t following you on Instagram anymore, and it was easier that way.

So, yeah—even though you hadn’t met her until years later, Kaori knows you have an ex. She knows you’ve had a few flings and situationships in the time since, too, and it’s why she’s none the wiser when you ask, “It’s nothing, really. Just—do you follow football at all?”

“Nah, not really. The new guy’s pretty into it and keeps trying to get me to watch the games with him, but it’s so fucking boring? I dunno, I can’t get into it. Not in real life, anyway—I binged all of Captain Tsubasa in an embarrassingly short amount of time, though. Why?”

“Student Services asked me to tutor someone the other day and I had to turn it down. I just don’t have the time, you know? This semester’s already killer, and Dr. Ahn’s been riding my ass nonstop about grades. Turns out it’s some football player, so Dr. Lee emailed me asking me to do it as a personal favor, which means, on top of all the other shit I have to do, I’m now tutoring some football player four hours a week in Microeconomics.”

Her face distorts. “God, that guy’s such a prick. Like wow, you’re good at the economy! Good for you! Who cares! Why don’t you go balance the national debt or something instead of torturing university freshmen!”

You also wrongly assume that’s the last you’ll hear of it from Kaori.

Two days later, after Student Services replies to your email with the days and times you’ll be tutoring Seungcheol, she materializes in the living room to harass you.

“You didn’t tell me your football player was Choi Seungcheol.”

The panic is instant. You know how she means it, but it’s not how your body interprets it. All of a sudden it feels like an interrogation, an accusation, and a whopping serving of guilt takes up residence in the middle of your chest for not being entirely honest.

“Explains this weird text Ken sent me.”

She slides her phone over to you, open to her text thread with her current flavor of the week. Beneath an article about Seungcheol enrolling in classes at your school:

doesn’t ur roomie TA there Why are you calling her “ur roomie” like you don’t know her name?? Rude. Also yes. ask her to get me an autograph No babe pls he was my fav player before he got injured No 🙄 fine. can i come over later? Starting to think you’re using me for my roommate. Get your own job 🙄

You hand her phone back. “I didn’t think you’d know who Choi Seungcheol even is.” It’s the best you can do, even though it just digs you a deeper grave. “You said you’re not into football.”

“I’m not, but unfortunately I am into that stupid man.” She sighs, wistful and longing. “Babe, you have to understand. His dick is so big.”

You hadn’t wanted to stay in Seoul for your graduate degree, let alone the same university you’d gone to for undergrad.

You’d applied to schools all over—Japan, Europe, even a few in the States. Romanticized the hell out of NYU, went window shopping for an overpriced apartment, picked a favorite pizzeria based on nothing but vibes and online reviews. In those few months after graduation, there wasn’t a whole lot tying you to Seoul. Your and Seungcheol’s relationship had been old history by then, your parents split. Your dad stayed in your childhood home and your mother moved a few hours closer to her sister. They’d waited until your brother was old enough to be out of the house.

And it’d just been… a lot. Overwhelming. Some days you could barely shower or feed yourself, let alone move halfway across the world, so you’d stayed in the familiar and tried not to let it feel like failure.

But the good thing about familiarity is you learn its tricks, figure out the hiding spots. Early on, your first or second week of grad school, you laid claim to a study room on a floor of the library everyone else ignored. You write notes on the whiteboard with faded blue markers that are still there days later. The chair on the opposite side of the table is always exactly where you left it, the space between it and the table enough to only accommodate you. Sometimes you leave books—old paperbacks littered with notes in your writing—or papers, just to see if they move.

They never do.

And all of this is why it feels like a punch to the gut when that sanctity is tainted. When you’re halfway through a stack of Dr. Ahn’s exams and the doorknob rattles behind you. When you don’t even need to turn around to know who it is, because he still sounds the same, still has that overwhelming presence. You’ve always sensed him before you felt him.

“There you are,” Dr. Lee says, ambling into the room before you can protest. He, too, is overwhelming, just in different ways. Immaculate posture that anchors his slight frame that’s always dressed impeccably and expensively. Wears a watch that’s triple your tuition. Shoes polished so bright they’re nearly blinding. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

This time it is an accusation.

Well, you found me, you want to say, but just knowing Seungcheol is behind him, lingering in that half-study room, half-hallway space, is enough to keep you quiet. Like if you speak you’ll summon him closer and you’ll no longer be able to pretend this is nothing more than a nightmare.

You plaster on a polite smile. Say, “Ah, here I am, kyosu-nim,” and put all your energy into trying to glue Seungcheol to the floor with your mind.

Which is fruitless, because Dr. Lee moves further into the room. Gestures for Seungcheol to follow him with an impatient huff, and the study room is small, sure, and with three people it feels cramped, but that’s not the reason it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

Seungcheol looks… different. He looks as anxious as you feel, and he sticks close to the wall like he’s trying to disappear. Dr. Lee introduces him with grave importance, unaware of your history, and the forced smile he offers you almost looks embarrassed.

You know Dr. Lee is still hammering away, probably giving you a stern talking-to for rejecting his request the first time, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol. Feels like the world around you has reduced to a pinhead, all hyperfocus; feels like your lungs are sucking in stale air one at a time.

“...his father is a very good friend of mine, so I expect…”

You expected to feel nothing. Seungcheol had left to chase his dream—one you’d always been so supportive of that it sometimes felt like your dream, too—and, perhaps naively, you thought the distance and the years would’ve been enough. You expected your heart to have hardened. You expected all those nights you spent crying to hit you at full force. You expected anger, hurt—indifference, at the very least.

“...as many hours per week as you both can manage…”

But you should’ve known better. Should’ve expected the butterflies, the way your palms grow clammy, the way your heart rate spikes. Should’ve expected everything to feel upside-down. You should’ve expected to look at Seungcheol and feel sixteen and in love all over again.

“...you are responsible for his academic progress…”

And that simply will not do. You’ve spent the last few years pulling yourself out of that hole, clawing your way back to something resembling normal. You’ve purged the thought of him from your mind—let his scent fade from your sheets, an old sweatshirt he’d left behind; forgot the way his lips felt against every inch of your skin; forgot the way his entire being lit up when he laughed; forgot the safety he encompassed, the way he whispered all those sweet nothings.

You cannot go there again.

So you roll your shoulders back, smile politely. Say, “Ah, kyosu-nim, Choi Seungcheol-ssi seems very intelligent, I’m sure he is capable of being responsible for his own academic standing, don’t you think?”

Dr. Lee cannot disagree without all but calling Seungcheol an idiot, so he hovers before you in shocked silence. Makes a show of huffing and checking his watch, like he’s all of a sudden remembered he’s late for something and being inconvenienced by this conversation he started, and then he’s halfway out of the library with a terse, “Discuss and figure this out amongst yourselves,” thrown over his shoulder.

You have an entire dramatic exit planned in your head. Gather your things, fake a phone call that makes you sound authoritative and important, and brush past Seungcheol wearing your nicest perfume as if all of this is so far beneath you you can’t even bring yourself to care about it.

Of course, you actually have to brush by him for any of that to happen, and since you’ve already decided you will not go there again, you quickly scribble your email address onto a piece of paper and slide it across the table at Seungcheol, who has steadfastly remained planted just outside the door. “Here’s my email. I don’t have time to discuss this right now.” Seungcheol cocks an eyebrow. You start throwing things into your bag haphazardly. You know you look frantic and affected, but there’s not much you can do about that. “What? Send me a copy of your syllabus and what you want to prioritize. It’ll be easier to get through this if we have a plan instead of winging it.”

He seems to catch on to your distaste because he mirrors it. Scoffs as he rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, no use spending more time together than we have to,” and if you hadn’t gone years without speaking, you would’ve seen right through it.

But you did, so it stings all the same.

As it typically does, the planet keeps spinning after your run-in with Seungcheol.

You grade Dr. Ahn’s coursework. Try running off your anxiety at the gym, even though it’s pretty good at keeping pace with you these days. You meet Kaori’s maybe-boyfriend sneaking out of your apartment early in the morning and he has the good sense not to mention your ex, but you chalk that up to the mess of hickeys covering his neck and not any sense of social decorum.

Other people’s embarrassment saves you a ton of your own, you’ve come to learn.

Throughout all of this, Seungcheol only emails you once to send you his course syllabus. Doesn’t mention tutoring or provide you with his schedule or ask for yours, so when you’re sitting in a bar with your friends, three or four drinks deep and feeling a little petty, you forward him the original tutoring request and make sure to bold, underline, and highlight the “Recommended Tutoring: High” part for good measure.

He doesn’t take your bait—electronically, at least—but he does show up to your office hours the following Tuesday.

Bag tossed onto the floor, he flops unceremoniously into the chair across from you and says, in lieu of a greeting, “They spelled your name wrong. On the door thing.”

“I know,” you reply, your smile polite and terse. Incredible how he has the ability to raise your blood pressure in milliseconds. “What can I help you with?”

“Depends. How long do you have?”

“Well, considering you’ve shown up to my office hours on time, I’m assuming you already know I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday from four to six. So”—you glance at the clock above the door—“assuming no one comes by who needs my help more than you do, you have approximately one hour and fifty-eight minutes.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment as he takes you in. His stare is weighted; it makes you feel a little green around the edges. Clinical and sharp, so far removed from the way he used to look at you. You clear your throat. “I looked over your syllabus. The good news is there’s only a midterm and a final and the rest is problem sets. The bad news is there’s only a midterm and a final so they’re weighted quite heavily. You really need to know this stuff inside-out to have any hope of passing.”

“That’s why you’re here, right? Dr. Lee specifically requested you.”

You huff a breath through your nose. “I’m here as supplemental help. I can’t take your exams or do your readings for you. What else are you taking this semester?”

He sighs, sinking further into the chair, very much playing the part of the heir who has no interest in any of this. Which… is unlike him, you think, if you’re even allowed to. The Seungcheol you knew years ago took everything so seriously. Never clipped corners or took shortcuts. Anyone else would think him a spoiled, petulant child. “Business Accounting and International Trade.”

“Could be worse,” you note. “At least those three courses are tangentially related.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t taken a fucking math class in years.”

You return it. “You remember how to add and subtract, don’t you?”

“I ruptured my ACL, not my…” He trails off, looking a little embarrassed that he can’t name a part of the—“Brain.”

Whatever you were going to quip back with dies on your tongue. It's the first time Seungcheol has broached the topic of his injury—the first you’re hearing of it at all, actually—and he says it like it’s a joke, like it’s not a thing at all, but the pain is all over his face. The bitterness of the situation he’s found himself in. The unfairness of it all.

And there are so many questions you want to ask that aren’t your place: if it’s fixable, if he’ll ever play again, how he’s coping. But you don’t really need to—you can’t imagine how you’d feel if someone suddenly pulled the rug out from under you. If everything contained within the four walls of your office suddenly disappeared.

Not that the man sitting across from you hadn’t already done that, but.

“Right,” you continue, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You know Seungcheol—know he wouldn’t want you prodding, sticking your fingers in that particular wound. “I want you to take a look at this,” you say, handing over a printout you have saved from your undergrad tutoring days. “Tell me what looks familiar, what doesn’t; what does and doesn’t make sense.”

He looks down at the paper. Back up at you. Down at the paper again. “What the fuck is this?”

“I—what? Cheol, it’s my old notes on recitation. Surely you’ve already covered this—the syllabus says this is week one stuff.” He looks down at the paper again, and it’s so familiar, watching the life drain entirely from someone’s eyes.

You barely resist the urge to slam your face onto your desk a second time.

You meet Seungcheol at the sports center for your next tutoring session.

He likes the humidity and the smell of the chlorine by the pool. He also likes that it’s not the football pitch, so the two of you sit in the bleachers there and go over his lecture notes. Much to your surprise, Seungcheol talks a mile a minute. Has stars in his eyes when he says he finally understands elastic demand curves, supply shock; tells you he spent a whole hour making flashcards.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him so excited since your tutoring began—the first glimmer of hope you’ve felt since Dr. Lee cornered you in your library hideaway. None of this surprises you. Seungcheol has always been smart, even when football was his primary (and sometimes only) focus. He has more determination and grit than anyone you’ve ever met, so you’re not surprised he’s doing well, excelling, but you are surprised—

“Can I ask you something?” Seungcheol shrugs, shoves half a protein bar in his mouth and swallows without chewing. “Why are you… uh. Here?”

“At this university?”

“Not exactly. I mean, I am wondering about that, but I guess… why business?”

Seungcheol hums. Tucks his good knee to his chest and stares down at the pool. No one’s using it, and truthfully the two of you probably aren’t even allowed to be here, but you understand why he likes it. It’s nowhere near as secluded as the library and definitely not as air conditioned, but it is peaceful. Calm. The water laps against the coping in quiet, small waves.

“Ah, I don’t know. You know how it goes.”

You quirk an eyebrow. Never, in all the years you’ve known him, has Seungcheol done anything he didn’t want to do. All that grit and determination. “What about your father, then? Dr. Lee mentioned this was a favor to him. He’s a pretty important person to have in your Rolodex of favors.”

Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see what this is: Seungcheol’s father has new money; worked from the bottom up, made some smart investment decisions that finally panned out after Seungcheol left for Seoul. Started doing his own thing, made a name for himself. Last you’d heard from your mother, Seungcheol’s brother was second-in-command. Hell, even your own brother did an internship there.

So you know what this is: a father helping his son after his dream was shattered, life turned upside-down. You can’t blame him, even if you’ve heard the whispers from all the way across campus. That Seungcheol is washed up now, trying to nepo his way into his father’s company because of it; that all he knows is sports and he should’ve stuck to that, what does he know about business, why is he the one Dr. Lee went out of his way to help.

Doesn’t stop any of them from smiling at him, though; doesn’t stop them from asking for autographs or selfies.

But you also know this isn’t something Seungcheol seems willing to discuss, so you crack a joke—“I mean, business. God, who’d wanna go into that?”—and go back to what he was willing to talk about.

You’ve never hated elastic demand curves so much in your life.

Deep in the throes of tutoring—when you can’t tell if it’s week two or week twelve—you make it back to your apartment just before ten, head pounding.

The door flies open just as you’re about to punch in the code, and there stands Ken, looking far more put-off than you’ve ever seen him. Looks defeated, if you’re being honest, like someone mopped up all his emotions and wrung them out like dirty dishwater.

“Oh, hi,” you say hesitantly. The man in front of you seems too much like a caged animal to let your guard down. “Everything okay?”

He aborts a nod halfway. Mutters an apology as he brushes by you and stalks down the hall, disappearing around the corner to the elevators. Usually he’s a talker—you haven’t been able to avoid a Seungcheol-related conversation in weeks—so you’re a little stunned. Stand there stupidly for a while, and that’s where Kaori finds you a moment later.

“You gonna stand out here all night, or…?”

“Oh—yeah, right.”

You follow her inside. Toe off your shoes and put them in the rack. Focus on the sound of the kettle whistling instead of the overbearing tension in the room. Drop your bag off in your room, throw on a sweatshirt three sizes too big and a comfy pair of socks. Rummage through the fridge for leftovers, contemplate what mindless show you’ll watch as you eat, and you do not, under any circumstances, ask Kaori what happened.

You don’t have to. You knew what this was going to be the first time Ken spent the night—the way he looked mortified to be meeting you in the shared kitchen at seven a.m., wearing a look that begged you not to tell your roommate he was sneaking out.

I, uh, have an early class, he’d said. You know how it is.

Maybe you should’ve called him on it then. Issued a warning-but-not-really. She’ll get attached if you don’t tell her. She should know it’s different for you, if it is.

But you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t your place. Kaori wouldn’t want you in her business like that, so you stayed quiet, just nodded before watching him slip his shoes on and close the door behind him so quietly you wouldn’t have known he left at all if you hadn’t been looking. Gone, just like a ghost.

So, yeah, you know exactly why your roommate looks haunted.

“I’m a few episodes behind on this if you want to watch with me,” you offer, pointing at the television with the remote. It’s a lie—you’ve never watched this show a day in your life, which Kaori seems to know—but she contemplates it nonetheless. “Also, my mom mailed us some cookies. I think they’re in the fridge.”

“Why are there cookies in the fridge?”

You huff a laugh. “They were outside the door this morning before I left for campus. I don’t know—just saw who the package was from and was like, oh, this must go in the fridge.”

She nods. Grabs the container and joins you on the couch. Sticks her feet beneath your butt and doesn’t mention a thing.

The closest she comes is a few days later. Catches you right before you head out to campus and asks how tutoring is going.

“Not bad, actually.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she says, “That’s good. I’m glad things are going well for you two.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore makes his unexpected return at your office hours on an unsuspecting Tuesday.

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just helps himself to the seat across from you. “Maybe,” comes his cryptic retort. “I was thinking about signing up for that crypto course next semester.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, you weren’t.”

He sighs. Looks a little panicked, like he can’t believe that didn’t work. “You’re right, you’re right. I, um—I wanted to come say thank you.” He pauses. “You know, for that… email you sent.”

You blink. “No, you didn’t.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore cracks immediately. Thunks his head on your desk and lets loose a pained sound. It nearly sounds like he’s wailing when he says, “I’m sorry! They put me up to it!”

What you’re able to piece together is this: Lee Chan, Sophomore has become a bit of a celebrity in the Student Services department ever since he met you, Choi Seungcheol’s tutor. And, like any smart, previously unpopular university student would do, he took advantage of it. Might’ve stretched the truth a little to make it sound like he knew more than he did, so now here he is, angling for information the girls with the photocards may or may not have paid him to get.

“They want to know about his girlfriend.”

“His what?”

What you’re able to piece together is also this: the Photocard Girls are certain Seungcheol is dating someone, based on little more than vibes. You suspect these vibes are their three degrees of separation, considering there was an abnormal amount of Change of Major files formed after his enrollment, but you tell Lee Chan that you don’t know anything and, even if you did, you wouldn’t put his business out there like that.

But some part of you still has this inexplicable urge to protect Seungcheol, so you match their offer with interest and tell him to say there’s nothing to report—not that you didn’t know, not that he couldn’t get anything out of you. Seungcheol isn’t dating anyone.

You don’t know if it’s true, but you figure that if it isn’t, he still deserves privacy.

Which is a notion you have trouble explaining a few hours later, when Seungcheol strolls into your office with a grease-stained paper bag full of cheese coin bread, offering one to you with a proud smile that drops slowly when you just stare in return.

“What’s wrong?”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Nothing comes out, even though it should be simple. Some sophomore kid was just in here angling for information or the Student Services department is taking bets on whether or not you have a girlfriend would both suffice, but you cannot bring yourself to say the words.

What you settle on is, “Sorry, I just… had an interesting meeting before you got here.”

“Oh. Are you okay?”

You sigh. Tilt your head back to stare up at the ceiling. “It was about you, actually.”

Seungcheol chokes, starts stuttering over words you can’t make sense of. Says, “Me? Why? I passed my last exam—I mean, barely, but I still passed. And that wasn’t your fault! I didn’t study enough! I’ve been losing my mind over my International Trade class, that shit sucks—”

“It wasn’t about your grades, Cheol.”

“Oh.” Then, slowly, a lopsided, pleased smile overtakes his face. “Haven’t heard you call me Cheol in a while.”

“Seungcheol,” you correct.

He seems to forget all about the meeting. Tries again to offer you a coin bread before he threatens to eat them all himself, so you acquiesce mostly to shut him up, say you’ll bring the extras to Kaori. For some reason, you tell him about how much she’d loved the cookies your mom sent, and the nostalgia sets him off, gets him talking again, asking if they were the yakgwa she used to make when you two were kids.

They were, but you can’t seem to tell him that, either.

Seungcheol: sorry it’s last minute - running late. can you meet me at my place instead?

Seungcheol shared a location with you

You’re halfway to replying—I don’t think that’s appropriate—before you sigh and delete it. Midterms are only a few days away and you don’t have time to argue over where your tutoring sessions will be, so if Seungcheol wants to meet at his apartment that’s where you’ll meet him.

You read over the midterm notes on the train. Once, twice, and then a hundred more times until they’re nearly memorized, all so you can ignore the voice in the back of your head saying what a bad idea this is. That you have no business being on your way to your ex’s swanky part of town or integrating yourself into his life beyond tutoring at all. You shouldn’t know where he lives. Maybe you shouldn’t even have his phone number or answer his texts.

Not that there’s much you can do about it now, two stops away.

Seungcheol greets you warmly, if not a little rushed. Apologizes for the mess once you step inside, although it’s less “mess” and more “haven’t finished unpacking,” but there’s enough clear space to study at the dining table, so that’s where you set up, determined to keep things professional.

“Sorry again about this,” Seungcheol says, placing a can of cola in front of you as he takes the seat across. “I had to meet with my father and lost track of time, I guess.”

“Oh. How’s he doing?”

Seungcheol sighs, leans further back in the chair as runs a hand through his hair. A light brown, now. “Same as he always was, I guess. Talked about the business, about my brother. Can’t get him to shut up about that stuff most of the time.”

“The business is doing good, though.” You cough, clear your throat. “My, uh. My brother interned there during undergrad. I don’t know if your father told you that.”

You don’t know why you say it, because it’s clear from the brief flicker of pain on Seungcheol’s face that he hadn’t known, that no one had told him. And it hurts you too that they felt the need to keep it a secret, to protect Seungcheol from you even in tangential ways.

“He didn’t,” he admits, “but I’m sure he was happy to see him. He was, uh—he was glad to hear you’re my tutor. Said you were always smarter than all of us boys combined.”

You laugh. Hope it sounds casual instead of strained. “Well, no need to prove him right. Come on,” you say, tossing a study guide in his direction, “let’s get to work.”

Everything is alright for a while—nearly an hour at least. He has the formulas memorized and attributed to the correct equations. He can explain supply and demand, preference and utility, but things start to fall apart around budget constraints and constrained choice.

The formulas get mixed up. He grows frustrated when he doesn’t know the answers to your questions right away. Rolls his eyes and gets a little snappy when you correct him, try to explain things differently in a way he understands. At first he’s able to temper it, collect himself before things truly start spiraling out of control, but the longer the two of you sit there the more it all unravels.

He snaps, you snap back, and you can’t figure out why. You’ve survived this long in Seungcheol’s orbit even though you never thought you’d be around him again, and perhaps it was bound to explode eventually, but…

It’s the familiarity, you realize.

You and Seungcheol aren’t friends, though you’ve been playing at it for weeks now: meeting outside of the library or your office, the personal conversations bordering on reminiscing, being in his personal space. You don’t belong here. You don’t want to be his friend—you can’t be, not for real or pretend.

“That’s not what I’m say—”

“Then explain it better,” Seungcheol fires at you, eyebrows creasing. “You’re the tutor here.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m trying, okay? All I meant was—your answer isn’t wrong, but I know Dr. Lee and he’s going to want more than that in a response.”

“Right—not good enough, like I said.”

“I’m just asking you to expand on your answer—”

“And I’m telling you that’s all I’ve got. I’m not like you, all right? I don’t have all this shit just floating around in my head all the time. I’m not smart, I barely have any idea what’s going on half the time, and you sitting here being condescending about it is doing fuck-all to help.”

You inhale sharply, taken aback at the hostility in his voice. Suggest calling it for the night, say neither of you will be productive if you keep going like this, and neither of you bother to apologize.

So much of your relationship with Seungcheol was marred by clichés.

The two of you passing notes back and forth during class. You in the bleachers of all his games, screaming along to the team chants, waving a sign around with his name on it. Not realizing you had a crush on him at all until he liked someone else and it made your stomach hurt. Childhood friends turned lovers.

Another cliché: that it’s starting to feel like that all over again.

Seungcheol sits across from you in the library, econ textbook cracked in half in front of him as he pays no attention. Keeps grabbing his phone each time it vibrates across the table. Can’t fight the smile that forces its way onto his face when he reads whatever’s there.

Stupid, you think—both to do this and to think it’d play out any other way. Seungcheol left years ago. Probably lived ten lifetimes while he was away while you were here in this exact spot doing this exact thing. Barely lived half a life, just stuck your nose in textbooks and forced your way through.

“Cheol,” you say, trying to drag his attention back to the study guide. No use. He’s typing away, presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek as he responds. “Seungcheol,” you try again.

Also fruitless.

You have no claim here, you remind yourself—not to his time, not to him. He’s only here because someone else mandated it. You’re only here because someone else mandated it, but it stings all the same. Another reminder of what used to be, of what ended regardless of what you wanted. Another reminder that the role you used to play in his life is not the role you play now. That the space you used to take up created a vacancy, and eventually it was going to be filled.

And if this was anyone other than Seungcheol, if you were more emotionally evolved when it came to him, it wouldn’t gnaw at you as much. All of this would roll off your shoulders.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“If you’re not going to listen, then—”

“I am listening,” he interjects, but he’s not looking at you. Not looking at his textbook or his study guide. Keeps laughing and smiling at his phone, and it’s sick how bothered you are by it. That it feels like your stomach’s been turned inside-out with jealousy; with annoyance, because you don’t want to be here anyway, don’t want to do this anymore, and you’re wasting your time on someone who doesn’t appreciate it.

Perhaps he never did.

“What are we discussing, then?”

Still not looking up: “Consumer theory.”

You laugh—more a huff of air than anything, grin sardonically out of one corner of your mouth. Seungcheol sees none of it. “Wrong,” you answer, already expecting the way he shrugs it off. “I’m gonna skip ahead a few chapters, though. Consider it a freebie for your business class.”

It must be your tone that finally grabs his attention. Cutting, precise, purposeful. Seungcheol lowers his phone, quirks an eyebrow, wonders where this is going to go. It’s clear he’s pissed you off, that you’re itching for a fight. It’s clear the years of silence are finally coming to a head.

“Let’s talk about ROI. You know what that is?” You barely give him a second. “Return on investment. A performance measure used to evaluate the efficiency of an investment or compare the efficiency of several investments. So, let’s say I make one-hundred-thousand won on a ten-thousand won investment: my ROI is 90%. Are you following?”

He nods.

“Great, now let’s try something a bit more hypothetical.” You suck in a breath. “Let’s say I invest years of my adolescence into someone. A friend at first and then something more. Let’s say I played cheerleader, supported every hope and dream he had—went to every game, cheered him on, helped him practice his English. Held his hand and talked him down when the pressure felt overwhelming, when the only thing that felt inevitable was failure. Now, let’s say all I got in return was a stuttered, awkward apology as he dumped me and walked out the door. Let’s say that guy showed up again after years of silence just to once again waste my fucking time.”

The thing about pain is it’s not linear. What hurt five, ten years ago might not hurt today, but it might tomorrow; what hurt yesterday may never hurt again. The thing about pain is it lets you stick your head in the sand until it can’t anymore, and that’s where you are now: that window of time between Seungcheol walking out the door on the assumption you’d never see him again before he bulldozed his way back into your life has been slammed closed, locked up tight.

So you don’t even notice you’re crying until the room goes deathly silent and you can hear the drip drip drip of tears on paper. Until you watch Seungcheol’s hands flex and unflex in mid-air, stuck in that liminal space, wanting to reach out but knowing he has no right to. Until your chest aches so bad you’re sure you’re either about to break into stardust or cease to exist.

Until you say, “What, Choi Seungcheol, would you say my fucking return on investment was?” and he has nothing to say at all.

Kaori invites you to a party.

Just something small to celebrate the end of midterms and a classmate’s birthday. Nothing out of control or raucous, not even the kind of thing that’d earn a second glance from campus security. I won’t even make fun of you if you leave before eleven, is how she sold it to you, in addition to a small amount of begging and bargaining and a powerful set of puppy-dog eyes.

After everything the two of you have been through, you find it hard to say no.

So here you are, nearly eleven o’clock on a Friday, a cup of cheap beer in hand. A friend of a friend of a friend is wailing into a karaoke machine and although your ears are bleeding, it does feel nice for that to be your greatest worry. You aren’t thinking about your classes or how you’ve been prioritizing everyone else’s academic success. You aren’t thinking about whatever’s going on between Kaori and Ken. You aren’t thinking about Seungcheol.

At least you aren’t, until he walks through the door.

You’re going to continue not thinking about him at all—not about the fact he’s alone or how good he looks in a simple black T-shirt that’s a little taut in the shoulders. You’re not going to think about the way the air shifts, like the universe knows he’s important and is willing to accommodate. You’re not going to think about how Kaori catches your eye across the room, recognizes him from all her internet searches, and the way she mouths oh my god he’s so beefy at you.

You’re not going to think about how guilty you feel that she doesn’t know, because if you do you’re certain it’ll take over.

You watch Seungcheol work the room; watch as he floats between conversations, as strangers fall over themselves at the sight of him. How eager everyone is to give him something and how reluctant he is to take them. You watch as he winds up in the same circle as Kaori and how she must mention you, oh, your tutor is my roommate, because there’s a question in return before he turns and meets your gaze.

You wonder why the distance between you feels more insurmountable now than ever before.

Seungcheol finds you in your office.

It’s not a Tuesday or a Thursday, far later than four to six in the evening, but he doesn’t even bother knocking before he’s barreling in, stifling your space with his bad energy.

You haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks. Not since the party, if that even counts. Hasn’t bothered to reply to any of your texts or emails, and that was just fine by you, if that’s how he wanted to act, but it isn’t until he’s brooding on the other side of your desk that you realize you’re still aggrieved, too. Feels a little too familiar, him leaving you behind and in the dark.

So you don’t mean to—typically have much more professionalism than this—but when he tosses a stapled stack of papers with a barely-passing grade on your desk and says, “This is your fault,” the words come automatically and without forethought.

“Fuck off, Seungcheol.” It’s not your words that take him by surprise; more so the roll of your eyes, the accompanying huff. The impression that all of this is beneath you and nothing more than a mere annoyance. That however affected you were two weeks ago is not how affected you are anymore. “That’s what happens when you blow off your tutoring for two weeks because you’re a coward.”

He laughs, incredulous; unable to help the sound the tumbles out of his mouth. “I’m a—I’m a coward?”

“Yes,” you reply, tone giving away nothing. All he sees is feigned nonchalance despite the hurricane you feel brewing beneath the surface. “This,” you continue, pinching the corner of the paper between your fingertips and disposing of it in the trashcan beneath your desk, “is all on you, but do please let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to blame me for. I’m all ears.”

You don’t miss it: the way Seungcheol’s eyes grow wide at your ‘I’m all.’ The way he thinks you’re going to punctuate that sentence with yours, and it nearly has bile rising in your throat. Makes you want to scream, rip at your hair. If the last few months have taught you anything, it’s that you are still hopelessly in love with the man across from you—the man that continues to leave before he’s left, always at your expense.

So, yeah—Seungcheol is a coward, but only when it comes to you.

But he doesn’t look much like one now, gripping so hard at the edge of your desk that his knuckles have gone white, baseball cap pulled down low enough his eyes are barely visible. He’s always been overwhelming, always carried himself with an exaggerated arrogance even when it wasn’t warranted, always took everything so seriously, and maybe that’s why you’d thought he’d treat you the same way. Take you seriously. Wouldn’t just throw it all away on a maybe thing, and that’s why it's been years and you still aren’t over it.

Maybe Seungcheol is a coward, and maybe so are you.

Because not once since he’s been back have you been able to say what you mean. Can’t seem to tell him about the anger, the hurt, the heartbreak. Played it all off as petty nonchalance because you foolishly thought that would hurt him, that you’ve been reduced to simmering ash, no hope left for a fire.

“I could never blame you for a goddamn thing,” he says, voice so deep you could drown in it.

You so desperately want to know. You don’t want to know anything at all. You want Seungcheol to explain everything to you in detail and spoil the ending, but only if it’s guaranteed to be happy. Enduring another loss like the first time—you’re not sure you can take it. Not after you two have crossed paths like this, because you’ve never quite believed in fate but you think that has to mean something. That so much time and life had transpired and you two came back together.

Today, though, it doesn’t look like you’re going to get any answers.

Seungcheol straightens, looms at full height. Digs into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out a thumb drive. Wordlessly, he hands it over, and then he’s gone just as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Again.

Kaori wants to spend the weekend moping, and you can’t come up with a good reason not to join her.

She doesn’t mention Ken once. Not when she’s sobbing over A Silent Voice and Toradora! after that. Not when she keeps glancing at her phone every couple minutes to see if she has any texts. Not when you—only halfway paying attention between grading and your own assignments—suggest ordering something for delivery, maybe that new burger place down the street you heard was good, and Kaori shuts it down so vehemently you can only assume it was Ken’s favorite place.

Kaori just cries over the man with the big dick she never expected to take so seriously, and not even your stonewalling makes her feel ashamed of it.

And there’s respectability in that kind of openness and vulnerability. At least whatever she’s feeling is honest; at least she can admit she’s sad. You think watching Kaori process her breakup might help you process yours too, years too late, so you suck in a breath and ask, “Can I tell you something or is now not a good time?”

Kaori looks over at you. Dabs a soggy tissue at her eyes. “Well, I guess it depends,” is her answer, and she doesn’t shy away from how waterlogged her voice sounds. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a Takasu and Kawashima shipper, maybe, but if it’s anything worse I’m not sure I could take it.”

“I—what? Who even are they?” She gives you a half-hearted thumbs up. You sigh in response, sink further into the couch. “It’s, uh.” Clear your throat. “Do you remember when we met sophomore year? At that party? And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything and you said, and I quote, why not, I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing and I know that guy will have a huge—”

She hides her face behind her hands. “Ew, god, yes I remember that. My dick whisperer era. How embarrassing.”

“Right. And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything because I’d just gotten out of something.”

“Not really by choice, if I remember correctly. I told you if it was quiet it should’ve been loud, and then you never talked about it again.”

You nod. “I—yeah, that sounds like something I would’ve said.” You suck in a deep breath. “Listen, this is probably gonna sound bad considering I did never talk about it again, but—”

“Hey,” Kaori says, nudging you with her foot. Meant to be comforting, somehow. “It’s okay. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, too… most of which I’m not sure you should, actually.”

A laugh forces its way out, gives you a nice reprieve from the anxiety of the conversation you’re about to have. The need to explain it all, the need for advice. Maybe it’s not her—or anyone else’s—business, but you think you’ve kept this to yourself long enough. You and Seungcheol loved each other, once, and it seems foolish that no one knows.

Maybe Kaori had been right. Maybe love should be shouted from the rooftops; exist out in the open. Maybe something hidden in the shadows can never thrive in the light, and you knew it back then, deep down, but now it seems so obvious.

You think back to a few days before the library. Think about how things didn’t feel good but they felt okay. Think about the frustrated crease between Seungcheol’s eyebrows as he stared down at his textbook and how all you’d wanted to do was smooth it. Think about how you’d rolled your lips and tried not to laugh; how you thought it’d take a miracle to help Seungcheol pass this class.

Think about: What is the difference between the short-run and the long-run from the perspective of production theory?

Think about the short-run of your and Seungcheol’s relationship—that you’d burned bright and fast, even though it’d felt like a million years. Hadn’t dared to consider the long-run because anything beyond that bubble felt impossible.

Think about: Which of the following is not a property of isoquants?

Think about the way Seungcheol’s eyes lit up when he knew the answer. That they’re always linear, he said, and you smiled at his enthusiasm, raised your hand to high-five him and dropped it when he hadn’t noticed.

You think about the explanation—isoquants can be linear when inputs are perfectly substitutable—and what those graphs look like. Downward sloping, left to right. Think about how the graphs change when the isoquants are perfect complements.

L-shaped. Less straight as the inputs become poorer substitutes.

You know what your and Seungcheol’s graph would’ve looked like back then.

So it’s easy, almost, to tell Kaori everything. You tell her about growing up in Daegu, about the smell of the azaleas at Biseulsan in the spring. You tell her about how your parents had befriended the neighbors, how they had a kid your age, that that kid was Seungcheol—yes, that Seungcheol.

She’s able to anticipate the rest from there, but you fill in the blanks of what she can’t: being sixteen and falling in love, holding hands, the clandestine notes. All those football matches and how your throat would be hoarse from cheering. How nauseous you’d felt applying to university in Seoul, how excited you were when Seungcheol said he was coming with you. That, after you arrived, it felt like you were living in fast-forward. Barely any time to breathe or adjust; no time to just be you and Seungcheol. You had to be a student, someone responsible; Seungcheol had to be a phenom.

“Could you feel it was going to happen?” Kaori asks, now sat ramrod straight, all her attention on you. “Like, did you know?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I did? It’s hard to say now, all this time later. I know things definitely felt different, like life was pulling us in opposite directions.” You laugh, bitterness coloring the edges. “You couldn’t go two blocks without seeing him on some billboard, and I was just… normal, you know? I wasn’t some rising star athlete like he was, I just went to my classes. How was I supposed to compete with something like that?”

Your roommate hums, leans back into the pillows as she stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t think you were. Maybe that’s why Seungcheol was worried—maybe he felt like you were losing your own identity feeling like you had to keep up.”

You want to push back, argue that you weren’t, that you didn’t, but the truth is that it’s possible. That the shadows created by Seungcheol’s dreams were so massive you wouldn’t be surprised if they unintentionally swallowed you up. “It still wasn’t his choice to make,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

And Kaori already knows all about your hurt, listened as you explained it all and laid everything bare. So when she says, “Sometimes that’s just how it goes, though, babe,” it doesn’t feel condescending. “We do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time. You can say now it wasn’t Seungcheol’s choice to make, because it’s been almost five years and you’ve made a life for yourself separate from him. But the—god, this is gonna sound so patronizing, I am so sorry—but you guys were so young. No one has it all figured out at that age.”

She snorts, runs a hand through her messy hair. “Shit, I’m nearly halfway to thirty and I still don’t know anything.” Adopts a frown. “What do you want now? Do you want closure? Want to try to fix things and become friends?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, biting at a hangnail. “He actually, um. The other day when he stopped by my office, he left me a USB drive? And before you ask, no I did not already look at it.”

“A USB drive? Who does this guy think he is, James Bond?” A pause. “Are you gonna look at it, though?”

You do.

Not until the silver, midnight light creeps in through your bedroom curtains and you’ve stared at the ceiling long enough; waited long enough for texts that never came, for divine intervention to, well, intervene. It never did—fair enough—so you decide to take fate by the reins. Grab your laptop, instant headache from the screen, stick the drive into the port.

It takes a second for it to load, but when it does: dozens of videos, organized by date. Vlogs, by the look of them—some from before your breakup but the majority of them from after.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this.

You click on the first one: a month and a half before both of you moved to Seoul. A fresh-faced Seungcheol appears on your screen, cheeks still round with adolescence. He’s in his room back in Daegu, can’t get the camera angle right. Nostalgia hits you like a ton of bricks as it pans to the side, to the wall behind his bed, and you see all his old posters. Mostly football players you couldn’t name, some girl group he used to love, a few movies. Just below them are some of the notes you’d written him in school, and they’re all you can focus on as he talks about how excited he is for the move.

The next: a few weeks after you’d started classes. By then, Seungcheol was well into the swing of things with Seoul FC. Already a big fish in a small pond, tryout offers from European teams starting to roll in. You can hear yourself in the background stressing over your first exam, wishing a generational curse upon your calculus professor. In the video, Seungcheol laughs, whispers like he’s telling the camera a secret as he talks about how nervous he is for his future. I don’t know why, he says, but it just feels like everything is about to change.

There’s a long pause between that one and the next. You understand why when you look at the date: three months after your breakup. Your hands hover uselessly above your keyboard. Whatever answers you’ve been looking for the last few years are probably in this video, but you can’t bring yourself to open it. Not right away, at least.

You click on a different one at random. Seungcheol’s somewhere in Europe, judging from the language on the signs behind him. Snow falls quietly—whenever he filmed this, it must’ve been early. No one else is around, and he cracks a joke that it’s a good thing, people would probably think he was crazy if they saw him. He doesn’t tell you where he’s going but he narrates the entire walk: points out a cafe he’s grown to love. The way to get to his practice stadium from where he’s standing. Pauses near a restaurant and laughs ruefully, shakes his head, says, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but one of my teammates set me up on a blind date here and I got stood up. You’d probably think that was funny.

(You do. It also makes your chest ache.)

One from two years ago: Seungcheol in a hotel room, clearly nervous. He raises his hand to wave at the camera and you can see the corners of his nails bitten raw. Dark circles beneath his eyes; cheekbones more pronounced than you’ve ever seen them. On the screen, Seungcheol sighs, rakes a hand through freshly-bleached hair. Sucks in a deep breath as he says, I’m so nervous. I’m so—so fucking nervous and I don’t. Fuck, I don’t know what to do. I want to call you because you always knew what to say but that’s so fucking selfish. God, we haven’t spoken in years, and it’s my—that’s my fault, I know, so I brought this all on myself. I just want to hear your voice.

Another from a week after that: the color’s returned to his face, and he’s recording from what looks like a penthouse apartment. Sleek, modern; a small white dog napping on the bed beside him. He smiles, looks like he got his teeth fixed, looks like he’s no longer carrying around the weight of the world. Talks endlessly and excitedly about some tournament. Talks so fast you can barely keep up. Talks around words tinged with languages you don’t understand.

Seungcheol wins a championship. Records a drunk vlog from the same night, hair soaked through with god-knows-what—water, champagne, you don’t know. But he looks radiant. Looks like the culmination of two decades of dreaming. He looks happy, free, at peace. He looks like the reason he let you go, why he had to go away.

You scroll to the bottom of the files. Pause at the last video, dated seven months before the term started.

“Hi,” he says, and you can immediately tell everything is all wrong. Seungcheol’s in the dark, face only visible enough to see the tears tracking on his cheeks. “This is going to be the last one of these I make. I don’t know if you, uh—I’m sure you aren’t paying attention to me—my career—anymore, but. I, um. I got hurt. Ruptured my ACL. They’re not sure I’ll…” A sob escapes him. Has you wanting to climb through the screen to hold him, thumb away his tears, tell him everything is going to be okay. “They don’t know if I’ll ever play again.”

Seungcheol no longer looks happy, free, at peace. “Maybe you’ll be happy to hear that,” he continues. “Maybe it’ll help you to know I threw away our relationship for nothing.”

Cut to black.

The sudden silence is deafening. Has you desperately clicking back to the video you’d skipped, the one from just after your breakup. Seungcheol looks the same in that one, too, like the life has been drained out of him.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s not like I’ll ever show these to you now, since I…

I’m sure I owe you an explanation. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—things have been so hard, and I’m still trying to make sense of it all. I feel like my life went from zero to a hundred before I could even blink and now I’m scrambling. I didn’t think it was fair to—to drag you through that. Me being away, moving to an entirely different continent. I have faith we could do it, I just. I don’t know, baby, I don’t…

You deserve to have your own life. Be your own person. I’m so scared that the world will never see you for who you are—so beautiful and intelligent and kind. You don’t deserve to be reduced to my partner. And if you ever see this, I know you’re gonna roll your eyes. Probably call me a mean name because I took the choice away from you, because you think I’m trying to be selfless and heroic, and you’d be right. It’s not fair, and I wish I could tell you I’m sorry.

I wish I could just… pluck out my brain and give it to you, because even if it killed me to do it, at least it makes sense to me. And I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m not hurting. I’ve been sick to my stomach since I left. I know I’m making a mistake, I know I am, I just—how do I do what I think is right in the long-run when it’s not what I want right now, or ever?

I don’t want to get over you. I don’t want you to get over me, and that’s how you know I’m not acting selflessly, because you should. I want you to always be happy, I just… wish it was with me.

So, I’m going to keep making these. I’m going to take you along for the ride, wherever it takes us, because you should be here but I can only hope you can one day understand why you’re not. I’m so—I’m so sorry, I don’t…

I’m sorry.

I love you.

You fall asleep and dream that you were the one meant to meet him at that restaurant.

The first thing you do is make a call to your mother.

“Could you send another container of yakgwa?”

On the other end of the line, your mother tuts, motherly intuition audibly kicking into overdrive. Is probably wearing that all-knowing, sly grin she always does when you try to be coy and evasive. “What happened to the last container I sent?”

“Ah, you know Kaori loves those. They barely lasted an hour after I told her what was in there.”

She hums an acknowledgement. Sounds like she takes a sip of tea. “I remember someone else being quite fond of those cookies, too.”

“Well, they are the most popular cookies in the country, so.”

After haranguing you into admitting they’re for Seungcheol and not your roommate, your mother promises to send them quickly. A few days at most, which buys you enough time to figure out how you’re going to approach the man in question.

The vlogs have turned your entire world upside-down. Answered questions you hadn’t even known you had. Took all that anger and resentment you’d been holding onto and set it free, and now you’re just left with… a void. Want to mend things, and it makes you wonder if such a thing is even possible, if it’s too late, but you don’t let those thoughts get very far.

Instead, you let them spur you into action. Have you sitting in front of your laptop at your desk, office hours long since over, silence creeping in the more the department empties. The thrum of the airconditioning and the tick-tick-tick of the clock are all the only company you have.

You worry if it’ll show on camera, how out of sorts you feel: sweating from the nerves, dabbing at your hairline; cheeks warm to the touch. But you suck in a breath anyway, steel yourself. Look at your webcam and the daunting red circle…

And start recording.

He hadn’t gotten it at first. Not really.

There’d been a container of yakgwa outside his door with his USB drive taped to the top of it. No note—not that he needed one to know who it was from, but he wasn’t sure what it was. A goodbye? A please fuck off forever and never contact me again?

He’d just taken them inside. Ate too many of the cookies while feeling sorry for himself. Maybe had a glass or two of wine to compound the issue, and never, ever considered contacting you. Didn’t think he could bear it if you never wanted to see him again, but he just…

Well, he was drunk and alone and he missed you, and he’d rewatched all those videos he recorded a million times before when he was like this, so what was a million and one?

It’d been the same as every time before: he smiled at the happy parts, cried at all his old wounds. Wanted to reach through the screen and strangle his past self for including that part about the blind date, because he never wanted to date anyone who wasn’t you, why would he say that, felt mortified at the thought of you watching that—

And then there it was.

All the way at the bottom. A new video. One that hadn’t been recorded by him—

Hi, Cheol, you say, and that’s all it takes to reduce him to a sobbing, yearning mess. I’m not sure what to say here. I don’t really record much—sometimes for lectures when the professors are too busy, but never anything personal like this, but I watched every single one you made for me and I thought I should return the favor.

I wanted to tell you everything I’ve been up to since you left, but it hasn’t been much. I got my degree. Tutored a lot in undergrad—the same thing I’m tutoring you in now, actually. I was good at it and it felt good to have something that was mine, you know? I almost moved for grad school. Thought for a while I was going to wind up in New York, but then my parents divorced and it felt like too much, too scary, so I stayed. Kaori also stayed, so we got an apartment together. It’s not much, definitely not as nice as your place, but it’s good enough.

I don’t think I ever told you, but she was seeing a guy for a bit and he was… obsessed with you, to say the least. Thought you were the coolest person in the world. They aren’t seeing each other anymore. Ended pretty badly, but—speaking of which, maybe steer clear of Student Services for a while, too.

Sometimes it felt like failure that I wound up staying here. That I had scholarships from all these far-away, prestigious places and didn’t take advantage of them. That I gave into my fear. And now… I don’t know. Maybe there’s a reason I stayed behind. Maybe there’s a reason you ended up back here, too.

Whatever happens—I don’t want you to think I still blame you. Kaori says we do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time, and I understand now that’s what you did. Even though it hurt me, you were trying to protect me. I get it now. And I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone. I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been to go to all these places you didn’t know. To have to deal with your injury, the loss of a dream.

You said in one of your videos that you just want me to be happy, and that’s all I want for you, too, whatever that looks like.

Here’s my address if you ever want to come by to talk.

I love you, too.

—and then he’d been up and out the door, feeling stone cold sober, running to the front of his building to wait for his ride.

Felt like the drive took hours. Must’ve hit every red light between his apartment and yours. Took the steps two at a time just to get to your door faster.

There’s a man already standing outside your door when he gets there. One that looks shocked to see him, stars in his eyes, and when Seungcheol says, “Oh, you must be Kaori’s ex,” he looks more like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. Embarrassed in front of his idol.

He knocks on your door and gets no response. Knocks again, harder this time, and he has to try really hard to stifle his laughter when your voice yells from the inside, “Fuck off, Kenji, I already told you she’s not here!”

“It’s me,” Seungcheol yells back.

There’s quiet again. Just enough time for it to feel like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest and follow Kaori’s ex down the hall.

Then you’re yanking the door open—slowly, so slowly, like you’re scared it’s not actually him. Your eyes are brimming with tears when they meet his own, and he doesn’t let himself think, just goes on instinct, when he grabs for you, hands on your cheeks, and presses his lips to yours.

Somehow you taste the same.

Somehow you taste like redemption.

You taste like home.

Seungcheol kisses you until the tears slow. Kisses you until the universe realigns, until he could map your mouth in the dark. Kisses you until all you’re all he knows again.

When he pulls away, you’re gripping at his sweatshirt, don’t want to let him go. He presses his forehead to yours, offers up a million more apologies, starts talking nonsense. Says he’s going to drop microeconomics, what the hell does he know, he barely has a passing grade anyway, what does it matter, he’s such an idiot—

And then you say, “You came back,” and nothing else matters.

“I always will.”

(Later on, as you’re trying to steady your breathing, slick with sweat, your thigh thrown over Seungcheol’s hip as he stares down at you, dopey smile on his face, you say, “Choi Seungcheol, don’t you dare drop that class. I have worked my ass off to get you to barely-passing.”)

if you’ve made it this far thank you so much for reading! i am still very new at writing for seventeen, so i hope this was acceptable. i'm now going to throw myself into the warped tour vernon fic and will hopefully not go another 7+ months without posting anything. 😭

i would love to hear your thoughts! <3

[aeristudios]

Stupid Cupid

➻❥ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are madly in love with your best friend and it's eating you alive. One day you will tell him how you feel, but you have to deal with his girlfriend first.

➻❥ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: best friend!hansol x reader

➻❥ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 18+, roommates au, best friends to ?, angst, fluff, smut

➻❥ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, jealousy, fight is kind of intense, kissing, protected sex, nipple play?, fingering, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, missionary, multiple orgasms?

➻❥ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 9.1k

➻❥ 𝐀𝐍: This for the collab "Lonely Hearts Cafe", hosted by @camandemstudios. This story truly stressed me out and I couldn't have gotten through it without @yoongihan, @seokgyuu, @okiedokrie and & @haologram for looking at this for me. I don't do well with deadlines and the words just weren't coming to me naturally. It was eating me up and giving me headaches lol. I hope despite that, you all like this labor of love 😭

You are in love with Hansol. 

Hopelessly, stupidly, trip over your feet when he’s around, butterflies in your stomach kind of love. He’s everything you could want in a guy and your best friend, someone you can just chill with no expectations. You both love Star Wars, attend anime cons together, and are allergic to peanuts. You share a home with him and it feels like home in your heart when he’s near. You’re in love with Hansol. There is only one problem: he has an on-and-off girlfriend. 

A girlfriend you particularly hate. 

Kelsey is always around, taking up your space, and it’s aggravating. You wish you could say that it’s not serious, but to your chagrin, they have been on and off for a couple of years. It’s bad enough that you can’t tell Hansol how you feel, but then you have his girlfriend, a huge social media influencer, always at your condo every time you’re there. You would think she would like to take her “influence " elsewhere. It’s exacerbating. 

“Hey there girl,” Kelsey calls out as you walk to the kitchen. She is sprawled out with her laptop on your living room floor rug, wearing a cut-off shirt, the tiniest shorts you have ever seen, and knee-high socks. Where does she live again?

“What’s up?” you respond, barely hiding the irritation in your voice. 

“Oof, you’re definitely not a morning person,” she scoffs. “Do you think you can stay out tonight? Vernon has this Hollywood thing he has to attend to tonight, and he is stressed about it. So I want to help him relax if you know what I mean.” 

You raise your eyebrows at her referring to him as Vernon, which he only tells his coworkers to call him. Hansol is a cinematographer, and a damned good one. He works for a major film studio and is invited to parties all the time. He only goes for the free food and booze, he says, because those people don’t care about anything but themselves and their pockets, let alone pronouncing his first name correctly.

Kelsey is not a coworker; she is, unfortunately, his girlfriend. Why doesn’t she call him by his preferred name?

“What does you wanting to help Hansol relax have to do with me being here?” you ask, making yourself a cup of coffee. 

“Well.” She clicks her tongue. “It’ll be pretty awkward for me to be blowing his brains out while you’re here, ya know?”

You bite your lip to keep yourself from saying what is on your mind, instead focusing on making your elaborate coffee with whipped cream and caramel syrup on top. This girl really has some nerve. 

“Kelsey,” you let out a small sigh. “I’m not leaving my house because you want to fuck. Do whatever you please.” You slam the whipped cream can on the container. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” 

Irritated, you walk past her and speed into the hallway, almost running into Hansol, who is leaving his bedroom. Wearing a red shirt and pajama pants, he has bedroom hair and a hint of sleep in his eyes. He looks adorable. 

“Where are you running off to?” His voice is deep and groggy. 

“I am running away from that peach of a girlfriend you have in there.” You roll your eyes. “Plus, I have to get ready for work.” 

“Oh no, what did she do now?” 

“Nothing, aside from asking me to stay out of the condo that I pay for tonight so she can fuck you as loud as she wants,” you say bluntly. 

Hansol’s eyes widen in shock, the little sleepiness he had evaporated. “She didn’t say that?” 

“She just about said that,” you sigh, leaning on the wall. “Look, I have to get ready for my day, but we have to have a conversation later. Not tonight, because I know that party is happening. But at some point, we do.” 

“Okay,” he says, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry.” 

“No need to be sorry,” you sigh again, deeply this time. “Let’s just chat soon, okay?”

You step into your room and shut the door, your heart beating out of your chest. That was not a conversation you want to have early in the morning, and Kelsey being around more and more makes you erratic. Eventually, a conversation will have to be had about how much time she is spending here and everything. But right now, you will sip your elaborate coffee and try to get through the day. 

You met Hansol on the first day of college. You needed help finding your classes and ironically you shared some classes required for your majors. You wanted to be a film director and figured a film studies degree would get you there. Hansol loved being behind the camera, recording the magic in front of him. You shared the same study group and met your other best friends, Minghao and Wonwoo. Minghao has a good eye for design and wanted to work on set designs and costumes while Wonwoo is equally obsessed with cameras, often geeking out with Hansol about the different models they wanted to collect one day. You even lived together at one point, your friendship group known as the “core four”, until one by one, everyone moved out and it was just you and him. 

You didn’t fall in love with him right away. It was a slow, simmering thing that snuck in and robbed your heart and mind before you realized it. You were together all the time and enjoyed the same things. You’ve seen each other at your worst, depended on each other, and celebrated your successes together. Hansol was your go-to for everything, and you didn’t realize until he started dating Kelsey that you were in love. But how can you tell him that?

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

Minghao sits next to you during your lunch break the same day, bringing you meat and stir fry that he brought from home. His girlfriend, Mei, who is an excellent cook and very sweet, sent you a text this morning that she was bringing some with him to the studio today. You worked for a major studio as an SFX artist, falling in love with prosthetics and makeup in one of your courses and deciding to pursue that instead. You still have your bachelors in film studies and your love for film hasn’t changed; you just went on a different path. You’re happier for it. 

“Thank you for the food,” you breathe, purposely dodging his question. 

“You’re welcome,” he replied, handing you Tupperware of colorful stir fry. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think anything is wrong with me?” 

Minghao raises an eyebrow with a familial side-eye as he distributes utensils, the kind of look parents give you when they know you’re telling a lie. He knows you so well, and he has always been good at reading people. You can talk to him about anything, and he is going to give you the hard truth, even if you don’t want to hear it. After a moment, you tell him what happened this morning and he is silent, taking it all in.

“She is really getting on my nerves,” you huff, accidentally slamming your plastic fork on the table. Your colleagues around you look in your direction nervously, and you are mortified, wishing you could wiggle your nose and disappear like the genie on the old TV show. 

“Are you sure it’s because of her, or is it because of him?” Minghao asks casually, taking a sip of his tea. 

“W-what do you mean?” you play aloof, not wanting to open another can of worms. “This has nothing to do with Hansol, though I wish he would tell her to not come over to our place all the time. I don’t get what he even sees in her.” 

“Sure,” he says with a smirk, barely containing his amusement. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you are in love with him.”

“Ugh,” you groan, sliding further in your seat. “I wish I never told you that.” 

“You didn’t have to.” His smile widening into a teasing grin. “Even the blind could see your bleeding heart for him.”

“Yeah, apparently everyone can but him,” you mutter, taking a stab at your food. 

Minghao chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Well don’t take your frustration out on the food. Mei put a lot of love into that.” 

You mumble “sorry”, feeling guilty and eating your food in silence. If it were another day and you were in a better mood, you would savor it more. But all you want is for the work day to end, so you can curl in your bed and figure out how to navigate this unrequited love. 

“What if I told him how I felt?” 

You look up slowly at your friend, gauging his reaction. He already has the look of disapproval, and your stomach is in knots. 

“Yeah, that’s a terrible idea,” he says firmly. “Do you really want to start drama in the middle of the busiest season for us? Not to mention Kelsey will blast this all over social media.”

“I’m not scared of her,” you shoot back defiantly, crossing your arms. 

Minghao chuckles again, but it is lighter and paired with concern in his eyes. “Just think it through okay? Things are already complicated, and I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

He places a supportive hand on your shoulder as he packs up what’s left of his lunch and goes back to work. You sigh, knowing that he’s right, but it still doesn’t make it easier to hear. 

You planned to sleep through whatever escapade Kelsey had in mind with Hansol. You had your nightly tea with cinnamon horchata and set your phone to play ambient/vaporwave music to drown out whatever noise they might bring. They aren’t exactly the quietest people when they are in the mood, and you have been dreading it since this morning. 

A lot of times you have wondered what it would be like to experience him for the first time. You’ve heard enough of them to have an idea of what he is like, but it’s different from actually feeling him inside you, with his hands caressing your body. You want to feel his lips on yours and your skin against his. Is it possible to crave something that you’ve never had? You are tired of hearing the headboard banging against the wall and the moans that follow soon after. You are irritated with it all— You wish it were you instead. 

You heard the security system beep when the front door opened, and you lay in bed, waiting for the inevitable shuffling of feet and sloppy kisses that would follow after. Your stomach turns at the thought of her hands all over him, whispering sweet things in his ear that have no meaning. Silence ensues, leaving you confused, and your nosiness gets the best of you. Slowly getting out of bed, you slip into your house shoes, exiting your room quietly as you brace yourself for the grand display of affection you were used to seeing. Instead, you find Hansol on the couch, taking a hit of his vape, tiredness etching around his eyes. 

“How was the party?” You probe, taking a seat next to him and crossing your legs. “You look partied out.” 

“It was alright,” he mumbles, taking another hit of his vape. 

“Alright?” You quirk an eyebrow. “You have been talking about this party all month and it was just alright?”

You noticed his disposition and you don’t want to pry, but his nonchalant attitude is eating at you. Hansol can be hard to read sometimes, but you know him. He’s quiet with everyone else but not with you—he tells you everything. 

“Tell me what’s happened.” 

Hansol reluctantly answers, sighing heavily as he takes one more vape hit before setting it on the armrest. You move closer to him, giving him a reassuring smile. 

“Kelsey and I broke up again,” he said, the heaviness of his words linger in the air. The sadness in his voice is clear, and it hurts you to see him upset. “She wanted to bring a friend to the party and you can’t exactly do that. So when I told her no, she got all pissed at me, we argued and she broke up with me.” 

You bite your lip, trying to find the right words. “I’m really sorry, Hansol. Despite how I feel about her, I know you really love her, and being broken up with sucks.” 

He looks at you, his brown eyes reflecting a mix of tiredness and frustration. “She said it was more than just not letting her bring her friend to the party. She says I never consider her feelings and that’s not true. It just feels like we’re always going in circles. One minute, we’re good; the next, it’s like… it never even mattered.”

“Yeah, that can be exhausting,” you pause, wanting to say more but unsure how to articulate the feelings that bubble beneath the surface. This is not their first break up, but it affects him all the same. Seeing Hansol be madly in love with someone who keeps taking advantage of him burns you to your core. He doesn’t deserve that. He deserves someone who will take care of him with love and respect. Someone who values his ideas and cares about him as a person. You would give him the world if you could. 

“I hope I am not overstepping,” you say cautiously. “But this isn’t your first rodeo. Why do you keep going back?” 

His silence is deafening, and he has an uncomfortable expression on his face as he tries to find the right words to say. “Look, Kelsey can be a lot and full of herself, but she cares in her own way. When it’s just us, she is so attentive, funny, and warm—sort of. She has her moments,” he sighs again. “She makes me feel good in a way no one else has. I love her.”

Hearing him declare his love for her leaves you with a bitter taste in your mouth. It’s bad enough that you didn’t realize you were in love with him until after he started seeing her, and now after hearing this, you can never tell him how you feel. It’ll fuck up everything, despite it gnawing at you inside. 

“For what it’s worth, I hope that you two will be able to talk it out and figure out what you want to do.” You tell a strong lie, but you don’t want to hear more about his love for her. You can’t take it. “Do you want to chill for a bit? We can watch Revenge Of The Sith if you want.” 

He cracks a small smile, and for a moment, the weight in his eyes lightens. “Yeah, let’s just chill for a bit. That sounds cool.”

“Cool,” you reply, scrambling from the couch. “I’ll make some popcorn.” 

Tears threaten to break free as you beeline it to the kitchen, your heartache paining worse than before. “She makes me feel good in a way no one else has… I love her.” You keep replaying it in your head over and over. You almost wish you never left your room, and went to sleep like you planned. At least you would still have a bit of hope, instead of a cracked heart. 

A few weeks pass, and as the season change, so does the light in Hansol’s eyes. He is getting back to his normal self and is laughing again. As happy as you are for him, it feels like your heart is being pierced by shards of glass. It was foolish of you to think you could ever be with him, and Minghao was right: it will just complicate everything.  

You know he isn’t completely over Kelsey, and it’s going to take more than a few weeks to get over someone you love deeply. You used to have daydreams of cuddling with Hansol on the couch, watching horror movies, and being madly in love… you have to put it to bed, for good. You start distancing yourself, little by little. Whether it’s staying late at work or finding different excuses to be out of the house, it doesn’t matter. You’re still there for him as a friend, but you want to be free from this unrequited love. It was fucking with you. 

So here you are, at a bar, sitting with your date Seungcheol, who you met on a dating app. You just wanted a quick fix for your heartache, and they say the best way to get over someone is to get under another, right? He’s the one to fulfill that. 

Within an hour of talking to him, you learned he was the typical tech bro who went to an Ivy League school, liked to mansplain everything, and thought he was God’s gift to women. Whatever. It’s not like you planned on seeing him again after tonight. 

“You look real nice in that outfit,” he says, practically drooling over your little black dress and heels. 

“Do I?” You flirtatiously quirk an eyebrow. 

“Yeah.” Seungcheol nods, taking a sip of his gin. “I can’t wait to see what you look like underneath.”

It takes every fiber in your being to roll your eyes and walk out of there. Guys like Seungcheol annoy you, and you deal with them in small doses and go about your business. But he is a means to an end, and you will bat your eyes and tell him what he wants to hear to get what you want. You will deal with the consequences in the morning. 

You gaze at the clock displayed on the wall and it’s a quarter till eleven. Tired of hearing him talk, you lean in and whisper in his ear, your lips barely touching him. “Do you want to get out of here then? You said your place isn’t that far, right?”

His eyes are lit with desire, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom while he settles the bill. Stepping into the dimly lit bathroom, you take a good look in the mirror, adjust your dress, and apply the last bit of cherry red lipstick. The soft glow of the overhead light illuminates the traces of perfectly good makeup that you only bring out for special occasions. 

“Is this really what you want?”

Your words echo against the walls, your question answered by silence. With a deep breath, you straighten your posture, taking one last look before exiting the bathroom. Of course, this is what you want— you wouldn’t have gone this far if you didn’t. Seungcheol waits for you at the bar, biting his plump bottom lip as he scrolls through his phone. Seungcheol is as hot as they come, and it certainly makes this decision a bit easier. 

“Are you ready to go?”

He looks up as you close in on him, linking your arm through his. “Of course, I’m going to pull the car around front.”

You watch him walk away, twiddling your fingers as you wait in suspense. The bar smells of wood and stale beer, the heat pushed on blast to counter the cold outside. You slip on your coat, walking towards the front door when you hear laughter, a familiar one that brings butterflies to your stomach. Turning to your left, you see Hansol, walking into the same bar you’re leaving, with Wonwoo and a girl you don’t know. He was always a simple guy, wearing jeans and his favorite “Revenge Of The Nerds” hoodie with a goofy grin on his face. It’s your favorite thing to see.

All the feelings you keep trying to push aside rise in you at once, and when your eyes lock with this, you feel warm. Getting over him will not be easy. 

“Hey! What are you doing here?” Hansol says curiously. 

“She probably has a hot date,” Wonwoo teases and nudges your shoulder. 

“Well actually… I do.” 

Wonwoo’s mouth spreads into a wide grin, happy to be right. His girl companion tugs onto his coat, mumbling that she is freezing. She’s a short thing with jet-black hair and wears a nice shirt and a skirt that shows off her legs. Wonwoo isn’t the serial dater type, so it is a high possibility he’s on the same mission you were: fuck and move on. 

“Really?” Hansol’s voice peaks an octave higher than normal. “Who’s the guy?”

“O-oh, um, you don’t know him,” you stumble through your words. “He’s just someone I met. We are heading to his place actually.” 

“W-what?” Hansol looks surprised, his expression etched with concern. “Are you sure it's a good idea?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, looking down at your heels. “I’ll send you my location when I’m there, okay?”

In the nick of time, Seungcheol pulls up in his Mercedes, opening the car door from his seat to let you in. 

“There he is,” you announce, walking towards the luxury car. “I’ll text you later, yeah?”

Hansol stares intently at Seungcheol before looking at you, his eyes softening as you get into the passenger seat. You wave as he pulls off, the bar becoming out of view as you drive through downtown. Your nerves are shot, and you feel rattled. Of all the places to be, you had to see him at the bar? The universe has a sense of humor. 

“Who were those people back there?” Suengcheol’s deep voice breaks through your thoughts. “The one with the hoodie looked like he was going to pound me.” 

“Oh they are my best friends from college,” you say casually. “Well, I don't know the girl but yeah. Besides, Hansol, the one with the hoodie, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” 

You can confidently say out of all the years you have known him, Hansol, you have never seen him get aggressive with anyone. The most emotion you see from him is when he talks about cameras, film, or his love for Kel—. 

“I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?”

Shaking your head and changing the mood, you strategically place your hand on his thigh, smiling mischievously. “Now are we going to talk about my friends all night, or do you want to do something more exciting?”

To say Hansol is bothered is an understatement. 

You didn’t come home last night and even though he knew where you were, it still gnaws at him. It was unlike you. You always came home. It’s irking him. You are always there. 

Hansol noticed that you hadn’t been around as much, and he assumed it had something to do with work, which he understood since you both work in the same industry. But seeing you with that guy with the fancy Benz, dressed in clothes you rarely wear and your hair different from your usual look—it was all he could think about. You looked beautiful last night, and he wasn’t sure why he didn’t see it before. What maddened him the most was that he couldn’t figure out why. He just knew that you were not there, and it didn’t feel right. 

Hansol slowly got out of his bed and checked the time on his phone, 9:37 am in bold letters on his lock screen. His head raged from the hangover he caught from last night’s drinking. He is a lightweight and he knows he drank more than he should, but he was still dealing with the aftermath of the breakup with Kelsey. It’s been a few weeks and though he was feeling better, he still cared about her. He just wanted to not think or feel for a few hours. Now his thoughts are plagued by you. 

He sauntered out of his room, the sunlight hit him like a wall, momentarily blinding him. He reached for a bottle of water, hoping to ease the throbbing in his head. A few moments later, Wonwoo opened the spare room, yawning and adjusting his glasses. Hansol was too drunk to drive, and Wonwoo was sober enough to take him home. The date that he brought last night, who he learned was named Jules, sheepishly appeared behind him, adjusting her dress as she took her walk of shame. Hansol heard murmuring but couldn’t make out what they were saying, but shortly after the door shut with a click, with Wonwoo leaning against it, an amusing grin on his face. 

“Is that your next victim?” Hansol teased. 

“Eh, maybe,” he shrugged. “She is more tolerable than the others.” 

“Uh-huh,” he surmised, drinking the last bits of his water. “We’ll see how long this one lasts.” 

Wonwoo is a notorious dater if you want to call it that. He has always had the philosophy that being tied down isn’t for him and he would rather run through the mill than be with someone he always likes. He is a fine art photographer who travels quite a bit, and he is always bragging about how it wouldn’t make sense for him to be in a relationship. He blows where the wind goes, and Hansol has always respected that he stayed true to himself. 

Wonwoo chuckled as he grabbed the water next to Hansol, clutching it as he drank it empty. He looked at your closed room door, his eyebrows raised curiously. 

“She isn’t here?” Wonwoo probed, pointing at your door. 

“No,” Hansol mumbled, followed by a slight ping in his chest. “She might still be out.” 

“Uh, huh,” Wonwoo concluded, eyeing him oddly. “Sounds like she had a good night.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” Hansol said bitterly, his fingers rubbing his right temple. “It’s not like her to stay overnight at some douche’s house. Something is up.” 

“A douche, huh?” Wonwoo curved into a sly grin. “How do you know the guy is a douche? He could be a cool guy.” 

“Come on, he drives an S-class Mercedes and wears an Apple watch. I’m willing to bet he’s some tech bro.”

“And?” Wonwoo challenged. “That doesn’t make him a bad guy. If I don’t know any better I would say you are jealous.” 

Hansol rolled his eyes at his accusation, though the thought of you canoodling with the tech bro made him feel a certain way. “I’m not jealous. I am just… concerned, that’s all.” 

“Yeah, let’s call it that.” 

The alarm beeped from the front door and you walked in slowly, looking as put together as you did last night. Hansol paled as if he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, and Wonwoo looked amused, folding his arms as he leaned against the counter. 

“Oh hey, party girl,” Wonwoo greeted you. “We were just talking about you.”

“Were you now?” You said with raised eyebrows, slowly taking off your heels. 

“Y-yeah, we were wondering if you made it home,” Hansol said nervously. “Well, you’re here now so.”

“Did you have a good time?” Wonwoo probed you further. “Will you see him again?

You look down at the floor, your face heating up from embarrassment. They typically don’t ask about your dating life, so why does it matter now?

“Maybe,” you murmured, biting your lip. “I’m going to go shower and get out of these clothes.” 

Hansol watched you as you walked into your room, shutting the door behind you quietly. He is relieved that you made it home safe, but he still feels conflicted about how he feels. Is he in fact, jealous?

“I’m going to go home and get some sleep,” Wonwoo announced, clapping a hand on Hansol’s shoulder. 

He let himself out and Hansol went back to his room, collapsing on his bed. Stirred emotions and thoughts rumbled through his head, and he closed his eyes, determined to think things through with a clearer head. 

His phone buzzed on his nightstand, and he sluggishly grabbed it, groaning at his notifications. A new message from Kelsey flashed as he swiped up on his screen. “I miss you.”

It’s been over a week since you saw Hansol, and you would be a liar to say that you were fine. You miss him. 

Your night with Seungcheol was fun, and he was a good fuck, but your mind kept drifting back to Hansol… imagining it was him. Seungcheol was nice enough to let you sleep in if you wanted and made sure you were good before you left, but you know it’s not going to go anywhere. Deep down he knows that too. 

God, you are a mess. 

You decided to keep busy with work and find things outside of your condo that made you happy, and that’s what led you here tonight, at the local movie theater. Around this time every year, they play five showings for free as a thank-you for the community supporting the theater for the past ten years. Princess Mononoke is the movie of the night, and you are standing in line, waiting to buy your ticket. It’s one of your favorite comfort movies in the world, and you never miss a chance to watch it, especially when you are feeling down. 

The weather is cooler than what was forecasted, and the slight breeze makes you tug on your coat tightly. You and Hansol did this every year together—and it feels weird alone. Unnatural even. You remember having long discussions about the movies you saw and what made them great. You love seeing the twinkle in his eye when he talks about the type of camera lens that was used and what it took to get certain shots. In return, he would listen to you vividly as you rambled about the time and craft it took to create special effects or a certain mask. Those times made you feel connected with him in a way no one could understand, and it's one of the main reasons why you fell in love with him. 

You purchase your ticket and walk inside the old building, the smell of buttery popcorn attacking your senses as soon as you open the door. The interior has been the same since you have been coming here, with high lights in the ceilings, vintage movie posters, and the same plush crimson carpet that matches the drapes on the windows. It has character and it feels cozy, like you are a kid again. 

You give the attendant your ticket and he rips the lower stub, pointing you in the direction of which theater room you need to go to. Your stomach rumbled with a slight ache, reminding you that you have not eaten since this morning. You were never really the breakfast type, as you normally just wake up and go about your day. You have a million things on your mind, and just for a little while, you want to shut it off. Princess Mononoke usually does that. 

Your phone buzzes slightly in your jacket and you look at Hansol’s name on the screen, hesitant to answer. It wouldn’t hurt to hear his voice for a little bit, right?

“Hey, you,” you say, biting your lip. 

“Hey, turn around,” he replies, his voice sounding louder than it should. 

Turning around slowly, you watch him walk through the doors, the sunlight trailing behind him like a halo. He sports an old college hoodie, faded jeans, and a smile, and in this moment, he almost takes your breath away. 

“I would ask what you are doing here, but I know better than that,” you joke lightheartedly. 

“Yeah, you know I’ll never miss this,” Vernon says, looking around at the theater. “Man, this place still looks the same.” 

“I know,” you agree, fidgeting with the ticket in your hand. “How did you know I was here?” 

“Because I know you,” he shrug. “I tried calling you to see if you wanted to come tonight, but you never picked up. So I came here.” 

“You called?” You give him a puzzled look. “I don’t remember you ca—”

You scroll through your notifications, seeing the three missed calls from him throughout the day. Even texted you but you didn’t see it. You had your phone on do not disturb mode, and you didn’t think to check any of your messages. Maybe you are just being childish. 

“See,” he nudges your shoulder playfully. “I told you.” 

“Yeah, yeah” you roll your eyes teasingly. “Are you watching Mononoke too?”

“You know it,” he nods. “I’ll grab the popcorn and nachos. Go find us a seat?”

You watch him make his way to the concession stand, butterflies swirling in your stomach as the familiar feeling of home swells in your chest. You head to the third room on the right, snagging seats in the middle row that give you a perfect viewing of the movie. The lights dim as you sit down, with the old previews from 1997 playing on the screen giving you a major flashback to the past. In this moment you feel good and content, despite wanting to come here alone and avoid Hansol at all costs. You wouldn’t call yourself a fickle person, but you are glad your plans did change. Being around him feels just right. 

The movie starts a few minutes later, and Hansol appears right as it starts, searching the rows until he finds you. His face softens and his lips curve into a smile, taking a seat next you and handing you a popcorn and a cherry coke. 

“I haven’t missed anything, have I?”

You shake your head softly, avoiding his gaze and the pitter-patter he gives your heart. 

“No, you made it just in time.”

Hansol had a good time with you. 

It felt comfortable and familiar to be with you while he watched one of his favorite movies. He didn’t actually know that you were going to be there; he just took a chance and hoped you would be there, and like fate, you were standing in the middle of the theater. There was no awkwardness, he didn’t feel like he was walking on eggshells every time he had something on his mind. You just got him, and it felt like a breath of fresh air. 

It’s been a couple of weeks since then, and you have been hanging at the house more. Before he was lucky to catch you in the mornings when you left for work or you would come home late at night when he was already asleep. Even though things were getting back to normal, his thoughts of you continued to grow, and even though he wasn't sure of a lot of things, he knew one thing: he had missed you. 

“Earth to Vernon, hello?”

Hansol snapped out of his thoughts, refocusing on Kelsey as he sat across from her at her house. She asked him to come over and talk, and after thinking it over, he agreed, setting up a time to talk when she came back in town. Kelsey looked beautiful, sporting a white halter top and blue jean shorts, her skin sun-kissed from the vacation she took to the Cayman Islands. Her raven-black hair fell past her shoulders, swaying slightly as she talked about her trip. 

“Where is your head at today?” Kelsey pouted, her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “I feel like you aren’t listening to me.”

Hansol shook his head, shaking you out of his mind. “I’m listening. All I do is listen.” 

“No, you don’t,” Kelsey retorted. “You didn’t listen to me about the party or kick that girl out of your condo—”

“I already told you, that’s not happening,” Vernon pushed back. “ And that girl has a name. Why would I kick her out? It makes no sense.” 

“You know why Vernon.” 

“No, I don’t. You’re being unreasonable.” 

Kelsey rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air. “We have been together almost three years and you haven’t asked me to move in. I asked you plenty of times to think about our future and to limit your time with her. You refuse to do it. Why is that?”

“Whoa, that’s bullshit!” Hansol’s anger rose through his chest. “You have never said “let’s move in together” or anything like that. If anything, all you have talked about lately is getting you into industry parties to build your brand. Also, I did start spending less time with her. What are you on about?”

“Because I am supposed to be your best friend!” Kelsey shouted. “You don’t even do the same things with me that you do with her. I bet she leaps with joy every time we have a break.” 

“She’s not like that,” Hansol said defensively. “She’s always been there for me and encouraged me to work it out with you. To your other point, every time I ask you to do something with me, something I want to do for once, you say it’s childish and that I need to grow up” 

“Because Vernon, who the hell still watches Star Wars?” Kelsey scoffs. “You are not a nine-year-old boy. You’re a grown man. Fucking act like it.” 

Hansol sighed, feeling drained and defeated. Star Wars meant a lot to him, as it was the main inspiration for why he wanted to get into cinematography and study film. It’s how he bonded with his dad. She knew that and still decided to insult him about it every chance she got. He wasn’t sure what the future looked like before he arrived, but the tension he felt in his chest and the ache in his heart made things a lot more clear. He still cared about Kelsey, more than he should, but it’s time to move on

“This… isn’t going to work,” Hansol rubbed his temple. “The fact that you still call me Vernon, knowing how formal it makes me feel, says a lot. I don’t know what happened to the girl I fell in love with, but clearly she’s gone. We’re done.” 

“Yeah, right,” Kelsey said incredulously. “You aren’t leaving me—”

“Yes, I am.” Hansol resolved. “This relationship has been one-sided for a while now. I’m sick of this.” 

Hansol got up from the table and handed her his copy of her apartment key. Kelsey looked bewildered, realizing that he was serious, and he wasn’t coming back this time. 

“So that’s it? You are just going to throw this all away? For her? She’s in love with you and you don’t even see it. All the times you have let her disrespect me and put up with her crap. I bet this was her idea.”

“You weren’t exactly nice to her either,” Hansol retorted, his heart beating out his chest. “She has been there for me when you weren’t. She cares about what I’m interested in. We like the same things. I don’t have to wonder if she cares about me and my family loves her. She’s smart, kind, beautiful and I love he—”

He stopped himself before he completed his sentence, shook at what was about to come out of his mouth. He was still grappling with his feelings for you and what that meant, and he still couldn’t put any words to what it all meant… until now.

“It’s not just about her,” Hansol said. “It’s everything with us, and the fact that you still don’t get it, tells me everything I need to know. Take care, Kelsey.”

He left the apartment before she started her next tirade, with a storm brewing in the night sky. He hated the way she talked about you like you were insignificant. You didn’t deserve the vitriol Kelsey spat every time you came up in conversation. You weren’t the warmest person, but you always made him feel seen and were there for him no matter what. You got his humor and his late-night thoughts about the latest webtoon he just read. His thoughts of you biting your lip when you’re nervous or the quirky thing you do with your eyebrow when you tell a story; he loved it all. It took for this to happen to see what he had in front of him all this time. He missed you when you aren’t around and it drove him crazy to see you on a date with that tech bro. 

Realization hit him like a punch in the gut as he turned the ignition: he’s been in love with you this whole time. Now how the hell does he tell you that?

The harsh sound of thunder makes the hairs on your neck stand up, dropping your iPad on your lap. It’s suddenly dark in your room, light from the partly cloudy day gone and replaced by storm clouds and flashing lightning. Your condo sits on the 10th floor, and the sound is much more elevated, sending chills down your spine. You hate being alone when it storms. 

You heard Hansol leave earlier and you wanted to clear your head, and so you decided to work on some sketches for a project that is happening at work. You are creating a few masks for an upcoming horror movie, and you are throwing out a few ideas that may interest the producers. The only problem is that you never got around to actually work; instead you were drawing doodles around you and Hansol’s name like a teenager. 

Every attempt you have made to distance yourself from him has become futile, and you decide to just accept the situation for what it was. Maybe one day you will work up the courage to tell him how you feel, but not being around him is agonizing, and you would rather have your best friend back than not have him at all. You can’t help the way he makes you feel, and until something changes, you’re okay with where things are… for now. 

Another crackling sound of thunder makes you yelp, knocking your iPad on the floor and cracking the corner of the screen. 

“Shit,” you mumble, looking at the damage. 

Your nerves are shot, and you decide to make some tea to calm yourself while the storm rages outside. You place your iPad safely on the bed and slip out of your room, heading to the kitchen as the wind picks up and hurls rain against the windows. It amazes you how the day can go from sunny and hopeful to dark and tragic within a few minutes. Mother nature must be on one today, you think to yourself. 

The alarm door beeps and Hansol walks in, completely unscathed by the storm. He slides off his black beanie that covers his short brown hair and lets out a sigh of relief as he locks the door behind him. His eyes met yours, and a small smile spread across your face. 

“You made it just in time,” you say, pouring water into your teapot. “It’s about to get ugly out there.” 

“Yeah.” he nods, his gaze fixed on the darkened windows. 

You could tell something is bothering him, as you watch him take off his shoes and put up his jacket, but you don’t know what to say. Things have been so good between you two, yet the last time he opened up, he shared something you weren’t ready to hear. Despite everything, your concern for him remains strong, and you can’t help but ask, “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” Hansol replies, lost in thought. “Kelsey and I are done for good.” 

“Oh?” you exclaim. “What’s changed?”

Vernon sits on the couch and you follow him, sitting cross-legged and across from him as he shares his feelings. “I went over there to talk to her, and I just realized that she just used me. She didn’t care about me or what I liked. It was always about her and what he wanted… plus she said some ridiculous things about you.”

“Did she now?” You quirk an eyebrow in curiosity. “What did she have to say about me?”

You aren’t surprised that she probably said some rude things about you. It’s not like you were her biggest fan either and you didn’t hide it. Kelsey wouldn’t ever say it to your face though, and that always made you chuckle. 

“She said you were in love with me and that you were happy every time we broke up.” 

The words don’t register right away. You can’t have heard him say what you think he said. “She said what now?”

“She said that you were in love with me,” his words tumbling out like a confession.

Your heart starts racing, the feelings of disbelief and anger stirring in your chest. That wasn’t her secret to share. “I.. can’t believe she said that.” 

“Neither can I,” Hansol sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s not like you have feelings for me, and wouldn’t tell me… right?”

Your breath catches, a deep ache forming in the pit of your stomach. This is something you longed for and dreaded for a long time. You could deny it and keep things the way they are, or finally tell him how you feel and change your dynamic forever. 

“Hansol, I—”

“Are you in love with me?” He interrupts, his gaze intense. “I need to know if this is real.”

“What do you mean? And why does it matter?” You say bitterly. “ You are in love with Kelsey and will just go back to her. You always do.” 

“What if I don’t?” 

Your heart is pounding, and you take a deep breath, trying to make sense of everything. “What do you mean if you don’t?”

“I told you, I am done with her,” Hansol reiterates. “These past few weeks without her opened my eyes to a lot of things, and while I have been thinking about her less, you’ve been on my mind more.”

“What are you saying, Hansol?”

“I don’t want to be with her. I want to be with you.”

The air is thick with uncertainty as his words echo in your head. You should be happy, relieved even that he wants to be with you. But in the midst of that, you are scared. What if it doesn’t work? What if he regrets all of this in the morning and decides to take it all back? You couldn’t handle that. 

“I… Kelsey wasn’t far off,” you admit, biting your lip. “I wasn’t necessarily happy when you were sad about her, but I have always felt like you deserved better.” You pause to gather your thoughts. “I am in love with you, Hansol.  I tried to put my feelings away and move on, date, or whatever. But every time I’m near you, it just hurts.”

Hansol pulls you into a warm hug, and you fully embrace his scent and the comfort you feel. You’ve imagined times like this when he would hold you in his arms and caress your face. You craved it even, wishing you could hear his heartbeat and feel him in ways you haven’t. But this feels too good to be true, and in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is real, or another dream. 

“Are you sure you want to be with me?” you speak up. “You just broke up with her and I don’t want to be some rebound you’ll regret later—”

He kisses you. His soft lips press against yours earnestly, and you melt against him, losing the remaining inhibition you had in you. He leans you back against the couch; his kisses becoming deeper, igniting a fire in you that you thought would stay dormant forever. 

“Does that feel like I’m unsure about what I want?” He breathes heavily. 

“I don’t know,” a smile creeps on your lips, a mix of joy and relief flooding through your veins. “I think I might need another one just to be sure.”

He kisses you again and you return his vigor, your fingers entangled in his hair as you savor the moment. His hands glide down to your waist, touching the hem of your shorts that you hope he’ll tear away. You pause, nodding that it’s okay, watching him slowly slide your shorts down your legs. 

“No panties?” His need is evident, almost salivating at the mouth. 

Your face heats up as you briefly become shy. “It’s laundry day,” you mumble. 

You gaze at each other before erupting into laughter, any remaining tension that was there gone immediately. This is how it always is with him, easy and light. He doesn’t have second or third questions, he just immediately understands. You couldn’t have fallen in love with a better person. 

“I-I love you, Hansol,” you managed to say. “You don’t have to say it back yet, I know we have to figure this out. But just know, I love you.” 

Hansol leans in for another kiss; this time it’s sweeter, tender, with enough meaning to know what it meant,  “Don’t worry, I love you too.” 

And with that, he stands up, taking your hand and leading you to his room. Kicking the door shut, you tear off each other's clothes, excitement and lust pouring through you as you lay on his bed, watching him climb over you. His body presses against yours, your arms wrap around his neck and back, your need for him growing stronger as he leaves kisses on your neck. “I need you so bad.” 

Hansol groans as his hands grab your breasts, mesmerized by your hardened mounds. He sucks on each other carefully, his eyes closed as if he is savoring the taste. He worships your body, his tongue trailing down your stomach until he reaches your core, spreading your legs apart. You’ve played so many scenarios on what your first time with him would be like, and what kind of lover he would be. This is better than you’ve imagined. 

“You’re so wet… for me?” he says in disbelief. “I get you like this?”

You bite your lip, nodding slowly as you anticipate his next move. He slips a digit inside of you, watching you squirm as he fingers you slowly. 

“Oh god,” you praise him as he adds another one. “Just like that, please.” 

Hansol leans down and lashes his tongue against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure throughout your body. The sheets bunch in your fists, your knuckles stretching out as his relentless mouth laps up your essence, savoring every drop. He explores every inch of your softness, removing his fingers and replacing them with his tongue. His hands stroke his cock which is leaking with precum. You are ascending to a high that you never want to come down from. 

“H-Hansol,” your voice is grained with need. “I’m so close.”

He moans in response, his breath hot against your skin, and the sound vibrates through you, intensifying the coil of tension within. Your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of bliss completely taking over you, whimpering his name as your legs tremble around him. White starts clouding your vision and you feel like you are on air, floating away into paradise. You feel him groan against your thigh, and you look down slightly, his cock dripping with his load as it coats his hand. You collapse on his pillow, trying to catch your breath, slowly coming down from cloud nine. You hear him leave and come back a few moments later, wiping you down with a warm rag. 

“Aww, that’s sweet of you,” you tease him, closing your legs slightly. 

“I’m sorry for that being short,” he says, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I usually can last longer than that, you know… I don’t know what happened.”

You prop yourself up, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

You pull him into a hug, softly kissing his cheek and motioning for him to lay down with you. He climbs over you and hugs you from behind, cradling you so close you can feel his heartbeat. The sunlight peeks through the window, a sign that the storm finally passed. Happiness can’t even describe the word you are feeling right now.

“Fuck. R-right there.”

Hansol wanted to make up for last night’s performance, so he woke you up with kisses to your face, your neck, the curves on your body and most importantly, in between your legs. The way you grabbed his hair went his tongue went deeper, or the way you begged for him to fuck you. He was addicted to all of it. It was like he was making love for the first time.

“Please Hansol, I need you.”

He quickly slipped on a condom and slowly entered you, watching the way your lips parted as he inched in a little more.

“Are you okay? I am not hurting you, am I?”

You shook your head slowly as you held onto his arms, looking into his eyes with a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay,” you bit your lip. “I can take it.”

He almost came right then and there, hearing you talk like that. Feeling safe with him. He never experienced that with Kelsey, the feeling of being wanted, and truly loved.

He moved slowly, wanting to make sure you could handle it, and he was mesmerized by the way you looked when you were being pleasured. You goaded him for more, and he did that, stroking deeper while your nails dug into his back. You were tight, warm and welcoming like you were made for him. He loved the way your breasts bounced when he thrust harder and the blunt curses that left your lips when he lifted your legs. 

If Hansol could, he would fuck you all day and night to make up for the past time wasted. He wanted to show you how much you meant to him, and he wasn't the best with words, so this would do… for now

“I’m gonna cum—”

His mouth covered yours as your legs shuddered underneath him, your orgasm ripping through you like a hurricane. Your body glistened with sweat, your eyes wet from tears from being fucked out and he couldn't hold back anymore, his thrusts becoming erratic as he emptied himself into the condom.

Hansol thought he was in love before, and maybe it was because it was you, but he hadn't felt this alive in a long time. You were precious to him, and all he wanted to do was lay with you and watch movies all day, talk about mundane things…it didn't matter as long as he was with you.

“I… have a confession to make,” you said breathlessly.

“Yeah?”

“I always wondered… what it would be like. With you.”

He watched you bury yourself in his sheets, feeling shy about your confession. Hansol chuckled, slowly pulling out of you and riding himself of the condom. 

“So, did I live up to your expectations?” He asked tentatively.

You gently pull down the covers, smiling at him softly. “This is better than anything I could’ve imagined.”

tagging: @heechwe @junniesoleilkth @iheartnonie @jaeyunsprincxss

[shy-writer-999]

Under the mistletoe with Ace ❄️

Summary: One of the crew members put up mistletoe somewhere on the ship. Will Ace finally lure you underneath, or will he chicken out? ~1.2k words. CW: fluff! kissing. gendered language, e.g. "princess"

Let's unwrap the first present of my holiday event! It comes with a pretty surprise—artwork by none other than @hirakyun13 who is collabing with me the whole event! 💓

Whoever decided to put mistletoe up in the ship had a good sense of humor. It was perched in a very opportune, deliberate spot. It couldn’t be more visible.

Who put it there? Marco? Someone else?

People passed under it all day long, cracking jokes about who they were going to kiss, pretending to grab crewmates into hyper-exaggerated, joke-makeout sessions. Guffaws and chokes of laughter echoed across the ship the whole day. It certainly made the ship feel like there was more holiday cheer going on.

When you first spotted the small bundle of green leaves, tied up in a pretty red bow, it must have been no coincidence that Ace was standing nearby, chatting with a handful of crewmates. He leaned on the doorframe, seemingly oblivious to what lied above.

Turning his head to look at you, he winked. It’s like he had a sixth sense as far as you were concerned—he could just tell if you were nearby, if you were looking at him, hell, sometimes you wondered if he could somehow read your thoughts. His radar for you was downright uncanny.

The winking had occurred a handful of times before, always when you were least expecting it. Ace pretended not to notice the way you instinctively averted your eyes for a split second afterwards in embarrassment. You brushed the sight off. No point in fantasizing about Ace standing under the mistletoe winking at you, right? That’s totally normal. Nothing there to hyper-fixate on. But as much as you tried to let the interaction go, it ran on repeat in your mind all day.

Later that night the crew had a nice feast. It was a special day, Christmas eve, a holiday out at sea that—even though no one really celebrated—acted as an excuse for a banquet, more rowdiness than usual.

Ace had a couple of drinks during the feast. He didn’t go overboard, but he was psyching himself up for what he was going to do later. His eyes stayed trained on you whenever he could get away with it and his mind raced. Was he going to be able to pull this off?

When dinner was over and everyone took their raucous laughter elsewhere, Ace knew that you had the habit of tidying a bit. Recently he had been joining you. He did anything to get some time with you, one on one.

“Want some help, sweetheart?” His eyes were warm, freckles devilishly handsome, hair sitting perfect. That’s the word for him—perfect. You almost couldn’t take it. Especially when he called you nice things like that.

You agreed, of course. You’d (similarly) take any time with him that you could get. As he helped you take stray dishes to the kitchen and wipe down tables (Thatch was taking a well-deserved break), Ace gravitated to you, maybe more than usual.

He worked beside you, so close your arms almost brushed. When the work was done, his heartbeat skyrocketed.

“How does a nightcap sound, princess? Or some hot chocolate?” His gesture was sweet, thoughtful, and polite—very much in character.

“Hot chocolate sounds good.” You smiled back, trying now to get weird or awkward, holding back the overwhelming feeling of being flustered.

Within minutes he had two piping-hot cups of hot chocolate in hand, grinning. He handed you a mug. It was the perfect temperature and tasted delicious (maybe it was so delicious because he made it?).

“I heard some of the crew say it’s snowing outside. Want to see? I’ll keep you warm, no need for a coat.” Ace’s smile was genuine, not suggestive in the slightest. He radiated pure kindness, emphasized by his chivalry. It made your heart melt.

“C’mon.” He gestured towards the hallway—the one that just so happened to have the mistletoe hanging at the end)—and you led the way.

As you advanced closer to the mistletoe, Ace was internally screaming at himself. It was the perfect opportunity. For Ace, time stood still. It was like you were moving in slow motion.

When you realized that you’d both be under the mistletoe at (almost) the same time, you turned red in the face at the implication, wishing that you actually could kiss him. A sweet holiday fantasy. One that you were sure would never happen.

So, you passed under the bundle of green hanging on the doorway and your heart sank. You had indulged in the guilty pleasure of fantasy, one that you knew was no good. No point in getting your hopes up.

Hopefully you would go back to normal soon, not frozen in bashfulness and cringe. You were painfully embarrassed at the thought of Ace realizing that you were flustered out of your mind. Maybe he’d realize that you were acting like this because the mistletoe, maybe he’d catch on that you wanted him like that.

Just when you thought the moment had passed, just when you were exhaling and internally steadying yourself, Ace reached forward and grabbed you by the hand gently, pulling you backwards and close to him so your bodies were pressing on one another’s. Up close like this, Ace looked better than you could have imagined.

His eyelashes were ridiculously long, it was unfair. You could see how deep and rich the color of his eyes was, how his freckles winked and danced every time he grinned like that.

“Wha—?” You reflexively blurted out, breathless, but he cut you short with a kiss. His big hand cupped your cheek and he pressed his lips on yours softly.

A thousand miles a minute, your heart threatened to explode. You went completely rigid, gripping the handle of the mug you were holding so hard you almost broke it.

The kiss was long and delicate; he caressed your cheek like you were something precious to him. The warmth from his hand spread to your entire body; it was thawing a chill that you had been holding in your heart for months as you tried to keep your intense feelings for him at bay.

When Ace finally pulled away, you could see blush dust his cheeks. His smile was softer, just as sweet, and his eyes were mesmerizing, riveted on yours. Somehow, he just got hotter up close, more captivating.

“Ace, what’re you—?”

“I couldn’t help myself, gorgeous. I’ve been wanting to do that for ages. C’mere.”

He pulled you into another kiss. Followed by another. He couldn’t get enough of you. His free hand wandered slightly, trailing downwards to your waist as he pulled you closer. A singular thought raced through both of your minds at once—“finally”.

Each kiss was romance movie levels of fantastic. Fireworks. A torrent of emotions finally flooding out, expressed, for the moment, in kisses alone. Who knows how long this would have lasted, or where it would have gone, if it weren’t for the unwelcome (but wholesome) interruption.

“Y’know you guys are really missing out on the sn—OH SHIT!” Marco’s jaw dropped and he shielded his eyes for a moment. “So, the mistletoe finally worked? Fucking hell, we’ve been waiting for you two goofs to get together all day.”

happy holidays~ i'm posting again (with another artwork by @hirakyun13) on the 18th, 20th, 24th, 25th!

the present for the 18th is looking very... curly and blonde...

regular masterlist holiday event masterlist

[daemour]

I Can See You

Pairing: single dad! Seonghwa x babysitter! f! yn

Word Count: 10,137

Warnings: cursing, alcohol consumption, a creepy old man in one scene, age gap (10 years but both are adults (and not just barely)), smut warnings under cut

Genre: Angst, fluff, smut, single parent au, M for mature audiences

Summary: When you took a job babysitting a young toddler, you didn't expect to be so drawn to the family. And more specifically, her frustratingly hot and single dad.

Smut Warnings: masturbation, sexual fantasies, riding, slight (if you squint) corruption kink, sliGHT breeding kink, unprotected sex (DONT DO THIS unless you discuss safely outside of sex!), breast play, overstimulation, undiscussed kinks (yn is fine with it. but discuss your fucking kinks guys *gun emoji*), slight cumplay

thank u to @pyeonghongrie and @mingsolo for beta'ing and for the title hehe <3 this is also a collab with @potatomountain who is also writing a dilf hwa (Bittersweet Neighbours), we're just on two sides of the spectrum lol...and this is so damn long

-

“Hello, I’m here for a babysitter interview with a Mr Park?”

“That would be me. Miss (Y/N)?”

When you answered the ad in the newspaper about babysitting, you were so ready to see an older man, around his fifties. But this man looked so young, around his late twenties although you’re sure he’s probably forty. And you’re not one to judge—nearing your mid-twenties one wouldn’t be expecting you to still babysit as a full-time job. But it pays the bills and helps you get some hands-on experience in your degree, child development.

“Ah, yes. That’s me,” your words spill out as you realise he is awaiting an answer. Mentally, you berate yourself for the immediate blunder while Mr Park’s eyes crinkle with amusement.

“Come on in and make yourself comfy on the couch. I’ll be right there. Would you like anything to drink?” Mr Park’s voice is smooth like butter and you have a hard time making sure you don’t get lost in it.

Again, you nod, actual wordy responses jumbled in your brain, walking to the couch and sitting down almost mechanically. If you were mentally present, you would have noticed the smile the older man sends your way.

He doesn’t take too long, returning with two glasses of water. “You didn’t say what you wanted to drink so I just got you water. Is that okay?”

Thankfully, you finally can respond coherently and smile, albeit a little shakily. “Yes, thank you so much.”

You take the glass with both hands, thanking him again quietly and taking a small sip before just holding it as you wait for him to be seated. You’ve felt awkward before, but this is a new extreme. Normally you pride yourself on keeping your cool in front of someone you think is hot, but Mr Park…he’s something else. You try your best to keep your eyes trained on the coffee table, only letting yourself glance at him occasionally so he doesn’t realise just how in awe you are.

“Jihee will be home from school soon, so you’ll see her soon. For now it’ll just be old me and my questions,” Mr Park starts his interview as soon as he sits on the couch across from you. “Now, I saw in your application that your major was in child development? Can I ask why that interested you?”

You blink at him for a moment, not expecting that question. Sure, bringing it up was expected, but the way he sounds like he’s interviewing you for a position in a company amuses you. “Uh…I just grew up with a lot of siblings and their kids. I’m the youngest of six, and the oldest is sixteen years older than me so I have a lot of nieces and nephews as well. Children have always been a part of my life, and my first job was babysitting so it’s something I’m very used to. Child development was just a way for me to learn even more and in a less… hands-on way. Poopy diapers are not my favourite.” You pause. “Not that I can’t change them! Or that Jihee uses them. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

You’re so sure your face is bright red right now as you stumble over your words, and you’re ready to be kicked out, but all Mr Park does instead is laugh at your embarrassment. It’s a little mean but it’s better than your worst conclusion so you’ll take it. “It’s okay,” Mr Park smiles at you. “It’s okay to ramble, it was actually quite amusing. Now, I’d just like to warn you, Jihee has trouble with working on schoolwork. While that usually isn’t an issue, she may be asking you to help her with her homework and reading and I just thought I’d give you a heads up. Would that cause any trouble?”

“It wouldn’t bother me, and I’ll try my best. I took children’s education in college as well so it’d be a good time for me to exercise that,” you laugh quietly. Your first dream was to be a governess, no matter how few jobs there are for that type of work.

Mr Park nods thoughtfully. “Glad to give you some experience in that,” he hums after careful consideration, a smile on his face. “Her struggles lie in understanding the problems and in English. If she faces any difficulty then I can always help out.”

Before either of you continues speaking, his watch beeps and he glances down. Without another word, he stands and goes to open the front door. “Uh–” Your confusion escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh, Jihee’s almost home and I always leave the door open for her,” he explains, eyes still trained on his watch. “You’ll get to meet her, and then we can discuss more details. And just to reiterate the ad, this is going to be a job that requires a lot of hours. I, of course, will be paying you for any sort of overtime if I need to stay at the office later. Does your schedule still allow for that?”

You hold back your smile. Your schedule mostly consists of scrolling the internet for job opportunities and eating lunch with your friends. “Yes, I can do that,” you affirm. “I’ll need holidays off, but I assume that’s a given as you’ll also be with Jihee?”

A smile pulls at the corner of Mr Park’s mouth. “Very astute,” he chuckles. “Now, here she comes.”

The door swings open without another word from either of you and a little girl dressed in pink and ribbons barrels into Mr Park’s knees. He lets out a quiet grunt, stabilising himself against the door as his hand strokes at her hair. “Hello, Jihee,” he hums fondly. "How was school today?"

The young girl beams up at her father. "So fun!" she grins, her words slightly slurred in her excitement. "Today, Mrs Lee had us do shapes and my favourite colour is blue now! I have so many blue crayons."

Mr Park's eyebrow raises at the mention of crayons. "Do you have them with you?" he asks, and Jihee nods vigorously. "Can I see them?"

Another nod comes from the child and she immediately plops on the floor, pulling out her pencil case and opening it to reveal at least ten crayons, all of varying sizes. What stands out to you the most is that half of them are green. "See! All blue. But this one's my favourite." She grabs at a particularly long and skinny one, a shade of emerald green.

"Ah. Lovey, remember, your colours are a little different, right?" Mr Park talks in a gentle voice, very different from the very adult voice he used with you. "That's a green crayon."

Jihee's face drops. "Oh." Her bottom lip juts out in a pout.

Mr Park holds out his hand and Jihee drops the crayon into his palm. "You can't take the crayons from school anyway, dear. Why don't we leave these in your bag and you can give them back and apologise to Mrs Lee tomorrow?"

Jihee's pout grows bigger but she nods. "Okay, daddy," she agrees and Mr Park nods proudly.

"Now, do you want to meet your new friend?" You flinch as Mr Park mentions you, sitting up straighter in your chair before ultimately deciding to stand instead.

"Hi, Jihee," you do your best to speak with the same quiet tone Mr Park used. "I'm (Y/N)! It's nice to meet you."

You offer your hand for her to shake and Jihee looks at you, her thinking face almost a spitting image of her father's before she walks over and takes your hand with gusto. "Hi, Mrs (Y/N).”

"Ah, I'm not a Mrs," you correct her. "You can call me (Y/N)."

"Miss (Y/N)," Mr Park quietly interrupts and you nod, not wanting to override his parenting although being called 'miss' will catch you off-guard for the time being. "Why don't you tell her one thing about yourself and then Miss (Y/N) has to go, okay?"

Jihee's mouth twists in sadness, her hand still gripping yours. "Okay," she sighs again. "I get to talk to her more later though, right?"

Mr Park nods. "Of course. Miss (Y/N) will be spending a lot of time with you, so I'm glad you like her."

Jihee nods solemnly. "I like pretty people and you're super pretty," she tells you earnestly and your heart swells at the compliment.

“Thank you, Jihee,” you thank her genuinely, although you’re amused at the fact that she considers her appreciation for physical looks a good introduction to herself. “It was nice to meet you.”

With another decisive nod, Jihee turns and marches right off down the hall, presumably to her room. Mr Park turns to you, finally shutting his front door with a sigh. “That was Jihee. Ball of energy extraordinaire. She comes home from school at one-thirty, and will put her own things away before coming to eat a snack. She has one worksheet to do a day but with your help she’ll get it fairy quickly. I’ll email you a list of house rules.”

You nod. “That sounds perfect. What would the schedule look like? What time would I be here, and when would I expect you to come home?”

Mr Park hums, running a hand through his perfect hair. “For her school days, I’d like to have you in here maybe ten minutes before she comes. I’ll always leave her snack in the fridge and you can just pop it in the microwave and make yourself comfortable before she comes barrelling in. Then I’ll be home at five-thirty sharp whenever possible. Every other Saturday I’m in the office for eight hours and you’ll be watching Jihee for those days. If you can’t do a Saturday, just let me know so I can get someone to watch her, but generally I’d like you here from eight to five.”

You nod. All your friends have atypical work schedules so your Saturdays are empty in general, and since the weekdays are shorter hours you don’t mind. “When it comes to after-school playdates, should I expect you to be home or would you like me to take care of them?”

Mr Park’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly. “That won’t be an issue. Jihee doesn’t do playdates.” Your curiosity spikes at his short answer but his tone leaves no room for discussion so you don’t press it. “I’ll give you a key now. Tomorrow is my off-Saturday but if you can come in just to adjust yourself that would be great. I have some work to get done anyway so I’ll be mostly out of your hair although you can still ask me questions.”

You nod again. “Yeah, that works,” you confirm after a quick check to your phone calendar. When you look up, Mr Park is already holding out a key and you take it after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Mr Park nods, moving to open the door when Jihee calls out with a whining tone to her voice. “Daddy, I need help!”

Mr Park sighs but it’s full of affection for his daughter. “I would walk you to your car but she calls for me,” his head dips into an apologetic bow but you shake your head.

“Don’t worry about it,” you smile at him. “There’s no need for that at all.” That is one of the main reasons, but another part of you doesn’t want him to know you have no car and you take the bus to his neighbourhood and then walk the rest of the way.

A twenty-four-year-old with no car? It’s a little embarrassing, especially in the area you both live in where it’s almost required to have a car to do anything. Generally, your babysitting jobs were close enough to your home, but the salary of this job enticed you to give up walking.

As you exit, you can hear Jihee starting off her complaints about her jacket and you smile to yourself subconsciously.

-

You’ve been working with the Parks for almost a month now and generally, it’s a good time. You only really see Mr Park when he comes home, but by then you have one foot out the door. There are days when he looks so beaten down that you want to offer him some encouragement, but you don’t want to step out of your boundaries. So, you just keep your head down and leave.

Jihee is sweet and easy-going, not hard for you to get along with. She always has some sort of fun idea for you to play along with and her schoolwork hasn’t been too terrible although you dread when she starts getting into more difficult maths.

But today, as soon as Jihee walks into the door, you suspect something is wrong. She doesn’t greet you as excitedly as she used to, just stalking straight into her bedroom and coming right now, settling herself down on the couch with a pout on her face.

“Jihee, don’t you want to eat?” you try to coax her to the dinner table, but she just shakes her head, immobile. You frown. It’s strange for the usually talkative child to be this closed off. “Did something happen at school?”

Jihee glares at the coffee table, shaking her head. “No,” she mutters but her cold-stone facade drops immediately as she suddenly bursts into tears. Your heart drops for the child crying on your couch and you immediately run to her and pull her into your arms. “Why don’t they like me?” she wails into your shirt and your heart drops.

You had suspected it when Mr Park shut down the playdate idea very quickly, but this just solidifies your thoughts. How could the kids at school not like such a sweet kid? As you’ve been working for the Parks for quite a bit now, you’ve grown to adore the young girl like she was one of your own nieces.

You don’t say anything just yet, just patting her hair and doing your best to calm her down. It takes almost an hour but now she just curls up in your arms, her hands gripping your shirt as she’s so close to falling asleep. You don’t have the heart to wake up so you resign yourself to letting her sleep on you for now.

Within ten minutes, you fall asleep as well. It’s not what you meant to do, but you couldn’t have stopped yourself. When your eyes open again, Jihee is no longer in your arms and there’s a large fluffy blanket laid on top of you. You blink yourself awake before panic sets in and you shoot up, looking around. “Jihee?” you call out and hear deep laughter behind you. When your head snaps back you see Mr Park chuckling at your face.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss (Y/N).”

It takes a minute for your words to register, blinking stupidly at your employer for a few moments before your face drops and you practically leap off the couch. “I’m so sorry!” you cry, bowing rapidly at a low angle. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep and it won’t happen again.”

You keep your eyes lowered and you look up at him through your lashes, scared of how he’ll react but to your surprise, Mr Park’s smile grows and he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, you looked comfortable and the doors were locked. Jihee didn’t get into any trouble, just was a little bored since you were asleep.”

You shake your head. “Regardless, I shouldn’t sleep on the job but thank you for the kindness. Jihee is very responsible for her age and it certainly reflects on your parenting.” You smile back at him.

“Well, thank you for your kind words. It means a lot to me as well,” Mr Park hums. “Would you like to join us for dinner? I know you usually leave around the time I get back but let me at least feed you before you go.”

You frown. “I’d like to, but I should get going,” you say absentmindedly. “I have to make it in time to catch the bus.”

You’re looking around, trying to gather your belongings, when you realise how silent Mr Park is. And in turn, you realise what you just said. “You take the bus?” His voice lowers and you stare at the look of concern he has on his face. “It’s practically dark by the time you leave and you’re walking to the bus stop by yourself?”

“Ah– it’s okay! It’s not a far walk, just up the street.” You hurry to defend your choices, waving your hands. “I’ve gotten home safe so far, no?”

Mr Park shakes his head. “No, you can’t take chances. I’ll drive you home tonight after dinner. You must stay.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes, but his stance is unwavering. And as much as you would usually protest—being taken home by a much older man would usually ring alarms in your head—the idea of not having to wait in the cold and the dark by yourself is very appealing. And from how you’ve interacted with him before, Mr Park seems very sweet, and you trust him just a little more than you probably should.

“Well, I do thank you for your kindness,” you sigh, nodding your head in concession. “But this will be the only time.”

Mr Park chuckles, not taking you seriously. ���We’ll see. Now come on. Tonight is beef stew and my younger brother will come for dinner as well.”

“Uncle Uyu is coming?” You can hear Jihee’s excited voice coming from the kitchen as well as her feet pittering on the floor as she launches herself into your lap. “Hi again, Miss (Y/N).”

“Hello again, Miss Jihee,” you tease, pressing the tip of your finger to her forehead and Jihee giggles.

“Are you staying for dinner?” You nod again and she screeches in happiness, not giving a second glance at how you wince at the sound. “I can’t wait! I have to make you pretty! Come with me.”

With as much seriousness as she can muster in her body, she pulls you by the hand into her room as Mr Park watches the two of you with a soft smile and follows the two of you into Jihee’s room. He takes a seat on the bed as Jihee fusses over your hair, styling it with her toddler's hands and putting an obscene amount of hair clips into it. But you’re whipped for the little girl and you let her do whatever she wants, ending up in two uneven pigtails and a plethora of Hello Kitty clips.

“Daddy, isn’t it pretty?” Jihee giggles, moving your head to tilt so her father can take a look at her work. “It’s better than your hair to practice!”

Mr Park, mock-affronted, holds his hand to his chest. “Betrayed by my own daughter? Alas, but I can let it slide as this may very well be your best work.”

Jihee giggles, pressing her face against your cheek when the doorbell rings. “Uncle Uyu!” As always, her focus is diverted by any new thing and she runs for the door, both you and Mr Park following shortly after. As she yanks the door open, a man around Seonghwa’s age greets her just as excitedly, bending down to pick her up and spin her around.

“Jiji,” he cheers, “Already so big?” His eyes find you and you offer a small wave. “And who’s this? Seonghwa, you found a girl?”

Mr Park’s jaw drops and your eyes widen as you rush to contradict. “Oh, no, no, I’m just the babysitter. Mr Park has kindly invited me for dinner.”

Wooyoung chuckles at the look on both your faces. “Don’t worry, I just like to pull on Seonghwa’s leg. You’re a little young for him too.”

You offer a smile. “Yeah, and the forties are a little out of my age range as well,” you try to joke, but to your surprise, Wooyoung breaks out cackling, startling Jihee who starts laughing with him confusedly. Mr Park’s shocked face has somehow become even more intense.

“You think I’m how old?” Wooyoung has reigned in his laughter although a smile still pulls at his lips. “I’m only thirty-four!”

A gasp made its way out of your mouth as you start bowing rapidly again in apology. “I’m so sorry! You look your age, I just assumed you had to be older.”

Mr Park sighs, although an amused smile now graces his face. “It’s okay, I can understand it. I’ll just be giving you a hard time from now on.” He punctuates with a wink and your eyes snap down to Jihee in embarrassment.

“Let’s get on with dinner so I can go home and just melt in embarrassment, okay?” you groan and the two older men laugh. Jihee seems to agree with your sentiment, declaring her hunger grumpily and you laugh and pick her up. “See, even Jihee’s on my side. Let’s eat now.”

Mr Park hums, stepping aside. “All right, I see I’m outnumbered now. I hope you don’t mind how casual this dinner is, but I promise the food is worth it. Wooyoung’s the better cook, but he’s taught me a few tricks.”

You shrug. “Any food is good food to me. At home, I have instant ramen and fried rice so it’s a nice change.”

Out of disapproval, Mr Park shakes his head although the smile does not leave his face. “I do not miss my college diet. Please, take a seat.” He motions to the dinner table, pulling out a chair for you to seat yourself, sitting beside you as Wooyoung and Jihee join the other side of the table.

“So, tell me about yourself (Y/N),” Wooyoung hums, leaning on the table by his elbows. “You’re in college?”

You shake your head. “I graduated a year and a half ago, I’m twenty-four now, but it feels like just yesterday I was taking my finals,” you chuckle. “What was your major, Mr Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung smiled, “Please, call me Wooyoung. Mr Wooyoung just sounds weird. But to answer your question, my major was culinary, of course. Before I taught Hwa how to cook, he was hopeless. I think I was feeding him and Jihee primarily other than his sandwiches and canned soup.” He sighs, leaning back and smirking at Mr Park whose ears are red.

“Hey, Youngah, I paid you for your work. Don’t make me seem incompetent,” Mr Park snorts, leaning over to smack the back of his neck. “Wooyoung may be eight years younger than me but he certainly acts like he’s five.”

You laugh at the banter. “Me and my siblings were the same way. We’d always fight but in the end, we care for each other. It’s sweet to see you guys act the same.” You smile, taking a bite of your stew. “Thank you for letting me sit in on your family dinner.”

Mr Park shakes his head. “Of course. Can’t let you walk on your own at night, you know. I’d be happy to give you a ride home from now on.”

“Ah, no, I can’t make you do that,” you try and decline again but Seonghwa is having none of that.

“It’s not a matter of making me, I offered. I can’t let my babysitter just stand around in the dark. Let me do this for you. Jihee cares for you, she wouldn’t want to make you get hurt.”

You frown, pursing your lips. “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” you concede. “Thank you once again.”

Mr Park shakes his head, his hand moving up to ruffle your hair. “Don’t worry about it.” His hand rests atop your head a moment longer before he remembers who he is in relation to you. “Ah, sorry. Habit from Jihee.”

The heartfelt moment is cut loose by everyone amused at Mr Park’s habit. Jihee immediately takes the initiative to start rambling about stickers, engrossing everyone in the conversation, Wooyoung being particularly vocal. The dinner is finished with no other events, and you offer to help clean up, ignoring Mr Park when he tries to protest.

“Thank you for helping out,” he tries to thank you but you wave your hand dismissively.

“You fed me and are driving me home. It’s the least I could do. Shall we head out though? I don’t want you to have to leave Jihee for too long.”

Mr Park nods, grabbing his keys and jangling them as he opens the door to the garage. You do your best to not show your surprise at the sight of his fancy car. Of course, you knew he was well off, but you never imagined you’d actually be sitting in his car. He even opens the door for you, letting you slide into the passenger seat.

You hold yourself stiffly, but Mr Park looks over and just laughs at you. “Relax, I’m not going to bite you. Just let me know where to go and we’ll be set. Want a piece of gum?”

He holds out a pack of gum and you gladly take the piece, happy for the distraction. Most of the car ride is silent, except for you telling him occasionally where to go. But as he pulls up to your street, he slows to a crawl.

“You know, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around.me. Sure, I’m your employer, but I’m also a dad. I got the dad instinct, you know?” Your lips twitch at his attempt to be comforting. “Really, though. Don’t hold yourself so tight around me. I don’t mind doing this for you.”

You turn your eyes down. “Thank you. I’ll try, it’s just a little weird for me if you understand. But I do appreciate everything you’re doing for me.” As you unbuckle your seatbelt, you smile at Mr Park. “I hope you have a good night.”

As you go to your apartment building, Mr Park leans out of his car and calls after you. “You can call me Seonghwa, (Y/N). Mr Park makes me feel old.”

You laugh at his admission. “We’ll see, grandpa!” You can’t help but tease him before running into your home, leaving an amused Seonghwa outside.

-

These days you and Seonghwa have become a lot more friendly. He’s taken to driving you home despite your protests and during the car rides, some interesting conversations have happened. For example, you learnt that he built his company from the ground and yet is respected in many old money circles.

Okay, maybe you didn’t learn that from a conversation, and instead just searched on the internet. But what can you say? You’re curious about the man who happens to be your charge’s father and the man who happens to be very very handsome.

Maybe you have a bit of a crush on Seonghwa, but you couldn’t blame yourself. There was something about him. It is the aura he holds himself with, the kindness in his smile when he arrives home, and it helps that he is hot. Every so often, you can’t help but find yourself glancing at his pretty hands, or his well-toned arms, and you have to look away before heat spreads up to your ears.

You’re down bad, and it’s not getting any better. Every time you see Seonghwa, you want to jump him but it would be inappropriate. Not only is he your employer, but he’s also a decade older than you. There’s no way he would be interested in you, he probably sees you just as some kid.

With a sigh, you look down at your sketchbook. Today was supposed to be a fun day. Both Jihee and Seonghwa were off today, so you were spending the day with her as Seonghwa was still called into the office to put in some extra hours. But then the toddler fell sick and you were tasked with taking care of her.

At least it was a fairly easy job—Jihee slept most of the day and you were free to work on some of your more personal projects. Although your passion lies in children, you do enjoy drawing and even took a couple of classes in college. As you lay on the couch sketching, you get so lost in your mind you don’t even register the door opening and the footsteps coming towards you.

“Is that me?”

A shriek rips its way out of your throat as you do your best to whirl around and hold your drawings to your chest, but your legs get caught in the blanket and you instead fall half off the couch to the ground. Your chin props your head up on the ground but your legs are still tangled on the couch, your arms twisted into the blanket, the sketchbook an arm’s reach away.

“Hi, Mr– Seonghwa. How was work today?” you mumble half into the carpet, too embarrassed to look up. “Jihee’s taking a nap in her room.”

After a moment of silence, Seonghwa laughs, although it’s a little pained. “Uh. Do you need help up?”

You groan, pulling one of your arms out from your cocoon prison. “That would be great, thanks. Sorry.”

One of his cool hands gently takes your elbow as another comes to rest on your back. It’s at the moment you realise your shirt has ridden up. You can’t help but tense at the touch, hoping the embarrassment doesn’t show on your face. “Jihee’s taking a nap?”

You’re grateful he chose to brush over the incident. “Yeah– yeah. She’s not much better, but she’s not much worse. It’s just a simple cold, so she needs to sleep it off.” You chose to ignore the hand lingering on the small of your back, instead scooching back on your butt to distance yourself just a little bit. He’s your employer, there’s no way you can give in to your feelings.

But the couch seems to be against your plans, as when you try to pull the blankets off your feet you tumble into Seonghwa’s legs, knocking him down as you land on his firm chest. Your face is mere centimetres away from his and you freeze. “I–” you stammer out, Seonghwa equally as awkward.

“Sorry–” He tries to sit up, but it just results in the blankets twisting tighter and pulling you two even closer together. You swear if you could hold your breath, you could feel and hear his heart beating. “Ah, shit.”

You can’t help but laugh a little at his profanity, not something you’ve ever expected to hear from him. “Welcome back, Seonghwa.”

Seognhwa’s eyes widen, his blush deepens, and his head snaps away from you. Your brows furrow at the change in his features and you can’t help but wonder if it’s from the proximity, or if it’s the proximity to you specifically. “Ah. Let’s get out of this, shall we?” he coughs. He carefully detangles himself from the pile and holds out a hand to you.

You grasp it, noting his firm grip and letting him pull you up. “Thanks.”

“I’ll drive you back to your apartment first since Jihee’s asleep right now. It won’t take long.” While Seonghwa’s voice remains warm, his eyes move away from you.

Suddenly a guilty feeling pools in your stomach and you turn away as well, bending to pick up your sketchbook silently. “Of course.” The disappointment fills your head as you internally admonish yourself for even trying to entertain your fantasies of the older man.

But, to your surprise, a warm hand pats you on your shoulder. “You are good at art, (Y/N). You should continue to pursue and practice it, even as just a hobby.” His words make you look up into his eyes and you see a sparkle behind them. “You’re a talented person, and you should take advantage of it.”

“Thank you, Seonghwa,” you smile at him again. “Once again, I appreciate the kindness you offer me.”

Seonghwa chuckles, spinning the car keys as you’ve quickly found out is his habit. “(Y/N), thank you for putting up with such an old man who can offer you nothing but kindness.”

You snort. “You’re not even that old, you geezer.” In retaliation, Seonghwa leans over and pokes you in the forehead.

“Oh, hush and let me take you home.”

-

It’s been almost six months since that day and your feelings have only intensified. But this time, you swear perhaps he may be returning your feelings too. Sometimes you catch him looking at you with a gentle smile, and his hand on your shoulder lingers a little longer than you think. But then he talks to an employee on the phone and you remember how accomplished he is. Even if he wasn’t much older than you, there’s no way you would fit into his lifestyle.

And, like any self-respecting person would do, you start to avoid him. What else are you going to do? Tell him? You’d be crazy to even entertain the thought. There’s no way he would even take you seriously.

These days you’ve just been going to work, and heading straight home. Seonghwa barely has time to catch you, and you’ve been plotting with Jihee to keep him away. She doesn’t quite understand why, but it’s fun to her so she’s happy to. You’re pretty sure half your wallet has gone to sticker sheets. But no matter how many stickers you’ve bought, it doesn’t help Seonghwa from figuring out something is amiss.

It’s your one day off and you’re spending it at home, lounging around and just watching movies while you sulk about your tangled feelings. Watching all these romantic movies doesn’t help at all and you groan. There’s no way you’re going to act like a lonely teenager, you declare to yourself. You’ll go to a club! Maybe meet someone closer to your age and you won’t feel like a wet sock anymore.

That’s it, you’ve convinced yourself. You’ll give yourself a night out. Suddenly inspired, you throw off the blankets covering you and start donning your nicest clothes. There’s a club you used to frequent in your college days, and you haven’t been back since you got the new job. It’d be nice to let loose again.

As the nighttime approaches, you’re almost all ready to go. You have your outfit and your makeup, and all you need is your shoes. Once you pick out your favourite pair of heels (comfy and not too high), you make your way down. You can feel the excitement pounding out of your chest and you can’t wait to get the night started.

As you enter the club, your body immediately relaxes as you take in the atmosphere. It’s been so long, you’re just excited to have fun. Get drunk, find a nice guy, and forget your problems. You down drink after drink, hyping yourself up, but as late night comes, nothing happens. With a sigh, you plunk down your last drink, feeling the buzz of the alcohol burn in your veins.

Nothing will happen tonight, and you just have to come to terms with it. You place down a couple of bills to pay off your tab, tip, and stumble out of the bar. You’re plastered. You can hardly walk in a straight line and you lean against the cool brick for a minute, letting the sensation sober you up a bit as you do your best to call up a taxi.

But before you can do so, a hand creeps onto your bare waist and your head snaps up to see a man, no younger than fifty, leering at you. “Uh, hi?” you slur out, your hands fiddling with your phone as you try and discreetly move to the phone app. You may be plastered, but you’re not a fool and you know what could happen in this situation.

Unfortunately, the old man seems to know what you’re trying and he grabs one of your wrists. “Now, pretty lady, take a break there. Why don’t you come hang out with me for a bit?” His words are greasy and slimy, and you almost gag at the idea of what he’s insinuating. At least Seonghwa isn’t triple your age…and he’s hot.

“Ah, no thanks,” you manage to push past him, pressing your most recent contact and holding the phone to your ear. “I’m a little uh…” You’re cut off when whoever you call starts speaking.

“(Y/N)? Why are you calling me? It’s nine.” Seonghwa’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Are you okay?”

“Ah, shit,” you groan, stumbling to your side and colliding with the wall. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you. I’m just out and–”

Once again, the old man approaches you and pulls you back by the waist. “Come on, pretty. Get off the phone and pay attention to me.”

You shake your head and pull away again, moving even more down the street. “No, no, I’m not– just leave me alone. I want to go home,” you say, shaking your head, still holding the phone to your face. “Just…I wanna go home.”

“(Y/N), are you okay? Where are you?” You can hear the worry in Seonghwa’s voice rise and a faint jingling of keys. “I’m going to get you. Wooyoung’s here so he can watch Jihee. Talk to me, (Y/N).”

“I’m at the club Desire. Or near it. I don’t know.” Your head is muddled and no matter where you look, the street signs are blurring and the old man is still trying to get your attention. “I just want to go home,” you repeat, tears springing to your eyes. “I thought I told you to leave me alone!”

The old man growls at your tone, grabbing at you again. “Don’t be stupid, child. You can come home with me and I’ll teach you how to be proper for a man like you.” His breath reeks of alcohol and bad breath and you instinctively slap him across the face. Surprised, he jerks back, and you take a couple of shaky steps back again.

“Leave me be! I don’t want you near me.”

The old man’s eyes narrow at you and he takes one menacing step forward, his hand raising to strike you but you bring up your arms to block the slap, whimpering in pain when the hit lands and your phone clatters out of your hand. “You insolent child!” Your eyes squeeze shut and you hope Seonghwa gets there soon.

-

Seonghwa has never driven so fast in his life. He’s racing through the lights and he counts his lucky stars that they’re all green and that the police aren’t around right now. He can hear arguing coming from his phone and he’s calm enough knowing you’re at least still on the phone. But then he hears a noise and what he assumes to be your phone falling on the ground. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “Please, please be okay, (Y/N).”

Stepping on the gas, he roars around the corner to the club you mentioned, praying you’re still there. As he gets out, he’s looking around but can’t seem to find you. “(Y/N)?” he calls out. “Where are you?”

He races down the street to find you pinned against the wall, your hands attempting to push an old geezer away and he sees red. He marches right up, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from your shaking figure. “Fuck off,” he growls in his face, delighting in the fear that moves across his face. “Don’t let me catch you near this place again. Now fuck off!”

He practically throws the old man to his knees before turning and cupping your face. “Seonghwa,” you practically sob. He can still see the drunken haze in your eyes but it’s almost completely cleared up now and his brow furrows even more.

“Come on, I’m taking you home.” He pulls you along and you do your best to keep up with him in your inebriated state. “I can’t believe you would do this! Have you no sense of security? Why didn’t you get anyone to come with you? Why would you call a taxi outside of the establishment?”

He still opens the car door for you and you slide immediately in, eyes staring wide at the pristine dashboard. He slides in and puts the car in the ignition before sitting back and groaning in frustration. “I hope you’re ready to talk as soon as we get inside,” he gripes. “I still am so shocked, (Y/N). You act so mature about Jihee, but what happened then? You could’ve been hurt…no, you were hurt!”

He continues his rant driving up to your street, ushering you into the elevator and into your place. “Do you know how my heart dropped when I saw you struggling? I don’t want to see you hurt. You need to take care of yourself.”

As he yells at you, his eyes rake over you to see if you’re injured any further, but something else stops him and the words die in his throat. You’re wearing a sheer shirt, your lacy bra underneath just showing off your chest. Your leather skirt has ridden up your thighs and your eyes fill with unshed tears. And something burns in his brain.

It’s been months since he hired you, and with each passing day, he finds himself more and more attracted to you. He berated himself every time these unwanted thoughts popped into his head. Sure, you’re sweet, good with kids, and are passionate about what you care about. But you’re also so young. You can do so much better than him, a single father with no prospects.

But seeing you like this, heat sparks in his gut and he leans in, his face mere inches away from yours. “When you wear things like that, it makes me want to rip them off you and do things even that creep couldn’t even imagine,” his low voice pierces through your thoughts and your mouth gapes open.

“I’m okay with that,” you whisper, hand reaching out to brush against his chest, but Seonghwa blinks as he realises what he just tried to do, and he jerks back. Your eyes flash with hurt and Seonghwa would like to hit himself for doing that to you but he can’t let you come onto him when you’re still drunk.

“I– I’m sorry,” you whisper, your hands reaching behind you to steady yourself on the wall. “I just felt so lonely. I wanted to be wanted.” 

Seonghwa’s breath stutters as he stares down into your wavering eyes. “I–” He wants you so bad. But he can’t bring himself to say it. Not when you’re drunk. “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He turns away and hears your disappointed sigh alongside your footsteps trudging to your bedroom. With a groan, he sits on the couch with his head in his hands. He wants to reassure you, but he can’t help but feel guilty about it. But he’s still straining in his pants and after locating your bathroom, he sits on the shower bench, leaning against the cool tile and breathing in and out. With a groan, he unzips his pants and pulls out his half-hard cock. The feeling of regret rises but he pushes it down to his gut as he spits in his hand and presses his thumb against the head of his dick.

As he wraps his hand around his cock and pumps it, he can’t help but close his eyes and imagine you. You with your mouth wrapped around his cock, with your hands gripping his thighs. You seated on his throbbing member, grinding your hips against him as you lean down to kiss him. He can feel his dick jump and he wonders what it’ll feel like to fill you with his cum.

He lets out a broken moan as his grip turns tighter. His image of you would scratch your nails down his back. He can almost hear your little whines and breathy moans as your hips work over him. You’d lean in and whisper into his mouth, “Seonghwa, fuck me hard,” and—

Seonghwa sighs as he looks down at his cum-coated hand and the mix of shame and relief swirling around his brain. Maybe he should just go to sleep on the couch and hope he doesn’t dream of you. As he washes his hand and goes to lie down, he can already feel a stress headache coming on. He hopes you’ll at least fare better in the morning.

-

When you awaken, you have a throbbing pain in your head and you groan and roll out of bed. You’ve taken your club shirt off as well as your skirt, but your bra and underpants are still on. You’re sure your makeup is smudged too and you have no clue how you got home but all you want is some coffee and oatmeal.

You trudge to the kitchen, rubbing your eyes from sleep. There’s a blanket fallen on the floor so you toss it onto the couch and head straight into the kitchen to start your coffee maker. As you lean against the counter and yawn.

“(Y/N), are you feeling better?”

A voice calls out from behind you and you shriek, whirling around to see a sleepy Seonghwa, blanket wrapped around him and his hair a mess. You shriek again, realising how little you’re clothed and duck behind the counter, your cheeks flaming and your heart beating faster than you ever thought it could.

“What are you doing here?” you force out, your voice tight.

“Do…do you not remember last night at all?” You do remember most of what happened. He took you home, but that’s about as far as you remember. And you’re not sure you want to know the rest of it. But you’re far too embarrassed to admit, so you put your acting skills to use. You’re not sure you can handle the shame of a real conversation.

“What?” you ask, forcing your voice to pitch higher as you slowly stand back up, hands covering your chest. “I didn’t– Oh my God, I’m so sorry if I came onto you. I was drunk, I must’ve been out of my mind. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

You notice Seonghwa’s eyes trail down to your chest and then snap back up to your face as if he’s forcing himself to and he chokes out a breath. Despite the headache, your mouth twitches. Maybe you’re still a little out of it. “No, nothing like that. I fetched you from the club because you called me to save you from a creep. Then I took you home and we slept.”

You sigh. “I’m glad. I do apologise for whatever my behaviour was. It was out of line and it won’t happen again. I understand if you want to let me go–”

“No!” Seonghwa’s outburst surprises you and your eyes widen. The lack of clothes you’re wearing has been long forgotten and you move around the counter to stand in front of him. Seonghwa has the decency to look a little embarrassed at the volume of his voice. “Sorry. I just…it’s like you’re a part of our family already. I care for you just as much as I care for Jihee.”

Ah. He thinks of you like a child. Your suspicions were right. You turn slightly to face away from him, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice. “I see. Well, I appreciate that. It’s nice to have a second family,” you chuckle, internally beating yourself up. How could you even entertain the thought of the two of you being together? “Let me change, and I’ll walk you out.”

As you return to your room, you finally let your heart sink as tears brim in your eyes. You hastily wipe them away as you rummage in the pile of clothes on your bed for something fairly appropriate to wear. First, you make a fool of yourself in front of Seonghwa, and then your crush is unfounded. You can’t seem to catch a break.

With a sigh, you pull on some shorts and a large shirt before heading back out. “Hey, (Y/N), could we talk first?” Seonghwa asks, still standing in between the kitchen and the living room as his eyes flit around nervously.

After some hesitation, you finally find your voice. “Sure? What’s up? You can sit on the couch if you want.”

Seonghwa takes a seat, hiking up his sweatpants and you move to the floor across the little coffee table. “Last night…you told me something.” Oh no. This is it. You bite your lower lip and look down, awaiting his next words. “Uh. So. You think you came onto me, right? Well. It was. Uh. It may have been me.”

You blink at him foolishly as your brain tries to wrap itself around your head. “You what?”

Seonghwa raises his hands and lowers his head ashamedly. “Let me explain, please. I saw you outside with that horrid excuse of a human and something in me snapped. I just wanted to protect you and I brought you home. But seeing you in that outfit? It just made me want you. And I told you. And you reciprocated. At least, you tried to.” He chuckles a little to himself, bringing up his hand to grip at his hair. “I told you we would talk in the morning. But one thing you said stuck with me. You wanted to be wanted. And all night I’ve been thinking about it. (Y/N), you were drunk. But you weren’t that drunk. Something you said had truth to it. Please. For my own sanity, tell me how you feel about me. Please.”

His voice cracks at the last syllable and something in your heart hurts at the sound. “Seonghwa I…I do care for you. More than I should. You’ve shown me unbendable compassion and you’ve never taken my words or myself for granted…or treated me like a child. Against my better judgment, I’ve fallen for you.” You sigh, tightening your fists. “I’ve been hating myself for the better part of six months because of it. You were so much better than me. In job, in maturity. What was I supposed to do? I went to the club to forget you, but it appears that didn’t work.”

Seonghwa stands quickly, shuffling over to kneel in front of you. “How could you think such a thing? Me better than you? Don’t make me laugh. I may be older than you, and yes, I have a better-paying job. But in the end, how could you compare? You’re amazing with Jihee. You’ve managed to teach her in ways I could hardly hope to imagine. And just because I have a higher wage doesn’t mean your job is less important. I wasn’t lying when I said it felt like you were already part of the family.”

“You told me you thought of me like Jihee,” you argue, and Seonghwa laughs, leaning forward to take your hands.

“I said I care for you as much as I care for Jihee. Not in the same way, (Y/N).” Seonghwa smiles kindly. “I know if this does happen we’ll need to put a lot of care into this, but if you’ll have me, I’d like to be with you.”

You’re not sure whether this is a dream or not, staring up at Seonghwa with wide eyes. You’d be a fool if you said no, but the worries in your head won’t seem to cease. Taking a deep breath, you push them aside and smile up at him. “I’ll have you, Seonghwa.”

As soon as the words fall out of your mouth you can see Seonghwa’s eyes crinkle as he smiles and leans in, his nose almost touching yours. “May I kiss you?” he murmurs in his deep voice, and instead of gracing him with a reply, you meet him in a soft kiss.

His large hands cup your face as he deepens the kiss, and his thumbs brush against your cheekbones. “You’re so pretty,” he hums, pressing a multitude of pecks to your lips. “Last night I was so conflicted. Seeing you like that made me almost go insane.”

An idea sparks in your brain, and a smile widens on your face. Your fingers crawl up his shoulders to rest your arms on them. “How insane?” you ask, and Seonghwa’s eyes darken.

“I’ll show you,” he grows before capturing your lips with his once again. This time his arms shift to wrap around your waist and he pulls you closer until you’re practically pressed against his body. You squeak at the sudden movement but it’s swallowed by the kiss.

He pulls you onto his lap and you can feel the growing hardness in his slacks. You wriggle your hips a little, grinding down, and the moan that Seonghwa lets out is heaven to your ears. “Fuck, (Y/N). You’re so pretty,” he repeats, burying his face in your neck and nipping at the sensitive skin.

You whine at the pain blooming into pleasure and your hands fist into his hair. Your precious sounds get to Seonghwa and he groans, moving your legs to wrap around his waist and he hoists you up and brings you over to the couch. “Your noises are so pretty, baby,” Seonghwa groans into your mouth. “Can’t wait to hear them when you’re wrapped around my cock.”

“Please–” is all you can muster out and your whines only serve to make Seonghwa’s cock harder in his pants.

With a groan, he pats your ass, motioning for you to move up. As soon as your hips lift, he grabs the waistband of your shorts and pulls them down to your knees, leaving your underwear and shirt on. In the same motion, he shoves his slacks and boxers down just far enough to let his cock spring free.

“Seonghwa–”  you whine and something in Seonghwa’s stomach burns at the idea of you crying on his throbbing dick. He sits back, guiding you to sit right above his cock as he moves it to rub against your soaked underwear. Every time the angry-red tip of it brushes against your clit you let out breathy moans and it only serves to make Seonghwa impossibly harder.

“Fuck, I can’t wait any longer,” Seonghwa breathes, his free hand coming up to brush against your face. A smile blooms on your face as you bend to kiss him again.

“Then don’t.”

Something flips in Seonghwa’s brain and he lifts you, pushes your underwear to the side, and lets his cock press into you slowly. The both of you throw your head back and groan loudly at the feeling of him slowly filling you up. He’s not the biggest you’ve had but that doesn’t matter as the sting of the stretch is enough to make you drool. You can hardly speak as you whine nonsense into his ear and let your head drop to the crook of his neck.

“You fit around me so well,” Seonghwa praises, his head spinning at the feeling of finally fucking you the way he dreamed of. It was only yesterday he was fucking into his hand at the thought of you and here he is, only a few hours later, his painfully hard member inside of you. “Look at you, a mess for me. Bet you’ve never been with an older man before. Do I make you feel good, baby?”

You clench at his words. “Fuck, yes, the best I’ve had,” you babble, squirming at the already overwhelming feeling. “You’re so good to me.”

Seonghwa laughs delightedly at how gone you seem to be not five minutes in. “So precious, especially for me, (Y/N). Sitting on my dick so prettily.” He gives a little experimental thrust upwards and you gasp. The noises you make are so addictive, he can’t help but do it again. And again.

You’re panting, moaning as he fills you up so deliciously and your hands grip at his now-wrinkled dress shirt. His cool hands slide up your baggy shirt to shove up your bra and cup your boobs. The weight of them sitting in his hands makes him groan as he leans in to mouth at them through your shirt.

“Been dreaming about these tits since last night. Jerked off in the bathroom after seeing you, you know?” Your eyes widen at the admission and Seonghwa smirks at how embarrassed you look. “Wanted you so bad and you thought I wouldn’t like you in that way? You’re so cute, (Y/N).” He punctuates each word with one thrust after another.

The feeling of his dick pumping into you as well as Seonghwa’s teeth scraping against the soft flesh of your tits makes you so overwhelmed. It’s almost embarrassing how close you are already, and Seonghwa knows it, chucking up at you from between your chest. “Aw, baby, you’re so far gone. Am I that good?”

You cry out and sink your teeth into the junction of his shoulder and neck. You’re trying so hard to keep your noises down but Seonghwa isn’t having any of that. His hand finds its way to your hair, gently tugging on it until your head falls back, exposing the column of your neck.

As his warm breath ghosts over it, you stiffen, and when he moves up from your chest to lick a stripe up it and nip at your earlobe, you come with a groan. Your hips are shaking from the intensity of it but his thrusts don’t stop and soon you’re whining from the overstimulation.

And he still hasn’t come.

“Fuck, Seonghwa, it’s so much,” you groan, mouth hanging open. Seonghwa greedily swoops in to capture your lips once more, licking into your mouth as his thrusts become more and more erratic.

His dick twitches and he groans. “Where do you want me? I’m clean,” Seonghwa mumbles into your mouth.

You shift your hips a little. “I’m clean too and on the pill, so it’s on you. I don’t care, I just want you, Hwa.”

Your words spark something in Seonghwa and he thrusts upwards, once, and his cum starts filling you. It’s searingly hot, settling deep in your gut and you throw your head back and moan so goddamn loud. His throbbing cock is twitching like crazy and it’s still pumping cum into you. Seonghwa’s hand slides down your body to tweak at your nipples, thumb over your flesh, and finally come to rub little circles into your clit.

You gasp and it feels like you’re touching heaven from the extra stimulation. “Gonna fill you up so well,” Seonghwa groans. “Do you think Jihee would like a sibling?” 

Your thoughts all blur together at his sentence and you come again with a groan. Your cunt squeezes around him so deliciously and a sob breaks its way out of your throat, one that Seonghwa eagerly swallows as he kisses you again.

His thrusts start to slow down and you slowly pull off his now-softening dick and settle back down on his lap. His hands push his leaking cum back into your pulsating pussy and you sigh at the feeling.

“Well, that was quite the escalation,” Seonghwa laughs quietly as he pulls both your and his pants back up and wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace. His hand pats your butt and you squirm and slap his chest softly.

“You’re lucky I’m on the pill.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly and Seonghwa hums, capturing your lips in his yet again. He can’t get enough of your plush lips and you’re not complaining at all.

“I’m lucky to have you, period,” he sighs happily. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

You smile and sit up, ignoring the whines that come out of Seonghwa’s mouth at the lack of contact. “Well, I couldn’t let you be a lonely old man,” you tease and Seonghwa smacks your ass again.

“Can old man do what I just did?” You’re suddenly lying on your back with Seonghwa hovering over you, a crooked smile growing on his face. “Or do you need another demonstration?”

You smile and throw your arms around his shoulders and pull him closer. “I don’t know, sir, maybe you should show me once more.”

With a nip to your lips, Seonghwa leans in and your eyes crinkle at the promise of what’s to come.

[cheers-to-you-th]

100 Ways to Lose Your Love

Pairing: Joshua x Reader Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, emotional slow burn Warnings: Emotionally stunted reader, a bit of dysfunctional family sprinkled in there, brief misuse of power/workplace harassment (not from Joshua) Word count: 26.8k Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. Part of Yuki's 100 milestone collab @supi-wupi my beloved thank you for beta reading on such short notice always ilysm ft. @kyeomofhearts and @bella-feed cameos

Writing has always been my escape. It’s been how I ran away from reality into a place I can shape and form however I want ever since I could hold a pencil, my little bunker in the tornado of life. My teachers had called it a gift, my parents called it useless, and I just continued writing through it all. It’s how I process your emotions, I guess, although now I’m starting to realize it may be how I avoid them. And yet, here I am, writing again.

The first time you met Joshua, it was the summer between your sophomore and junior years of college. Your friend, Soonyoung, invited you along with a handful of his friends to go on a road trip from campus down to his parents' vacant vacation home and stay for a few weeks, enjoying the beach.

You said yes because the thought of going home to see your parents made your skin crawl, even if it meant sharing a house with near-strangers and dealing with sand in your shoes. Soonyoung had promised late nights, grilled food, and sunsets that didn’t need filters. You figured you could use a break—from school, from expectations, and from yourself.

Joshua wasn’t who you noticed first. He wasn’t loud like Soonyoung, the Zoology major who’d attached himself to you the year prior, or constantly moving like Jun, who you’d never met before this, but his constant foot tapping was starting to grate on your nerves. He didn’t make a big deal about his entrance when he showed up late, either—just walked up with his guitar case and an apologetic smile, soft-spoken as he said hi to the others. You were sitting on the porch steps, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup and trying not to feel out of place even though you knew a couple others there from shared classes.

He sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not crowding, not even really facing you—just close enough that you could hear him breathe between sips from his water bottle. You remember glancing over, expecting a brief hello or maybe one of those awkward small-talk moments where you both pretend the silence isn’t loud. But he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked out toward the driveway where Soonyoung was loudly arguing with Seungcheol about how to pack the cooler.

“Do you think they’ll still be fighting about ice packs when we’re thirty?” he asked suddenly, voice light, almost amused.

You snorted into your coffee. “I think they’ll still be fighting about everything when we’re thirty.”

That was it—your first exchange. Just a few words, a shared joke at someone else’s expense, and then the quiet again. You didn’t know what to make of him yet. He wasn’t unreadable, exactly. Just... settled. Like he knew how to take up space without demanding it. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone here, not even himself.

You ended up crammed between him and Minji—who you’d talked to a few times over the semester in stats class—in Seungcheol’s beat up SUV. Jihoon, a music major, had aux, Soonyoung belting along as Wonwoo (comp. sci.) tried to drown them out with noise-cancelling headphones. Joshua’s smile was fond as he looked at them, occasionally joining in. He had one of those quiet presences that didn’t feel the need to compete with chaos. You noticed it again during the drive, when Minji fell asleep with her head against the window and your shoulder began to ache from staying too stiff, too polite. Joshua, without a word, shifted slightly and leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough to make it feel like you weren’t holding yourself alone in the noise.

At one point, Jihoon passed the phone back for song requests, and Joshua didn’t even hesitate before handing it to you. “Pick something you won’t regret screaming later,” he said with a teasing grin, the first real note of mischief in his voice.

You scrolled, stalling, then picked a song from your high school playlists—too nostalgic, too dramatic—and halfway through, when you were laughing with your head thrown back at Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s friends from finance, trying to rap and Jihoon snapping at him to stop, you realized Joshua was looking at you. Not in a way that felt like pressure. Just… observing. Like he liked the way you looked when you weren’t trying so hard.

The house was nicer than you expected. Weathered wood, sand already in the doorway, old photos of Soonyoung and his family in every corner. You all chose rooms with the urgency of kids at summer camp—first come, first sleep—and you ended up with Minji, who said she snored and wasn’t sorry.

Those first few days blurred together: grilling badly, racing to the ocean, eating popsicles in the shallow end of the pool while the sun melted down your shoulders. You’d catch Joshua sometimes with his guitar by the fire pit, or humming a melody while washing dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He always smiled when he saw you—not a flirty kind of smile, something gentler. Something that made you feel like he saw through you a little, and didn’t mind what he found there. It took three days before he asked you to join him for a walk on the beach.

It was after dinner—everyone else hanging back for a movie night with popcorn and the last bottle of Soonyoung’s dad’s expensive wine. You’d wandered outside for air and found him there, barefoot in the sand, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the right kind of silence.

“Want to come with me?” he asked, nodding toward the shoreline.

And you did.

You walked in companionable silence for a while, the sky streaked with purples and oranges, the wind teasing at the hem of your hoodie. Every now and then your arms would brush, and you’d both pretend it didn’t mean anything. But you felt it. Every time.

“I like it here,” he said after a while, his voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Feels like you can breathe more slowly. You know?”

You nodded, and that was the first time you smiled at him like you meant it. 

The two of you headed back inside not long after, the others either passed out drunk on the couch (cough cough Soonyoung) or asleep in their rooms. You took the opportunity to sit in the corner and pull out your laptop, fingers clicking on the keys as you wrote. Joshua sat himself on the couch, strumming away on his guitar calmly, humming a soft tune. It felt oddly peaceful, like time had stopped for everyone except the two of you. He didn’t ask what you were doing, didn’t comment on what or why you were typing, just sat and played the gentle melody.

He kept his distance—respectfully, carefully—like he understood that some people live with their nerves just beneath the skin. And maybe he did. Maybe he’d seen it in the way your hands hovered above the keyboard before diving in, or the way your shoulders only ever seemed to relax when your fingers were flying across the keyboard. Or maybe it was just Joshua being Joshua.

At one point, your laptop froze. Not crashed—just one of those irritating pauses where everything stops responding except the rising tension in your spine. You sighed, leaning back with your head thunking gently against the wall.

“Writer’s block?” he asked softly, still not looking directly at you.

“No,” you replied, eyes still on the frozen screen. “Computer’s just being dramatic.”

He chuckled under his breath, fingers picking at a new chord progression. “Must be catching. Pretty sure Jeonghan tried to argue with a wine bottle earlier.”

You glanced over, smiling despite yourself. “Did he win?”

“Hard to say. He’s asleep, so technically the bottle lasted longer.”

You snorted. The screen flickered back to life, but you didn’t turn to it right away. Instead, you watched his hands. Watched how they slowly plucked a tune, as they seemingly breathed the music to life. He played like he was thinking with his fingers, letting them speak for him while his mouth stayed quiet.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, before you had time to second-guess it.

Joshua hummed in acknowledgment.

“Why do you play?”

He slowed, but didn’t stop. “It calms me down.”

The simplicity of it sank into your bones.

You looked at your laptop screen again, words half-typed and blinking. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I get that.”

He finally glanced over then, something open in his expression. Not asking anything of you—just offering that soft space again. You weren’t used to that. People always wanted more. They wanted you to speak, to react, to fill the silence with something worth holding onto.

Joshua just played. Eventually, you returned to your writing, fingers slower this time. He kept playing. Neither of you said goodnight. When you closed your laptop and headed upstairs, you felt softer, like someone had reached into the storm and reminded you it didn’t have to rage all the time.

~

The next morning started slow.

You woke to the scent of toast burning and Soonyoung’s voice rising in dramatic protest from the kitchen—something about someone not flipping the pancake when the bubbles showed up.

Minji was already up, stretching on her side of the room and humming some pop song off-key. You groaned into your pillow, rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, letting the sounds of the house drift in—laughter, someone banging a cupboard shut, Jun yelling “I’m not eating that!” like his life depended on it. It felt like summer in the kind of way you had only ever heard of when you were young talking to friends at the start of a school year—loud, lazy, full of sun and the kind of messy joy that didn’t need organizing.

By the time you wandered into the kitchen, Joshua was already there, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up, sipping coffee like he’d been awake for hours. He caught your eye briefly, smiling into his mug. You looked away first.

Soonyoung offered you a questionably golden pancake with a flourish and a bow. “Made with love and very little skill.”

You took it. “The perfect combination.”

The group migrated out to the deck after breakfast, sprawled across old lawn chairs and half-broken loungers. Jihoon had a speaker playing something vaguely acoustic, and Jeonghan was making a truly pathetic attempt at organizing a card game that dissolved into chaos the moment Seungcheol showed up with sunglasses and a smoothie like he was at Coachella.

Joshua settled a few feet from you, pulling out his notebook—one of those worn leather-bound ones with creased pages and dog-eared corners. You watched him jot something down in it before your eyes flicked away again. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to him, it was just that you… kind of did, which made it harder.

You buried yourself in your own notebook instead, knees drawn up to make a table. You weren’t writing anything in particular—just phrases, pieces of things, observations you’d maybe use later. You scribbled down a description of the way Jun and Soonyoung were fighting over the last bag of chips like it was a war treaty. You described the faint mark on Jeonghan’s neck from falling asleep weird on the couch. You noted the way Joshua’s thumb tapped against his knee while he thought.

Around noon, the group decided to head to the beach. You went with them, not because you wanted to swim, but because the idea of staying behind felt heavier than the idea of being around people. You waded into the shallows, ankles sinking into wet sand, the breeze curling around your body.

Joshua found you again, eventually, like he’d developed a radar for when you needed someone nearby without being on top of you. He walked up with two lemon popsicles and handed you one wordlessly. You took it without question.

“Everyone’s trying to see who can stay in the water longest,” he said, watching Soonyoung and Seungcheol yell nonsense from waist-deep in the waves. “The winner gets nothing, but apparently pride is enough.”

You licked the popsicle. “Tell that to Jihoon, looks like he’s two seconds from punching someone.”

Joshua smiled. “That is Jihoon’s version of a good time.”

You watched the others for a while, the popsicle dripping down your fingers, the sky so blue it hurt a little. Joshua didn’t fill the space with questions or commentary. He just stood beside you, eating his own at a steady pace, like there was no urgency to anything.

“You’re quiet,” you said after a while, not sure why.

He shrugged. “You are too.”

“Yeah, but I’m quiet because I’m overthinking everything.”

Joshua turned his head toward you slightly. “And I’m quiet because I’m not.”

You huffed a laugh at that. “Must be nice.”

He hadn’t answered, but his smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again, and for a split second you let yourself look at him properly. His eyelashes were longer than they had any right to be, his nose slightly pink from the sun. His expression was open, steady, warm in a way you weren’t sure how to hold.

Being reckless was never allowed when I grew up. I always strived for perfection, at least my parents’ view of it, never giving myself any room to breathe. I worked hard, did what I needed to do, and never slacked off. I remember looking down on the kids that would have fun during recess instead of studying, wondering how they ever thought they’d succeed in life with that attitude. Now I know it was just jealousy, they were allowed to have fun. For years I kept that mindset, never sneaking out, never getting into trouble.

You were my breath of fresh air, in a way. 

Eventually, the others managed to drag you deeper into the water, jumping over waves and splashing each other happily. You let yourself live in the moment for a little, shoulders soaked, laughter catching in your throat like it had been waiting there for years. The ocean tugged at your legs and you let it pull some of the weight off your chest, let it rinse the fear out of your bones. Someone had brought a beach ball and a poor game of keep-away broke out—chaotic and uncoordinated, but it didn’t matter. You were smiling.

You hadn’t realized Joshua was watching you until you stumbled backward, tripping slightly in the sand, and he was there—steadying you with one hand to your arm, his touch light but grounding.

“Got you,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal and didn’t make your heart stutter in your chest.

You glanced at him, trying to catch your breath and not let him see it. “Thanks.”

His hand lingered just a second longer than it needed to, then dropped away. “You looked like you were having fun.”

“I was,” you admitted, and it felt like saying something bigger than it sounded.

The sun dipped lower, the group beginning to scatter—some heading back toward the house, others flopping on the sand to dry off. You and Joshua walked together again, this time slower, your feet leaving long, crooked trails behind you. He carried both your towels. You didn’t ask him to, he just did.

Back at the house, the rest of the evening passed in that golden-tinted blur summer seems to have a monopoly on—music drifting out the windows, the scent of grilled corn and sunscreen in the air, a card game on the porch that nobody really remembered the rules to. You sat on the armrest of Joshua’s chair, one foot tucked beneath you, laughing quietly at Jeonghan’s commentary and Soonyoung’s increasingly wild bluffing strategy. Someone suggested starting a fire pit, like in all the coming-of-age films, so you all gathered around the fire pit in the backyard as Seungcheol started it.

At one point, someone asked for a song. Without hesitation, Joshua picked up his guitar.

“What should I play?” he asked the group.

“Something soft!” Minji called, already leaning back in her seat like she was ready to fall asleep to it.

“Something sad,” Jun added, “so I can pretend I’m in a breakup montage.”

Joshua had laughed, the sound light and beautiful, music in and of itself. He looked down at his guitar, fingers adjusting on the strings. He started to play—something slow, easy, and melancholy. You didn’t recognize the song, but you didn’t need to. It said enough. You watched him through the golden firelight, head tilted just enough to see the focus in his face. His voice, when he sang, was soft but steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around a room rather than cutting through it.

And when he looked up in the middle of a verse, eyes meeting yours for the briefest second—You forgot how to breathe. The flicker of the fire reflected in the warmth of his eyes, painting him in its yellows and oranges, the light curling around each strand of his hair and dancing across his face.

Later that night, after the fire pit had burned down and everyone had either gone to bed or passed out inside, you stood on the back deck alone, hoodie zipped up against the breeze, looking out at the stars.

Joshua came up beside you without a word, arms folded on the railing.

“I always forget how many stars you can see outside the city,” he murmured.

“Me too.”

The silence between you felt full, not empty. Comfortable. Safe.

“I’m glad you came,” he said after a moment, voice low.

You swallowed, heart bumping into your ribs. “I almost didn’t.”

“Why not?”

You thought of your parents. The pressure. The version of yourself you left behind every time you smiled too easily or sat too still. “Didn’t think I’d fit in.”

Joshua looked at you then, really looked. “You do.”

And it wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said it. Like a fact. Like he meant it. Like you could believe it, just for a little while.

That night, as you lay in bed beside a softly snoring Minji, your fingers itched to write again. You pulled out your laptop, the screen glowing softly as you wrote of a boy who glowed brighter than any star.

~

The rest of the week passed with the same ease, full of laughter and bad jokes, and before you knew it, you were once again in the backseat of Seungcheol’s SUV, Minji and Joshua beside you still. This time on the ride back, you were all singing together, much to Jihoon’s dismay, loud, semi-off-key, and blissful. You sang louder than you meant to, too tired to care, the kind of tired that came from sunburns and saltwater and smiling too much. Minji clapped off-beat, leaning against your shoulder this time, and Joshua’s thigh pressed warm against yours as he tried and failed to harmonize. The windows were cracked, the wind rushing in, and every now and then someone would shout the wrong lyric just to make Jeonghan groan. At some point, Jihoon gave up entirely and buried his face in a hoodie, headphones cranked up as loud as they’d go. The rest of you kept going, undeterred. Every voice melded into the next, creating something less like music and more like memory.

And Joshua—God, Joshua—he looked over at you during one of the slower songs. Not a love song, not really, but something nostalgic, full of yearning and soft crescendos. His gaze was steady, soft, like it had been since the moment he sat beside you on the porch steps days ago. You didn’t look away that time. You held it, let it settle in your chest.

You didn’t say anything when he passed you his phone later, the screen opened on the contacts page with a new one open for you to put your number in. He didn’t ask if he could text you. He didn’t need to.

You saved the contact as Joshua 🎸, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a second too long before you put the phone down and let your head fall back against the seat.

You didn’t text him.

Not that week, not the week after. You told yourself it was because life had picked up again. That the weight of being who you had to be came crashing down the second you got home—internship applications, catching up on summer coursework, sitting across from your parents at dinner and pretending that you weren’t always bracing for disappointment.

But the truth was this: you didn’t text him because you didn’t trust yourself to. Because there was something about the way he looked at you—like you were already unraveling and he didn’t mind—that made you want to run straight into him and never look back. And you weren’t ready for that.

Not back then.

So you tucked the summer into the back of your mind like a pressed flower in an old journal. Left untouched, but never forgotten. You went back to your life, your structure, your goals. And the next time you saw him again… it wasn’t a beach, or a fire pit, or under the stars.

It was a classroom.

Fall semester. Culture Studies. Second row, left side.

He sat next to you like no time had passed at all.

Smiled, eyes crinkling, voice soft:

“Hey. I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

And just like that—

A breath caught in your chest.

I think I’ve always been careful with my heart—not out of wisdom, but fear. I learned early on that wanting too much was dangerous, that letting someone in meant giving them the tools to undo you. So I stayed guarded, measured. I convinced myself that I was better off alone, that solitude was strength. And then you came along—not loud, not forceful, just present. You didn’t try to pull the walls down. You just stood outside them long enough that I started to wonder what it would be like to open the door. It’s a strange feeling, wanting to be seen and being terrified of it at the same time. I keep catching myself watching you when you’re not looking, wondering what you see when you look back at me.

I don’t know how to let someone in without losing myself, even though now I’m trying.

You and Joshua formed a small study group with Minghao, one of the new freshmen who was in the class as well. Your days were spent at cafés and libraries, sneaking glances and laughing as if you’d known each other for years. Minghao integrated himself into the friend group quickly, and soon enough the little study group became weekly hangouts with everyone. 

Minji made a friend in her figure drawing class, Luv, who brought her Communications major boyfriend, Seokmin, who dragged his friend Mingyu from Architecture. Just like that your group of nine became twelve, but still managed to feel seamless and tight-knit. Still, it would get slightly overwhelming sometimes, and although you thought you hid it well, Joshua started inviting you to the cafés alone, saying he couldn’t focus around everyone. The look in his eyes gave it away though, that he was really doing it for you.

Eventually, it became a ritual—every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork, even if the whole group was hanging out later, he’d still find time for the two of you. Some days you talked more than you studied. Some days you didn’t talk at all. And on the days when your thoughts felt too loud, when you couldn’t stop spiraling about grades and expectations and whether or not you were living the life you actually wanted—he didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there, steady and reliable.

And maybe that was what got to you most of all.

He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer.

He just kept showing up.

On a Tuesday after all your classes had ended, the kind that blurred into a quiet hum—gray skies, too many assignments, not enough sleep. The kind of day that wrapped itself around your shoulders like a weighted blanket and refused to let go.

You’d holed up in the library with Joshua, as usual. Your table in the corner had become something of an unofficial claim—charger cords and scribbled notes, half empty coffee cups and stolen glances. The rain had started sometime around four, soft and steady against the tall windows, and hadn’t let up since.

The overhead lights were warm and low, the world outside already swallowed by night, as you’d long since stopped paying attention to the time. Your eyes burned from staring at your screen, fingers twitching as you backspaced the same sentence for the fifth time. Across from you, Joshua stretched in his seat, shirt riding up slightly as he yawned behind one hand. 

“I think my brain is broken,” he said, voice rough with sleepiness. “Like, permanently. I don’t even know what I’ve been reading for the past ten minutes.”

You snorted. “Same. I’m pretty sure I just tried to cite Wikipedia in APA format.”

He grimaced. “We’ve hit rock bottom.”

You smiled tiredly, closing your laptop with a soft click. “We should probably go before they lock us in here overnight.”

Joshua glanced toward the windows. The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it had picked up, water streaming steadily down the glass in long rivulets.

You frowned. “Is it still pouring?”

He checked his phone, winced. “Yeah. You didn’t bring an umbrella?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t even bring a jacket. It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

Joshua made a thoughtful noise, then stood and reached behind his chair to grab his hoodie. It was oversized, worn-in, a faded navy blue with a small embroidered patch near the cuff.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled, eyes soft but unassuming. “It’s warm. You’ll freeze on the walk back.”

You hesitated. “What about you?”

Joshua shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

You didn’t reach for it right away. There was something about the gesture—so simple, so unspoken—that made your throat go tight. Not just because it was thoughtful, not just because he noticed, but because he always noticed. Without fanfare, without asking for anything in return.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing just barely.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He gave a small smile, one hand raking through his hair. “No problem.”

You didn’t put it on until you were outside, beneath the awning. The rain was heavier than it looked from inside, cold and relentless. You pulled the hoodie over your head and let it swallow you whole. It smelled like him—like laundry detergent and cinnamon and something else you couldn’t name. You walked side by side under the streetlights, sneakers splashing in shallow puddles. He didn’t try to talk. Just kept pace with you, close enough that your arms brushed occasionally, and you let them. By the time you got back to your dorm, your legs were damp, your socks wet, but you didn’t care.

You tugged the hoodie tighter around you. “I’ll wash it before I give it back.”

Joshua looked at you, his hair damp from the rain, the light catching in his eyes in a way that made your heart trip over itself.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said easily. “It looks good on you.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came out. So instead, you nodded.

“Night, Joshua.”

“Night,” he said, smiling like it wasn’t just another goodbye.

You closed the door behind you and stood there for a long moment, water dripping from your sleeves onto the floor. The hoodie clung to your skin like something you shouldn’t get used to.

And still—you didn’t take it off.

I’ve always been the observant one. The quiet one who watched more than I spoke, who picked up on the shift in tone before anyone else even noticed a change. I think it started with my parents—how their voices would get tight over dinner, how silence wasn’t really silence but a warning. I learned early on how to read the room like a second language: when to disappear, when to smile, when not to ask questions. It’s strange, how survival skills turn into personality traits. Now, even in rooms that are safe, I’m still scanning for tension like it’s my job. Still listening for the quiet before the storm.

You didn’t mean to start memorizing the way he smiled, but you did.

The way one corner of his mouth lifted first. The way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, but not surprised. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was listening to something you hadn’t said yet. You caught yourself writing about it later, in the margins of your notes. A small character sketch here. A description tucked into a pretend dialogue. At first, you told yourself it was just how your brain worked—you’d always been too observant for your own good, but deep down, you knew better. He was becoming a habit. A comfortable one that curled around the edges of your day and lingered long after he was gone.

That winter came faster than expected. Midterms blurred into Thanksgiving, and before you knew it, snow had started to fall. Not heavily, delicate soft flakes swirling down through streetlights like something out of a movie. You’d been walking home from another group study session, hands jammed in your coat pockets, brain fried from too much caffeine and too little sleep, when you felt someone nudge your arm with theirs.

Joshua.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just fell into step beside you, his scarf pulled up around his mouth, eyes crinkled with quiet warmth.

“It’s snowing,” he said, as if you couldn’t already tell. “First snow of the year.”

You looked up, letting a flake land on your cheek. “Feels like we skipped fall.”

Joshua glanced at you, his breath fogging the air. “It went by too fast, huh?”

That stopped you.

Because it had.

The semester was rushing by. You were rushing by. And somewhere in all of it, this—whatever this was with him—had gone from tentative to familiar. Tuesdays and Thursdays turned into Fridays too, and sometimes Saturdays. Group dinners, one-on-one coffees, passing notes during class even when you knew you’d see each other later. The way he’d easily slipped into your life scared you, so you just nodded in response.

The night before winter break, you and the group gathered at Seokmin’s apartment for what had been dubbed “Midterms Are Over, We Deserve to Be Dumb” night. Mingyu showed up with four boxes of takeout and zero utensils, Soonyoung brought cheap champagne, Jeonghan brought a speaker and declared himself DJ for the night, which lasted until someone dared Jun to change the playlist and chaos ensued.

You wore Joshua’s hoodie—not because you’d forgotten to give it back, but because you hadn’t. He didn’t say anything when he saw you in it, just offered that same soft, steady smile that always seemed to pull the floor out from under you. Later, after the food had been eaten and the lights dimmed and someone had turned on a movie nobody was really watching, you found yourselves in the kitchen together. You were refilling your drink, he was leaning against the counter, nursing a soda. You stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, quiet for a moment as the voices from the living room faded into background noise.

“You heading home for break?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just for a bit.”

Joshua took a slow sip. “You okay about it?”

You hesitated. “I’ll manage.”

He looked at you—really looked—and it felt like the kind of look that saw more than it was supposed to.

“Call me if it gets bad,” he said simply. Not dramatic, not demanding, just there.

You smiled, tired and grateful. “You’ll actually pick up?”

He laughed. “I’ll always pick up.”

It wasn’t until you were lying in your own bed later that night, watching snow swirl past your dorm window, that those words echoed back to you.

I’ll always pick up.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought of coming back next semester felt like something to look forward to.

You didn’t text more than a few times—mostly updates about weird holiday food and “you won’t believe what my cousin just said” messages. You kept it light and safe, but he stayed in your thoughts anyway, like a song you kept humming without realizing it.

When you returned to campus in January, your heart did that stupid stutter again when you spotted him across the quad, half-buried in his coat, grinning like you’d never left, and this time, you let yourself run to catch up. You let yourself believe in the small, quiet way he was waiting for you. 

Just like that, your study sessions were back on—just the two of you in your favorite corner of the usual café—but Tuesdays and Thursdays became almost every day, and you found yourself not minding.

~

It was late afternoon, just after four, and your laptop had long since stopped being useful. The café’s windows were fogged slightly at the edges, and the warm hum of conversation around you was starting to fade into background static. Joshua sat across from you, pen in hand, lazily doodling something in the corner of his notes. You weren’t paying attention to your own, instead pretending to read an article while sneaking glances at him as he pretended not to notice.

Eventually, he closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair a little, arms crossed loosely. “Hey.”

You didn’t look up right away. “If this is you trying to tell me that I've been staring at the same sentence for the past twenty minutes, don’t.”

He smiled, chuckling. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

You glanced up then, one brow raised. “Oh? Gonna insult my coffee order again?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to get dinner sometime.”

You blinked. “We literally just had coffee.”

“I meant like a real dinner,” he said, easy and unbothered. “Not here. Not after a study session. Just you and me.”

You stared at him, heart skipping once—but your mouth moved faster.

“Wow. Bold move.”

Joshua shrugged, unfazed. “You’ve been wearing my hoodie for two months, I figured the line between bold and obvious had already been crossed.”

You flushed, but hid it behind your cup. “That’s because it’s comfortable.”

He gave you a long look, head tilted. “Right. Of course. You steal my hoodie, hoard my playlists, hijack my fries, but no romantic interest whatsoever.”

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “I’m a very complicated person.”

“I know,” he said, like it wasn’t a problem. “That’s part of the reason I like you.”

You paused. Something about the way he said it—so casual, like it didn’t cost him anything to just like you as you were—made your throat go tight.

You looked back down at your screen, scrolling without reading. “If this is your way of trying to guilt me into a pity dinner, it’s not working.”

Joshua smiled, soft and steady. “It’s not pity, it’s an invitation.”

Your fingers tapped your keyboard aimlessly before you quit “Where?”

He blinked, seemingly surprised you were actually entertaining it. “Tiny Korean place, downtown. Family-run, kinda loud, food’s amazing. You’ll pretend to hate it, but you’ll love it.”

You scoffed. “Excuse you, I have excellent taste.”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

You shot him a look. “You’re really not going to stop until I say yes, huh?”

“I’ll stop if you say no,” he replied simply.

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“…Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your drink again. “But only because I’m hungry and my fridge is pathetic.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkled as he tried—and failed—to suppress a grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you said, standing and stuffing your things into your bag, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not a date. It’s food.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Food. Saturday?”

You slung your bag over your shoulder. “Whatever.”

But as you turned to go, hoodie sleeves tugged down to cover your hands, he caught your eye one last time and said it with a kind of warmth that made your stomach flip:

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You didn’t reply. You just walked out the door with your face burning and your heart beating too loud.

Saturday came faster than you expected.

You spent way too long picking out an outfit, then told yourself you didn’t care. Spent another ten minutes trying to calm your hair, then gave up entirely. It wasn’t a date, after all. Except it was, and you knew it. And—judging by the stupid way your heart picked up when you spotted Joshua waiting by the curb, leaning casually against his car like he hadn’t been checking the time every five minutes—he knew it too.

He opened the passenger door for you, because of course he did. “Hey.”

You raised a brow. “This whole picking-me-up thing feels dangerously date-adjacent.”

Joshua just smiled. “Guess we’re halfway there already.”

You rolled your eyes, but you got in anyway. His car smelled like his cologne and cinnamon, the aux cord was already connected. Your name was still on the screen from last time you’d hijacked it. The drive was easy, filled with soft music and snarky commentary about other drivers. You liked that about him—he didn’t fill silence with filler. He just let you be.

The plan was dinner. A real one. The restaurant was supposed to be cozy, tucked downtown, hole-in-the-wall enough to feel cool without trying too hard.

The reality?

A handwritten CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT sign taped to the restaurant door and Joshua sheepishly biting back a laugh while you stared at it in betrayal.

“You had one job,” you said, arms crossed.

“I swear it didn’t say anything online,” he replied, trying not to smile. “I even checked the reviews.”

“Did they mention getting stood up in the parking lot, or is that just me?”

Joshua put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Wow. Cold.”

You sighed, already tugging your seatbelt back on. “You owe me fries. Like, good fries, not soggy disappointment sticks.”

He grinned, already putting the car in gear. “Deal.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were parked beneath the soft orange glow of a streetlamp, a brown paper bag between you, fog slowly blooming across the car windows. The food was hot and messy and way too salty, and everything felt perfect. He handed you your burger and opened his own box with all the grace of someone who had fully embraced the situation. You were still shuffling through a playlist when he reached over and popped open the glove compartment.

Napkins. Dozens of them, all collected from various cafés and takeout orders, some still with logos printed in fading ink.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do you have a whole ecosystem of napkins in there?”

He looked smug. “Emergency preparedness.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a hero.”

You shook your head and reached for one anyway. “Alright,” he said, picking through the fries, “first bite rule. You have to rate it on a scale of one to tragic.”

You took a dramatic bite of your burger, chewed with exaggerated thoughtfulness, then pointedly held up six fingers.

“Six?” he scoffed. “You’re a tough crowd.”

“You promised good fries. These are aggressively mediocre.”

“You are aggressively ungrateful.”

“Mm, but charming.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Scarily self-aware for someone eating like a raccoon.”

You threw a napkin at him. He caught it one-handed and used it to wipe a smudge off your cheek without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you'd done this before. Like this wasn’t your first date. 

You both paused. 

Not awkwardly—just… softly, like time hiccupped.

So you made a napkin glove (it was an automatic defense mechanism that popped into your head, okay?). Kind of. Mostly it was just a lot of crumpled paper shoved around your fingers, but you held it up with pride and wiggled it in his face.

“Look,” you said, completely serious. “Art.”

Joshua grinned. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Never been done before.”

“It’s the future of fashion.”

“Can I hire you to do my album cover?”

You looked at him over the rim of your drink. “Only if I get royalties.”

He smiled again—so full, so real, like it lit up his whole face. You felt it in your chest, like a match being struck. The heater hummed softly, your knees brushed. He was close, not just physically, but in the way that made you want to lean in more, to stay longer. The night blurred at the edges, and the city felt quieter than it usually did.

“This was kind of perfect,” you admitted, quietly, when the conversation slowed.

Joshua glanced over. “Yeah?”

You nodded, staring down at the empty fry box in your lap. “Low bar, maybe. But yeah.”

He nudged your foot with his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

He smiled, the kind that crept in slowly—corner of his mouth first, then the rest of his face catching up. Outside, the windows had fogged completely, the world beyond the windshield soft and blurred. You were wrapped in warmth and salt and too many napkins. When he walked you to your door, the quiet followed you.

He stood in front of you, hands deep in his jacket pockets, his hair mussed from the car ride. “Thanks for tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Why are you thanking me? I didn’t do anything.”

Joshua laughed, low and warm. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when he was.

There was a pause—not quite silence, but the space before something.

Joshua tilted his head a little. “So… do I get to do this again sometime?”

You tried to keep your voice light. “Only if you promise no more closed restaurants.”

“I can promise to try.”

You huffed a laugh and looked down at your shoes. His hand brushed yours, not quite holding—just a nudge. A question. 

And before you could overthink it, you stepped closer. He looked down, eyes meeting yours, the same softness as always—but this time, there was something else behind it. A held breath. An invitation.

You kissed him.

Not planned, not polished—just a moment folding in on itself, your hand curling in the fabric of his jacket, his mouth warm and careful against yours. He didn’t rush it, didn’t pull away either. His hand found the small of your back like it belonged there. When you broke apart, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a breath. Just him looking at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him in the best possible way. You stepped back, heartbeat thudding like it hadn’t caught up yet.

Joshua blinked. “So…”

You smirked, brushing past him toward your door. “Don’t let that go to your head either.”

He laughed, breathless.

“Night, napkin hoarder,” you called over your shoulder.

“Night,” he replied, still standing there, stunned and glowing.

And as you stepped inside, hoodie still zipped to your chin and your hands tucked in the pockets, you realized something strange.

You already felt like you missed him.

I used to think the goal was to be good at life. To do things the right way, the smart way, the way that made people nod approvingly and say, “She’s doing well.” So I did all the things I was supposed to. Got good grades, smiled politely, made myself agreeable. Learned how to be impressive without being intimidating, kind without being soft, competent without drawing too much attention. And for a while, I thought that meant I was doing it right.

But lately, I’ve started to wonder what I gave up in the process.

It’s a strange feeling, realizing you’re not quite sure who you are outside of your usefulness. That most of your accomplishments feel more like proof of compliance than passion. I used to love staying up late to write, to draw, to imagine other lives, other versions of myself that weren’t so afraid to want things. Now I stay up late answering emails and scrolling through job listings I don’t even want.

You always made it look easy—wanting things. You’d talk about your dreams like they were already real, like you were just on your way to meet them. I used to envy that, quietly. I used to think I’d catch up eventually, once things settled. But they never really did. They just kept moving, and I kept following, waiting for some internal switch to flip and make everything feel meaningful.

You started dating not long after that night. There wasn’t some dramatic confession or big ask—just a shared look, a shift in the air between you, and then a string of days that slowly folded into something you both already knew. He asked, technically—half-laughing, eyes soft, the words “So are we…?” hanging between you like a question with an obvious answer, and of course you said yes. From there, it was easy—easier than you expected—like you’d already been in the rhythm of it before either of you dared to call it love.

He knew what coffee to bring you when you were stressed, you knew when to remind him to eat lunch between classes. He’d send you photos of cats he saw on the way to the bus, you left notes in his hoodie pockets, half-sarcastic, half-sincere. You never had a honeymoon phase. Or maybe you did, and it just felt like a continuation of whatever had already been building since that first beach walk. It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was just… comfortable. Like slipping into the version of your life where you didn’t have to explain yourself all the time. Where he just got it. Each day was another with him by your side, making even the most boring chores seem brighter.

The grocery store was colder than it needed to be. You stood in front of the deli section like the wrong choice would change the rest of your night, squinting at plastic trays of pasta and overpromising risotto, all of it under the hum of the flickering light that never got fixed.

Joshua held up a tray of lasagna—beige, sagging, uncertain. “This one looks like it gave up halfway through becoming food.”

You didn’t even flinch. “So basically, it’s us, in edible form.”

He laughed, not the loud kind, but the kind that slipped into the space between you like it belonged there. “Speak for yourself. I still have ambition.”

“Yeah, to eat garbage and call it gourmet.”

Still, you didn’t walk away. He didn’t either. You stayed there, arms brushing every few seconds, letting the refrigerated air chill the part of your brain that had been too warm all day. Eventually, you grabbed the lasagna from him and tossed it into the cart like a surrender. He beamed. You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt a little lighter.

“Dessert?” he asked, already heading for the candy aisle.

“Obviously.”

You bickered about snacks like it was life or death—he swore by Tootsie Roll Pops, you swore by Airheads. He made a passionate argument about the flavors being more emotionally dynamic and lasting longer, you accused him of over-identifying with candy. He bought both, of course. He always did. At checkout, he insisted on scanning every item, pretending the barcode scanner was a lightsaber and making increasingly dramatic ‘pew-pew’ noises. The teenage cashier didn’t blink. You laughed anyway. He looked proud of that. 

You’ve thought about that moment more times than you care to admit—how unremarkable it all was. How perfect.

He opened your door for you without thinking. You clicked your seatbelt while he arranged the bags like you were moving cross-country, not three blocks. His playlist came on automatically—lo-fi beats and a song you’d been obsessed with for three weeks and would pretend not to like in two.

Back at your apartment, you didn’t bother with plates. Just tossed a blanket on the couch and dug in with plastic forks, arguing over who got the corner piece like it mattered. He gave it to you. You gave it back. He took it, grinned, and said, “We’re getting better at compromise.”

You told him he was delusional.

You don’t remember what movie you put on, only that it had subtitles and a lot of pauses. You watched him more than the screen. He watched you too, probably more than you realized at the time. At one point, he leaned against your shoulder, head tilted just enough to make your heartbeat shift, and whispered, “I hope you never get tired of this.”

You’d blinked. “Of lasagna that tastes like regret?”

He smiled like you’d said something profound. “Of us. Like this.”

You didn’t answer. Not really. You just elbowed him gently and reached for another Airhead.

He didn’t say “I love you” that night. But you think he almost did. You think you might’ve heard it in the way he stayed too long after the credits rolled, in the way he carried the trash out without being asked, in the way he paused by the door, looking like he didn’t want to leave.

“Wanna stay?” you’d asked, voice too casual to be casual.

He nodded. “If you don’t mind the world’s worst blanket thief.”

You tossed him a pillow and called him dramatic. He called you soft. Neither of you denied it.

That night, he slept on the couch and you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way his feet stuck out from the end of the blanket, how he always curled toward the cushions like he was trying to take up less space than he deserved. You didn’t write about it that night. Not right away. But later—when things were less clear, when the quiet between you stopped being comfortable—you opened a blank document and wrote about two people deciding between frozen meals like it mattered. You wrote about gummy worms and borrowed playlists, about a boy who didn’t say he loved you but meant it anyway.

You never finished that piece.

You still open it sometimes, reread the lines, move a sentence around and tell yourself it’s editing. You never change the ending. Maybe because it never really had one. Or maybe because it had one and you just didn’t write it down. Sometimes, you wonder if that’s what writing really is—holding onto a version of a moment that felt whole, even if you weren’t. Even if he wasn’t.

You still avoid the frozen food aisle when you’re alone. Not because it hurts. Just because it makes you remember. And you’re not always sure which is worse.

There’s a part of me that will always wonder: if I had been more focused on us instead of not messing us up, maybe things would be different. If I’d told you how much you meant to me, that you were my world and that it scared me to be so attached, I might be able to run into your arms the way I always wanted to. There’s no point in wondering now, but I still find myself writing stories where we end up happy in the end, where I remind you how much I love you every day. Sure, the characters have different names, live in different places, but they’re still always us, or at least what I wished for us.

You didn’t even realize it was your six-month anniversary until Minji reminded you, halfway through a bite of cafeteria pasta.

“Wait—today’s the twenty-third, right?” she asked, frowning at her phone. “You and Joshua started dating on the twenty-third, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “...Did we?”

Luv gave you a look over her pasta. “Don’t you remember your own relationship?”

You shrugged, but you were smiling. “I guess I didn’t really think about it, since we just kind of slipped into everything.”

“Yeah, into disgustingly domestic bliss,” Minji muttered. “What are you guys doing tonight?”

You checked your calendar out of instinct. “Uh, he said something about dinner. Wouldn’t tell me where.”

Luv narrowed her eyes. “He planned something.”

You laughed. “Relax. It’s Joshua. It’s probably dinner and a walk.”

“You say that like it’s not the dream.”

You were wrong, for the record. It wasn’t just dinner. He picked you up with flowers. Tiny yellow petals in a paper-wrapped bundle, already drooping a little from being carried around campus all afternoon.

“They’re a little sad-looking,” he admitted. “But they reminded me of you.”

You squinted. “Um. Thank you?”

“Hopeful. Beautiful. A little chaotic.” He held them out with a sheepish grin. “I meant it nicely.”

You rolled your eyes but took them anyway, hiding your smile in the petals.

You knew it was sweet. You knew most people would melt over it—and you did—but it also made your chest tighten, just a little. Because the more perfect it felt, the more aware you were of the quiet voice in the back of your head whispering: don’t mess this up.

He took you to a cozy Italian restaurant—the one he’d been planning on taking you on that first date. The food was good, the conversation was easy, and you made each other laugh in the same rhythm you always did—like there was no room for awkwardness anymore. Yet still, somewhere beneath all that warmth, a flicker of unease curled in your stomach.

How long could this really last?

You didn’t know where the thought came from. It just appeared, uninvited. Maybe because it felt too good, like something you weren’t sure you were allowed to keep. You’d always been better at preparing for the fall than trusting the height.

After dinner, he didn’t take you straight home. Instead, he pulled into a quiet overlook by the river. The kind of place that would’ve felt cliché with anyone else, but just felt right with him. He passed you a napkin from the glove compartment when your ice cream dripped down your wrist.

You teased him about it, he teased you back. The breeze was cool, the sky was fading into pinks and purples as night fell.

And somewhere in the middle of it, he turned to you, voice soft but sure.

“You’re my favorite person.”

You froze. Not outwardly—but something in your ribs pulled tight.

“That’s dangerous,” you responded.

He smiled, open and unguarded. “What, being honest?”

“No,” you said, quieter. “Making me want to say it back.”

You did anyway. Not in words—you couldn’t—but you leaned across the console and kissed him, soft and steady, like a promise you weren’t sure you could keep but wanted to make anyway. For a moment, it was all so warm, so close, so real.

Later, on the drive home, you watched his fingers on the wheel, the way he tapped to the beat of the music. You could feel it again—that fear pressing up against the edges of your chest, cold where everything else was soft.

He looked at you like you were everything, but you knew, deep down, you didn’t believe you could be. You held his hand anyway and told yourself that was enough, but some part of you was already bracing. Just in case.

~

The first time Joshua told you he loved you, it had been a normal day. You’d been dating for seven or eight months at that point, and he had been over at your house, laying on your couch and watching TV as you typed away on your computer, doing a report on The Myth of Daedalus and Icarus for your Ancient Greek Lit class. You remember the way his eyes were focused on you, not whatever show played on the screen, because you called him out on it.

“What?” You’d asked, glancing up to meet his gaze, thrown off by how soft it was.

He’d blinked like he’d been caught doing something he didn’t mean to, but didn’t look away. “Nothing,” he responded, then added, after a pause, “You’re just really beautiful when you’re focused.”

You’d snorted, typing another line without missing a beat. “Cheesy.”

Joshua laughed, the quiet kind, like he knew you were deflecting but didn’t mind. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but true.”

He’d gone quiet after that, letting the room fill again with the sounds of the sitcom on the TV and your fingers tapping at the keys. He stayed like that for a long time—long enough that you forgot he was watching again until he shifted a little closer, until you felt his warmth bleeding into your side.

And then, casual like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was commenting on the weather,

“I love you.”

You’d stopped typing mid-sentence. The cursor blinked against the white of the screen like it was waiting for you to catch up, but your brain was still buffering, caught somewhere between the unexpected softness of his voice and the flutter that had leapt into your chest.

You turned to him slowly, brows drawn together. “What?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and settled into his eyes. “I love you,” he repeated, this time with a little shrug, like he wasn’t offering you anything to carry, just telling you something true. “Just thought you should know.”

And you had no idea what to say.

You weren’t even sure how you felt about it—not because you didn’t care about him, but because the words felt so big. Too big. You didn’t know if you believed in love, not really, not after all the ways people had made it conditional in your life. But Joshua just said it, like it wasn’t a condition at all. Like it was just there.

You’d blinked at him, unsure, quiet. Then, instead of saying it back, you’d asked, “Aren’t you supposed to say that when we’re, like, having a moment?”

Joshua grinned. “This is a moment.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, too. “You’re ridiculous.”

He reached over and poked your cheek gently. “Yeah.”

You had huffed a laugh, rolled your eyes as Joshua leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple before settling back into the couch.

You didn’t say anything else that day—not about the I love you, not about how your heart had soared before sinking to your stomach, sinking to your feet the same way Icarus fell to the ocean. Even so, that night, after he left, you opened a new document and wrote ten pages of a love story you’d never finish.

~

When Joshua told you his mom was coming into town and wanted to meet you, you nearly had an aneurysm. You had been mid-sip of your latte, which immediately went down the wrong pipe, making you cough so hard you almost knocked over your laptop.

“She what?”

He was calm, automatically passing you a napkin while he responded. “She just wants to meet you. She’s been asking since month three, but I told her I’d wait until you were comfortable.”

“And you think I’m comfortable now?”

He tilted his head, sipping his tea like you weren’t spiraling. “Aren’t you?”

You stared at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he said, without missing a beat.

You remember preparing like it was a job interview. A sweater—not too fancy, not too casual. Clean jeans. A bag packed with emergency gum, hand sanitizer, and half a pack of tissues in case you cried (you wouldn’t, but still). Joshua just laughed when he saw how stiff you were in the mirror.

“She’s going to love you,” he said, adjusting your sleeve gently and rubbing your back.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, eyes warm and certain. “Because you’re you.”

You hated how much that softened you.

His mom met you at a little café downtown, the kind with handmade mugs and mismatched furniture. She stood the second you walked in, arms open like she’d known you forever.

“Oh my gosh—you’re even prettier than in the pictures,” she said, pulling you into a hug before you could stop her.

You stiffened, unsure where to put your arms, how long to hold on, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and didn’t care. She smelled like jasmine and peppermint, and her laugh came easy.

“Hi,” you managed, awkward and too formal. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hong.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, please, call me Mom.”

Your brain short-circuited. She sat across from you, immediately launching into stories—about Joshua as a kid, about their family dog, about her terrible driving. You didn’t have to say much, she filled every silence like she hated to see space unused, but not in a way that demanded anything from you. It wasn’t pressure, just presence.

At one point, she leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Has he shown you his baby pictures yet? No? Ohhh, you’re in for a treat.”

Joshua groaned. “Mom—”

“She needs to see the bowl cut. I insist.”

You laughed—a real laugh. So real it startled you. When her hand had brushed yours over the table, you didn’t flinch. Just looked down at it and thought about how different it felt—gentle, curious. Not weighing you. Not measuring your worth. You weren’t used to that.

Later, when she left—hugging you again, kissing Joshua on the cheek, making you promise to visit over break—you stood beside him on the sidewalk in stunned silence.

“She hugged me,” you said dumbly.

Joshua nodded. “Twice.” He confirmed.

“She meant it.”

He smiled sideways at you. “Of course she did.”

You didn’t answer—you couldn’t—because what you really wanted to say was that’s not normal for you. You wanted to say, my mom once called me dramatic for crying at my graduation or my dad said love is earned. But you didn’t. 

Instead, you slipped your hand into his, quiet and steady. You didn’t know how to say thank you for things you didn’t know you needed. But you squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed back like he heard it anyway.

Growing up, my parents always told me writing was a useless hobby, and being an author was a fruitless job. Now, as I sit in my apartment, typing yet another page, I wonder if they were wrong.  Of course I’d listened to them, like I always did. Chose the safe path, got the degree, accepted the job offer, and found myself in an office with boring beige walls and a badge to clip on my blazer. I learned to say things like “per my last email” and “looping back”, made spreadsheets, sat through meetings that could’ve been emails and nodded at my boss like I was grateful for the opportunity. They’d always said growing up wasn’t fun, and it's moments like now that make me wonder if they were just doing it wrong. If I am. You never seemed to have that problem, but then again, sometimes I think I never looked hard enough.

It went differently when he met your parents, as expected. The semester had ended, and you weren’t allowed to go on the beach trip like the year prior, instead having to go home and take care of your younger sister, Bella. She’d been “rebelling,” according to your parents, which could have meant anything from refusing to memorize the school’s motto to sneaking out to party. You never got the full story—just a text from your mom with a time and a list of rules, followed by a thinly veiled threat about "setting a good example."

So you went, and Joshua, because he was Joshua, offered to drive you. Just drop you off, he’d said at first, but the closer you got to your hometown, the more the silence thickened, and at one point—fifteen minutes from your street—you’d looked at him and asked, “Do you want to meet them?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

You weren’t sure if you meant it or why you even offered, but it was too late after that.

They were polite.

Your dad opened the door with that measured expression he wore to fundraisers and board meetings—neutral with a pinch of skepticism. Your mom smiled, the tight kind, eyes flicking over Joshua’s outfit, his hands, his posture.

“You didn’t mention he played guitar,” she said after introductions, not as a compliment.

Joshua smiled anyway. “Mostly just for fun.”

They didn’t laugh. Bella waved from the staircase, wearing a hoodie that probably wasn’t hers and chewing gum in a way that made your mother twitch. You wished you could sit with her instead. You wished you could disappear entirely.

Dinner was a slow ache. Joshua tried to help with dishes afterward, but your mother insisted he sit. She asked about his major, his GPA, what his father did for work, and Joshua answered every question with patience, that soft steadiness you adored in him. You watched his knuckles whiten slightly around his water glass. Your dad interrupted him twice.

At one point, your mom said, “It’s good that you’re helping her stay focused. She tends to get… distracted.”

And Joshua said nothing. He didn’t argue, but he looked at you like he knew how hard you were biting the inside of your cheek.

Later, in your childhood bedroom—after everyone had gone to bed, after you’d laid down and stared at your old ceiling fan like it might have answers—you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Joshua looked over at you from the makeshift bed you’d set up for him on the floor. He smiled softly. “Don’t be.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’ve been through worse,” he said, like it was a joke. It wasn’t.

You turned your face toward the wall, the soft thrum of the fan masking the rise of your heartbeat. “I thought… I hoped maybe they’d be different this time.”

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it. “They don’t know how to love you.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

But you both knew it was true.

He left in the morning, but you found a folded note in your hoodie pocket. His handwriting, familiar and neat, written on the back of one of Bella’s old homework assignments.

You’re not the person they try to make you be.

You’re more. You always have been.

I’m proud of you for coming home anyway.

I’ll see you when school starts again, don’t forget to call.

Love you

You didn’t cry, but you kept the note. You still have it, actually. Tucked into the back of your journal, under a page with a half-written poem about ceilings and silence. The ink’s smudged a little, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. You reread it sometimes when you feel yourself folding in again. Just to remember what it felt like, to be seen like that. To be chosen.

Even when you couldn't choose yourself.

~

You’d learned pretty quickly what your parents meant by “rebellious” when you caught a boy trying to sneak in through the wrong window. It was just past midnight, you were at your desk, headphones in but not playing anything, too mentally fried from summer class readings to focus but not tired enough to sleep. That’s when you heard it—a faint clink, then the rustle of leaves, and something brushing against the siding outside your window.

You got up and peered through the blinds, heart already preparing for the worst. There he was: a boy, halfway through climbing to the study, balancing awkwardly with a tote bag slung over his shoulder. He was laughing under his breath, the sound muffled by effort.

You opened your window. “You do realize there’s nothing in there, right?”

He nearly slipped off the ledge. “Oh—sorry! I didn’t know anyone was awake. Bella said this was the right one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

“Chan,” he whispered, lifting the tote as if that explained everything. “We’re in the same class. I brought her strawberry milk. It’s her favorite.”

You blinked. He looked… harmless. Earnest, even. His socks didn’t match and his hoodie had little stars embroidered on the sleeves.

You sighed, already giving in. “Use the tree and climb into this room, Bella’s in the room next to mine. That’s the study.”

His whole face lit up. “You’re the best. Seriously.”

You didn’t answer—just shook your head as he dropped down to instead scale the tree outside your window and climb in, thanking you again before sneaking into Bella’s room.

When you peeked in later, expecting chaos or whispered schemes, you were met with soft lamplight and the smell of strawberry milk. Bella was curled up in bed, legs tangled in a blanket, flipping through flashcards while Chan sat on the floor with his back to the wall, their pinkies barely touching between them.

“Oh,” Bella said when she noticed you. “You’re still up.”

You stepped into the room. “I am, why are you?”

“We’re studying,” she said. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”

Chan nodded, serious. “I quizzed her six times already. She only missed one.”

Bella looked proud. “It was ‘ephemeral.’ I got cocky.”

You tried not to smile. “And sneaking him in was… necessary for vocab retention?”

Bella shrugged, but there was a blush blooming in her cheeks. “He knows I get nervous when I study. It’s easier when he’s here.”

You looked between them—at the books, the snacks, the little pinky touch—and something tugged at your chest. They weren’t doing anything wrong. They were just being. Sweet. Simple. Young.

“You really like him,” you said, not as an accusation.

Bella nodded. “I do.”

It was so certain, so easy.

You glanced at Chan. “You like her too?”

He nodded, just as serious. “I’ve liked her since she gave me her extra glue stick in fourth grade.”

Bella laughed, reaching down to poke his knee. “You always bring that up.”

“Because it was a defining moment in my life.”

You sat at the edge of the bed, folding one leg beneath you. “You’re not rebellious.”

She tilted her head. “I know.”

“Then why do they think you are?”

Bella looked down at her flashcards. “Because I want things.”

You swallowed because that landed much harder than it should have.

She looked up again, softening. “They raised us to be good. I think I just want to be… happy, too.”

You didn’t answer in words, you just leaned forward and pulled her into a hug—awkward and sudden, but needed. She went without resistance.

Chan looked like he was trying very hard not to intrude on the moment. You reached out and ruffled his hair as you pulled back. “You break her heart, I break your kneecaps.”

He nodded solemnly. “Reasonable.”

Bella laughed so hard she snorted, and you found yourself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in days.

That night, when you got back to your room, you sat on your bed in the quiet, phone in your hand, Joshua’s name at the top of your messages. You stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering.

Then you typed:

"My sister's in love. It's kind of gross. Also adorable. Do you still have the playlist from the deli lasagna night?"

He replied before you could even lock your screen:

"Of course. Also, I love how you say 'gross' when you mean 'I’m feeling things and I’m scared.'"

You rolled your eyes and smiled into your pillow.

Maybe being a little rebellious wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

~

When you’d told Joshua you’d never been to an amusement park before, he’d almost passed out from shock before dragging you to one the next weekend. You’d tried to argue, saying it wasn’t that big of a deal, that it was just one of those things you never got around to—but Joshua had looked at you like you’d just confessed a great personal tragedy. He was already pulling up ticket prices before you could finish your excuse.

“No childhood rollercoaster trauma?” he asked, peering at you suspiciously as the page loaded. “No fear of clowns or funnel cake?”

“Not unless you count my mom calling anything fun a waste of time,” you replied, only half-joking. “She said the Ferris wheel was basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua had frowned at that, the kind of frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth and sat deep in his eyes, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to put it. He didn’t press you, though. Just bought the tickets and sent you the confirmation with the caption: you’re about to experience joy, please prepare accordingly. You’d laughed, called him dramatic, and pretended you weren’t nervous.

That Saturday, he’d shown up at your door grinning and holding a giant water bottle and a pack of Advil like you were about to hike the Alps.

“Trust me,” he said, slipping his fingers through yours as you locked your door. “You’re gonna need this after four consecutive loops on the Cyclone.”

The amusement park was crowded and loud and aggressively colorful. You’d felt overwhelmed the moment you stepped through the gates—too many kids screaming, too many smells of fried sugar and sunscreen—but Joshua’s hand was warm and steady in yours, grounding you. He navigated the chaos like he’d grown up in it, dragging you from ride to ride with the giddy confidence of someone showing off a secret hideout.

You hadn’t expected to like it—you told yourself you were just humoring him—but somewhere between the bumper cars and the second round of cotton candy, you’d started laughing—really laughing—the kind that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Joshua had this way of making the world feel a little less sharp. Like maybe the point of life wasn’t to be productive, but to scream your lungs out on a ride that made no sense and taste everything twice just in case it was better the second time.

After the sun dipped low and the lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves at the Ferris wheel. It looked taller in person than it had in the pictures, the cars creaking gently as they rotated upward into the purple sky.

You’d hesitated, eyeing the height. “This is basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua grinned, pulling you gently forward. “Exactly. Your mom would hate it.”

You laughed, breathless, and followed him into the car. At the top, with the wind tugging softly at your hair and the whole park glittering beneath you, Joshua had gone quiet. You glanced over to find him watching you again, that same look in his eyes—the one that made your chest ache a little, like maybe he saw something you didn’t believe was there.

“What?” you’d asked, softer this time.

He shook his head. “Nothing. You just look happy.”

You didn’t respond right away, once again you didn’t know how to. But you’d reached out and laced your fingers with his again, like maybe that could say what you couldn’t.

Later, you wrote about a girl who learns to fly, not because she wants to escape, but because someone teaches her the sky isn’t as scary as it looks. You still haven’t finished that story either.

I’ve always been afraid of big steps. The kind that changes things—the kind you can’t undo once they’re taken. Moving in, saying I love you, letting someone stay. They’ve always felt too heavy in my hands, like I wasn’t built to carry that kind of closeness. I used to imagine those moments with dread, not joy. Like they were cliffs instead of bridges. But with you, somehow, it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like breathing. I’m now realizing that maybe love isn’t about being ready. Maybe it’s about finding the person who makes you forget you were ever afraid. I wonder how different things would be if I’d realized sooner.

You saw Joshua more that summer, he’d come around to see you, was respectful to your parents, and would take you on dates, or “rescue you” as he’d call it. He met Bella, they got along better than you’d ever hoped, and everything felt… nice. Lighter.

On one date, you were halfway through your bowl of spicy noodles when Joshua said, “So, how do you feel about mold?”

You blinked. “Like… as a concept?”

“As a roommate.”

You arched a brow. “Depends. Is it paying rent?”

Joshua shrugged, sipping from his water like he hadn’t just opened with a completely deranged question. “There’s this one place I looked at. Great light, quiet street, shower pressure from God himself. But there’s… a corner. In the kitchen. It’s not technically mold yet, but it’s definitely manifesting.”

You winced. “Yeah, no— I’m not looking to catch the plague before graduation.”

“That’s what I said. The landlord offered to knock fifty bucks off if I ‘wasn’t picky.’”

You laughed, spearing another bite. “He basically said, ‘you might die slightly faster, but you’ll die fifty bucks richer.’”

Joshua grinned. “Exactly.”

There was a pause. The restaurant was mostly empty, a quiet Tuesday night glow settling over everything. His chopsticks tapped the side of his bowl once, idly.

“I saw a studio that looked nice,” you offered, “but it’s like three buses from campus, and I’d have to live above a bar called ‘Moist.’ So…”

Joshua gagged audibly. “You can’t live above something named Moist. That’s how people get haunted.”

“By what? The ghost of poor branding?”

“That—and regret. And spilled beer.”

You shook your head, smiling into your bowl. “Ugh. Why is apartment hunting so exhausting? I haven’t even seen anything in person yet and I already feel emotionally betrayed.”

“Because it’s not really about apartments,” Joshua said, in that quiet way he had when he meant something under the surface. “It’s about deciding how you want to live. Who you want around. What kind of mornings you want to wake up to.”

You glanced at him, caught off-guard by how soft his expression had gone. There was sesame oil on the corner of his mouth. You reached across the table to wipe it off out of habit.

“I just want a place where the fridge works and I don’t get robbed walking home,” you said, voice lighter.

“Fair,” he said, then paused. “What if… what if we lived together?”

You blinked. “What?”

Joshua looked calm. Casual. Like he did every time he sent your brain into a tailspin. “I’m serious. We’re already together most of the time. We like the same coffee, we split grocery bills, you steal my hoodies, and I know you hate overhead lighting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You make that sound like a romantic résumé.”

He pointed at you with his chopsticks. “Exactly. Look at us—so compatible.”

You laughed, loud and sudden. “Joshua, moving in is a big thing.”

“I know,” he said, unbothered. “But… so is looking for a place in this hellscape of a rental market. And I like you. A lot. I like the idea of waking up and knowing I get to see you. I like that you talk to yourself while you write and pretend you don’t. I like that you keep trying to teach me how to cook and pretend I’m not a lost cause.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying you want to move in with me… because you’re bad at sautéing onions?”

He smirked. “I’m saying maybe we could make a place feel like home together.”

Your stomach flipped in that quiet, terrifying way it always did when Joshua said something sweet like it wasn’t a big deal. Like love wasn’t a heavy word, but something you could tuck into your pocket and carry around without noticing the weight.

You toyed with your chopsticks. “So what would this hypothetical home look like?”

“No overhead lights, a kettle, some shelves for all your books, one of those couches that’s ugly but too comfortable to get rid of, plants you’ll forget to water so I’ll do it, a fridge with sticky notes on it, and a drawer just for your favorite snacks so I don’t eat them when I’m desperate at 2 a.m.”

You swallowed.

“You’ve thought about this,” you said.

“Of course I have,” he said, with no hesitation. “Haven’t you?”

You hadn’t let yourself—didn’t want to hope— but sitting there, watching him sketch a future out of air and sesame noodles and softly spoken intentions felt less like a leap and more like the next step you’d already taken, just hadn’t admitted out loud. You reached over to take a bite from his bowl.

“If you steal my leftovers in the middle of the night,” you said, “I’m changing the Wi-Fi password.”

Joshua leaned back, eyes crinkling with his grin. “So is that a yes?”

You didn’t say it.

You just smiled and said, “Only if the fridge has space for soda.”

And that was enough.

~

Apartment hunting had been anything but easy. There was the place with the ceiling fan that threatened to decapitate anyone over 5'10", the studio that mysteriously smelled like soup despite no visible kitchen appliances, and the duplex where the landlord proudly mentioned a "quirky rat situation" like it was a feature, not a threat. One unit had slanted floors so dramatic that Joshua had to grab the doorframe to avoid falling into the living room. Another had a neighbor with a pet ferret named Vengeance. You tried not to judge, Joshua asked if it was housebroken, and you both ran.

It was the sixth place of the week—the kind of weekday evening where the sky looked like wet cotton and your energy was hovering somewhere between “barely functioning” and “don’t talk to me unless you have snacks.”

You were already half-preparing your list of things to hate when the door opened. It didn’t look like much from the hallway—just another nondescript beige door with peeling paint and numbers that hung slightly crooked. But the second you stepped in, it felt different. The apartment was small, yes—but clean. Cozy. Lived-in without actually being lived in. Wooden floors, worn in all the right ways. Tall windows that let in light even on a gray day. A built-in bookshelf along the far wall that made your heart skip just a little.

Joshua stepped inside behind you and went quiet. You both walked the space slowly, separate orbits circling the same sun. You trailed your hand along the windowsill. He opened cabinets like he was afraid they’d creak (they didn’t). You peered into the bedroom, which was just big enough for a bed and two people with low expectations. The bathroom had decent water pressure. The kitchen counter had a corner that jutted out awkwardly, but it also had a drawer that rolled out like butter.

You stood in the middle of the living room, turning slowly in a circle, eyes on the ceiling.

“Shua.”

He looked up.

“I think this is it,” you breathed.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.”

You sat down on the floor. No furniture yet, but the sunlight hit the floorboards like a promise. Joshua sat beside you without hesitation.

“It’s a little small,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“And we’d have to get rid of, like, half our stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“But I could see us here.”

You looked at him. He was already looking at you.

“You really think we’ll survive living together?” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

He grinned. “I think we’ve been living as if we do for a while now.”

And he was right. You already split groceries half the time, you already argued over movie genres and laundry detergent. He already had a toothbrush in your drawer and his hoodie was still hanging off your desk chair from three days ago.

“You’re going to label your cereal, aren’t you?” you asked, mock-accusing.

“And your hot sauce will be mysteriously on every shelf, I’m sure.”

You smiled. “Compromise.”

“Teamwork,” he said, leaning in just slightly.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss, just a soft one—sunlight on skin, lips brushing like an answer to a question neither of you had fully asked. Familiar, but new. A beginning, but also a continuation. You kissed him back, eyes closed, and thought: yeah, this is home. When you pulled away, he was already smiling.

“So,” you said, standing and brushing your hands on your jeans, “do we tell the landlord we’ll take it, or do we let them wonder why two weird kids just made out on the floor of an empty unit?”

Joshua laughed, pushing himself up with a mock-serious expression. “I vote we sign before they change their mind.”

~

The key stuck a little in the lock, which Joshua had said was a good sign. “Means it’s old. Lived in. Has character.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said, “It means it’s going to snap off and trap us inside one day.”

He grinned, nudging the door open with his shoulder. “A very poetic way to die, tragic roommates to lovers, found decades later.”

You remember how the apartment had smelled that first night—wood polish, faint lemon cleaner, and the heat of late summer pressing in from the windows. You’d both laughed at how loud your voices echoed in the emptiness. There hadn’t been any furniture yet, just your tote bag dumped in the corner, his carefully balanced pizza box, and a faded blue picnic blanket that didn’t quite cover the floor but felt like enough. Back then, things were simple in the kind of way that didn’t feel simple until much later.

You sat cross-legged across from him, knees bumping his, the two of you too tired to keep your jokes straight but too giddy to stop talking.

Joshua had taken a bite of his second slice, lips shiny with grease, and looked around like the world had cracked open just for the two of you. “We actually did it.”

You leaned back, palms on the floor, stretching out your legs like it would help you take it all in. “I think I was still in denial until we got the keys.”

He offered you his soda—flat, but sweet—and asked, “Still wanna live with me?”

You remember the exact pause, the beat of your heart in your throat before you said, “Jury’s still out. I need to see if you’re the kind of guy who folds his laundry or lives out of the basket like a goblin.”

“Excuse you,” he replied, mock-offended. “I fold it. Badly, but I fold it.”

You laughed like nothing in the world could come between the two of you. The pizza was bad and the fan rattled like it was one loose screw away from falling, but you remember thinking—This is what happiness looks like. You didn’t say it out loud, you barely even admitted it to yourself.

Later, after the food was gone and the city sounds had softened, you curled up on the too-small blanket, his jacket tossed over both of you like a half-hearted attempt at being warm. He’d pulled you close, arm wrapped around your waist, cheek pressed to your temple.

“This is the best night I’ve had in a long time,” you’d whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t speak right away. Just tightened his grip a little, like holding on could make time freeze.

“Me too,” he said eventually, and you remember thinking it didn’t matter that the place was bare, or that your backs would probably hurt in the morning, or that life would get complicated again.

Back then, things were still soft. And even now, years later, you still remember the way he looked at you—like home wasn’t four walls or a bed or a lease, it was you.

I think a part of me always knew I was archiving us in real time. That every late-night grocery run, every offhand comment, every half-finished story wasn’t just a habit—it was documentation. Proof that we were real. That I was real. It’s strange, looking back now, how many versions of us exist only because I wrote them down. And stranger still, how many I didn’t. The ones I kept to myself. The ones that never made it past memory. I wonder if those are the most honest ones, or just the ones I was too afraid to touch. I wonder if things would be different if I hadn’t just written my feelings, if maybe I’d found a way to tell you, pull you closer instead of pushing you away.

By the time the school year started, the two of you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, like the apartment had always known your footsteps. Mornings were quiet and warm—Joshua humming while he made coffee, you groaning into your hoodie as you hunted for clean socks. He always remembered how you took your coffee and you always made sure his headphones weren’t tangled when he ran out the door late. Sometimes you’d leave sticky notes on the fridge for each other—little drawings, reminders, a “don’t forget your umbrella” with a crooked smiley face. It wasn’t romantic in the obvious ways—it was better. It was easy, thoughtful, and familiar.

You’d study at the kitchen table in parallel silence, laptops open, wires tangled underfoot, your knees brushing beneath the table without either of you moving away. You still teased him for playing the same five lo-fi tracks on repeat, and he still claimed your highlighters were a fire hazard. It was your kind of normal. When classes got overwhelming, you found yourselves curled up on the couch, your feet in his lap while he read through notes with one hand and absentmindedly massaged your ankle with the other. You'd never asked him to do it, he’d just started one day. You never told him to stop.

You remember thinking—if this is what love looks like, maybe I’ve been underestimating it all this time. And yet, sometimes when he was already asleep, curled toward the wall in the bed you shared with a blanket kicked half off his legs, you’d lie there staring at the ceiling, heart too full, too fast, too much. You didn’t know how to hold it all. It scared you, how much space he took up in your thoughts. How much emptier the world felt when he wasn’t around.

You told yourself it was fine, that this was the good part, if you just stayed here, in this moment, you’d never have to figure out what came next. But the problem with comfort is that you get used to it. You stop looking closely. You stop checking for cracks. And even the best rhythms can start to slip when the tempo changes.

~

It started with an email. You were sitting at the kitchen table, legs curled under you, one hand wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. Joshua was across from you, hunched over his planner, underlining something in blue and humming quietly to himself. The apartment was still, soft with early light, the kind of peace you’d grown used to. Until it wasn’t.

INTERNSHIP OPPORTUNITY – Interview Invitation

You read it once, then again, heart thudding in that quiet, thrilling, terrifying way. It was from a firm downtown. Well-known, high expectations, and a name that would open doors. You’d applied months ago and then forgotten about it entirely—figuring it was a long shot. Now, they wanted to meet with you. Joshua looked up when you went still.

“What’s up?”

You turned the screen toward him. “Got an interview.”

He lit up. “Wait, seriously? Which one?”

You said the name and his eyebrows lifted. “That’s huge.”

You nodded, trying to play it cool, but your chest was already buzzing.

“They want to meet this week,” you added. “It’s part-time through the semester, but, like, serious hours. Four days a week. Real workload.”

Joshua nodded again, slower this time. “That’s… fast.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “Isn’t that the point?”

“No, totally. It’s great,” he said, tapping his pen against the edge of the table. “Just—didn’t know you were still looking.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, gentle but a little too careful. “I guess I thought you already had enough on your plate.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah, but this is kind of what I’ve been working toward. It’s not forever. Just this semester.”

He nodded again, but the movement was distracted. “I get it. It’s just a lot.”

The way he said a lot made something inside you bristle.

“I can handle it.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” he said, too quickly.

You sat back, lips pressed together. “I feel like you’re not actually happy for me.”

Joshua frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Then why do you sound like it?”

He set his pen down, quiet for a second. “It’s just—we barely see each other when school starts up. If you’re doing this, too… not to mention you’re already working so hard and I don’t want you to burn out.”

You exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “So this is about time.”

He didn’t answer right away. You saw the hesitation in his expression—the effort not to say something he couldn’t unsay.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we found  a rhythm. I didn’t realize it was temporary.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The boy who made you coffee in the mornings, who left you sticky notes, and picked out apartments with you like it was a forever plan. You didn’t know how to explain it—that wanting more didn’t mean wanting less of him. So you said nothing. You just picked up your mug, took a sip of lukewarm coffee, and pretended the bitterness wasn’t from the taste.

It wasn’t a fight, not really. Just a moment that didn’t settle the way it used to.

But you’d remember it—how it made your chest ache a little. How for the first time in a long time, being on the same team didn’t feel like a given. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

I don’t remember when I stopped writing. It was probably around the time of the internship, I was busy and when I wasn’t working I’d be asleep. You noticed, of course you did, and I remember feeling your worry and ignoring it. I told myself that I’d get back to it once things slowed down, and I guess I did, in a way. Since I’m writing again now, after everything.

Things sped up after that, you’d still see him in the morning, but it was in the rush of getting to class or whatever commitment you’d made. Your only savior was the weekends. One night, there was a storm, a slow one—lazy, almost. No thunder yet, just the distant hush of rain threading through the gutters and tapping softly against the window panes. The kind of weather that made the world feel smaller, quieter. Yours. Joshua had shown up late, soaked halfway down his hoodie from the sprint between your car and the door. You’d tossed him a towel and teased him for not checking the weather app. He’d kissed you with rain still in his hair.

Hours later, the living room was dim except for the pool of warm light spilling from the floor lamp, and the two of you were camped out on the rug like kids at a sleepover. The puzzle you’d found on a shelf marked DO NOT OPEN was spread out between you—tiny cardboard fragments of some coastal watercolor landscape neither of you had seen in real life.

Joshua’s hoodie hung loose on his frame, his sleeves pushed up to expose the faint smudge of ink near his thumb from a grocery list he’d jotted down earlier and never washed off. You’d been at it for nearly an hour and were still nowhere near finding the corners.

“This piece is gaslighting me,” you declared, holding up a patch of cloudy blue sky. “It looks like it fits in three different places and it’s lied every time.”

Joshua smirked without looking up. “Maybe the sky wasn’t your area of expertise. Want to trade? I’ve been doing ocean.”

“Excuse me, I am great at ocean. Sky is just playing hard to get.”

You tossed the piece gently onto his section and reached over for a handful of edge pieces, resting your chin in your palm. The floor was unforgiving, but neither of you made any move to relocate. There was something nice about being grounded like that, surrounded by tiny pieces of something you were building together—even if it was just a thrift-store puzzle with a corner missing. Joshua hummed under his breath, squinting at a stretch of puzzle water. You thought he might be singing something, but it was barely there. Just enough for you to recognize the tune.

“You’re not seriously humming Maroon 5 right now.”

He looked up at you, deadpan, “I absolutely am.”

“I knew I got to you.”

“I’ve been gotten,” he sighed, dramatically placing a piece. “And now I can’t get Sunday Morning out of my head.”

You grinned, triumphant. “You love me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I do.”

He said it so easily, so casually, that it caught you off guard for just a second—not because you didn’t believe it, but because of how perfectly it fit in the middle of that moment, like another puzzle piece falling into place. You crawled over to him without warning, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Okay, now you’re just trying to distract me from winning.”

“You’re not winning.”

“I’m close.”

“You’ve done the same cloud four times.”

You fell sideways into his lap, limbs sprawling like you’d given up on the floor altogether. He made a show of trying to shove you off, then sighed in defeat and let you stay, carding lazy fingers through your hair. For a while, there was no talking, just the occasional shuffle of cardboard, the soft patter of rain, the sound of him breathing near your ear. You closed your eyes and let it all wash over you. When you blinked them open again, he was still there, still working—quiet, focused. The tip of his tongue was pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth in concentration, and the way the lamplight hit his profile made his eyelashes look impossibly long.

You wanted to kiss him, so you did. Just a brush of lips, and he smiled into it.

“I love you,” he murmured, without fanfare.

His hand found your back and drew you in tighter. Eventually, you migrated to the couch, where the storm got a little louder and the lights flickered once, then settled. The puzzle remained unfinished, pieces scattered and forgotten on the floor. Joshua tugged a blanket over the both of you and let you tangle your legs with his. The TV was playing something neither of you were really watching. He was warm, slightly damp still from the rain, and he smelled like the bergamot candle you always forgot to blow out. At some point, your head fell against his shoulder and he shifted only to press a kiss to your hairline. You stayed like that for a long time. Now you wish you’d stayed longer.

~

Days were long and hard, leading both of you to dread having to cook. You’d found the restaurant by accident.

It was tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down bookstore, small and quiet and too easy to miss. The first time you walked past it, you were arguing—something about a movie he liked that you swore had no plot. Your hand was in his even as you were rolling your eyes, and when he’d stopped walking, you nearly kept going.

“What?” you’d asked, looking over your shoulder.

Joshua had squinted at the sign above the door, then back at you. “You hungry?”

You weren’t, not really. But it was raining, and his hoodie already had little wet patches near the shoulders from where you’d tugged at the hood to cover both of you. So you’d nodded. “Sure. Why not.”

The inside was dim and warm, smelling like garlic and sesame oil, with faded family photos on the walls and a chalkboard menu that hadn’t been updated in years. A woman behind the counter looked up when you came in, her eyes sharp and assessing. You smiled politely. She didn’t smile back.

But Joshua had, soft and easy. “Hi,” he said, like they were already friends.

She nodded once, still skeptical, and waved you toward a booth by the window. You remember sitting across from him in that cracked red vinyl booth, the rain tapping against the glass, his hands cradling a chipped ceramic cup of tea. You’d teased him about something—maybe the way he pronounced “bulgogi”—and he’d called you insufferable. You’d stuck your tongue out. He’d laughed. The woman brought your food without a word, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

“Okay,” you said, pointing a chopstick at him. “I might forgive your movie taste.”

He raised a brow. “So I win?”

“You win one point. Don't get cocky.”

Joshua grinned at that, leaned back, and watched you take another bite. You hadn’t realized he was watching until you looked up, and he wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just—” He paused. “I like watching you fall in love with things.”

You’d pretended to gag. “Gross.”

But your cheeks were warm, and he just laughed. You went back to that place almost every week after that. The woman behind the counter eventually learned your names, though she always greeted Joshua first. She’d bring out extra kimchi for him, and only him, even though you liked it more. He’d slide his bowl across the table toward you when she wasn’t looking. You never said thank you. He never asked for it.

Sometimes, after dinner, you’d stay long after the plates were cleared, talking about nothing and everything while the staff cleaned up around you. He’d ask you about work, about your writing. You’d shrug, try to make a joke out of it. He never let you. Not really.

“I think you’re better than you let yourself believe,” he said once, chin in his hand, voice soft under the hum of fluorescent lights. “At everything.”

You’d stared at him for a second too long, unsure what to do with something that kind. So you changed the subject. You always did. But he stayed anyway, picking the rice off your plate and smiling like he could wait forever for you to catch up.

You wonder if he still sits in that booth, if he ever looks across the table and forgets, just for a second, that you’re not there. Because sometimes, you still see him. Every time you pass that place, every time something tastes like comfort, every time you remember that someone once watched you fall in love with the world and thought it was beautiful.

There’s a quiet kind of panic that comes with realizing you care. Not the cinematic kind, with grand gestures and swelling music—but the kind that lives in your chest, right under your ribs, the one that whispers “this could matter”. I’d spent so long trying to feel nothing that when I started feeling something that real, it felt like standing too close to a fire.

You were halfway through your first class when you remembered the coffee. It hit you all at once—sharp, small, like a pebble in your shoe. You’d made it for him that morning without thinking, the way you always did. Two sugars, just a splash of milk. You even stirred it with the tiny spoon he liked, the one shaped like a cat paw you’d sworn you’d throw out every week but never did. You’d poured it into his travel mug, set it on the counter next to his keys, and then… forgot. You were in such a rush—papers half-stuffed in your bag, earbuds tangled, your jacket barely on—that you hadn’t said goodbye properly, let alone reminded him. Now, in the lull between lectures, you pulled out your phone and texted him.

YOU:

i left your coffee on the counter.

i suck.

can i bribe you with takeout?

No reply yet. You stared at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You weren’t even sure why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t the first time something like this had slipped. It wasn’t the first time you’d been distracted. But it was the first time he hadn’t texted you that he missed it.

That evening, you came home first. The coffee mug was still there, untouched. Cold now. You dumped it without thinking, washed the cup, dried it. Put it back in the cabinet like nothing had happened. Joshua came in a little after seven, his hoodie damp from the drizzle outside and his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. You gave it to him, but it landed slightly off-center.

“I owe you dinner,” you said, turning toward the fridge. “Or emotional reparations. I accept Venmo.”

He laughed—light, automatic—but didn’t say anything else. You made rice and eggs and threw a couple of dumplings in the pan. He offered to help, but didn’t insist. The kitchen was quiet—not cold, but quieter than usual.

At the table, you slid a plate toward him. He smiled at you over his fork. “Thanks. Smells good.”

You picked at your food, and he finished without complaint. It wasn’t a fight. Just a moment. The kind that came and went. The kind you didn’t write down, because it didn’t feel like it mattered. But later, when the space between you felt just a little bit wider, when you looked at him across the couch and couldn’t tell if he was distracted or just tired, you’d remember it. The coffee, the mug, the empty counter and the emptier silence, and you’d wonder if that was where it started—not with anger, but with forgetting. Even later still you’d realize just how much you’d forgotten with him.

~

You were back at your usual grocery store, the same fluorescent lights flickering overhead, the same faded tile underfoot. It was a little colder than necessary, like always, with Joshua walking a few steps ahead pushing the cart with one hand and scrolling through the grocery list on his phone with the other. You followed, arms crossed, brain somewhere between class readings and what to make for dinner. It had been a long week, and you hadn’t quite caught your breath.

“I forgot the coffee,” you said suddenly, stopping short as Joshua turned, eyebrows raised.

“I meant to grab it yesterday. We’re out, right?”

He blinked, then smiled. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I’ll survive one morning.”

You gave him a small look. “You said that last time, and you nearly committed a felony over a broken coffee machine in the student lounge.”

He chuckled, barely. “Manslaughter at most.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a pinch of guilt beneath your teasing. You usually remembered that sort of thing.

“I’ll run back and grab some.”

He reached out, gently touching your sleeve. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it on the way home.”

And just like that, the moment passed—soft, almost nothing, but it stayed with you, lingering like an aftertaste you couldn’t get rid of. The frozen meals all looked the same, like they always did, as you picked through them half-heartedly while Joshua grabbed two cartons of eggs and inspected a bag of spinach like it had personally wronged him.

“I’m still not over the fact that this place reorganized the cereal aisle,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. “I guess we have to adapt.”

He glanced over, catching your tone, and said nothing. When you reached the candy aisle, he tossed a bag of Airheads into the cart without asking. You didn’t say thank you, and he didn’t expect you to. You stood in line, quietly watching the conveyor belt fill up between you. A strange kind of memory pressed in on you—of the first time here, when your hands had touched reaching for frozen lasagna, and he’d made you laugh so easily you forgot to pretend it didn’t mean something. Now, you stood just a little further apart. Not far, just… enough that you noticed it.

Joshua turned toward you, shoulder bumping yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, quick. “Just tired.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the cashier was already ringing things up. You helped bag the groceries in silence. Familiar, efficient. When you got to the car, he unlocked it without a word and reached across the front seat to move his hoodie so you could sit. You noticed a napkin in the cup holder—crumpled slightly, stained with a faint coffee ring. From earlier? From last week? You weren’t sure. You didn’t ask.

The ride home was quiet. Comfortable, mostly.

You still laughed once, when he cursed at a pothole. He still reached for your hand at a red light, but your fingers didn’t tangle the way they used to. 

~

You don’t remember what started the argument—only that it wasn’t really about the dishes. You’d come home tired, worn thin from a week that felt like it had been peeling you back layer by layer, and the sink had been full. Again. And somehow, that was the tipping point. That was the thing that cracked the silence wide open. You’d said something sharp without meaning to, he’d said something softer than you could stand.

“Just say what you’re actually upset about,” Joshua said, standing in the doorway of your kitchen, arms crossed but voice even. Like he wasn’t mad, just waiting. 

And maybe that was what made you lash out again. The waiting. You hated how patient he could be with you. How gentle. It made you feel exposed.

“I’m not upset,” you’d snapped, even though your jaw was tight and your heart was beating fast, even though you were. “It’s not a big deal.”

Joshua’s expression didn’t change. “Okay,” he said, and you hated how calm he was. 

Hated how much of you he seemed to understand without trying. You turned your back, rinsed a plate you didn’t care about, just to have something to do with your hands.

“I just—I feel like I’m carrying everything alone,” you said finally, quieter, words tumbling out before you could filter them. “School, bills, my parents, my head—it never shuts up. I come home and I don’t get to rest. I just have to—keep going.”

You didn’t mean to sound like you were blaming him. Maybe you were.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward slowly, like you were something fragile. And you hated that too, how right it felt to let him wrap his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder, the warmth of his chest pressed against your spine.

“You don’t have to carry everything,” he murmured. “Not alone.”

You closed your eyes. He always said things like that. Like love was easy. Like you were easy.

“You say that,” you said, voice thin. “But I don’t think you get it. I don’t think you know what it’s like to be this tired and still feel like you haven’t earned a break.”

You felt him breathe in behind you. Not deeply. Carefully.

You counted three seconds before he responded, “Maybe I don’t. But I know I’d rather be tired with you than well-rested without.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned back against him and hated yourself a little for how much you needed it. How much you needed him. How badly you wanted to believe he wouldn’t leave when it got hard. You stayed like that for a while—him holding you like you wouldn’t break, you pretending that meant you wouldn’t.

Later, you watched him fall asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, his mouth parted slightly like he always forgot to pretend he had it all together. You watched him like you were memorizing him. Like you were afraid you’d need the details someday.

You didn’t write about that night. You thought maybe you didn’t need to. But now — as the memory of his face gets blurrier—now you wish you had.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to be easy to love. Saying yes when I meant no, smiling when I wanted to speak up, softening my edges so no one would ever find a reason to leave. People called it kindness. I thought it was, too—until I realized I didn’t know who I was without someone else to please. You saw through that, and it scared me more than I thought it would. I’m still unlearning the idea that love has to be earned by shrinking. Still learning how to want something for myself, even if it makes people uncomfortable. Even if it means they walk away.

The office was too white. Not sterile exactly, but cold in a way that made you sit up straighter, made you conscious of your breathing. Your internship had started three weeks ago, and already you could feel your shoulders beginning to curl inward. It wasn’t the work—the work was fine—data entry, scheduling, the occasional writing assignment that made you feel like a ghost in someone else’s sentences.

It was him.

Your supervisor was one of those men who seemed charming at first—polished, smart, the kind who leaned a little too close when explaining something, who always found a reason to linger by your desk, who touched your shoulder when there was no need. His name was Greg, which didn’t help—no one cool had ever been named Greg.

You told yourself it was nothing, at first, but the second time he called you ‘sweetheart’, it lodged in your spine. When he offered to “show you how to work the printer” and spent twenty minutes brushing past your arm, your hip, your back—it stopped being hypothetical.

You’d texted Joshua about it. Just a short message:

he's weird.

Joshua had responded right away.

weird how?

You didn’t answer.

Now, you sat at your desk, your half-assigned workspace in the corner of the office, pretending to read through client notes while your skin itched with the knowledge that Greg had walked by your chair twice in the past five minutes. You kept your cardigan draped over the back of your chair like armor.

“Hey,” he said, pausing behind you. “You free for lunch today?”

You didn’t turn around. “I brought something.”

“Oh come on. First month deserves a little celebration. My treat.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

You didn’t hear him move, but you felt it—the way the air shifted when he leaned just a little too close.

“Hard worker,” he said, low, almost amused. “Gonna go far.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. You just waited until he walked away again, and only then did you let yourself exhale.

You didn’t tell Joshua the full story that day. Just said work was tiring. That your boss was a little too friendly. You joked about it. Smiled while your stomach twisted. You said, “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

But later that night, when he kissed your temple and asked how your day had gone, you hesitated, and he noticed. You still didn’t tell him—not the whole thing. Just enough to pass. Enough that you could keep the lie small and palatable—something that didn’t feel like lying if you said it with a laugh.

“Long day,” you said that night, stretching your arms over your head, trying to shake the stiffness out of your shoulders. “Greg thinks I’m the intern-slash-printer technician now.”

Joshua grinned, already peeling open the takeout containers. “I told you you had hidden talents.”

You smiled back, but your eyes didn’t quite meet his when you said it, and he noticed, you knew he did. You could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second too long, the way his laughter didn’t reach his eyes all the way. He didn’t push, though, and for once you wish he had.

The days bled together. Greg kept finding reasons to stop by your desk, kept asking questions that weren’t really about work. He started standing a little too close when no one else was around. Once, his hand brushed your waist—too slow, too familiar—and you froze.

He’d laughed it off. “Tense, huh? You’ve gotta loosen up.”

You went to the bathroom and sat in the last stall with the lock that stuck, just to breathe. You stared at your reflection in the mirror when you came out, face flushed, hands shaking even though it hadn’t been that bad. You told yourself that a dozen times a day.

Still, the next morning, you couldn’t finish your coffee. Joshua noticed that too.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a crumb off your cheek. “You’ve barely touched your toast.”

“Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t press either. He kissed your forehead and told you to text him if you needed anything. You nodded, and then you didn’t. At night, you stayed up later; pretended to read, pretended to write. You’d stare at your laptop screen until your eyes burned, then close it without typing a single word. You stopped talking about your internship altogether. And Joshua—he started talking less about his days, too, like he didn’t want to add weight to something already unsteady.

Once, you came home and found him asleep on the couch, the TV still on, his head tilted to the side in that way that meant his neck would be sore in the morning. You watched him for a long time, just breathing in the room you shared, the life you’d built that was starting to feel like it didn’t quite fit. You didn’t wake him, just curled into the armchair with your legs pulled to your chest, staring at the quiet flicker of the screen and wondering if this—this stillness, this silence—was better than the alternative. If keeping the truth to yourself was a kindness, if it made you strong.

Joshua stirred once, sleep-heavy, eyes blinking open.

“Hey,” he mumbled, reaching toward you without thinking, “how are you feeling?”

You slipped out of reach. Just enough that he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m okay,” you said.

And the worst part was that you almost believed it. You didn’t cry; not in the elevator, not in the lobby, not when he brushed too close behind you with a hand that lingered, with a smile that said ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Not when he said your name like it belonged to him.

You just said, “I need to head out early,” and he let you go. As if it was mercy.  You walked six blocks before realizing you hadn’t stopped for traffic once. When you got home, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your keys twice. You didn’t text Joshua, didn’t call. You couldn’t. Not with your throat closed like that.

You took a shower hot enough to sting.

You scrubbed your skin until it turned pink.

You stood there until the water ran cold.

He came home before sunset. You were curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie and holding a mug you hadn’t drunk from. The lights were off. The TV was on but muted. Joshua paused when he saw you. Said your name once, quietly. You looked up and smiled—not convincingly, but it was the only thing you had left. He didn’t ask anything. He just walked over, bent down, and kissed the crown of your head.

“Hey.”

You blinked hard, nodded. “Hey.”

He sat next to you, close but not too close, his hand finding your knee. “You didn’t say you’d be home early.”

You shrugged. “Just… slow day. Wanted to be here.”

Joshua studied you for a long second, thumb brushing against the fabric of your leggings. He didn’t press, he never did. But his voice was soft when he said, “I missed you today.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. You didn’t mean for it to hurt, but it did, because you’d missed him too—and somehow, that made it worse.

“I’m here now,” you said, the words barely audible.

He leaned over, head on your shoulder, arms around your middle like he was trying to keep you steady. Like he knew, maybe not the details, but enough. He didn’t ask why your voice was quiet or why your hands hadn’t warmed up. He didn’t ask who made you feel small today, or why you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. He just held you like you weren’t broken. Like he didn’t need to know what was wrong to want to make it better.

For a long time, you stayed like that. His arms around you. The TV casting soft light on the walls. The tea cold in your hands. The moment soft around the edges, blurred by exhaustion.

Eventually, he murmured, “Want to watch something dumb with me?”

You nodded into his shoulder.

“Something with explosions,” he added. “And absolutely zero emotional value.”

You almost smiled. “You spoil me.”

He kissed your temple. “Always.”

And you let yourself lean into him—just for tonight. Just for now.

Because if you let yourself fall apart, you weren’t sure you’d come back together the same way.

~

The rest of senior year passed like a train you couldn’t quite catch. One minute you were splitting groceries and syncing calendars and trying to figure out how to make time for dinner together three nights a week, the next, it was midterms and internship deadlines and alarm clocks that always rang too early. Your days folded into each other—study, eat, work, sleep, repeat—and the softness between you started thinning in ways you didn’t notice until it had already worn through. You kept telling yourself it was just a busy season, that it was normal to be tired, that all couples got quiet when things got hard.

Joshua would leave coffee for you some mornings, and you’d find it sitting on the counter with a sticky note—Hang in there, I love you—and your chest would ache in a way that didn’t feel sweet anymore. You’d write little messages back sometimes. Smiley faces, half-hearted doodles, but neither of you said much out loud. There were good days, still, days when he made you laugh in the cereal aisle, days when he kissed you just to make you blush. You held onto those like they could carry you through the rest.

But mostly, it felt like you were living on fast-forward. Like the version of you who’d once sat on the beach next to him with sand in your hair and a story in your throat had been replaced by someone who only spoke in deadlines and weather updates. You kept meaning to slow down, to fix it, to say something real, but then graduation came.

Caps and gowns and name cards you almost lost. Cameras flashing in the wrong direction, people shouting, Minji tripping over her heels, Luv crying with Seokmin in the crowd, Joshua holding your hand too tightly the whole way through, like maybe if you both squeezed hard enough, the rest of it wouldn’t fall apart. You smiled for pictures. You kissed him in the middle of a crowd and told yourself this was the beginning.

You didn’t know yet that something had already ended.

~

You sat at the kitchen table with your laptop open and your head in your hand, scrolling through job listings that all blurred together after a while. The apartment was quiet—too quiet, maybe, the kind of quiet that made you painfully aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The occasional rustle of cars outside. The tap-tap-tap of your fingers on the trackpad as you refreshed the page for the fifth time. Joshua padded out of the bedroom, still in sweats, his hair mussed from sleep. He rubbed at his eyes before leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Any luck?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, shoulders slumping as you leaned back in your chair. “They all want three years of experience for an entry-level job. How does that even make sense?”

He frowned, pulling out the chair next to you and sitting backward on it, arms resting across the backrest. “It doesn’t. It’s bullshit. You’d be perfect for half of these.”

You gave him a tired smile, appreciation soft but weighed down. “Tell that to the hiring managers who probably haven’t even opened my résumé.”

He reached over and tilted your laptop screen down until it closed, gentle but firm. “Take a break for a bit. Come lay down with me.”

“I can’t afford a break right now, Shua.”

“You also can’t afford to burn out two weeks into job hunting.”

That made you pause. He looked at you then—really looked at you—with that same mixture of protectiveness and softness he always carried. Like if he could take this weight from you and carry it himself, he would. And maybe that was why you let him guide you back to the couch, pulling you close, tucking your legs over his lap. The job would come eventually, but for now, you let yourself rest. Just for a little while. With Joshua’s fingers tracing slow circles into your back and your head on his chest, it felt okay to let go. But rest was never just rest anymore.

You could feel it even then, the way his touch didn’t linger as long as it used to, the way his other hand still held his phone, thumb swiping mindlessly through notifications. He wasn’t scrolling with purpose. Just habit. Just something to fill the space between you that neither of you wanted to name. You stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes—thirty, if you counted the time you pretended to be asleep. Then your laptop called you back with a faint ding, an email notification that made your heart jolt before you even read it. Another rejection. Thank you for applying. We regret to inform you… Joshua glanced at your screen when you sat up. He didn’t ask what it said, and he didn’t have to.

Instead, he stretched and stood, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I’m gonna shower.”

You nodded, watching him disappear down the hallway. The bathroom door shut with a soft click, and you were alone again. You opened a new tab. Typed in your major. Filtered by location. Salary. Remote. Any. Nothing changed. You weren’t sure when the spiral started, exactly—maybe it had been building for months, buried under essays and work-study shifts and Sunday grocery runs. But now it felt like it was everywhere. In the half-unpacked boxes still in the closet. In the dishes that sat a little longer in the sink. In the way you and Joshua had begun to orbit each other like two planets slightly off their axis—close enough to touch, never quite colliding.

That night, he made pasta. You did the dishes. Neither of you mentioned the email or the silence. You went to bed early, curling toward the wall before he joined you. He wrapped an arm around your waist like always, and you reached back to lace your fingers through his. It was muscle memory by now. But even muscle memory could falter.

Joshua got a job two weeks after graduation. It happened quietly, the way most things with him did—no big announcements, no dramatic declarations, just a text while you were elbow-deep in laundry:

got the offer :)

You stared at your screen for a few seconds, the basket half-sorted, a sock dangling from your hand. Then, slowly, you typed back:

holy shit?? already??

music teacher position at the middle school, he replied.

i start next month.

You were proud of him—of course you were. You told him that when he got home—hugged him tight, kissed his jaw, let him spin you once in the living room with that stupid grin he always wore when he was excited. It was what he’d been hoping for. A public school gig in a district that still valued arts programs. A classroom of his own. Sheet music he didn’t have to borrow. A piano that wasn’t out of tune.

“I’ll finally have space to hang that ‘World’s Okayest Teacher’ mug from Seungkwan,” he joked, practically glowing.

You laughed and meant it, but the sound felt a little thinner than usual. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did, but didn’t know how to say anything about it. Either way, the days moved on. He started prepping lessons, reading up on middle school pedagogy, scribbling little icebreaker activities in the margins of your shared grocery list. He bought a pair of dress shoes he didn’t hate. You helped him pick out button-downs that wouldn’t wrinkle too badly. 

And you kept applying. Every morning, you set up at the kitchen table with your laptop and a spreadsheet and a cup of slowly cooling coffee. You clicked through job boards like it was your only job. You rewrote your cover letter so many times the words stopped meaning anything. And every time another rejection email popped up in your inbox, you minimized the window and pretended not to care.

Joshua didn’t gloat. He was never unkind about it. But sometimes, when he’d tell you about the school’s band room or how one of the seventh graders called him “Mr. H,” you’d nod and smile and feel the tiniest prick of something sharp settle under your ribs. Not quite jealousy,  just the quiet ache of falling behind. You told yourself it wasn’t a competition. That it didn’t matter who got there first, and you believed that—mostly. But some nights, when he fell asleep beside you, already dreaming of classrooms and chorales, you stared at the ceiling and wondered when it would be your turn.

You didn’t expect much when the email came in. It was buried between a coupon from CVS and a LinkedIn newsletter you never subscribed to, the subject line so plain it almost felt like a scam: Interview Invitation – Financial Analyst Associate (Entry Level). You had to reread it three times before it sank in. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“Shua?” you called, voice shaking just enough to make him look up from the sink.

You turned the screen toward him, blinking fast. “They want to interview me.”

He stared for a second, then crossed the room in three strides, towel still in his hand. “Wait, seriously? Who?”

You named the company, the one you’d sent your resume to weeks ago and promptly forgotten about. His eyes widened, and the smile that broke across his face felt like sunshine after weeks of rain.

“Baby, that’s huge.”

“I haven’t even gotten the job yet.”

“Yeah, but you got the interview. That’s the hard part. That’s everything.”

He kissed you—quick, excited—and you laughed into it, the sound bubbling out of you in a way it hadn’t in a while.

The next few days were a whirlwind. You researched until your eyes ached, practiced answers until your voice sounded rehearsed even in your head, dug through your closet for something that looked confident but not overdone. Joshua helped where he could—printed your resume at the campus library, made you tea when your hands wouldn’t stop trembling, quizzed you until you rolled your eyes and told him no more mock questions, please, I’ll scream.

You went to the interview, palms sweaty, heart hammering. And then… you nailed it. You didn’t know for sure, of course—not right away—but you left with a smile on your face and a quiet kind of pride blooming in your chest.

A week later, the offer came in. You were brushing your teeth when you saw the email. You froze, electric toothbrush still buzzing in your hand, and ran into the hallway with foam in your mouth.

Joshua took one look at you, wide-eyed and feral with mint toothpaste, and blinked. “Wait, did you—?”

You just nodded, grinning so wide it hurt. “I got it.”

He shouted. Actually shouted. Picked you up and spun you around the living room until you were laughing so hard you choked on the toothpaste, both of you collapsing onto the couch in a dizzy heap.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered later, forehead pressed to yours.

And you believed him.

Everything didn’t magically fix itself overnight. There were still bills to split and long commutes and nights when you both came home too tired to talk. But things began to shift—slowly, then all at once. You got up in the mornings with purpose. You made coffee with music playing again. You told Joshua about your coworkers, your strange little cubicle, the new routine you were building from scratch. He started sending you “good luck” texts on meeting days. You caught yourself smiling at red lights for no reason at all.

One night, he came home with a bottle of wine and takeout from your favorite place. Said, “I thought we should celebrate you.”

“You already did,” you said, smiling as you reached for the chopsticks.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now, “but I think we’re worth celebrating, too.”

~

Work changed things. Not all at once, but gradually. Like a sweater unraveling stitch by stitch, so slow you didn’t notice until the cold set in. Mornings used to mean sleepy forehead kisses and shared coffee on the balcony. Now they meant quick goodbyes, separate commutes, and breakfast eaten over unread emails. Joshua’s first period started early, so he was usually gone by the time you finished brushing your hair. He’d still leave notes sometimes—Have a good day, Love you, Don’t forget your lunch—but they were taped to the fridge now, not placed gently on your laptop. You kept them anyway, folded and tucked into the back pocket of your planner, like maybe they still meant something if you didn’t throw them away.

Evenings weren’t much better. You came home exhausted, heels blistered, eyes burning from too many screens. Joshua would be sitting on the couch in his work clothes, tie loosened, grading papers with a red pen that always stained the side of his hand.

“Hey,” you’d say.

“Hey,” he’d echo.

And that was it.

Sometimes you’d ask how his day was. He’d give a half-smile and say, “Same as yesterday,” and you didn’t press. Sometimes he’d ask about your new client, and you’d mumble something about spreadsheets and metrics and he’d nod like he understood. You stopped watching shows together. You started eating dinner at different times. You went to bed first more often than not.

~

You were never a heavy drinker, so when you did get drunk, it was… an experience. It started innocently—just a quick dinner, a little networking, maybe a glass of wine if someone else ordered first. But somewhere between your boss ordering shots “to celebrate Q3 wins” and the cocktails that tasted suspiciously like candy, everything blurred together. Before you knew it, you were standing outside the restaurant, blinking down at your phone as if it might steady the world.

There was his name on the screen: Joshua 💛

You hit call without thinking.

“Hello?” His voice was warm, tired, a little scratchy from late hours. It was late, much later than you usually called.

“Shua,” you whispered, like it was a secret between just the two of you. “My hands don’t work.”

There was a pause—gentle, patient. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great. Amazing, even.” You hiccuped. “I think I’m a little bit wine. I mean… drunk. I’m a little bit drunk.”

He exhaled—soft, fond. “Where are you?”

“Outside. Somewhere. I think there’s a statue of a dog?”

“…You’re definitely drunk.”

You laughed, swaying on your heels. “I wanted to call you because everyone kept talking about pivot tables and profit margins and team synergy and I just—ugh.” You leaned against the cold brick wall. “I missed your voice. And your face. But I don’t know how to FaceTime right now. My eyes are blurry.”

You can still imagine his chuckle, picture him sitting up in bed, probably running a hand through his hair. “I’ll come get you, okay? Just stay put. Try not to wander off or hug any strangers.”

You gasped, trying to explain, “How’d you know I was gonna hug someone?! There’s this girl in HR who’s so soft, like emotionally, and she’s been through a lot—”

“Baby,” he interrupted gently, “focus. Statue. Dog. Send me your location.”

Somehow, with a bit of luck and a lot of blurry fumbling, you managed it. Twenty minutes later, his car pulled up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dark like a rescue mission.

When you saw him, you lit up like a kid on Christmas.

“Shuaaaa!” you sing, stumbling toward him. “You came!”

“Of course I came,” he said, steadying you with both arms, tucking your coat tighter around your shoulders. “You’re a mess.”

You grinned, slurring, “I’m a very professional mess. I networked.”

He kissed your forehead, smiling. “I’m proud of you.”

You melted against him, cheek pressed to his chest, barely holding your head up. “I love you, y’know.”

He smiled, quiet and close, and said, “I know. I love you, too.”

And that was it. The first and only time you ever said it. Not because you didn’t mean it—but because you were a coward sober.

It’s those moments I miss the most. The soft ones that still make my heart warm even though everything is over. I’m still a coward sober, but I don’t lie to myself anymore. I loved you. I still do. I miss you more than anything. But it’s too late now. I wish I’d realized sooner, but I know it was the end that made me start looking back. That made me start writing again, about those moments after I’d stopped, in hopes of saving them somewhere other than my memory. 

You didn’t mean to forget. In fact, if someone had asked you two days before, you probably would’ve said your anniversary was still weeks away.

It wasn’t. You realized it only after Joshua set a plate down in front of you—takeout from your favorite Thai place, the one with the peanut sauce you always stole from his plate. He had even lit a candle, small and flickering in the middle of the table, nestled between your clutter: unopened mail, a half-used sticky note pad, a pen that had long since dried out.

“What's this?” you asked, tugging your blazer off, more exhausted than curious.

He smiled, soft but a little hesitant. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked, and then your stomach dropped.

The silence must’ve lasted too long, because his smile faded, just slightly, like a string pulled loose.

You covered your mouth. “Oh my god, Shua—I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, it’s okay. I know work’s been crazy. I just thought… we could do something low-key. I didn’t want to make it a big thing.”

You sat down slowly, trying to force your brain into remembering something—anything—you could use as an excuse. You couldn’t. You’d been so caught up in back-to-back meetings, missed trains, and trying not to cry in stairwells that the date had slipped by like any other Tuesday. You looked at him then—really looked at him. Still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up. Tired eyes. A faint ink smudge on his wrist from grading papers. He’d tried. He always tried.

“I should’ve remembered,” you said quietly, picking at your napkin.

He reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

And you were. Physically, at least. You ate together, even laughed a little over dinner, but something about it felt quieter than it should have. Like you were playing a part you used to know by heart, only now the lines didn’t come as easily.

It's hard to pinpoint one moment that we started breaking, when the cracks started getting longer, deeper, until we shattered. Maybe it was one too many forgotten anniversaries, or the way I started avoiding you even when you tried to get closer. I could feel us slipping, so I pulled away quicker so it’d hurt less. At least that's what I told myself.

It wasn’t one big thing. It never is. It was the little things, like how he started staying at school later. He’d say it was to help a student rehearse or prep lesson plans, and maybe that was true, but he used to text you when he was running late. Now he didn’t. Now he just came home after dark and tossed his keys on the counter with a quiet, “Sorry,” before disappearing into the bedroom.

It was the way your mugs sat unwashed in the sink for days—his coffee stains, your lipstick rings—like tiny pieces of evidence neither of you bothered to clean up. It was the laundry piling up on the chair in the corner because no one had the energy to fold it. The groceries that went bad in the fridge. The forgotten texts. The missed calls. The goodnight kisses that landed on hair instead of lips. It was how you stopped making each other laugh. How dinner went from something you cooked together to something you ate apart, often at different times, with different shows playing on different screens. It was the way he didn’t correct you when you forgot your anniversary. The way you didn’t correct him when he called you by the wrong pet name once—an old nickname, sweet and familiar, but one he hadn’t used in months.

It was how tired you both always were, and how that became your excuse for everything.

It was the silence between you, filling up all the space that used to be soft. You told yourself it was just a phase. That it would pass. That things would feel better once the new job got easier, or once his school year ended, or once you both finally got a weekend off at the same time. But it kept going.

And somewhere along the line, you stopped planning for the future together. You stopped asking “what should we do next?” and started asking “what do I have to do tomorrow?”

He still kissed your cheek when he left in the mornings. He still said he loved you.

Every morning, just before the door shut behind him.

Every night, when you were half-asleep, curled toward the wall.

Sometimes over the phone, if one of you stayed late at work.

Sometimes in the middle of a sentence, like muscle memory.

“I love you.”

And you always answered with something.

“Drive safe.”

“Sleep well.”

“You too.”

A smile. A hand on his chest. A nod.

Never the words. It wasn’t intentional at first. You’d be tired, distracted, too deep in an email or a thought or your own spiraling doubt. And by the time you realized he’d said it, the moment had passed. You told yourself you’d say it tomorrow. That he knew. That it didn’t matter if you said it every time.

But tomorrow kept moving. And then the longer you went without saying it, the heavier it became. The more it felt like a choice. Like saying it now would be a lie, or a performance, or worse—an admission that you hadn’t meant it the last time.

So you didn’t.

And he noticed. You could tell by the way he lingered after saying it. The pause, the wait, the way he’d glance over like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. And when you smiled or nodded or kissed his cheek instead, he’d nod too, and pretend it was enough.

But it wasn’t.

He was still trying. He still said it every night, and you kept answering with silence, until silence was all that was left.

So you ended it. The day is still clear in your memory, how he’d looked at you like his world was falling apart. You’d stood by the window, your hands tucked deep into the sleeves of your sweater, eyes fixed on the streetlights outside like they might offer some kind of answer. Joshua was behind you, pacing in slow, uneven circles like a man rehearsing a conversation he didn’t want to have. You could hear his breathing—short, uncertain.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, again. His voice cracked a little. “Why are you shutting me out like this?”

You didn’t answer right away, you couldn’t. You were tired—tired in a way that made words feel pointless, like shouting into a vacuum.

“You're acting like none of this mattered to you,” he said.

At the time, you had convinced yourself it hadn’t, let yourself go quiet and disappear. A slow, creeping numbness had moved in like fog, and by the time you noticed, everything felt distant, even him. Especially him.

“I don’t know how to fix this if you won’t let me in,” he’d said. “Just… talk to me.”

You turned then, finally meeting his eyes. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched, like he was holding everything in place with sheer force of will.

“I don’t want to fix it,” you said. Your voice came out flat. It wasn’t cruelty—you didn’t even feel cruel. You felt nothing. That was the worst part. “I don’t love you.” You had lied, even you knew that much, but Joshua still flinched, like you’d slapped him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. And maybe you were. You would have liked to be the kind of person who stayed, who felt things the way he did. But you weren’t. Not back then. He stepped toward you, slowly, as if you might bolt.

“Don’t do this. We can figure it out. Whatever this is—whatever’s going on—we can work through it. Just don’t walk away.”

But you already had. Inside, you’d left a long time ago, and you knew he had too. So you just shook your head. Not to be cruel, just to be clear.

“This isn’t working and you know it. I can’t keep trying,” you said. “And you shouldn’t have to either.”

Joshua's eyes went glassy. He didn’t speak, and his hands dropped to his sides, useless. You didn’t stay to see the moment it hit him, because you knew if you saw it you’d come back. So you picked up your coat and walked out the door, letting it close softly behind you, half wishing he’d come running after you. No slammed doors. No raised voices. Just the quiet kind of ending—the kind that hurt more because it didn’t look like heartbreak.

It just looked like goodbye.

It's been a full year now, since everything happened. Since I stood in front of you and said things I didn’t mean, or maybe meant too much—it’s blurry now. Since you looked at me like you were still hoping I’d say something different. Since I turned around and walked away, thinking you’d stop me.

You didn’t. And I told myself that was your choice.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe you were just tired of waiting for me to choose you first.

I tell people I’m doing okay. I keep up the image—work is steady, friends are still around, I eat real meals more often now. But every once in a while, I’ll hear a song you used to hum under your breath or see someone with the same walk as you, and it knocks the air out of me like I’ve run straight into a memory.

Do you still make coffee with two sugars and forget it on the counter?

Do you still keep extra napkins in your glove compartment, even though you said it made you feel like your mom?

Do you still wait three seconds before replying when you're mad, like you're trying to be kind even when you're hurt?

I keep thinking I’ll stop wondering eventually, that time will do the whole healing thing people like to talk about. But I think there are wounds that don’t scab over, just ones you get used to carrying. Like an old injury that flares up in the cold. You learn to live around it.

And the worst part is, I don’t even want to move on most days. I just want to go back. Not even to the good parts. Just to you. Even when we weren’t at our best, at least you were still within reach.

There’s so much I never told you. So much I’m still afraid to admit, even here, where I can pretend you’re reading and not judging me.

I think I loved you in the quiet ways. The kind that didn’t look like love because I was too scared to name it out loud. Too scared that once I said it, you’d realize how fragile I really was. But maybe that’s what you needed from me all along—just for me to admit I needed you, too.

I wish I could do it differently.

I wish I could do it over.

But I can’t, and so I write. Over and over and over again. Like if I write it just right, maybe you’ll feel it wherever you are. Maybe some part of you still listens. Maybe some part of you still cares, even if I don’t deserve it.

After the breakup, you’d moved out, found yourself a small apartment closer to work, and sobbed into his hoodie on the bathroom floor like you hadn’t thrown everything that mattered away. You called Bella, just to check in, talked for a while about her and Chan and how they were settling into college life. You pulled yourself together, because you had to. The apartment was smaller, quieter. The hum of the fridge filled the silence, and sometimes you’d sit with it like it was talking to you. You bought throw pillows. You learned how to cook for one. You stacked his hoodie in the back of your closet like it was a guilty secret. You stopped checking his socials—at least, not every day.

Nights were the hardest. There was no one brushing their teeth beside you, no coat thrown over the dining chair, no keys jingling in the bowl by the door. Just you, and the quiet, and the dull ache that settled somewhere beneath your ribs like something unfinished. You didn’t tell anyone how often you still thought about texting him. How your fingers hovered over his name in your phone. How sometimes, after a long day, you would whisper his version of your name into the dark—just to hear it again, even if only from your own mouth.

You saw a couple at the grocery store one night—arguing over pasta sauce, of all things—and it nearly broke you. Not because they were fighting, but because they still cared enough to fight. You remembered what that used to feel like. The messy, stupid, infuriating intimacy of building a life with someone. And how you’d let it slip through your hands like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

But he wasn’t. And you knew that. You always knew.

Still, you got up the next day, made your coffee, took the train, sent a polite email, sat through meetings, and smiled when someone made a joke.

You didn’t fall apart. Not completely. And that was the cruelest part of all. Because the world kept moving—utterly indifferent to the fact that you had loved someone so deeply, and only realized once you’d left.

But slowly, you started growing. Not all at once, not in any way that felt cinematic—you didn’t wake up one day and feel healed. It was messier than that—small, stubborn inches instead of leaps, like a plant pushing through cracked pavement, unsure if it even belonged there.

You started by doing the dishes. It sounds stupid, maybe, but one night you just… did them. Without letting them pile up, without waiting for the weight of it all to crush you into movement. You turned on music and scrubbed away coffee stains and silence and everything else that used to sit between you and someone else. And then you did it again the next night. 

You stopped checking your phone after work, started taking walks just because the air felt nice. You started saying yes when your coworkers invited you out, even if you only stayed for one drink. Even if you spent half the time wondering what Joshua would’ve ordered.

You bought a cheap bouquet of grocery store flowers for your kitchen table. You opened the windows when it rained. You rearranged the furniture—not because it was necessary, but because you could. You read books without annotating them, cooked meals without trying to impress anyone, watched movies and actually finished them without checking your phone every ten minutes.

You began to realize how many things you used to do just to be easier to love.

And when you caught yourself doing them again—over-explaining, apologizing too much, shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort—you paused. You took a deep breath. And you tried again.

You started writing again, not about him this time, but about other things. Stories that had nothing to do with heartbreak. Characters who didn’t carry your face or his name. You let yourself be bad at it. You let yourself be free. And when you started admitting to yourself how much you missed him, you let yourself write about that too. About the memories, about the future you didn’t have, about how sometimes things are meant to happen even when they hurt.

And some days were still hard. Some nights you still found yourself curled up in the corner of your bed, arms around your knees, that hoodie still tucked somewhere in the closet like a soft reminder. But there was a difference now. You weren’t waiting to be saved anymore. You were building something, even if it was small. Even if it was just a life where you could sit with yourself without feeling like a stranger. Even if some days all you did was make your bed or answer that one overdue text.

That counted, too. Because healing, it turns out, isn’t always loud. It’s not a speech or a dramatic realization or the perfect closure scene. Sometimes, it’s just standing in the middle of your own life and choosing to stay. Choosing to try again. Choosing to believe you’re allowed to be whole on your own.

And slowly, you did. You started becoming someone you could live with. Someone who didn’t just survive the hurt—but grew from it.

Of course you still miss him. Even after everything—even after the growth, after the quiet rebuilding, after the nights where you didn’t cry and the mornings where you didn’t think of him first—you still do. Maybe more honestly now.

Because it wasn’t until after everything that you could finally admit it.

It wasn’t the desperate, drowning kind of missing that used to own you, or the version where you’d check your phone at midnight and wonder what he was doing.

This was different. This was the kind of missing that didn’t ask to be fixed.

You could say it now—I miss him—and not fall apart.

You could carry the truth without letting it break you open again.

You’d done the hard parts. You’d stood in your own silence and learned how to live there. You’d stopped rewriting the past in your head like a prayer for one more chance.

And somewhere in all of that, you found room for something softer. You stopped fighting it. Stopped pretending the memories didn’t still live in you. Stopped scolding yourself every time his name rose up like smoke in your mind. He mattered. He mattered so much. And you missed him—not because you hadn’t healed, but because you had.

Because healing didn’t mean forgetting, it just meant being able to remember without losing yourself again.

You miss the sound of his laugh.

You miss how he’d hum while brushing his teeth, how he’d wait three seconds before replying when he was mad, how he knew your coffee order even when you changed it.

You miss the safety. The stillness. The softness he offered, even when you couldn’t meet it.

And now you realize that’s okay.

You’re allowed to grow and grieve.

You’re allowed to move forward without erasing where you’ve been.

You’re allowed to miss someone who felt like home, even after you learned how to build a new one on your own.

Maybe you always will. Maybe some part of you will always look for him in the crowd, always wonder if he ever looks for you too.

But you don’t need an answer anymore.

You’ve made peace with the silence.

Just like that, three years passed.

Time felt impossible after the breakup, like something that happened to other people. You counted days in coffee spoons and missed calls, in all the quiet spaces where he used to be. You thought healing would come fast, like a wave or a revelation. It didn’t. It came slowly, in barely noticeable shifts. And then, all at once, the calendar said three years.

Three years since you stood in front of him and lied.

Three years since he reached for you and you didn’t let him touch you.

Three years since you walked away.

You moved apartments once, got promoted, changed your hair. You lost touch with some people, grew closer to others. You built a life that didn’t revolve around anyone but you—and that felt like an accomplishment. A hard-won, deeply personal one. You didn’t need someone else to make the bed, or share the weight of grocery bags, or remind you to eat lunch. You didn’t need Joshua to feel whole anymore.

But you still thought of him.

Not every day, not even every week sometimes, but enough. Enough that when the song came on—the one he used to hum without realizing—you froze in the middle of the cereal aisle. Enough that when you smelled his cologne on the train, your stomach dropped like it used to when he’d say your name half-asleep.

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore, just dull and familiar—something you carried with you like a scar that stopped hurting, but never fully disappeared.

And what surprised you most was this: you stopped being angry. At him. At yourself. At the version of love you couldn’t hold onto.

You started looking back with softness instead. Not to rewrite the past, not to pretend it hadn’t broken you—but to honor it. To let yourself admit that it mattered. That it changed you. That it made you into someone stronger, even if it cost more than you thought it would.

Sometimes, you still wonder if he’s okay. If he ever thinks about you when it rains, or when he drives past that Korean place you both used to order from.

You’ll probably always wonder a little, but you’ve learned how to let that wondering live beside you, instead of inside you. It doesn’t gnaw at you the way it used to. Just sits quietly in the corner, a reminder that love like that leaves a mark—but it doesn’t have to define you forever.

Three years passed, and you’re still here. Still learning. Still growing. Still becoming someone you’re proud of.

I saw you again today. I thought I'd grown—I know I have—but I still felt my heart stutter. I love you, I regret how it ended, and I miss you, even though I know it was for the best. That's what I wanted to say, but I knew that it wasn't the right time. Instead, I actually asked you if you wanted to meet up sometime, and you said yes. Maybe one day, I'll tell you how I feel, but for now, I can't wait to see you again.

And thats a wrap on part one, it was an absolute monster to write and I'm not super satisfied with it, but its done and on time so whatever. There will be a part two eventually, once I get my shit together! It may take a little bit because I have other things I wanna write too, but I'm not sure yet. Anyways hope you enjoyed reading it.

[gotta-winwin]

typo and error | SHOWBIZ COLLAB

⭐ starring: joshua hong 💌 genre: fluff, angst | wc: 3.7k

💬 preview: Joshua loves his job as social media manager for The Carat Company, except for one thing: the actress he’s in charge of. you hate his guts, and Joshua swears he returns those feelings with vigor, and yet…forced to work in close proximity, Joshua’s forced to reckon with the idea that just maybe, despite all the animosity, he’s still madly in love with you. 

cw/tw: social media manager!joshua x actress!reader, mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, enemies to lovers(?), light swearing, bit of crack, miscommunication trope, only one bed, brainrot hoshi, menace jeonghan

🪽fic rating: pg ☁️ masterlist & a/n: this is in direct correlation with @straylightdream's fic for the same collab! i feel so honoured to be apart of this wonderful community and i cannot believe it is finally time to share with you all this piece of work-- this collab was the beginning of it all for me: a thousand laughs and inside jokes, found family and forever friends. i am beyond grateful to be standing next to these wonderful writers and people. forever grateful to @studioeisa and @diamonddaze01 for being the tumblr parents i never knew i needed <3

now playing: tonight (i wish i was your boy) by the 1975

new actress y/n violet l/n looks absolutely grotesque in new photos from set. 

Joshua swears on his life and all things good that he meant to type gorgeous. 

He had half the mind to call Apple Services himself and complain about the terrible timing autocorrect had, as he sat in Wonwoo’s office, their company’s stern CEO staring at him from across his meticulously organized desk. 

“You’re telling me you managed to sour our new talent’s name in less than an hour of working her socials.”

Joshua lowered his gaze. “Yes.” 

Wonwoo pinched the bridge of his nose in a twinge of despair with annoyance swimming on his face. “Joshua, I cannot emphasize this enough. Our partnership with Ms. Y/N Violet needs to work. It has to.” 

“And it will.” Joshua nodded vehemently, trying to emphasize his false confidence in the matter. “I’ve got it, boss. Trust me.” Or don’t. Joshua didn’t really know what he was doing. 

Wonwoo sends him out with a few words that borderline as a threat. Words that sounded like don’t fuck this up, please and your job is on the line. 

Joshua swipes into Twitter and sees the amount of people who had screenshotted his mistake and posted it online. 

Poor social media guy, someone wrote. Don’t hate him for his fat thumbs! At least we got a good laugh. 

“Fuck me.” Joshua dials Jihoon’s number and prays the man picks up. “Hey, Hoon. I need a favour.”  

The actress I work for is going to hate me. 

“Hey.” 

It’s awkward when Joshua walks into your trailer on set. You’re poised on the makeup chair, your eyes closed as your makeup artist dusted pale pink shadow over your eyelids. You recognize his voice, and your eyebrows pinch. 

“Mr. Hong. You’re late.” You supposed it was unprofessional of you to still hold a grudge for Joshua’s social media mistake, but you couldn’t help it. 

“There was a hold up at the company.” Joshua tries his best to remain civil. There was just something about your face that infuriated him. It was too…perfect. Too pretty. 

He raises his camera and waits for you to pose in the perfected candid pose every actor and actress was taught. To look just the right amount of ‘caught off guard.’ Joshua snaps a few photos before throwing you a thumbs up. 

You motion for him to leave. “I need to rehearse my lines. In peace.” You add the last part pointedly, glancing at him through the mirror. 

He sits on the couch of your trailer, glasses perched on his nose that he looks at you with. He gives you a curt nod and exits. 

Ever the gentleman. 

But you knew that it was all a scheme. 

y/n violet l/n stuns in new photos captured on set. 

Joshua makes sure to double check, triple check, the caption before sending it out this time. 

He’s tried so hard to be nothing but perfect in the few months he had been working for you, as if each action could make up for the disaster of an entrance he had given you on their company’s social media page. 

Joshua made sure your favourite drinks and snacks were in your trailer before your arrival. He painstakingly edited every minute flaw from your photos. He kept eyeliner, lipgloss and a spare hair tie in his bag. He never complained when you asked him to reshoot a billion more photos. 

Yet for some reason, you were unwilling to forget the incident. It was clear to Joshua that you hated him. 

“Thanks.” You mutter as he hands you your morning cup of iced tea, stabbing the straw into the cup for you, mixing the ice just right. You pretend not to notice how Joshua has somehow learnt all your habits and preferences to a T within just a few months. 

He wordlessly hands you a napkin before you even ask. 

“Hey, Vi. You’re on set in 5.” The 1st AD pokes her head in to call you. 

“Okay, thanks.” 

Joshua takes your cup and napkin flawlessly and helps you down the steps. 

You hate how perfect he is.

He hates how he can feel himself caring about this job more than he should. 

fans rave over y/n violet’s assistant: internet calls him her prince-in-waiting. 

“I feel like you’re being underpaid.” Wonwoo says the next time Joshua finds himself in his office. “I hear from the rest of the staff that you’ve been doing other jobs.” 

Joshua doesn’t know what his boss is saying, and it’s evident on his face. 

“You’re not just Ms. L/N’s social media manager, you’re also her assistant and bodyguard.” Wonwoo explains, and Joshua realizes he’s got a point. 

“Oh.” 

“I’m surprised you haven’t come to me for a raise, Josh.” Wonwoo states quite frankly. “You’ve always been very good at advocating for yourself.” 

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really feel like a job.”

And the look on Wonwoo’s face tells him he’s said too much. 

“Really.” There’s an unmistakable smirk on Wonwoo’s face, the 5 - 9 Wonwoo peeking through the 9 - 5 Wonwoo for just a second. “Taking such good care of her doesn’t feel like a job.”

Joshua’s quick to backtrack. “No, I mean– I like my job.”

“Sure.” It’s obvious he doesn’t believe him.

Fuck me, Joshua thinks silently. 

Joshua can feel himself burning holes into the back of Jeonghan’s head as the man resurfaces from kissing you. 

“Cut!” He can hear the director yelling for the scene to end in the distance, yet all his senses are trained on you. 

How you pressed yourself into Jeonghan’s hold, melted into the kiss, let out the sweetest gasp into his lips. Joshua hated all of it. He hated how it made him feel. 

He watches Jeonghan whisper something into your ear, a hand brushing against your hair. 

Joshua glanced down only to realize he had been squeezing the paper cup filled with coffee in his hands, the contents slowly overflowing and dripping onto the floor. 

He looks back up and catches you looking at him.

“Fuck me.” 

You break away from Jeonghan as soon as you hear the cue from the director. 

“You alright?” Jeonghan’s quick to check in. 

You nod. “You?”

It’s an unspoken thing between the two of you, checking in with your onscreen counterpart in between work days and takes. “I’m good.” Jeonghan glances behind you and bites back a smile. “I’d say your social media guy isn’t though.” 

“Mr. Hong?” You flit your eyes over to the man in question. He’s standing near the side, your afternoon coffee in his hands and a scowl on his face. “Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“He’s in love with you.” Jeonghan says it as plainly as if he had just stated tomorrow’s weather. 

You choke on air. “What?” 

Jeonghan nears, his breath tickling your ear as he fixes your hair gently. “Look at how he tenses when I near you. How his eyebrows furrow. How he looks like he wants to murder me from across the room.” 

You look, and for a second, you see it too. 

And then you blink, and it’s gone. “You’re imagining things, Hannie.” 

Your social media guy does not love you. 

It’s the dead of night when Joshua lugs your suitcase into your hotel room. He sets it down and pats it awkwardly, scanning the room for any visible threats. He’s grown accustomed to his role in your life. He still hates how it makes him feel towards you– the feelings of love that he continues to push down until they disappear– but he’s content with his job. Wonwoo did end up giving him a raise for it. 

He was now your social media manager/personal assistant/bodyguard. The paycheck was exponentially high. 

“Of course, you forget to book yourself a room.” There’s a light tease in your tone as you stare at the one bed in the giant penthouse suite. 

“Sorry.” Is all he has to offer in response. He had forgotten, in the midst of all the press releases he had to manage with the movie trailer coming out, he had only thought of booking you a room and not him. “I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

You give him a look he can’t decipher. “No.” 

Joshua blinks. “Huh?” 

“I’m not making you sleep on the floor, Hong. We can both sleep on the bed. Just stick to your side.” 

He nods, ignoring the feeling that the two of you had just crossed into some unspeakable, unknown territory. 

He doesn’t know it, but you feel it too. 

It’s strange to see him out of his usual business attire. 

You’re trying not to stare at him from above your computer screen, but you fail, eyeing the casual wear your work counterpart has on. Joshua is concentrating on something on his phone, his lips twitching as his eyes move briskly over its contents.

“Stop staring.” 

You flinch when you’re caught. “I wasn’t.”

He laughs, and the sound startles you. “I can feel your beady little eyes on me, missy.” He teases, smiling at your insulted expression. 

“Do not insult me like that, Mr. Hong– you work for me, remember?” 

“Oh, do I now?” 

There’s a moment of silence as the two of you look at one another, sharing a secret smile before both quickly turning away. 

He swears at that moment he’s in love with you, and he hates that it’s true. 

You swear you hate him under your breath. You hate how you know it’s a lie. 

The sun begins to set as Joshua hands you your nightly cup of tea. Made just the way you like it, a dash of sugar and a spoonful of honey. 

He sits beside you and turns to look at you with determination on his face. “Can I ask you a question?” 

You frown. “Sure?” 

The question that comes out of his mouth is unexpected and a nice surprise. “Have you always wanted to be an actress?” 

“Yes.” You answer immediately. “Have you always wanted to be a…” You blank at his job title. A personal assistant? A bodyguard? Basically a boyfriend? Instead, you settle with the safest option. “...a social media manager?” 

Joshua thinks a beat too long before answering. “I guess.” 

“That doesn’t sound all too convincing.” 

“I mean– I don’t think anyone grows up wanting to be a social media manager.” 

He has a point. “What did you want to be then?”

Joshua thinks for a bit, as if the memory was already long gone and too distant to recover. “Astronaut, or something silly like that.” 

“I don’t think that’s silly. I mean–” You backtrack. “Everyone told me being an actress was a silly dream, but I’m here now.”

There’s a sour look on his face. “And I’m your social media manager.” 

“Yeah, a fucking good one.” 

He visibly brightens. “Really?” 

“I mean, you did mess up big time on that one post, but–”

“I am sorry about that.” He grimaces, and you know he really does feel bad. 

“You called me grotesque.” 

“I typed it wrong and stupid autocorrect–” 

You laugh at his indignant expression. “I’m joking, Joshua.” 

He joins in, and neither one of you notices how you had just called him by his first name. 

You look radiant in the mornings. Joshua swears on all things good and true that you cannot be real, and that you’re most certainly nothing short of an angel. 

“Good morning.” His morning voice catches you off guard. 

You turn around in bed to face him, momentarily stunned by the limited amount of space between the two of you. His hair is pushed in all directions, his eyes lazy and filled with sleep, yet– 

“Fuck me,” you think to yourself. Your social media guy was hot. But that had to just be the morning delirium talking. 

“You’re staring again.” He comments, his lips quivering into a tiny smile. “You’ve been doing that a lot.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“No.” You deny it once more. “I am not staring.” 

“Sure. Sure.” He reaches a hand over and moves a piece of hair away from your face.

You blink as he moves away. “Shut up.”

The banter comes as easy as hating him once did. And as the two of you watch the sun begin to rise again, you start thinking that maybe loving him can be just as easy too. 

y/n violet l/n eats up the red carpet with new look. 

You’re dazzling on the red carpet, and Joshua spends most of his time trying to stop his mouth from hanging open. 

He raises the camera and waits for you to fix your dress. 

“Is this okay?” You look at him, fingers toying with the hem of your skirt, the bodice of your dress cinching your waist uncomfortably. Your movement is limited as you attempt to adjust the fabric of your dress down to cover more of your legs. 

Joshua wordlessly steps in to help. He moves the fabric with practiced precision, his fingers brushing against your upper thigh as he steps away again. 

“It’s perfect.” He reassures you, raising his camera once more. “C’mon, work the camera, pretty.” 

Smiling for pictures comes easy when it’s Joshua behind the camera. 

He hums contently as he studies the photos. “Perfect.” Offering you his arm, Joshua escorts you into the venue. 

Neither one of you comments on the multiple compliments the two of you received throughout the event. How every single person that walked up to you mentioned how perfect he looked by your side. 

The sky is dark and crying by the time you’re ready to leave. 

Joshua holds his coat over your head, careful not to disturb the delicate headpiece sitting in your hair. You watch him study the pouring rain, as if calculating the best way to deliver you to the car. 

“I’m going to have to carry you.” He ultimately decides.

You gape at the suggestion. “What?”

He shrugs, pointing down at your feet and the diamond encrusted heels adorning them. “Neither one of us can afford your shoes getting soaked in the rain— what are those? A billion dollars as footwear?”

He swings you into his arms effortlessly and begins the trek. 

Rain hits his back as he carries you to the car, his hair sticking to his forehead as he blinks rainwater out from his eyes. You can’t help but stare and appreciate the moment for what it is. 

“Thank you, Joshua.” You whisper, as he gently sets you into the passenger seat of your van. 

He shoots you a bright smile. “Anytime. Fasten your seatbelt, princess.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaching over to fix the tiara sitting in your hair. 

Your stomach flips. Fuckkk. 

y/n violet l/n and her prince-in-waiting spotted in a fairytale moment after gala. 

The headlines are everywhere in the morning. 

“People think we’re together, they’re calling it some fairytale romance come to life.” Your eyes read the comments left by fans faster than your brain can comprehend them. “Are you seeing this?”

You look up to see Joshua staring blankly at his phone. 

“Joshua!” You nudge him from his stupor. “The masses think we’re in love. Do something about it!” 

He blinks. “Like what?”

“I don’t know? You’re the social media guy, don’t you guys have some kind of handbook for situations like this? Release a statement or something–” You point an accusatory finger his way. “I told you carrying me like that last night was a bad idea.” 

There’s a shit eating expression on his face that you urge to smack away. “And what if we don’t?” He tests the waters. Hook, line–

“What?”

“What if we don’t release a statement?” 

“People think we’re in love.” 

“So? Maybe they're right.”

 And…sinker. His heart threatens to jump out of his ass. 

No one had more effectively rendered you silent than Joshua had right now. “I- what?” 

Joshua stares at you for a count of three. The bravery that had overtaken him a few seconds ago was gone now, and he was trying to muster up the courage to say something– anything. 

The first two notes of Bruno Mars’s Just The Way You Are starts playing and Joshua flushes, grabbing his phone to answer the call. “Hello?” 

Jihoon’s voice crackles to life. “You know you need to report this type of shit to me, right? Your HR department? Now– I would recommend you to not date the actress you’re working for, but since that’s already been done–”

Joshua cuts him off. “What– no, we’re not dating.” He darts his eyes to look over at you. You’re pointedly avoiding eye contact. “It’s just internet gossip.” 

“Right.” 

Joshua wonders what kind of things Wonwoo was telling the rest of the department heads if Jihoon also sounded like he didn’t believe him. 

“Well, as long as you’re not dating.” Jihoon concludes the call. “Bye.” 

Joshua lowers the phone to look at you. 

The moment’s over. You both can feel it. 

y/n violet, looking ravishing on set, answers questions at Buzzfeed. 

You don’t see Joshua for the next two weeks. 

He’s still posting snippets from the press tour you and Jeonghan are currently on, busy promoting your new movie, but the man himself has gone radio silent. 

You imagine he’s regretting the last night the two of you had spent together. 

“So? Maybe they're right.” 

You find yourself spinning the conversation over and over in the back of your head, as you rehearse your answers for the next interview. You overanalyze it, again and again, until you can’t tell the difference between what actually happened and what you’ve created in your head. 

It’s the way he had so quickly shut down the idea of dating you to Jihoon that stuck with you the most. The tone. The swiftness of his words. The lack of hesitation. 

Your temporary assistant hands you your morning coffee, and you take a sip. It’s too strong, too murky, not nearly enough ice. 

You find yourself missing Joshua. You recount every little snide comment you had ever made at him and feel that wave of regret, over and over. 

But buried deep within that regret is embarrassment, and it reigns far superior. The little voice inside your head whispers seeds into your mind. He probably hates you now. You’ve been nothing but rude, and awful, and dismissive. 

Your phone buzzes to life, and you see his name on the caller ID. 

You feel like throwing up as you let it ring. 

Joshua stares at the video of your latest interview and lets out a heavy sigh. 

You’ve been dodging his calls. Joshua hates to say it, but he understands. A big time actress, being caught on social media and accused of dating her glorified butler. 

He doesn’t know what possessed him to keep calling you, but he does. Once before clocking in to work. Once clocking out. Once before bed. 

Soonyoung tells him it’s pathetic. It probably is. 

“You need to let her go, man.” Soonyoung tells him as they leave the office building. “Is she really worth all this groveling?” 

“She’s worth everything.” Joshua finds himself admitting. 

“Shit, bro.” Their marketing manager fixes him with sympathetic eyes. “You’re so cooked.” 

Joshua frowns. “What does that even mean?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Wonwoo made the whole marketing team take this seminar on the new internet codes.” Soonyoung slaps him on the back. “If she’s worth that much to you, then show her.” 

“How? She won’t even pick up my calls. And our schedules barely line up anymore.” 

Soonyoung dangles his phone between his fingertips. “You’re the social media guy, right?” 

There’s a wicked spark behind those eyes. Fuck. 

y/n violet’s prince-in-waiting steps into the spotlight: is this love or just workplace loyalty?

You’re somewhere in Singapore getting ready for another interview when Jeonghan breaks into your trailer with a manic smile on his face. “Look at this article that just came out.” He thrusts his phone into your face. 

You blink at the headline. “What–”

“Your prince-in-waiting just blew up the whole internet.” 

You blitz through the article in record speed, catching snippets and quotes from Joshua. 

Working for her was a nightmare. Violet’s spoiled, high-maintenance, an all around princess. 

You push his phone away. “I don’t want to read all that.” 

Jeonghan groans. “Don’t just glance at it, read it. Like actually.” 

Working for her was a nightmare– I was forced to confront the reality that I wasn’t just doing all of it for the paycheck, I was doing it for her. 

Violet’s spoiled, high-maintenance, an all around princess– but that was okay. I didn’t mind it. I liked maintaining her. 

And finally, the last quote in the article. 

“I suppose when you spend that much time staring at one person’s photos… falling a bit in love with them is inevitable.” 

You blink. “Ava?” 

Your temporary assistant raises her head. “Yes?” 

“I need you to get Mr. Hong on the next flight over here.” 

y/n violet takes movie premiere by storm– bringing her prince-in-waiting as her plus one. 

Despite all that has changed in your relationship with Joshua, these events still remain the same.

He still gets on his knees to take the perfect pictures of you in your dress. He still brings you drinks whenever he notices you’re parched. Still carries your heels for you when your feet start aching on the way home.

Yet some things have changed: like the fact that his hand is now placed possessively on your waist as he navigates the crowd with you next to him. 

“I still don’t like that guy.” He mutters into your ear as you both say goodbye to Jeonghan and his date. 

You laugh. “He’s just Jeonghan.” 

“He’s kissed you.” He hisses, fixing your necklace so it sits perfectly on your collarbone. “And we both know he was cuddling up to you on set just to piss me off.” 

“Maybe.” You admit. “But that’s just Jeonghan.” 

“Whatever.” Joshua throws one last dirty look at the actor before fixing you with loving eyes. “You’re mine now, anyways. Right?” 

You scrunch your nose. “Wouldn’t you like to know, social media boy?” 

He pinches your hip in retaliation. 

The banter still comes easy. And you’re pleased to find out that loving him comes just as easy too. 

[azzifuddfanpage]

Just Friends

part 1

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collab with fave @ldapper

our prompt: here

3.5k words

themes: fluff

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Paige had always been good at keeping secrets—hiding the way her hands shook before a big game, masking her frustration when she missed a shot, pretending she didn’t steal glances at Azzi when she thought no one was looking. 

It was easy to blame the nerves on the competition, the frustration on her own perfectionism, the glances of simple admiration. But deep down, she knew the truth.

Azzi was her best friend, her teammate, the person who made every practice feel like an adventure. It wasn’t the kind of crush she could confess with a giggle or a note scribbled in the corner of her notebook. Not when she wasn’t sure Azzi liked girls. Not when she wasn’t sure if admitting it would ruin everything. So Paige did what she always did—she pushed it down and tucked it away like an unspoken play they both knew by heart.

But the thing about secrets is that they don’t stay hidden forever. And the way Azzi smiled at her sometimes, like she was seeing right through Paige’s carefully built walls, made her wonder if maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t the only one keeping something quiet.

It was 2018, Paige and Azzi’s second time playing together with Team USA. 

Their tournament wasn’t until later in the month, so right now they were stuck at training camp. Practices were intense, but after the hard work and sweat of each session, there was time to breathe–time to get to know each other outside of just basketball. 

One day after practice, the girls gathered in one of the dorms, sprawled out on the beds and the floors, chatting about everything under the sun. Caitlin Clark, ever fearless with words, was the one to bring up relationships and sex, sparking an animated discussion. Cam Brink chimed in with a funny story that had everyone in stitches. Soon enough, the room was alive with laughter as each girl shared their own awkward, silly, and sometimes cringe-worthy experiences–with boys, of course.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on the floor, joins in with her usual playful energy, keeping the vibe light. But as the conversation continued, she couldn't help but glance at Azzi, who was sitting further away from the rest of the group, quietly sipping her drink. Her gaze was distant, her usual smile nowhere to be seen.  Paige could see it in the subtle way her best friend’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, the way her posture was more closed off than it normally was with the team. The blonde could tell something was holding her back.

While everyone else was laughing and talking, Azzi was unusually quiet, her eyes fixed on her hands as she moved to absently fidget with the hem of her sweatshirt. Paige could see the tension in her shoulders, the restlessness in every movement.

“Cait how many guys have you kissed?” Cam asks, scooting closer to the group, eager for the gossip. 

“Honestly? Not many, probably like 3,” Caitlin replied, leaning back against the side of the bed.

The girls burst into giggles, peppering Caitlin with follow-up questions and teasing for details. Paige’s gaze flickered back to Azzi and that’s when she noticed it–the way Azzi’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, the way her eyes darted nervously, the way she shifted uncomfortably, almost like she’d rather be anywhere else. 

Paige’s heart sank. It was unmistakable now–Azzi wasn’t just being quiet, she was uncomfortable.“So what are your guys favorite shoes to hoop in, mine are probs Kobe’s,” Paige said after finding a pause in the incessant chatter, her voice wavering slightly.

Immediately all eyes turned to her.

For a moment she was worried they thought her opinion was wrong; but all of a sudden Caitlin chimed in.

“Wow, look who’s all of a sudden trying to change the conversation. Is there someone you’re trying to hide,” Caitlin teased, laughter bubbling up from the group.

Paige glanced at Azzi, expecting to see the same distant, frazzled look, but was surprised to find her focused, eyes locked on her with an almost intense attention. Her hands, which had been fidgeting earlier, were now still in her lap. She’d inched closer to the group, listening as if what Paige was about to say mattered more than anything.

Paige felther face grow hot as everyone is waitedfor her response.

“Uhm…yeah, not really anyone right now,” shelaughed awkwardly, eyes dropping to the floor, avoiding Azzi’s gaze.

“Oh come on Paige, no way there isn’t even a crush. You and Jalen are pretty close aren’t you?” Cam inquired. 

Paige coughed, startled by the accusation and her eyes subconsciously flickered to Azzi. She noticed the brunette’s expression had once again shifted–nervous, almost like she was bracing herself.

“Uhm, haha, no, we are uhm–just friends,” Paige stammered,, her voice rising higher in pitch due to nerves. She quickly cleared her throat. “He’s like a brother to me,” she finished, hoping the conversation would shift back to someone with a more interesting love life. 

“Alright, well if it’s not Jalen, then who? There is no way you don’t have a crush on anyone. And celebrities don’t count either.”

“Uhm well, you don’t know him...” Paige said as her voice trailed off, her eyes finding Azzi’s, which are looking towards the floor, zoned out.

The sound of a knock on their door saved Paige from dealing with the girls’ harassment.

“YES! They brought the pizza! I’m starving,” Cam said, getting up to open the door. The girls forgot about their conversation for the most part, now wanting to settle down and watch “Love and Basketball”.

Paige tried to forget about the way Azzi’s mood kept shifting, but she couldn’t help herself; It was like her every waking thought was consumed by the brunette.

The girls that were sitting on the floor—Paige, Cam, and Caitlin—moved up to the couch with Samantha, Hailey, and Azzi, all squeezing in on the (what’s the word for the L shaped couch bro). Immediately, Paige noticed that instead of cuddling up next to her like always when they watched a movie, Azzi stayed on the opposite end, sandwiched between Haley and Cam.

Azzi’s discomfort seemed to have settled, but the blonde couldn’t help but feel like something was wrong. She tried to brush it off, settling at the end of the group next to Caitlin.

Sam occasionally turned to her and Caitlin, talking about something Quincy did that was hot. Paige, half-listening, would laugh softly and roll her eyes before turning back to the screen. 

Just as Paige thought she might’ve finally quieted her swirling thoughts and settled in to watch the movie, Azzi’s unmistakable laugh cut through the air. Paige glanced over, catching the brunette whispering a soft “sorry” toward a glaring Caitlin before leaning in to talk to Hailey. Both of them broke out into quiet giggless. 

The sight made the ache in Paige’s chest swell. This was her and Azzi’s movie—it was hard to watch the younger enjoy it with someone else in the same way. She missed their quiet pokes and inside jokes, the way they'd whisper to each other while their teammates shushed them. She missed Azzi snuggling into her side when she got sleepy, her warmth pressing close. And she missed the way her heart would race, the soft brush of Azzi’s skin sending sparks that made her cheeks flush.

What changed? The question played in Paige’s mind  as she caught Azzi’s gaze across the room, but the brunette quickly looked away, refocusing on Hailey. Paige’s stared lingered and a quiet hurt settled in.

When the movie ended, the group filtered out to their respective dorms, leaving Paige and Azzi alone.

“Soo..” Paige started, breaking the impossibly loud silence. 

“Hm” Azzi replied, not looking up from her spot on the couch. 

“Did you have fun watching the movie? I mean, it kinda seemed like you were laughing—But also, it is our favorite, so then why wouldn’t you like it…” Paige rambled, nerves betraying her as her voice trailed off shakily.

“Yeah, I guess,” Azzi answered shortly. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and stuff,” she added, standing up and wandering into the bathroom.

Paige stood there for a moment, stunned at her bluntness. After about a minute went by, she decided to busy herself by gathering the leftover paper cups scattered around the room. She sighed, wondering how she was going to handle this situation.

When she returned to the bedroom, Paige found Azzi already snuggled under the covers, her bonnet on, and one of Paige’s hoodies swallowing her frame. The blonde gazed at her for a moment, feeling a pang of disappointment when Azzi refused to meet her eyes. 

Paige went about her nighttime routine in silence, brushing her teeth and hair, and changing into her own pajamas. When she emerged from the bathroom, darkness swallowed her vision before her eyes adjusted. She could see Azzi staring up at the ceiling, wide awake. As Paige stepped closer, the younger quickly shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep. 

Paige climbed into bed and poked Azzi gently in the ribs. “I know you're not asleep Az,” she said, her voice gentle and teasing. Azzi’s body tensed at the contact, and to Paige’s surprise, she pulled away. 

“What’s with you?” Paige asked. 

Without turning towards her, Azzi simply shrugged a response. “Don’t know what you're talking about.”

Paige shifted so she had a full view of the brunette’s side profile. “Why were you so quiet tonight? You weren’t yourself,” she said, voice filled with concern. 

As Paige waited for a response, she admired the younger’s features, taking in the slope of her nose, the way her eyelashes fluttered, and the soft blush on her cheeks. 

Quite suddenly, Azzi’s eyes glossed and a tear rolled down her face. “Az? What’s wrong?” Paige asked, her voice filled with concern, as she reached out and grabbed her hand.

Azzi looked down at their interlaced hands, watching intently as Paige’s thumb caressed the back of her hand.

“It wasn’t that I just didn’t wanna talk,” Azzi finally responded, her voice shaking as she wiped the droplet away. “It was just what we were talking about,” she continued. 

Paige watched Azzi’s focus shift from their hands to the wall in front of them, like she was avoiding the blonde’s gaze; As if looking into those sharp blue eyes would cause all truth to spill from her mouth like a waterfall. What was she hiding? Paige questioned. She racked her brain, trying to remember the moment Azzi’s mood had turned bitter.

“Was it when we started talking about Jalen?” Paige asked, her voice flooded with confusion.

The brunette nodded slowly and Paige’s jaw tightened.

“What, do you like him or somethin’?” 

Paige hated the thought of Azzi having a crush on her best friend, immediately removing the image from her brain.

“Fuck no,” Azzi responded with a quick breath, almost laughing.

Paige let her head fall to the pillow and let out a quiet sigh of relief. Yet confusion still plagued her mind as she continued to study Azzi, whose focus on the wall was unwavering and whose breath had quickened.

Then it clicked. 

Paige suddenly shifted her weight into her elbow so she could better see the girl next to her.

“Az,” Paige whispered softly, placing her hand on the younger’s cheek. She gently forced Azzi to face her, searching her amber eyes.

“You didn’t wanna talk about boys?” Paige asked. The words were a mix between a question and a confirmation.

Azzi nodded shyly. “I just don’t understand. I- I always tried to think of them the way they described them, I just never could. I haven’t ever felt that way with- well,  I’ve only ever felt it with…” her voice trailed off as another tear rolled down her face. 

Paige sat up and maneuvered Azzi onto her lap. The younger curled inwards and buried her face into Paige’s shoulder as she let out a sob. Her tears were damp, but the blonde couldn’t care less. She moved the hand not supporting Azzi’s weight to her curls as she brushed through them. Paige knew Azzi found the motion comforting, recognizing the way her breath calmed just slightly as she began the motion.

“Azzi, it’s okay if you don’t feel that way about boys,” Paige remarked, combing her fingers through Azzi’s hair, knowing the calming effect it had on her.

“I don’t know, I just- hearing everyone else tell all these stories about all the guys they liked… It just made me  feel like there is something wrong with me,” Azzi sniffled, her forehead now leaning on Paige’s shoulder. 

The blonde pulled away slightly. “Az, look at me,” she urged, and Azzi slowly lifted her head to make eye contact with Paige. She suddenly became aware of how close Paige was and she felt her heart rate spike, the effect not going unnoticed by Paige.

“Trust me,” Paige continued; “I would 100 percent tell you if you were weird.” 

Azzi shoved at Paige playfully, letting out a little giggle that made the blonde’s heart flutter. 

“Okay, well, you can’t even talk since you apparently have this guy that you just never told me about,” Azzi said, a wave of sadness returning to her face.

It was the same look Paige saw before, when Cam brought up Jalen.

“I was lying, Jalen’s a friend. I just wanted to get them off my back,” Paige said with a shrug.

“So you aren’t dating anyone?” Azzi asked, unsure.

After giving a quick shake of her head no, the blonde felt Azzi’s body relax back into her. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both not knowing what to say next.

“Az,” Paige finally said, soft voice breaking through the quiet. “I’ve never had a crush on a boy either.”

Azz felt her pulse quicken. A deep shade of red swam across her face. 

“Have you had a crush on a girl?” She asked tentatively, searching the blonde’s eyes for an answer.

“Mhm,” Paige responded, seemingly much more relaxed than Azzi currently was— though, internally, she was going crazy.

When Paige didn’t elaborate, the brunette tensed up.

“Oh,” Azzi said, peeling her eyes away from Paige’s. She has had a crush on a girl, I guess just not on me, Azzi thought.

Paige had begun to piece together what was going on with Azzi, and curious, she began to test her theory.

“You probably know her better than you think,” Paige said with a sly grin.

“Really? What does she look like?” Azzi asked, but Paige could hear the subtle shift in her voice.

“Well,” Paige paused, letting her fingers dance along Azzi’s arm. “She has brown hair, and it’s really curly, and beautiful when it’s down, but she never wears it that way because she always says ‘it’s harder to move around in,’”

Paige continued her movements, basking in the way Azzi’s breath hitched as she tried to make sense of her words. 

“She has pretty, brown, doe eyes, that squint when she laughs, and the cutest dimples that make me just want like…‘ion know- want to kiss her to death,” Paige trailed off for a few seconds—eyes flickering to Azzi’s mouth which was now agape—before continuing. “And her lips are perfect, her smile, her kindness, her game, everything about her amazes me,” Paige finished, her fingers now tracing small figure eights along Azzi’s palm.

Without a word, Azzi shifted so she hovered over Paige. They stared at each other for a minute, their eyes flickering to each other’s lips, taking in the exciting, unfamiliar air between them.

Finally, Azzi leaned in, resolving the tension. Her lips brushed against Paige’s in a soft, gentle kiss. It was a tentative peck, a test of the waters. As they pulled back, a blush grew on Azzi’s cheeks and Paige’s heart skipped a beat. 

Paige smirked and reached out to bury her hands in Azzi’s hair. With a gentle tug, she pulled Azzi back in, their lips meeting again in a more passionate, more confident kiss. 

This time, there was less hesitation, less uncertainty. Their lips moved together in perfect sync, dancing in sweet rhythm. Paige ran her tongue along Azzi’s bottom lip, exploring the soft curve of her mouth and feeling the softness of her skin. The brunette let out a soft moan, her body relaxing into the kiss. Paige took this as a sign to deepen the connection, and she slipped her tongue in.

As they kissed, the world around them melted away, leaving just the two of them. The silence of the night was filled with the sound of their breathing, the soft rustle of their clothes, and the hum of their hearts beating quickly.

When they finally pulled away, gasping for breath, Paige’s eyes onto Azzi’s drinking in the sight of her. Her lips were swollen, her pupils dilated, and her skin was flushed with a soft, golden glow. 

“What?” Azzi asked, a blush creeping onto her face.

The blonde’s smile grew, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Paige said, her fingers coming up to trace over Azzi’s soft skin.

They lay there, staring at each other, the tension between them dissipating, replaced by a sense of calm, of contentment. As the night wore on, they drifted off to sleep, their bodies lovingly intertwined.

———-

A series of aggressive knocks jolted Paige awake, and she groggily opened her eyes to the sound of a voice booming through the door. “PAIGE?! AZZI?! YOU BETTER BE UP. WE GOTTA BE DOWN IN THE GYM IN 15!” The urgency in the voice sent a rush of adrenaline through her, and she quickly sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

When Paige looked to her left, she saw Azzi doing the same. For a few seconds they just laid practice, disoriented from sleep. It wasn’t until Paige noticed their limbs tangled together that she felt a flutter in her chest. She could tell Azzi had noticed too, as they exchanged an awkward glance.

“We can talk about this later, promise,” Paige said, throwing off the sheets and checking the time on her phone. The two girls frantically scrambled to get ready, grabbing their sneakers and clothes before racing out the door after their teammates.

The day felt as though it moved in slow motion, and neither Paige nor Azzi seemed to be able to catch a moment alone during the first half of practice. Aside from the occasional glance across the gym, or brush of contact as they switched stations, they didn’t see much of each other at all.

Azzi couldn't shake off the anxiety that had been building up inside her. She kept wondering what was going on between her and Paige, and whether Paige felt the same way. Every time she caught a glance of the blonde, she felt a pang of uncertainty. 

Paige, on the other hand, seemed to be having a tough time focusing on basketball. Her eyes kept drifting towards Azzi, noticing the nervousness on her face. She even missed a few shots, earning a stern warning from the assistant coach. 

By the time they took a water break, the stress was etched all over Azzi’s face. Paige jogged to catch up to the brunette, who was attempting to fly under the radar.

Azzi turned at the sound of the familiar footsteps. She felt her nerves settle seeing Paige’s friendly smile.

As they made their way to the locker room, Azzi felt Paige’s pinky suddenly interlock with hers, sending a warm feeling through her chest.

Once they were alone in the locker room, Paige broke the silence. “Wanna get ice cream after practice? We can talk,” she said, her voice hushed as she squirted her Gatorade bottle into her mouth. Azzi nodded, eyes fixed on Paige’s bicep flexing as she squeezed her bottle. 

Paige caught the brunette staring and smirked, “It’s a date,” she said teasingly, tossing her bottle by her stuff and walking out the door. Azzi was left standing there, a blush still present on her face.

As she made her way out of the locker room, Can draped her arm over Azzi’s back and asked, “What was that about?” Azzi coughed instinctively, not realizing anyone had overheard the conversation. “Uh, what was what about?” she replied dismissively. 

Cam turned to Caitlin, who rolled her eyes dramatically. It was no secret that Paige and Azzi had feelings for each other, and it seemed like everyone knew except for the two girls themselves. Or maybe not anymore, considering the conversion they’d just overheard. 

[hongism]

what lies beneath us. - c. san (m)

➼ genre; fluff, smut, slight angst for the first half but i make it better quickly promise ➼ pairing; san x afab!reader ➼ au; established relationship, college au ➼ warnings; explicit smut ➼ rating; m/18+ ➼ wc; 6.4k

one busy semester is all it took for you and san to find yourselves struggling to find footing in the storm that is your relationship, yet rather than let go, he asked for one more week, one more day, one last chance to help get you back to shore

part of the ...and it's snowing collab.

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➼ smut warnings; unprotected sex, oral: m, vaginal fingering, praise, body worship, service-top san, san has some slightly submissive tendencies, coming inside

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You normally wouldn’t find yourself in Wooyoung’s apartment on a Tuesday morning, sitting at the bar counter beside his roommate with two mugs of coffee sitting on the granite between you, but you also haven’t had any leisure time to waste lately. It’s a miracle that Wooyoung is even up before ten o’clock, though that might be in part due to you pleading desperately over the phone to come over.

“Oh, you make her coffee but not me? The fuck is up with that, Hwa?” Speak of the devil, Wooyoung comes into the kitchen still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“She’s a guest, you live here. And I had to wake you up because you slept through three alarms so my sympathy levels are close to zero right now.” Seonghwa flashes a faux shrug despite the heated glare he’s sent. Wooyoung lets out a huff but lets it go in favor of redirecting his attention to you.

“Right, well, what did you need to talk about so badly that it couldn’t wait until the afternoon?”

“San is coming over tonight, I couldn't do the afternoon,” you mumble.

“Is it about him then? Did something—” he waves a hand through the air like that’ll explain his thoughts, and when confusion shows on both your face and Seonghwa’s, he gives up “—did something happen between you guys?”

“It feels a bit awkward,” you admit over the rim of your coffee mug. Wooyoung scoffs at that, but Seonghwa is far more forgiving than your best friend in that he sends you a sympathetic grin. 

“Awkward?” he prompts, toying with his own drink. Wooyoung pushes away from the counter and turns to the coffee maker.

“I don't know. Yeah, awkward, a bit. I guess. Like we don't know what we're doing or how to be in a relationship anymore.”

The brutal semester you both just suffered has been the main factor in the wedge in your relationship. Weekends full of studying, ones that you spent together at the start of the semester when he would come to your place or vice versa so that you could be together even while working. Then, San started picking up more shifts at his part-time job, and you had to redirect your focus to a particularly important internship that required you to forgo those weekends in the blink of an eye. You did have two weekends free of school and work, but San had to rush home during one of those on account of his mother falling ill. The other one was shot by you falling ill with the worst cold you’ve known in all your years of living. San came by that Friday with your favorite chicken and beer, but you couldn’t bring yourself to risk getting him sick when you knew how important the semester was to him too. It didn’t keep him from coming by again Saturday and Sunday both, soup was delivered to your front door along with voice messages wishing you well throughout the night. Even your text conversations were fizzling into oblivion by the time finals rolled around, which only served to amplify your feelings of dread. 

“Has he been acting differently?” Wooyoung tunes back into the conversation, this time more serious with his tone. “Like, he's pulling away or something?” Wooyoung stands on a different footing in this conversation and knows things Seonghwa doesn't in terms of your relationship with San. He's been there for you since well before you started dating San, and you're certain that he'll be there for you if it were to end tomorrow, the next day, or years down the line. 

“It's gonna sound so childish and stupid but he hasn't been calling me nicknames since the semester ended.” You tuck your hands into your lap and shrink into yourself a little, feeling the hot burn of shame well up inside.

“That's not stupid at all, y/n,” Seonghwa reassures barely a second after you finish your train of thought. “That's not.”

“He's right. That's totally unlike San.”

“Not! Helping!”

“I'm just being honest?!”

“Look, y/n, I don't want you to start having doom thoughts or thinking the worst — that doesn't mean his feelings for you have changed.” You’re starting to think that you should’ve asked Seonghwa for advice from the start instead of Wooyoung. “Maybe he's feeling that awkwardness you are too, or maybe he's feeling insecure. The only way to know is to ask. Have an open and honest conversation about it.”

“But…” You glance past Seonghwa to look at Wooyoung's back. Without even needing to look back, he seems to feel the weight of your stare.

“You're scared that if you bring it up, the worst will happen and y'all will break up.”

“We've been dating for so long that I don't know what I would do if that happened. I don't know how to be single, no offense to either of you, but it's just that we've been together for so long now. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if it ended.”

“If…” Wooyoung bites his words back as though he's unsure of how they will come out. “I don't want this to sound harsh, but if all it takes for him to lose his feelings for you is one busy semester, then that's not someone I would want you to have a future with. I know it's not up to me and it's not my business, but I want you to value yourself more than you value your relationship with San.”

“I truly don't think he's lost his feelings for you, y/n,” Seonghwa cuts in again, hand darting out across the counter in your direction. “Woo is right; you should value yourself more than the relationship you're in, but that doesn't mean you can only have one of those things. They can coexist.”

“What if I’m fighting for something he doesn’t want any longer?” you inquire softly and under your breath.

“The spark isn’t gone, y/n, I’m certain of that much. Maybe you just… need to find a way to reignite it!” The coffee maker dings loudly behind Wooyoung. And like it’s turning on a lightbulb in Wooyoung’s head, his expression turns suddenly bright. “Why not do just that? It’s been half a decade, to be fair, so really you can’t be blamed if things feel a little stale. If you went and did things that made you fall for each other in the first place, wouldn’t that help a bit?”

“I hate to say it…”

“You always say that when I’m right!”

“Ignoring him, that does sound like a good plan, y/n.”

Despite the reassurance from both your best friend and someone you consider to be far more mature and wiser, it doesn’t fully quell the concerns settling in your gut.

It’s only been six days since you last saw San, though you would argue that it feels a lot more like six months given how absent you both have been from each other’s lives of late. While that isn’t particularly your fault or his wholly — it’s definitely a joint effort that’s kept you apart — it does make your skin itch with anxiety every time you think about seeing him again.

It’s all culminated into this moment right now, where you sit on the edge of your couch waiting for the doorbell to ring and announce his arrival. You want to see him, desperately so, you’ve missed him so incredibly much that you can hardly stand it. And yet — you’re rooted to the cushions riddled by anxieties. You tried to rid yourself of the lingering stress after leaving Wooyoung’s apartment by doing chores properly for the first time in months, going so far as to run to the grocery and restock some necessities as well. You hate to be the type of partner who cannot do anything alone without associating it with your partner, but San was on your mind throughout the day.

Will he feel the same as you even though the flame keeping your relationship alive has been inching closer and closer to nothingness? The two of you don’t fight, in fact, your friends like to say that things go a little too smoothly between you two, and while that’s true, they aren’t aware of what it looks like when you and San aren’t getting along. It looks the way this semester has, slow conversations that lead nowhere and less time spent in each other’s presence. You aren’t fighting right now, but you certainly aren’t all sunshine and rainbows. The weather mirrors your emotions — dim greys shrouded by white flurries of snow that have been falling since early afternoon.

You clench your fingers around the seam of the couch cushion. No part of you wants to play the part of the overbearing partner: if you’re too eager to see him, wouldn’t he find it off-putting? 

The doorbell rings.

It takes a moment for you to brace yourself for impact, standing and walking over to the door as slowly as you can manage without it seeming like a deliberate delay. The second you open the door, however, your worries melt away for a moment. 

San smiles so brightly like you’ve not gone a second without reveling in each other’s presence. The weather is clinging to his coat still even though he had to climb three flights of stairs to reach your door. The little snowflakes are beginning to melt into the fabric.

“May I come in?” The facade cracks a bit. It’s not like him to ask such things, but you choose not to hold it against him now.

“Yeah, yeah, I finally had time to clean the other day so everything’s — nice.” 

If your smile is strained, he says nothing about it, stepping over the threshold and into your apartment like it’s the first time he’s ever done so. He’s polite all the time, but now it makes those seeds of doubt sprout further because you’ve been together for five years now, what reason does he have to act like a stranger in your home? A home he’s been in time and time again, one he’s slept in, fucked you— 

“Do you want ramen or pizza?” You force the thoughts to come to a halt before your expression turns bitter.

“Let’s do ramen, I’ll cut up the vegetables for you.”

There’s an elephant in the room that it seems neither of you wants to address, and so you keep your mouth shut just the same as San with the thought of “maybe this awkwardness will pass after tonight”. You watch him remove his coat and hang it up on the door while still picking at your nails. He extends a hand to you, one you take eagerly, and you lace your fingers through the gaps between his. A bit like a well-oiled machine, you think, something that Wooyoung had noted about the two of you as far back as freshman year of college. San presses his lips to the top of your head. You lean into the touch ever so slightly. 

You share in a quiet synergy that carries you through the motions of preparing food, with no conversation exchanged aside from a “watch for the knife” and “careful, behind you” on occasion. You’re still trying to psyche yourself up to bring up what’s truly on your mind, so you aren’t sure that you’d be able to get any conversation out without it spiraling into insanity right off the bat. For the moment, for now, you want to simply drink in San’s presence. 

He hums as he opens a cabinet in search of bowls, but they aren’t there. 

“Oh, I—I moved the bowls to the other side.” Three months ago, your mind adds. It would do nothing but add salt to a blossoming wound. San stops dead in his tracks too. He seems to suffer the same crisis that you do right then. After a few seconds of mental buffering, he resumes his humming and shifts to the adjacent cabinet like the moment didn’t happen at all. 

You sit beside each other at the bar counter, atop the uncomfortable stools you’ve had for well over two years now, but it offers a weird comfort because it’s familiar, it’s something San knows, it’s something you share and have shared for years. 

“Thanks for the meal,” San says, still wearing a bitten-back smile. 

“Of course. Thank you for helping.” But the detrimental reality of not speaking to someone properly for a long while is that part of you forgets how to make conversation with them. There is nothing for you and San to “catch up on” seeing as you’ve been keeping each other updated on your lives through dry text conversations. “Um…” He’s eyeing you carefully now, and you could pass off the watering in your eyes as the spice of the food, but he would call your bluff in an instant. The funny thing about doubt is that once it’s taken root, it’ll keep growing back no matter how many times you chop at the stem.

“What’s wrong, y/n?”

“It’s just — I don’t — are we breaking up?”

San freezes halfway over his ramen, chopsticks nearly falling from his fingers as he rushes to put his noodles back down. Your shoulders start shaking before you can stop it. He doesn’t stop you from turning away from him, but San has always been endlessly patient and gentle with you so you don’t expect him to ask you to look at him anyway. He does rest a hand atop your forearm though, and his thumb drags small, comforting circles over your skin. 

“Talk to me, y/n, what do you mean by that? Why would we be breaking up?” The words themselves sound calm. There’s a slight quiver to his tone, however, that makes you want to crawl inside yourself and disappear. “A-Are you wanting that?” Your continued lack of response makes San more urgent than ever, and he shifts his hand to your leg, spinning you to face him. You can’t be certain of the expression on your face (though you’d wager there is some degree of hurt); whatever San sees makes him let out a distressed noise from the back of his throat. “Come here, duck, talk to me.”

Standing on somewhat shaky legs, you push yourself closer to San, and he instinctually moves his knees apart to let you tuck yourself into the space there.

“Don’t cry, baby, I’m here, you can talk to me,” he murmurs, hands cupping your face in his hands. You reach down to cling to his shirt like it’s a lifeline. 

“That’s the first time you’ve called me that in weeks. This is the first time we’ve spent time together in six days. We’ve barely spoken or spent time together all semester, and I know why — I know we agreed that school and work have to come first. I know that.” Your voice drops to a whisper as you lose the confidence to speak. “I didn’t think it would mean losing you though.”

“You haven’t lost me, y/n. I’m still here, with you, loving you just as much as ever.” San smiles a little as you push your cheek further into his palm. “My feelings have not changed. I thought about you every day, wondered how you were doing, and if you responded to my texts late, I hoped you were eating well and getting enough rest. I listened to your voice memos rooting for me every night. Your face was always the first thing I saw in the morning because I still keep that slideshow of you as my lockscreen.” Reaching around to the back of your neck, he gives you a little tug, and your foreheads bump together. “The thought of you helped get me through the semester because I knew that it was you who was waiting for me at the end of the tunnel.”

“Sannie…”

“How long have you been worried over this, baby? You should’ve come to me the moment you started having doubts. I wouldn’t have let this go on if I had known.”

“I thought I felt you pulling away so I was scared to bring it up. You weren’t calling me nicknames anymore, and I started reading into it too much and freaked myself out.”

“I’m so sorry, y/n. Don’t put the blame on yourself, it’s not a crime to have anxieties. I didn’t even realize I stopped using them. I suppose I just got swept up in my own feelings and wanted to call you by your name as much as possible.” He nudges you with his head again. “Because I missed you so dearly.” Your lips turn up at the corners, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend. “And because I adore you so so much, my y/n.”

“Stop that.” You hope he doesn’t, truly.

“But I’m so mushy and full of love for you, y/n.”

“You’re gonna make me blush.”

“Oh, I can think of other ways to do that, baby.” San stands, subsequently pushing his body into yours, but your hands are still on each other, his moving down to caress the back of your thigh before he hooks his fingers around the bend of your knee and hoists your leg up over his hip. “I haven’t been good to you, my sweet,” he murmurs close to your lips. “What kind of boyfriend am I if I let you feel unwanted?” Your heart skips a beat as he grips tight at your other leg, then you’re suddenly weightless for a second as he hoists you up to his waist.

“We just ate—”

“I don’t plan on letting that stop me.” You let out a gasp as San traces the line of your jaw with his lips, hot breath spilling across your skin as he carries you from the kitchen. “Unless you want it to?” This damned man knows what he’s doing, he knows the hold he has over you — your brain is already turning into a foggy mess of want, and even the prospect of waiting two minutes for him to lay his hands on you is too much to bear. Your nails drag across his shoulders, tugging at the thin material. He misses the doorknob to your bedroom thanks to your antics, sending you against the wood a little harshly and forcing the air out of your lungs. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Still on the pill.”

“Hm?” he echoes, managing to turn it right on the second try and popping it open properly.

“I’m still on the pill,” you repeat. San freezes in place to stare at your face. You bring a hand around to toy at his parted lips with your thumb. “So you can fuck me raw.”

San becomes so dumbstruck that his jaw moves up and down over and over without any semblance of noise coming out.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me come in my pants like a horny teenager,” he says under his breath. You drop your head back and laugh. San’s hold on you feels so blissfully warm. You didn’t even have time for this during the semester, sometimes thanks to your workloads but more often thanks to sheer exhaustion. A few solo jaunts before bed are hardly enough to please you the way San does. Based on how tightly he’s gripping your ass, he seems to feel exactly the same.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He manages to get you both to the bed without further incident, laying you down on the mattress with a sort of reverence that makes your chest swell with emotion. Even through the barrier of clothing, his fingers are hot and sear a path from your hips up your waist then right back down again as San wastes no time in stripping you of your pants. 

“I missed you so fucking much it’s insane.” You want to respond, but the sight of your lover dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed stops you in your tracks. All you can do is lie there and watch him tug your pants off, lips moving to kiss each bit of exposed skin along the way. Goosebumps rise across your body when he kisses his way up higher. His broad frame cages you in the closer he gets to your face, and despite his hands being on the somewhat small side, they feel all-encompassing when they’re sneaking under your shirt and exploring the skin beneath.

“I missed you more,” you murmur, catching his chin between your fingers and angling his face upwards so you can properly look at him. “I love you so so much, San. More than I can put into words.”

“Yeah?” You make no effort to pull him higher although he moves as though you do and climbs all the way up to be right over your face. He hums before dipping down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “I think I’ve missed you more still though—” another kiss, this time to the opposite side of your mouth “—but you’re welcome to challenge me on that.”

“San,” you whine. He pulls back and sits back on his knees. Your brain goes totally blank watching him take his shirt off. It’s something you’ve seen time and time again, truly nothing new or foreign to you, but something about it now makes your gut twist in on itself. He’s lost a bit of the muscle you’ve grown accustomed to seeing on him, now softer around the edges, at the waist and across his stomach. It doesn’t curb your desire for him in the slightest; if anything it makes you want him more, to cling to him tighter and feel him firmer against you.

He throws the shirt down to the floor and drags a hand through his dark hair. His legs are splayed around yours, putting the prominent bulge in his pants on full display before you.

“I want you to use me, y/n.” He grabs your hand from where it’s resting against the bed and brings it to his chest. You dig your nail into his flesh like it’s second nature to do so. “Tonight, for your pleasure.” His eyes trail after your every moment, watching as you sit up and pull your legs out from under him. You graze the underside of his dick ever so slightly yet it’s still enough to make his lashes flutter. 

“Then…” San is like putty in your hands, conforming to every move you make while still maintaining that unbreaking eye contact. He turns with you, and you climb off the bed to stand despite feeling seconds away from toppling over. All it takes is the slightest push against his chest for him to lie flat on his back. “Will you be good for me?” 

His response comes in the form of a bitten-back whine thanks to you cupping the bulge of his cock as you withdraw your hand. It’s intoxicating to strip him of his jeans and feel every inch of his pretty tapered waist. You urge him to move further up on the bed, making room for you between his legs once you’ve tossed his pants down beside yours on the floor. The tip of his cock peeks out the top of his underwear, already stiff and leaking precum onto the elastic band. Saucy nudes here and there don’t do him nearly enough justice, you think. You tease just the bit of him that's exposed with your tongue, licking at the sensitive and swollen head, and he twitches beneath the fabric. Humming to yourself, you inch his underwear down just far enough to put his whole member on display, along with his balls, but you don’t go any further than that. It’s enough for you to get your mouth around him, after all, and that’s exactly what you do without giving San any time to brace himself for the touch.

He lets out a desperate moan the moment your wet heat envelopes his length, fingers curling into his palms around the comforter. His hips twitch with the desire to thrust upwards, but he keeps himself firmly planted on the bed, fulfilling his end of the bargain for you and being so delightfully good. The weight of him on your tongue isn’t nearly enough; you want him buried deep inside you as soon as possible, and you’d go on and do it now if you didn’t think it would hurt like a bitch given how long it’s been since you’ve taken him. San isn’t distracted enough to miss the way you retract a hand to touch yourself, and he fights to speak through broken moans.

“I w-wanna touch you, pretty.” You lift yourself off his cock until just the tip sits on your lower lip.

“I’ll let you later when I ask you to fold me in half and fuck me into the mattress.” You sink two fingers into your hole, taking San back into your mouth to revel in that full feeling again. You’re just as needy as he is, in reality, because your walls are already coated with arousal and it pools around the base of your fingers in such a way that it makes your cheeks flush. San’s noises aren’t helping in the slightest — for as quiet as he is in day-to-day life, he is ever so vocal when it comes to sex, especially when his cock is buried in your mouth. He’s just long enough to push right into the back of your throat, making it far easier for you to take him fully. 

“Your mouth feels so — fuck, fucking good, baby.” If you weren’t preoccupied, you would love to return his words with your own, so you settle for tugging at his balls a little. It earns you a delightful little yelp, and his hips buck up to drive his dick further into your throat than expected. “Hngh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I want—” you don’t finish your train of thought, too rushed to bother with it as you scramble to rid yourself of your underwear. San greets you with his hands when you climb back onto the bed and grabs hold of your waist. He tugs and pulls at your shirt until it’s gone too, leaving you with nothing more than your plain black bra. However, even that San seems to find issue with, because he toys with the clasp until it comes loose and throws that aside too.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, settling back against the mattress. He’s always told you this is his favorite position, to see you straddling his hips and bouncing on his cock, though he favors missionary quite a bit as well because it lets him see your body and face while he’s fucking you (despite how much he loves your ass). His cock is trapped between your pussy and his stomach now, hard and throbbing for the same kind of stimulation you so desperately crave. You drag your folds along his length a few times just to tease San, but he grips your hip in warning. In hindsight, you should have let him finger you open more before because the stretch is far more than you remember — not enough to hurt, but enough for you to really feel every inch of him entering your body. It makes you writhe atop him, your spine arches, and you drop your head back. San holds you like you're a precious gem, thick arms circling around your waist as you rest your hands on his chest. The position gives you some much-needed stability, but San's fingers have begun to get severely distracting. He rolls his thumbs into your skin, pausing only to squeeze and pinch at the more sensitive parts of your sides. 

“I’m gonna start moving,” you whisper like being too loud will break some sort of seal. San nods and unwraps his arms enough to simply hold your hips. Despite the decrease in definition of his muscles, his strength doesn’t seem to have gone anywhere, because he lifts you with such ease that it’s a bit dizzying. Still, he lets the control rest in your hands. You sink down slowly on his cock, letting your walls get used to the drag, before doing the same motion two, three more times. The first whimper to fall from your lips is what snaps your resolve. San’s hold on you remains firm but only to ease the strain on your thighs as you begin to pick up your pace. 

“Beautiful, beautiful, you’re so beautiful, my sweet.” San rolls his hips up in time with your movements, driving his cock up into your cunt as you drop yourself onto him, and it reaches so deep inside you that you see stars behind your eyelids. “Missed you so much, missed this, seeing your body through photos wasn’t enough — fuck, it wasn’t enough.”

“How many, ah, times did you come to those photos, hm?” You crack one eye open to watch San’s face. He’s already flushed with want, but the red in his cheeks deepens more upon hearing your question. You lean your weight further into your hands. “I fingered myself so many times thinking of you, Sannie. B-But, hngh, it wasn’t good enough. Not as good as your cock. Nothing… n-nothing feels as good!”

San thrusts up with more vigor now, all but taking over for you to go slack above him as he drives your hips down with his hands and pushes his length into you from the opposite direction. Then, suddenly, his movements falter and stutter to a halt, and he looks just as shocked as you are when his cock twitches against your walls. A blooming of warmth fills you right after, along with the realization that San has just come inside you without warning.

“I-I’m sorry, I — I didn’t mean to, ah, I thought I would last longer.” He slings an arm up over his eyes, and the red in his face deepens in hue. “I’m sorry, I should’ve let you come first.” You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Leaning down over him, you peel his arm away from his face so that you can see his shamed expression better.

“Your dick is far from the only thing that can make me come, babe. Right?” 

He nods a few times, but there’s still a pout on his lips. You kiss it away. 

“Then—” you detach yourself from his body, bringing about an unwelcome emptiness as his spent cock slips out of you, and roll onto your back beside him. He watches with rapt attention as you spread your legs and open your pussy to him. “Why don’t you?”

San moves with surprising haste for a man who has just come, rolling into the space between your legs, and while you expected him to just use his fingers to get you off, he hooks his hands around your thighs and shoves his face into your used cunt instead. It yanks a startled moan out of you, and it’s only amplified when he closes his lips around your clit. He’s lucky you don’t give him a concussion with how quickly you slam your thighs around his head. You don’t notice that he’s moved a hand until fingers are prodding at your leaking entrance and urging the come he just pumped into you back into your hole.

“O-Oh, San.” 

Normally, he takes his sweet time eating you out, bringing you to the precipice of orgasm before sending you right back down time and time again without release. Though, either out of lingering shame at coming early or simply out of a desire to make you unravel, San laps at your clit so eagerly that it sends shudders through you. You can feel your blood rushing lower as he urges you to come, walls clenching around his fingers. It only takes another second more for the first wave to hit you, and it makes you scramble to grab hold of San’s hair as he keeps curling his fingers over your sweet spot. He does so throughout each wave of your orgasm until tears burn the corners of your eyes and you’re all but pleading for him to grant you some mercy.

“You — you had nothing to prove, you know,” you say between desperate attempts to catch your breath. San giggles and looks up at you from his lewd position. “Ugh!” You shove his head away from you half-heartedly just to spare yourself more embarrassment.

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that, duck!”

You only go as far as the pillows, turning back to him immediately and opening your arms to welcome him into them. 

“I came too early, of course I had something to prove,” he adds once he’s snugly placed against your chest. You slot together like two pieces of a puzzle, his head under your chin and your breath stirring the messy strands of hair in your path. “I’ve fallen out of practice. When was the last time I did that? It’s embarrassing…”

You can’t contain your laughter.

“You always come a little early when I ride you.”

“That’s not fair!”

All you can do to soothe him is pat his head. You feel a tad sticky and gross all over, but San’s warmth more than makes up for it, and if you’re not careful, you’re certain you’ll fall asleep within minutes. A small sniffle coming from the man atop you chases thoughts of rest away in the blink of an eye though.

“San?”

“’m okay, promise.”

“You’re crying, baby, that’s not ”okay“.”

“I just,” he inhales and licks over his lips, skating across your sternum in the process. “I wasn’t sure I was gonna stay afloat without you.” You comb your fingers through his hair.

“Tell me when you need me and I’ll be there. Always.”

“I didn’t want to disrupt your schedule and get in the way.”

“You have to trust that I’ll take care of myself and my responsibilities even if I help you too. You always tell me that when I worry over the same things. It goes both ways, San, okay?”

“Okay.” He nods against you. “Okay, I’ll try to remember that. As long as you don’t lock yourself away when things get tough. Rely on me if you need strength. And talk to me when something is on your mind.”

“Alright, we have an agreement.” Out of nowhere, you remember Wooyoung’s suggestion from this morning. Picking at a stray piece of San’s hair, you mull over your thoughts some more. You could let things settle as they are now since things seem to be back to a pleasant state of balance. But even so, would it do any harm to try anyway? “I’d like to go on a first date again. With you. I want us to go on a first date again.”

“Hm?”

“Like… I want us to go out like it’s the first time all over again. And feel that excitement and giddiness we had back then. We don’t have to, it’s just a thought. I don’t know. Maybe it’d be a good thing after this semester.”

Silence overtakes the room. San’s breathing is so steady that you think he’s fallen asleep, but the second you try to shift and see his face, he tilts his head up and looks into your eyes.

“Alright. Let’s go on a first date again.”

…

“I figured we’d go to that little Thai place by the grocery before heading over to the Christmas light show?”

“Oh!” Your thoughts rearrange themselves around his words. “That sounds really nice, yeah.”

“The guys wanna meet up at Wooyoung’s after for chicken and beer, but I told them I’d leave the decision up to you.” He tilts his chin a bit to the side as he speaks, lips quirked up at the corners, and you find yourself so incredibly fond of him all over again.

“Let’s see how we feel after walking around.”

You offer to drive tonight, but he denies you quickly, whining about how he filled his tank full of gas just for tonight so you don’t push the matter any further than that (though, you still tease him a bit once he opens the passenger door for you). When he turns the car on, music starts blasting through the speakers, a song you recognize well, and the dash shows that he’s been listening to the playlist you made for him at the start of the last school year. 

“Sorry, forgot the volume was up so high.” He scrambles to twist the dial down, but you stop him with your hand, gripping his wrist lightly and giving a firm shake of your head.

“I didn’t realize you still listened to it. Normally you just have the radio going.”

“Ah, well,” San’s cheeks are a bit flush under the low lights of the car, “I suppose I’ve been feeling a bit sentimental these days.” His next move is a bit hesitant; he reaches across the console and lays his hand atop your thigh. You reassure him by putting your hand over his, fingers curling around his once again. It feels normal and familiar, though you can’t count on two hands the last time you’ve done something as menial as holding hands with San. 

“San?” He makes a noise of acknowledgment while watching the road. “I’ve missed you.” His nails dig into your flesh a little, and the pressure makes your heart clench in your chest.

“I’ve missed you more.” You can only see his side profile, but it’s enough for you to catch the upturn of his lips. 

“I’ve missed you most then.” The statement slips out through a pout. 

“And I love you more than the moon loves the ocean.”

The weight of his hand is comfort enough for you to be at ease for the rest of the drive.

────────────

please like & reblog this work and consider leaving a reply or sharing your thoughts in a reblog or ask!

this work belongs to caly / hongism (2023). do not copy, repost, or plagiarize in any way.

[seiwas]

prompt: fingertips trailing, not used to this feeling + “please stay. for me?”

summary: college parties can be loud, but it's quiet in this bubble you and shouto have made for yourselves at the end of this couch.

wc: 1.6k

contains: gn!reader, college!au, cameos from everyone else in the gang, mentions of alcohol (it's a college party after all!!), friends to ???, fluff, sfw

co-written by @stellamancer as part of our milestone event collab: keep this love unspoken (tell me as loud as you can) [closed]

At some point of every college party your friends drag you to, you always end up here: in some corner of the house, sitting on a couch as you watch Kirishima perform some ridiculous dare that Kaminari somehow put him up to. With Sero filming, of course. 

Sometimes their roles switch, and Ashido and Jiro get added into the mix—not you though, nope. 

During parties like this, you always stake claim to the far end of the couch, nursing one of Yaoyorozu’s concoctions in your hand. You’re happy just to watch them this way—your little friend group formed through spiderwebs of shared classes and friends of friends. 

“So, she tries to tell him how she feels, right? But…” Uraraka tattles, leaning closer to your ear as she hangs off the armrest beside you. 

The music settles into a muffled backdrop for her animated storytelling, always the ever-sweetheart who ensures you’re in the loop with everything. You nod along, the corners of your mouth curling. Your legs cross over one another to sink more comfortably into soft cushion, the slight buzz in your head settling you to relax.

In the middle of Uraraka’s retelling of events, you feel the space beside you dip, a presence almost imperceptible if not for the low ‘hello’ that accompanies it. 

There’s a practiced ease to the way its owner slips beside you, as if done plenty of times before (in lecture halls and restaurant booths, library sessions and entirely too-cramped car rides home). 

“Shouto,” your eyes widen, surprise melting into relief.

You’d kind-of been hoping he’d come. 

“You made it.” 

He nods, lips curling into a small smile. The gray lines on his navy blue flannel stand out softly atop the textured ridges of corduroy; his red cup holds suspiciously purple liquid—a good reason he’s left it untouched. 

“I was told I would be the designated driver.” 

Your lips curve over the edge of your cup, stifling your smile. Shouto has a bit of an awkward stiffness to how he speaks, a semi-formality to the way he arranges his sentences—but you find that endearing about him; much like you do his bluntness, and his unintentionally funny side comments, and the way he would so willingly forego drinking in lieu of his responsibility to drive your friend group home later on. 

It’s endearing, because he turns to you most times after dropping the gutsiest quips to some of Bakugo’s (fake) insults—as if he’s waiting for your reaction, hoping you’d give one. You’re pretty sure a one-sided bickering with the blond resulted in him showing up here. 

It’s endearing, because you’ve had this crush on Shouto since your first year of college; since he slid himself into the seat beside yours for one of your Chemistry classes, much like he did just moments ago. 

And you think, that maybe, with the way he always gravitates towards you, that there might just be something. 

The weight pressed beside you is distracting, his thigh warm against yours. There’s a triangular cut-out of space by your hips, hidden to everyone else but occupied by you, Shouto, and the almost-touching of your fingertips. You’re close enough to catch the faint notes of washed violet leaf and pea—he always smells like the faded remnants of his cologne blended into detergent and baby powder. 

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Ashido’s voice is loud, booming into the space between you and Shouto. “About time!” 

“Hello to you too.” His voice is cool and cordial, unaffected by Ashido’s rambunctious energy. 

She blinks at him and looks around as if she's searching for something for a minute before asking, “...where's Bakugo?” 

“Not here,” Shouto says. “He said that he didn't want to ‘be at some dumb party with a bunch of drunkass losers.’” 

You can’t help but giggle a little, while the words are undeniably Bakugo, hearing them in Shouto’s measured tone is kind of funny. If Bakugo were here, though, you feel like he'd complain, about what—you're not sure. 

Ashido clicks her tongue in annoyance. “He's missing out. I think even Blasty Boy would get a kick out of the spicy food challenge that Kirishima put Kaminari up to.” 

Spicy food challenge? With alcohol? It sounds like a recipe for disaster, one that you're hesitant to watch. 

You can feel the warmth of someone's gaze on you and when you look, you find Ashido eyeing you coyly, like she knows something you don't. Then her eyes slide over to Uraraka. 

“Ochako, you wanna come watch?” 

The question startles the other girl a little as she sits up, looking a bit hesitant and you have no doubt that she's just as eager as you are to see Kaminari make a mess of himself. 

“I don't know…” she murmurs.

“Come on, it'll be funny!” Ashido insists, but when that doesn't seem to convince her, Ashido’s gaze turns sharp, giving a meaningful look that communicates something with her eyes alone. 

“I guess I'll come. Someone has to keep Kirishima from going too crazy.”

Ashido grins widely and gives you and Shouto a little wink before skipping away.

When Uraraka excuses herself, you finally turn to Shouto, pointing your head at his drink, “Momo’s?”

He shakes his head, stray strands of red hair brushing against the tips of his eyelashes,  “Mineta.”

“Ah.” 

That explains why his drink looks untouched. Among your friends, there are only two self-proclaimed amateur bartenders: Yaoyorozu, who’s given herself a bartender name—Creati, and Mineta, who everyone calls Grape Juice, because no matter what he puts in his drinks (and only God really knows what goes in it), they always end up a sickly deep purple. 

Your response earns you a barely concealed chuckle from Shouto, his lips lifting into a soft smile. 

“Are you enjoying so far?” he leans in closer, head tilted so his words flow warmly into your ears. The proximity makes you nervous, makes you fidget the slightest bit until you feel your nailbeds touch his. 

You swallow your heartbeat. 

“I like the music,” you briefly meet his eyes, his gaze as intent as it always is. Your eyes avert to the nearest thing they focus on—one of your other friends tinkering with his turntable at the music booth, “Tokoyami’s sets are always good.” 

Shouto hums. 

“You?”

And you’re sure you said it loud enough for him to hear, but he still scoots closer, fingers slotting themselves in the gaps between yours. Shy touches have been the hallmarks of your friendship lately, an equally thrilling yet familiar connection shared when everything around you becomes too loud. 

It’s never been like this though—his pinky now interlacing itself with yours. 

Your breath hitches. 

“The music is loud,” he says, but it’s ironic; the noise around you has muffled, the music drowned out—you hear nothing except the feeling you’ve grown beneath your ribcage, rattling against your bones. 

He stares at you as the music beats on— one, two, three— one, two, three and as your heart tries to synchronize with the rhythm you realize that he's waiting on a response. 

“Yeah…” You nod too, just in case he’s having trouble hearing.  

The conversation ends that way; and while there's a part of you that wishes you'd said something more to keep things going, the content look on Shouto’s look makes you think that maybe this is fine. With your feelings entwined like this, it feels like the two of you are in your own little world, your own little bubble that just belongs to you and Shouto. 

It's nice. Comfortable. You could get used to this.

“Shouto!”

But then the bubble bursts. 

“You came!” A girl you recognize, but whose name you can't quite recall comes into view, all smiles and dressed to impress. 

“I did,” Shouto answers her and you're weirdly pleased to see his expression passive as usual. 

The girl giggles and the sound is grating on your ears. You don't know why. Too much alcohol maybe? She tilts her head, smile widening as she says, “I'm so glad to see you! Do you want to get a drink?” 

No. You don't say it aloud but before Shouto can even answer her the word is resounding in your head, accompanied by a twisting feeling in your stomach. It's not your call, Shouto is free to do what he wants, but… 

(Shouto glances over at you, feeling your pinky tighten ever so slightly around his, searching for some sort of cue.) 

“Come on,” the girl urges in the absence of a response from Shouto. “We can get a drink for your friend here too!”

“... sure,” Shouto finally says after a moment. He starts to rise from his seat next to you but your pinky tightens. You don't want him to go. He looks at you inquisitively. “What do you want to drink?”

You don't want to drink. The drink you were nursing earlier was enough, more than enough, with the alcohol coursing through you, warm, and at this moment, like liquid courage. 

“...please stay,” you blurt out. 

Shouto looks down at you and you think he looks a little bit shocked. A little concerned. Your only words of explanation manage to be—

“For me? Please?” 

He bends back down, tufts of red and white hair brushing against his forehead as he looks you in the eye. All you smell is the faded notes of his cologne mixed in with detergent and baby powder. “Was your drink too strong?”

Maybe. You wouldn't have said that sober.

Embarrassment flushes you warm, the heat spreading throughout your entirety. 

The girl looks concerned too. “I can go get you water if you want?”

Shouto glances at her, “If you wouldn't mind. I'll stay here just in case.” 

She nods and walks off, presumably to find you some water, leaving you and Shouto on your own once more. A moment passes and you say, sheepish as your words from earlier sink in. “...sorry… I hope you don't mind…”

Shouto stares at you for a moment, considering but he gives you a small smile. His pinky tightening around yours once more. “It's fine. I don't mind.” 

notes: requested by @kissxcore

(sel speaking)

alexis! thank you so much for requesting (and for waiting)! i'm not too sure if this is what you were hoping for, but nonetheless, i hope you like it 🥺 it's a little fluffier than what the prompt looks like on surface level, but i kind of wanted to capture that feeling of loud noise being muffled when you're with someone you like 🥺

where would this fic be without niku's dialogue!! truly!! always adore how she's able to slip in and out of different characters and nail each of their tones and characterisations every time!! she added so much life to this by including dialogue from the others in the gang 🥺

[toxycodone]

WHAT ARE YOUR DAISUKE HCS ??? GENERAL AND DATING ??? 🥺🥺🙏🙏

ship. daisuke jaurez (mouthwashing) x reader

content. general + sfw + fluff

an. ummm like and reblog and leave comments or I’ll shave Daisuke bald. also no weird babying Daisuke 💪🏽

General

This is pretty much confirmed he’s Asian + Latino but he’s definitely Japanese/Mexican to me. He’s so SoCal coded it’s absolutely ridiculous. I’m thinking like…he lived close to the border or is from San Francisco or LA and has a lot of family in SoCal.

As far as MBTI goes I’m saying he’s an ESFP/ENFP and as far as Zodiac goes I’m saying Gemini or Cancer.

In his formative years he had a “dank memes” phase. Like, middle/high school Daisuke was a total dork. He was a kid lucky enough to be diagnosed w adhd when he was younger so he was on meds and did EXCEPTIONAL in school. Lived off the praise of teachers. He was especially good at science and math. (Which is why his parents encouraged him to get a mechanic internship).

^adding to this he has adhd + depression (the depression is more of a byproduct of the ADHD tho) and he takes meds!! he probably takes stimmies so he’s personally really concerned about his heart health.

HE HAD AN UGLY DUCKLY PHASE. Glasses + braces king. And he was awkward asf. But he slowly grew into himself and his style. He still has insecurities though and doesn’t think he’s that attractive bc of it.

I don’t think he made it past community college or gen Ed courses though. (He has HELLA test anxiety and despite being smart he sucks hard at ACT/SAT). In college he felt really isolated and it was hard for him to get out there so. He kinda shut down.

To me he’s around 23-25 years old. Old enough to where the pressure to “do something with his life” and figure shit out is hitting hard. But also like, still at an age where you’re first figuring shit out. He’s really insecure about this. Not because he’s stupid or anything he just has NO idea what to do w his life and can’t figure it out.

He had/has a part-time gig at a local art store he absolutely adores. He’s an artist and participated in a lot of local competitions/collabs/etc. he’s made a lot of connections here and wants to be a full time artist BUT this is where his parents draw the line. He’s fought w his parents a few times about this but it ultimately boiled down to “we’re just concerned it won’t pay/etc.”

He begrudgingly accepts this bc he knows it’s bc his parents care so much about him and want him to be successful bc they think he’s a smart guy.

Loves, loves, loves traditions and holidays. He dresses up and decorates for them all. Gets way too excited about seasonal drinks and food specials too LOL.

This is kinda random but. Vaquero Daisuke. Idk what to do with this HC but I think he loves Western style and tried to do horse riding as a kid but his mom enrolled him in DRESSAGE as a kid and he was like THIS IS SO CRINGE.

still enjoys the rodeo though. If he could get back on a horse again he’d do barrel racing.

Grew up having to take his shoes off before going in the House so on the Tulpar he always leaves his shoes neatly by his door to feel some sort of normalcy 💔 (at home he usually kicks them off into a corner and it always annoys his mom)

He has a good relationship with his parents. They really, really try to understand their son and are really patient with him but they don’t want him to end up complacent (he probably has a cousin or two who are too spoiled and his parents HATE that.)

Specially close to his mom though. She spoils him bc that is her BABY and he’s such a sweetheart despite it all it’s hard for her not to (his dad is kinda similar too but is like. Trying to hold back.)

Thrifting god. (Canon from the devs btw.) It doesn’t matter that he has the money for new clothes, he has a passion for scoring unique finds. He’s also a frequent enjoyer of vintage markets and pop up shops. I also personally think he loves farmers markets.

Probably a furry (doesn’t suit up though) and definitely enjoys raves (ask him about his Kandi collection)

Also buys concert tickets for local venues in bulk (like he catches them on sale and like. For a month he’s going to a new venue every weekend for a show). He’s so proud of being into niche musicians.

an avid member of fashiontok. I really think he loves this and reads theories and shit. He has a pretty good following on his fashion/life account. But he really cares the most about his meme account (brainrot enjoyer)

He gets tattoos/piercings instead of therapy (has a belly button ring he adores btw and very much cares about his ear setup. He is still planning it meticulously)

There is 100% a cringy tattoo somewhere dumb he got either drunk or on a bet. Ima headcanoning he has a tattoo of a bee on his knee (genuinely thinks this is a fire tat btw)

Y2K BADDIE. His style inspo is so “male lead and or comic relief in a 2000s romcom”. He’s so nostalgic for the 90s too (he gives me gen Z who clings so hard to being a 90s kid but was like. Born in 1999/1998 LOL)

Brown eyeliner enjoyer. He looks gorgeous.

Has a pinup poster of some girl in his room but it’s mainly just for the aesthetic (again. trying to be like dudes from the 90s/00s movies/TV shows).

Romantic

Okay. This may be against the grain idk but I don’t think he falls first. He just really really wants to be your friend and then it hits him that he has a crush and is like. Oh.

I think he’s a total dork. He’s not 100% inexperienced or whatever and he’s an attractive guy!! But like. His rizz is 0. He’s not the type to like smirk and be sexy he’s just a dork and tells jokes and is a total sweetheart.

Crushing Daisuke is like. Insane. He actually is kinda okay at hiding it but he SO easily gets embarrassed while trying to showcase how cool and confident he is. Like. He won’t try insanely hard before he’s breaking down in laughter BUT. YEAH.

He finds himself trying to learn guitar to impress you or get a new piercing or tattoo bc maybe you’ll think it’s cool then he’s like “oh I’m cooked.” (Verbatim)

Calls you dude/bro/etc regardless of your gender or relationship status. You will be married and he’s like “hey dude”. 💀

He also likes calling you bae/babe (EWWWW *twirls my hair*) and POOKIE LMFAOOOO. calls you baefy too esp if it annoys you.

It’s his earnest attitude that is the hottest thing about him though. His attraction to you is so genuine. When he says he loves you, he means it. ITS SO…YEAH. There’s no doubt about it and the LOOK IN HIS EYES…MY GOOOOOD HES IN LOOOOVE. You are the best thing to him.

It’s really important to him you have a close relationship with his parents. Like, don’t worry it’s not difficult. They may be a little ehhhh at first (I don’t think Daisuke’s judgement is 100% great w romantic partners) but once they see you two interacting it CLICKS. You become a part of the family. You’re always invited to bday parties and dinners and cookouts and everything (his mom is so cool and you guys mix drinks together and his dad has a green egg or blacktop he’s so proud of and teaches you how to use it)

Sends you tiktoks as a means of affection. Like. Your notifs are clogged and it’s because he just has so much to show you (THERES SO MANY ROMANCE ONES MAN then it’ll be like the most brainrot shit you’ve ever seen)

PHYSICAL AFFECTION IS HIS LOVE LANGUAGE OH MY GOD.

Literallt he’s to kiss you every time he sees you or he’s gonna go crazy. He’ll pepper your face in kisses. He can’t resist you’re just SOOOO cute he loves you.

He holds you like a teddy bear when you guys cuddle. If you have your head on his chest you can hear his heart just SLAMMING against his chest and he tries so hard to play it cool but he’s just too full of love.

But he also loves resting on your chest or thighs. Bro falls asleep on you a LOT.

He plays with your hands and fingers. I like to think he does this when you speak to him and then he starts wondering what your index finger would look like with a pretty engagement ring and fantasizes about proposing and a wedding and then you say something and he snaps back into reality.

Passes the orange test or whatever the fuck that is his parents always cut fruit for him so he does the same to you. Will just cut up and apple and be like “hey do you want some?”

I think what he appreciates the most in return from you is verbal praise/reaffirmation. He trusts you so much to be honest with him and values your opinions a lot SO. When you tell him you like him and that he’s handsome and stuff he can let out a sigh of relief bc he actually believes you. You help build up his self confidence. ❤️

@mochiiniko (tagging bc I answered ur ask!)

[porcelainseashore]

To Neighbors and New Beginnings

Pairing: Retired! Older! Leon Kennedy x Neighbor! Fem! Reader

Summary: Leon’s getting on in years and finally retired. But that doesn’t mean he’s slowing down in terms of enjoying life. When you moved in next door, little did you realize what you had bargained for.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Post-Resident Evil: Death Island, age gap (Leon in his 60s, Reader in her 30s), strangers to lovers, swearing, bad humor, teasing, flirting, awkward tension, slow burn, romance, fluff, suggestive themes, mild smut.

Authors' Note: Inspired by this older Leon Kennedy pic, we started with a drabble that of course turned into a full length one-shot about our favorite agent, who’s aged like fine wine. This is a writing collab between AliBelleRosetta / @alibellerosetta and me, which we did for fun!

AO3 Link

There comes a time when an agent needs to retire, and Leon was no exception. When he started pushing mid-60s, there wasn’t much else he could do, save for having his brains picked for knowledge on B.O.W. behavior and countertactics. Even that was slowly dwindling as new virus strains and procedures developed. It reached a point where an agreement was made for him to be called in on a consulting basis, but for the most part of his retirement life, he was free to do as he pleased, within limits.

After all the horrors he had witnessed, he was more than happy to opt for the simple life. He finally had enough time on his hands to care for a pet. So, he pounced at the opportunity and got himself a retired police dog, settling down together with him in a quiet, suburban neighborhood, in the middle of nowhere, doing fuck all. At least for the moment. Until you came along. You sweet, young thing, you.

You were half his age, but all is fair in love and war when both of you were consenting adults. You’d recently moved in next door to him, after the previous owners had decided to sell off their house in favor of acquiring a smaller, more manageable place. What was a young lady like yourself doing here? he often wondered. You were an enigma, just like he was to you.

It began with him going about his daily routine of yawning and stretching his weary limbs, as he trudged out sluggishly, in nothing more than a pair of shorts and flip-flops, to get the morning paper from his mailbox, dog trailing behind. Slamming the lid shut after he had fished the paper out of the box and flicked it open, he spotted you from the corner of his eye, just as his dog lifted his leg to mark his territory on the stand.

You were standing by your kitchen window, biting the bottom of your lip, oblivious to the tap left running, as you peered at him intently. It seemed as if you were even unaware that he had caught you staring, since you made no attempt to cover it up. He smirked to himself before nonchalantly heading back to his house. It gave him a boost of confidence knowing that he still remained spry as ever. So what if his hair, once golden blonde and a source of pride, was now a sea of white? So what if he sported a couple of wrinkles and liver spots? He sure as hell hadn’t lost his touch yet.

A couple of days later, when the weather was good, he pulled up a deckchair on the front lawn, in direct line of sight of your bedroom window. The sound of your hair dryer turning on tipped him off that you were in. He proceeded to sunbathe on the chair topless, his newspaper in hand, without a care in the world. His dog made his rounds along the lawn, frolicking in the grass, as various passers-by greeted Leon cordially.

“Mr. Kennedy.”

He nodded at them politely.

A moment later, he heard the shutters of a window opening. He didn’t even have to turn in your direction to know that you were leaning out, pretending to take in the glow of the noon sun as you traced the outline of his muscles with your eyes. He flipped a page and chuckled. Oh, what was he going to do with you?

Well, the grass was getting taller and more unruly. That wouldn’t do. It was time for him to whip out the big guns. He picked a Sunday afternoon, when people were usually lazy and lounged around at home. Gripping the mower’s handle with one hand, he pulled the starter cord a couple of times, until the engine revved to life. 

Its loud, whirring sound caused you to poke your head out of your window. He caught your gaze then, giving you a cocky wink. A scarlet blush spread across your cheeks as you waved back at him, trying to appear friendly. Shaking his head with a grin, he got to work, methodically pushing the mower across the lush, green expanse of his front lawn. The crisp scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, as the sun’s rays beat down mercilessly. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead and pooled at his neck. It was time for a short break.

Peeling his drenched, white t-shirt over his head, he used it to wipe the sweat away, dabbing at his chest and underarms, before slinging it over his shoulder. Your eyes were fixed on the scene before you, as you rested your chin in the cradle of your hands, staring dreamily at him again from the window. He flexed his upper body slightly, just enough to give you a teaser of what was to come. That snapped you out of your reverie, as you cleared your throat and busied yourself with something in the kitchen. He couldn’t see what it was from where he was standing.

Soon, he saw you walking over with an icy cold drink in your hand. You stuck it out in front of him like a peace offering.

“Lemonade?” You seemed uncertain and shy.

“Sure.” He nodded and smiled, accepting it graciously. 

A tingle ran through your veins where his fingers brushed against yours when he took the glass from you. His piercing blue eyes held your gaze as he gulped down the refreshment, though the last bits of it spilled from his mouth down to his chest.

“Oops.” He shrugged unapologetically. “Can’t let it go to waste, can I?”

Dragging his finger along the wet parts of his chest, he gathered what remained of the liquid and placed it into his mouth, licking and sucking on it like it was the most delicious thing in the world.

“Mmm,” he murmured softly. “Tastes good.”

The crow’s feet etching the corners of his eyes crinkled warmly, as he watched you sputter and cough in response.

“Excuse me.” A crimson wave had washed over your face, as you pat your chest furiously. “Choked on my saliva.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

He eyed you again intensely, motioning to your other hand. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh, uh, sunblock?” You pointed at the reddened skin on his back. “I thought you might-”

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he interrupted, presenting his back towards you, as he waited patiently for you to make a move.

Sweetheart? You swallowed thickly, trying to figure out if you had misheard what he said. Shakily, you squeezed out a creamy, white blob of sunscreen into your palms, rubbing them together before slathering it over his back gingerly.

You gasped in surprise, as you felt the toned muscles of his back beneath your hands. This was way better in-person. He must work out a lot, you thought. A lot more than someone of his age.

However, it didn’t take long for you to notice the multitude of scars scattered across his back. As you caressed the raised bumps and faded indents, you wondered what kind of life he had led back in the day. Was he a military man? A war veteran? Or maybe he just got into a lot of fights?

Apparently, you must have a magic touch, because Leon started to treat it as if you were giving him a full-body massage.

“Yeah,” he grunted, as you ran your hands over his taut shoulders. “Right there…”

Your task was to simply ensure he didn't get any more sunburned than he already was, but the poor man was so tight all over, you felt sorry for him. So, you got a little carried away and pressed hard against a particularly stubborn knot in his lower back.

He tilted his head back involuntarily and let out a loud, pornographic moan.

“Mr. Kennedy?” you squeaked, concerned if you went too far.

“Please, just call me Leon.” He flashed a boyish smile that revealed a glimpse into how he might have appeared in his younger days. “Don’t worry, you’re doing great, sweetheart.”

You hummed in response, his praise getting the better of you and causing a pool of arousal to form between your legs. All at once, you’d forgotten where to place your hands, what to say, and what exactly were you doing, flirting with your older neighbor so shamelessly out in the open?

A cold shower was definitely on the agenda after this. If DILFs existed, what would you call even older men who were this fuckable again? GILFs? You shuddered, feeling dirty for all the obscene thoughts swimming through your mind.

“Um, well, I guess that’s done!” you chirped out rather overenthusiastically, as you pulled away from him.

There was a slight pout on his face, though he was quick to mask it with a courteous smile. “Shame,” he commented lightheartedly. “Was enjoying it.”

A little too much, you snickered internally, as you made your way back to your house

━━━━━━━━━━━

As he stood staring out of his living room window, he pondered his next move. Despite your previous hasty retreat, you had taken to discreetly watching him work with not just a small amount of eagerness, and he was more than happy to oblige your ogling. After all, who wouldn't want a beautiful woman staring after them?

You were a curious one in his eyes, a blend of boldness as you approached him and shyness the moment you got your anticipated reward. It was a fun game he was more than happy to play with you.

Today wasn't going to be any different.

Once again, the sun hung high with not a cloud in sight, perfect to work outside on some much needed errands, but with your notable attention on him lately, the to-do list had taken quite a hit. His ideas were wearing thin, but one thought stuck out, especially with how keen you seemed to be watching him work the lawnmower. Maybe something on a larger scale would be within your interests.

With a smirk and a listen out for the quiet clangs coming from your kitchen to let him know you were home, he dropped the empty coffee cup down in his sink and headed over to snatch up his long neglected key to get on with the job at hand. The sturdy garage door opened with a series of loud clanks, the inside admittedly dusty with neglect. There in the middle stood his pride and joy. The motorcycle was an older model, but also the only one to withstand his youthful recklessness.

It’s long overdue for a tune up, he thought, grasping the handlebars as he pushed the bike out of the garage. He let it come to a rest slightly out on the driveway as he decided to give it a check over and wash it down, sneakily just in the eyeline of your window but not enough for you to see much. The bike itself admittedly didn’t get ridden as much as it should, but if he guessed right, maybe it would someday soon.

You had heard the noise of his garage door open only for curiosity to get the better of you, cracking open the window to try to get a peek of what your neighbor was up to now. It was like something had come over you, and every time he made an appearance, you couldn’t help but watch after him. You saw he was there outside briefly before heading back into his house and returning moments later with a bucket full of soapy water.

When he glanced at your kitchen upon his return, he chuckled to himself as he dropped the bucket down, sloshing some of the water across his drive. Apparently his idea had already started to work a treat, having grabbed your attention. He inserted the key into the ignition and turned it, as the motorcycle roared to life, the battery still able to kick in despite its disuse. The sound of the engine was distinct, much different from the mower previously, and he knew it was sure to pique your interest even further with what a curious thing you were. The shuffling from your kitchen as the window cracked open a little more was enough to tell him that he once again had your attention. Without a care in the world other than checking his bike and giving you a show, he dropped down on one knee, ignoring the tightening feeling in his joints. His knees weren't what they used to be after too many B.O.W. fights.

From your hung back viewpoint, you couldn’t see much, but the noise from outside drew your focus fiercely and you couldn't help but try to get a better look. No matter how much you stood on your tiptoes and reached close to the window, he was just about covered from your spot where you could only make out his unfortunately clothed back, hiding his mysterious antics for once. The way he was acting was odd, as usually he was more open with his activities. You tried to tell yourself that you should walk away and leave him to it, but it was like a desperate urge that needed to be quenched.

While his dog ran off into the yard to chase a wandering squirrel, he moved on to checking the bike over, not one to half-ass his task even if there were other motives. A quick examination of the moving parts and pivot points for signs of wear and tear came back fine, as well as inspecting for any leakage that disuse could have caused. The job was a lot messier than he remembered, with the oil gathering around the edges of the chassis coating his hands and part of his top.

The sudden barking of his dog nearby alerted him to a presence on the property, a smirk creeping up knowingly that your interest had once again gotten the better of you. You just stood there next to him staring him down, checking out his arm muscles that were left uncovered by the loose gray tank he wore, the words of your friends running through your mind as they egged you on to get closer to him. He had been working hard, and you noticed with a flush that some of the oil had smudged up his forearms and along his taught biceps.

He was tempted to chuckle at just how predictable you were becoming, knowing before he turned to look your way that you would be gazing over him with that distinct look in your eyes. It was no surprise to him at all that he was correct, finding you standing there with your shadow cast over him, and your arms wrapped around yourself, transfixed. He was seriously wondering if you didn’t know you were staring at him that way, or if you just didn’t care to hide it.

You sucked in a sharp breath as you found your eyes suddenly catching his, quickly darting away from his bright blue ones and to the motorcycle he was working on. “Oh wow, didn't know you had a bike.”

“This old girl? Been with me for years,” he said as his large hand patted the hard seat in front of him. He then used the seat as a brace to stand up, stretching out the stiff muscles that had begun to seize up from his crouched position while also putting his body on full display for your eyes. 

You couldn’t help yourself as you watched him riveted, taking in the way he flexed and moved as you felt a blush flash across your cheeks again. You had to cough to clear your throat as you tore your eyes away from him. “Haven't seen you ride it.”

“Not much of a chance to lately.”

You bit your cheek at the thought of him on it, and of you wrapped around his firm back while he rode it. No matter what, your mind kept going back to him, reliving the sensation of his skin under your hands when you had put lotion on his body, desperate to touch-

“I need to wash.”

“What?” you yelped, startled out of your wandering thoughts which snapped to his oil-covered arms and hands, eyeing them up and instantly imagining them instead coated in lather and foam as water streaked down them. You wouldn't have minded being the one to wash that oil off of his skin if it meant running your hands all over him again, a thought you were coming to accept was fueled by nothing but pure lust.

“The bike. It's filthy,” he clarified with an amused chuckle, leaving you feeling hot, embarrassed and completely disappointed. Of course he meant the bike, you scolded yourself, suddenly flushing more with humiliation than arousal.

Unexpectedly, he moved to bend down right in front of you, the tank he was wearing gaping open enough with the movement for you to look down the front of it and at his solid chest partially hidden underneath. “Oh,” you sighed out as you bit your tongue hard in an effort not to say more, his head becoming dangerously close to your crotch, and if he just shifted over a little more… 

His rough hand reached into the bucket next to you to grab the sponge floating on top, his eyes moving to catch yours as he shot you a downright dangerous smirk. As he stood back up straight, he rang the sponge out to remove the excess water, the soapy suds flying everywhere around the pair of you. You noticed that the foam coated his tank and turned it translucent in the sun as it clung tightly to his body and left trails of droplets over his uncovered skin. All you could do was swallow hard and drag your eyes off of him, a task that was more monumental than you thought it would be.

With a casualness about him, he set the sponge down on the seat of the bike suddenly, asking you, “Wanna go for a ride sometime?” 

You were caught by surprise, mind instantly faltering at the evocative question. There was no way he meant anything other than a ride on his motorcycle, right? you thought. After all, he was just a friendly older man, not some hormone riddled teen chatting up the first woman he laid eyes on. It was you that had the dirty mind. “I, um, maybe? I don't have much experience with them,” you said, answering his question as best you could ramble out.

His eyebrow quirked at your answer, his voice deepening slightly as he replied, “Hmm, never thought that would be the case. I don't mind teaching you a few things, sweetheart.”

You just laughed off his words, thinking the suggestiveness was still all on you. “I've never even been on a bike.”

“Who said I was talking about my bike?”

Your breath instantly hitched at the implication, your eyes darting between his mirth filled ones only to drift lower and catch onto his lips. They looked soft, warm, highlighted on each side by deepened laughter lines that you never would’ve thought could look so good on a man. But as they say, when men get older they age like fine wine. If that was the case, he would be a Cabernet Sauvignon aged to perfection. And you were parched.

It didn’t surprise you at all that when you found yourself shifting closer to him, you chose to embrace it, craving to feel the lips of the man you had spent too much time lately thinking about, only to become emboldened as he seemed to move in too. Your lips were mere inches apart, the heat of desire desperately running through you at the anticipated touch. 

All that came crashing down the moment his dog streaked past you chasing that damn squirrel, sending the bucket of water flying and splashing water across you both, cooling down your racing pulse and burning libido. Alarmed, you quickly backed away from him, down his drive, as the implications of what you almost did crashed down upon you. All you could do was mutter some kind of excuse and beat a hasty retreat, wondering how you would ever be able to look your neighbor in the eye the next time you saw him.

━━━━━━━━━━━

As Leon watched the scene unfold in front of him, there wasn’t much else he could do. You were a slippery one, like a mouse that had been spooked and scurried off. The one that got away. He placed his hands on his hips, arms akimbo as he clucked his tongue and sighed. Rein it in, Kennedy. What were you thinking?

He really should find better things to do than to chase a pretty little thing like you. You probably had a bunch of younger men waiting in line, he noted self-deprecatingly.

Suddenly, he heard a buzzing sound and a light flickered on the ground at his feet. Your phone. It must have slipped out of your pocket in your rush to get away. Picking it up, his eyes darted towards the message notification on the screen that piqued his curiosity. It seemed to come from a group chat entitled ‘All The Single Ladies’.

‘Raaarrr, is that the literal definition of a silver fox or what?’

Silver fox? Did they mean what he was thinking? He began to second-guess himself.

The next notification popped up only seconds after, filled with thirsty-looking emojis followed by another text.

‘Damn gurl, your neighbor is hot af! You better tap that or I will!’

More strings of notifications chimed in, as the phone vibrated constantly.

‘GILF alert!’

‘I wanna blow him so hard he’ll…’

At that, he put the phone down and stopped reading, already having figured out your spiel and not wanting to intrude any further into your privacy. A wry smile formed across his face. Not only had you been speaking with your friends about him, you’d even sent them a sneaky picture you’d snapped of him to gawk at.

A sense of pride swelled in his chest as he was back in the game again. Guess he’d better clean up and use the perfect excuse of returning your phone back to you to have a chat.

Meanwhile at your place, you’d managed to calm your nerves with a cold shower and a pot of floral tea. That was so stupid! you screamed at yourself internally, not daring to look in the direction of the window any longer.

Before you had a chance to ponder upon your recent actions any longer, your stomach growled audibly. Glancing up at the clock, you were astonished to find that the hours had just sped by unnoticed. It was already time to start cooking dinner. You had a whole chicken and potatoes to roast, as well as the vegetables, herb butter and sauce to prepare. 

Your friends were supposed to have joined you today for the meal, but unfortunately unforeseen circumstances had kept them preoccupied, and your dinner gathering had been delayed to another weekend. Still, you were determined not to let that get in the way of your enjoyment, so you decided to go ahead with the same meal plan anyway.

If only today’s events had gone differently with a certain neighbor of yours. You sighed dejectedly and pressed a palm against your face. Though that sparked off a reminder that you hadn’t checked your phone for any messages for a while. Where was it?

You scrambled around, digging through your pockets and your purse to find the device, but came back empty-handed. A blinding panic began to set in. Oh god no. You didn’t leave it at Leon’s by accident, did you?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Just then, the doorbell rang, startling you and causing you to jump to your feet. You sprinted towards the door, swinging it open, only to come face-to-face with the man who had been causing you all this trouble so far.

“H-hello…?” you stammered out a greeting, slowly wedging yourself behind the door, using it like a makeshift barrier between you and Leon.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He dangled your phone in front of him, grinning playfully. “Forgot something?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks!” You reached out, grabbing it quickly as you rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly.

A horrifying thought swept through your mind. Did he know? You searched his facial expression closely for any indication that he might have seen something on your phone that he shouldn’t have, but there was nothing. He looked as cool and collected as ever.

Maybe you were overthinking things. “I was just about to make dinner actually,” you mentioned in passing. 

He looked at you expectantly and whatever willpower you had left in that instant vanished into thin air. You caved in.

“Would you like to join me?” The words spilled out of your mouth before you could process them.

"Thought you'd never ask," he replied huskily as he stepped into the corridor you led him through.

“So what’re we cooking tonight, chef?” He peered around the kitchen, checking out the equipment and utensils, trying to get acquainted with the place.

You guffawed. “Erm, you’re a guest.”

“So?” He folded his arms. “I’m not the type who lets a lady do all the work.”

Aware that he wasn’t going to budge on the matter, you raised your hands in mock exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re not the first to say it.” He shrugged, sliding past you towards where the aprons were hanging. You gasped when you felt his calloused hands momentarily on your waist. Was he doing this on purpose?

Pulling yourself together, you started to brief him on the Sunday Roast Chicken recipe, passed down through generations in your family from a battered, old notebook. He responded to each instruction with a “Yes, ma’am,” and followed them to a T. You had to give him brownie points for his eagerness to please.

“No, Leon,” you scolded gently. “That doesn’t go there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Could you stop calling me ma’am?” You laughed. “Makes me feel old.”

“You’re one to talk.” He winked at you while placing the baking tray on the correct level. “Are you this bossy in the bedroom?”

You nearly spat out the water you’d been sipping on. “Uh, I-I don’t know?” Clearly, you wanted to bury yourself in a hole right there and then.

“Guess the proof is in the pudding,” he mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear every single word.

“Wine?” Your shrill voice cut through the air like a knife, as you tried to change the subject, shoving the bottle directly into his chest.

“Oof.” It stunned him that he felt winded by the accidental blow. He gripped the bottle as you eyed him apologetically. “Easy there, girl.”

“Sorry, my bad.” 

You brought over two empty glasses while he helped to pour out the wine, your fingers grazing against his wrist as he handed you a filled up one back. A part of you wanted to prolong the caress, but you held back, unsure of where you stood with him. You could feel the weight of his burning gaze locked onto yours as he toasted to “neighbors and new beginnings” before drinking from his glass.

You almost missed your cue, taking an extra beat to raise your own glass to your lips as you dragged your eyes from his. The wine on your tongue tasted like the sweetest you had ever sipped. Maybe it’s the company? you questioned as you watched him drop his glass down on the counter behind him. You clutched your own tightly, feeling the atmosphere constricting as he refused to look away.

The only thing you could hear was the tick of the kitchen timer and the beat of your pulse in your ears as the silence stretched between you both. Besides the smoldering of his eyes under his snowy bangs, he gave you nothing, so with desperation, you racked your brain for something, anything, to keep the tense undercurrent at bay.

With a moment of clarity, it hit you as you dropped your own glass down and glanced over towards the far side of your kitchen. The single table sat there, usually a crowded affair when your friends were over but plenty big for just two. If nothing else, setting the table would keep you busy and your mind from wandering.

With a plan of action in place to set the table, you went to shift from your spot only to be met with another obstacle. Of all the places he had to be standing in your kitchen, it was just typical he was in front of the cutlery drawer. Still, even if you had to get close to him, it was meant to be a friendly dinner after all. The almost kiss was probably just in your mind and you had been overanalyzing too much. All he had done that night since was bring over your phone like a good Samaritan and help you cook dinner like a friend.

You walked over to him, noticing that despite your approach he didn't move at all, seeming very content to have you come into his close proximity. You caught his eyes as they drifted downwards, and all of a sudden you realized the mistake you were making. Being this near to him was setting off the blush you tried keeping down, and you were sure he was going to notice.

“May I?” you asked as you stopped in front of him, a hand pointing at the drawer behind him. 

“Whatever you need,” he murmured, while not even moving a step away.

You blinked up at him, trying hard not to imagine what else he could possibly mean with those words. “The drawer. I keep the cutlery in there.”

Despite your explanation, he still didn’t shift, instead just staying where he was and watching you curiously. He had to wonder what you were up to, getting so close to him with that cute flush on your face, stammering out any old excuse. You didn’t need one at all, in his opinion.

“Oh.”

That one syllable sent a shiver down your spine. It was a mistake, a really, really bad one you decided right then and there. Just being so near to him, feeling the heat of his breath was making the ache to touch him that much more potent. You wanted to feel those lips.

You backed off from him in a hurry, fighting the flush that you felt flooding your skin as you bumped into the oven, clanging the pan you had on top that had been left out to help you prepare the dinner. You found your excuse to keep him at bay, still needing to finish preparing a few final bits of the meal.

“Help set the table?” you quickly asked him with your voice a tad too high. “Plates are up there.”

You hoped it worked, sending him a good distance away from you in the kitchen to arrange the table while you got your overheated body under control.

“There’s that bossy thing again,” you heard him mutter as he opened the cabinet you had pointed to and reached up to grab a couple of plates, though his words sounded strangely disappointed to your surprise.

You tried not to look over, but in the end it was in vain. You were blessed by the sight of his shirt ridden up, once again showing off his ridiculous physique and making you feel like melting all over again.

Tonight’s dinner was going to be a long one.

━━━━━━━━━━━

In spite of the earlier faux pas, you were thankful that having dinner with Leon passed by without any further embarrassments. He proved to be quite a decent conversationalist when he wanted to be, and you found yourself relaxing into the laughter and various points of discussion you both shared. You were enjoying yourself so much that you hadn’t realized how fast time had flown, and it was suddenly nearing midnight. Suffice to say, you were feeling rather disappointed that he would need to leave so soon.

“Good food, good wine, good company…” He stood up, helping you to clear the dishes from the table. “What more could a man like myself ask for?”

You beamed at him, letting your guard down for once. He was being such a gentleman that you couldn’t help but open your mouth and blabber out the next statement before thinking. “Could I get you anything else? Dessert, or-”

You caught yourself, pausing abruptly as your stomach sank. Why did everything you say sound like an innuendo?

He placed the dishes down where they were and made his way slowly and assuredly towards you. For some reason, you were frozen on the spot, unable to scamper off and hide within your own home without looking like an absolute fool in front of the man you had been secretly crushing on this whole time.

“You know, I can see the gears turning.” It was as if his voice dropped an octave lower. “Right here.” He tapped his fingers lightly against the side of your head, giving you a slanted smile.

“Now that you say it,” he continued languidly. “Dessert would be nice.”

He curled his hand, so that his knuckles brushed along your cheek towards your jawline, as you shivered from his touch.

“Whatever you need,” you echoed his previous sentiments softly, as you lost yourself in his deep blue eyes, now ablaze with a fierce hunger. All you could do was stare into them, watching as they drew ever closer. Then you caught it, the moment they left yours to drop down lower. Your lips parted as you inhaled sharply, your heart pounding as you felt the ghost of his breath.

You thought that he would pull away at any second, that it was just another misunderstanding. That was until you felt the first light brush against your lips. Your mind went blank, struggling to keep up until it hit that he was kissing you. All those prior moments with him flashed across your mind, and none of them had been innocent after all.

His hand slid to rest against your cheek, pulling your face closer to his as his lips caressed your own, coaxing you to reciprocate as you finally gave in to the yearning that had constricted you for so long. His lips were softer than you thought they would be, but warm as you returned the kiss with an indulgent sigh.

You felt him smile against your mouth, as you trailed your hands along his arms towards his shoulders, pressing your body against his in an effort to deepen the kiss. He grew bolder, licking across the slight parting of your lips, as if seeking permission to continue. Whimpering in pleasure, you allowed him to move his tongue to meet yours, drawing in his taste again and again.

As you started to gently grind into him, he broke away for air, pressing his forehead against yours, panting heavily against your swollen mouth. “Delicious,” he breathed, before clamping his lips at the side of your neck, sucking and nibbling at a particularly sensitive spot.

Tugging the collar of his shirt tightly, you rasped, “How about a second helping?”

The next thing you knew, you were lying on your bed, slick with sweat while Leon rocked his hips against yours. You savored the fullness of him in you, grasping onto his ass as your nails dug into his skin, leaving angry, red marks in the process. “More,” you whined, in a tone that came off unintentionally on the side of demanding rather than pleading.

He gave you just what you asked for, with sweet nothings coming from his lips along with comments about knowing you were going to be bossy. Testing the waters brought you both much further than expected, but neither of you could complain.

The rest of the night went by in a dreamlike haze. At some point, you rode him on top, his large, chafed hands groping your breasts, as you tilted your head back and cried out until your voice was hoarse. At another, you leaned your back flush against his chest as he thrust into you from behind, groaning incoherently into your neck. 

You took things in your own stride, resting when needed and going again when it was comfortable to do so. Even though he had set the pace slower than you were used to, it was no less intense. In fact, everything felt deeper and more passionate, like you were melting into one.

Every release he brought you was an ascension that sent you beyond, flooding you with a euphoria that made you desperate for him. It left you addicted, your body craving more and more of his touch each time until nothing but the feel of his skin and the shifting of the sheets could be comprehended.

The final time was intense, filled with a feeling of pure bliss that you knew you would be dreaming about for days as you clung to him in desperate abandon. His name fell from your lips in a gasp, and in turn he muttered yours.

Splayed across his damp chest, you traced the lines of his freckled, weathered skin, as he stroked your hair contentedly. “Best dessert I’ve had in a while,” he grunted, intertwining his fingers with yours and bringing your knuckles to meet his lips. “Michelin star worthy.”

You swatted his hand playfully, giggling at his quip. It spurred you on to tease him back. “So, will I get an actual ride next time?”

He chuckled heartily, though he didn’t miss a beat. Age was never an issue, he still had his wits about him. “’Course, sweetheart.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “If you tell me what a GILF is.”

[aeristudios]

Stupid Cupid (teaser)

➻❥ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are madly in love with your best friend and it's eating you alive. One day you will tell him how you feel, but you have to deal with his girlfriend first.

➻❥ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: best friend!hansol x reader

➻❥ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 18+, roommates au, best friends to ?, angst, fluff, implied smut (for teaser)

➻❥ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of sex, cursing, kelsey is a bitch (full fic will all all the warnings)

➻❥ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 753 for the teaser; actual fic will be over 8k

➻❥ 𝐀𝐍: This for the collab "Lonely Hearts Cafe", hosted by @camandemstudios. Read the full fic here

You are in love with Hansol. 

Hopelessly, stupidly, trip over your feet when he’s around, butterflies in your stomach kind of love. He’s everything you could want in a guy and your best friend, someone you can just chill with no expectations. You both love Star Wars, attend anime cons together, and are allergic to peanuts. You share a home with him and it feels like home in your heart when he’s near. You’re in love with Hansol. There is only one problem: he has an on-and-off girlfriend. 

A girlfriend you particularly hate. 

Kelsey is always around, taking up your space, and it’s aggravating. You wish you could say that it’s not serious, but to your chagrin, they have been on and off for a couple of years. It’s bad enough that you can’t tell Hansol how you feel, but then you have his girlfriend, a huge social media influencer, always at your condo every time you’re there. You would think she would like to take her “influence " elsewhere. It’s exacerbating. 

“Hey there girl,” Kelsey calls out as you walk to the kitchen. She is sprawled out with her laptop on your living room floor rug, wearing a cut-off shirt, the tiniest shorts you have ever seen, and knee-high socks. Where does she live again?

“What’s up?” you respond, barely hiding the irritation in your voice. 

“Oof, you’re definitely not a morning person,” she scoffs. “Do you think you can stay out tonight? Vernon has this Hollywood thing he has to attend to tonight, and he is stressed about it. So I want to help him relax if you know what I mean.” 

You raise your eyebrows at her referring to him as Vernon, which he only tells his coworkers to call him. Hansol is a cinematographer, and a damned good one. He works for a major film studio and is invited to parties all the time. He only goes for the free food and booze, he says, because those people don’t care about anything but themselves and their pockets, let alone pronouncing his first name correctly.

Kelsey is not a coworker; she is, unfortunately, his girlfriend. Why doesn’t she call him by his preferred name?

“What does you wanting to help Hansol relax have to do with me being here?” you ask, making yourself a cup of coffee. 

“Well.” She clicks her tongue. “It’ll be pretty awkward for me to be blowing his brains out while you’re here, ya know?”

You bite your lip to keep yourself from saying what is on your mind, instead focusing on making your elaborate coffee with whipped cream and caramel syrup on top. This girl really has some nerve. 

“Kelsey,” you let out a small sigh. “I’m not leaving my house because you want to fuck. Do whatever you please.” You slam the whipped cream can on the container. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” 

Irritated, you walk past her and speed into the hallway, almost running into Hansol, who is leaving his bedroom. Wearing a red shirt and pajama pants, he has bedroom hair and a hint of sleep in his eyes. He looks adorable. 

“Where are you running off to?” His voice is deep and groggy. 

“I am running away from that peach of a girlfriend you have in there.” You roll your eyes. “Plus, I have to get ready for work.” 

“Oh no, what did she do now?” 

“Nothing, aside from asking me to stay out of the condo that I pay for tonight so she can fuck you as loud as she wants,” you say bluntly. 

Hansol’s eyes widen in shock, the little sleepiness he had evaporated. “She didn’t say that?” 

“She just about said that,” you sigh, leaning on the wall. “Look, I have to get ready for my day, but we have to have a conversation later. Not tonight, because I know that party is happening. But at some point, we do.” 

“Okay,” he says, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry.” 

“No need to be sorry,” you sigh again, deeply this time. “Let’s just chat soon, okay?”

You step into your room and shut the door, your heart beating out of your chest. That was not a conversation you want to have early in the morning, and Kelsey being around more and more makes you erratic. Eventually, a conversation will have to be had about how much time she is spending here and everything. But right now, you will sip your elaborate coffee and try to get through the day. 

[yuta-nakamots]

La La Love - P.Jisung

Pairing - Jisung x Visual Director!Female Reader, Jeno x Visual Director!Female Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, friends to lovers, childhood friends!AU

Warning(s) - cheating (Jeno), miscommunication, reader and Jeno and Jisung all kinda suck at communicating their feelings lol, one breakup, Jisung is a sadboi who just needs some love and care 

Summary - As a busy visual director, you’ve grown to rely on your Monday night check-ins with Jisung, a quiet friend who has been your gaming buddy for years. What starts as a casual chat about work soon deepens, and perhaps the bond you share turns into something more.

Word Count - 6.6k

Author’s Note - The music video they’re filming is a compilation of the Dream-Verse chapters (1, 2, 3, 4)

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls @dinonuguaegi @tinyzen @fancypeacepersona (join my taglist!)

Written for the Dream Messenger Collab hosted by @nanasarea. Also part of my NCT Dream: Seven Days Collection. 

Now playing: La La Love - NCT Dream, Rainbow - NCT Dream, Life Is Still Going On - NCT Dream 

You’ve known Park Jisung since middle school, back when his legs were too long for his desk and he always smelled faintly of bubble gum and sheet music. You met in the computer lab after school, bonding over slow-loading RPG games and shared headphones. Even after becoming a trainee and setting his path to become an idol, while yours veered toward film school and production internships, the two of you kept in touch. 

Your chats were like save files you both returned to. Screenshots of weird cafés, game glitches, late-night existential memes. Especially on Mondays. Somewhere along the way, it became tradition to check in at the start of every week. Jisung called it your “Monday Login” as a reference to Mystic Messenger. He used to joke that he was your personal Yoosung. Loyal, sweet, sometimes a little too honest. You never disagreed. 

Which is why it’s not nerves that hit you the morning you walk into SM Entertainment’s main conference room for your first meeting with NCT Dream, it’s disbelief. All these years later, and now you’re officially assigned to help lead the visuals and creative production for their comeback music video. 

The scene of fresh coffee and whiteboard markers hung in the air as you stepped inside. The boys are already seated around the long table, easy and half-slouched in chairs, tossing jokes back and forth as the production crew passes out packets of information.

Jisung notices you first. His eyes are wide, and for a second, he’s thirteen again, long limbs and awkward surprise lighting up his face. Then he recovers, straightening with a quick grin that’s softer than the others’. “You made it,” he says under his breath as you take the seat next to him.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. His shoulders relax. 

It’s been years, but somehow he still sees you first. Even now, with both of your lives spiraling in different directions, his packed with rehearsals, yours with endless editing timelines, he still comes over to your apartment every few months without fail. No fanfare, no agenda, just Jisung, your couch, a mismatched set of chopsticks, and whatever game you’d left unfinished last time. It was quiet and rare, and you never once took it for granted. 

So seeing him here, in this setting, older, taller, sharper around the edges, but still Jisung, something in your chest folds inward, tender and familiar. You didn’t just get lucky being assigned to NCT Dream. It feels a little bit like the universe remembered, too. 

The members greet you warmly, curious and welcoming, but it’s Jeno who steps forward, hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you,” he says, voice smooth. “I trust we’ll be in good hands with you.”

You shake his hand. It’s brief and professional, but warm. 

The conversation quickly moves into logistics. Shot order, wardrobe coordination, and prop timing. You show them the initial storyboard, flipping through frames you helped draw yourself. You skim over the detailed panels outlining everything from a sunset car ride to a dream sequence and the quiet symbolism of a single, flickering candle. Mark nods thoughtfully, Renjun offers a few notes, and Jeno stays quiet and attentive until the discussion turns to the scene with a candle between Jisung, Haechan, and Jeno, the one where Jisung shields the candle from their advances. “That’s the scene with the candle, right?” Jeno asks, his voice cutting in gently. 

You nod. “Yeah. It’s meant to reflect loyalty, the kind that doesn’t ask to be seen, but stays. It connects everything.”

Mark leans over your shoulder, studying the pages with quiet focus. “The candle…how long does it show up for?”

“Most of the video. It’s passed around a bit,” you glance at Jisung. “But he’s the only one who holds onto it the whole time.”

There’s a short silence, thoughtful, as the group digests the weight of that. “It’s kind of poetic,” Chenle admits. “Like, everyone’s loud and chaotic, but Jisung’s the one who never lets go. He’s the only one savoring the moment.”

You nod. “Exactly. He protects it, even when it’s small, even when no one else notices.” You don’t miss the way Jeno looks over at Jisung, then just a brief glance at you, unreadable but lingering. 

Jisung looks over at you, something unreadable in his expression. “You always did like metaphors,” he mumbles. 

You flash him a quick smile. “And you always underestimated your screen presence.”

“Do I get to drive the vintage car?” Jaemin cuts in, raising a hand like he’s in class. 

“I originally planned for Haechan in the driver’s seat, but that can be changed,” you reply, laughter and shouts rippling through the room.

The group warms up to you quickly, easier than you expected. Maybe it’s because you’re good at what you do. Maybe it’s because Jisung looks at you like he already trusts you, like he’s known you for half your life. Because he has. 

As the meeting wraps, you gather your notes, slipping your storyboard back into your portfolio. You expect the group to disperse and get into hair, makeup, and wardrobe, but Jeno hangs around. “Hey,” catching your attention. “Do you mind if I get your number? In case anything comes up? Choreo tweaks, set requests, candle questions…”

You laugh. “Sure, strictly candle business, though.” You hand him your phone, and the others follow suit, your phone traded around like playing cards. Haechan insists you add emojis next to his name. Jaemin tells you to expect selfie spams, something about wanting female guidance. Jeno quietly types his in, then gives your phone to Jisung. He returns it to you with a barely-there smile. He didn’t need to give you his number. “Are we still good for Monday night check-ins?”

You grin. “Wasn’t planning on changing that.”

And just like that, your childhood friend becomes part of your adult life in a new way. He’s intertwined not just through texts and tradition, but through a project that might mean more than either of you expected.

That night, the Dream group chat was chaotic as usual, only this one included you. You quietly scroll, amused, until your phone pings again with a notification from the Dream Brew Crew, named affectionately after the music video’s café scenes.

[Renjun 9:47PM] 

welcome to brewtopia, where the foam is romantic and the trauma is unresolved

A poorly edited version of Mark in a barista outfit with anime sparkles pops up in the chat. 

[Jaemin 9:47PM] 

DELETE THIS RN 💀💀💀

[Haechan☀️🧸 9:47PM]

bro’s got latte daddy issues

[Y/N 9:47PM]

please…I’m just trying to storyboard in peace 😭

[Jeno 9:48PM]

Reacted 😂 to your message

but are you laughing or crying?

[Y/N 9:48PM]

yes.

[Jisung 9:48PM]

.

[Chenle 9:48PM]

now why is that the most threatening thing I’ve read all day

You set your phone down, going back to cross-checking your storyboards with the schedules for the next few days. You wanted to make sure you were ready for each day of shooting, prepped for any question that came your way. Your phone dinged again, this time, a private message.

[Jeno 10:12PM]

hey, just thought i’d say that i liked the storyboard layout. super clean. did you sketch them all yourself?

[Y/N 10:12PM]

i did!!

trying to impress the visuals team

[Jeno 10:13PM]

seems like you’re succeeding

goodnight, by the way. don’t work too hard.

[Y/N 10:13PM]

goodnight jeno

i’ll see you tomorrow

[Jeno 10:13PM]

looking forward to it

The next day, Monday, you’re on set, the hum of the lighting rig is loud above you as you stand beside the monitors, headset resting around your neck. Jaemin, Jeno, Renjun, Haechan, and Chenle had just wrapped their second take of the café interior shot, the one where Renjun drops the plate. The warm faux-afternoon light filters through the fake windows, catching in Jaemin’s hair and making the entire scene look dreamy, just as intended. 

“Cut,” the director calls.

You scribble a note on your clipboard about timing and angles when Jeno appears at your side, slightly breathless from the scene. He glances down at your clipboard with an impressed smile. “That timing cue you added earlier?” he starts, voice low enough to go undetected among the crew. “Perfect. Renjun hit that mark without even thinking about it.” 

You look up at him, and your smile comes easily. “Just trying to make everyone’s lives easier.”

“It’s working,” Jeno confirms, nudging your elbow gently with his. His voice carries a boyish lilt that makes your heart skip. “I don’t know how you keep everything in your head. It’s kinda superhuman.”

“Caffeine and chaos,” you reply smoothly. “That’s my secret.”

Jeno chuckles. “Then let me be your caffeine plug next time. You like oat milk?”

You laugh, about to answer, but a loud clatter breaks the moment. Haechan just accidentally knocked over a cup on the prop counter, yelling dramatically as Chenle mocks him from the side. Everyone groans in unison. 

“I swear I didn’t touch it!” Haechan protests, arms out.

“Dude, your sleeve knocked it,” Chenle says with a chuckle. Renjun mutters something under his breath, and Jaemin sighs like he’s aged ten years in one afternoon. 

You shake your head fondly, jotting down notes for scene continuity while Jeno leans in again, voice amused. “They’re a mess without you.” 

Before Jeno can respond, someone clears their throat behind you. You both turn and see Jisung standing a few feet away. He’s in his hoodie and mask, not needed on set until later, but he’s here nonetheless. His eyes go between you and Jeno, unreadable beneath the cap tugged low over his brows. 

“Hey,” you greet with a smile. “Didn’t know you were already here.”

“Yeah,” Jisung replies, voice quiet. “Call time’s soon, so I just came early.”

You nod, trying to keep things light. “Well, you’re just in time to witness the chaos. Haechan is having a crisis over a cup.” 

Jisung doesn’t laugh, just glancing past you. “I saw.” He tucks his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “I’ll be in the waiting room,” he says, already turning.

You watch him go, a tiny frown forming. Something about his tone feels off, distant. Maybe it’s just the long hours or the heat from the lights. But something lingers, unspoken. Jeno nudges your arm again. “You okay?”

You blink and quickly nod. “Yeah, just mentally running through the next setup.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” he says, then jogs back to the others on set, still arguing over prop placement. You glance down at your clipboard again, but your thoughts have already wandered, following Jisung’s retreating figure out of frame.  

That night, your body is sore from the twelve-hour day on your feet. After rinsing off the scent of studio dust and caffeine from your hair, you collapse into bed with your laptop and an open call sheet for tomorrow. The group chat is alive again, Renjun sharing a blurry photo of Haechan fake-crying over the shattered plate, and now everyone is spamming crying emojis and exaggerated eulogies for the “fallen latte.”

You scroll absently, a small smile on your lips, until your phone buzzes again. A notification from Instagram: @the__and.y shared a photo. You tap on it, curious. It’s an image of one of the prop plates from the set, emblazoned with the logo for their comeback, but what draws your attention is his new profile picture. It’s a muted, overcast photo of the ocean. Stormy gray waves, no caption, no context, just…distant. You pause, fingers hovering over your screen, then you flip over to your chat with him.

[Y/N 11:03PM]

hey, you okay? you seemed…off today

Read at 11:05PM

[Jisung🐥 11:17PM]

sorry. was just thinking about stuff.

[Y/N 11:18PM]

anything i can help with? you can always vent

[Jisung🐥 11:25PM]

it’s nothing. really.

You watch the typing bubble pop up, then disappear. 

[Y/N 11:40PM]

i missed our monday check-in today. got a video of the plate fiasco if you need a laugh.

You sent a short video of Haechan dramatically flailing beside the spilled cup, something you filmed while the directors replayed the footage after a take. It was too funny not to have for yourself, letting it fall into the vault of the production team. 

[Jisung🐥 11:56PM]

thanks. needed that.

[Jisung🐥 12:01AM]

i’m proud of you. you handled everything today like a pro.

[Y/N 12:01AM]

thanks jisung, that means a lot

[Jisung🐥 12:02AM]

so…

are you really into jeno-hyung?

Your heart skips. You stare at the screen for a few seconds before replying.

[Y/N 12:03AM]

i think so

he’s been really sweet lately

kind, thoughtful…

idk it’s just been nice

[Jisung🐥 12:04AM]

just be careful okay?

not everyone plays fair

[Y/N 12:04AM]

jisung…

is something going on?

[Jisung🐥 12:05AM]

no

i just don’t want you to get hurt

you’re important to me

you always have been 

[Y/N 12:05AM]

you’re important to me too

top tier triple S rank bestie status

and i mean that

[Jisung🐥 12:06AM]

lol thanks

i should sleep. early call time tomorrow.

[Y/N 12:06AM]

goodnight buddy

don’t forget to eat something before you sleep

[Jisung🐥 12:07AM]

i will. promise.

sweet dreams

You stare at the screen a little longer before putting your phone down and turning off the lights in your room.

Jeno starts bringing you coffee in the mornings, always the way you like it. “You remembered,” you exclaim the first time, surprised. 

He grins, boyish and bright. “I told you I’d be your caffeine plug.”

It becomes a habit, him showing up before the first call, two drinks in hand. Sometimes he brings a croissant too, breaking it in half to share as the crew sets up. You try not to read too much into it. Jeno lingers at your side between takes, asks for your opinion on his line delivery, and even lets you adjust the curl of his collar before scenes. 

One afternoon, while the rest of the group runs lines amongst themselves, he leans in from behind you and murmurs, “do you always look this focused when you work?”

You glance up from your clipboard, caught off guard. “Is that a compliment or a distraction?”

He smirks. “Why not both?”

That night, he messages you. 

[Jeno 11:41PM]

You really make this set feel less like work.

[Y/N 11:42PM]

Are you flirting with me or thanking me professionally?

[Jeno 11:42PM]

…Yes

You don’t label anything, you don’t have to. But a few days later, you’re on a video call with Jeno, both of you bleary-eyed from a 2AM brainstorm. You were sketching out a scene for a new project, something experimental with single takes and non-linear cuts, and Jeno is scribbling notes in a notebook while you ramble about rhythm and lighting cues. 

He pauses mid-sentence, then says with a laugh, “you know you start talking with your hands when you’re excited? Like you’re conducting your own ideas.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “I need visual aids, okay?”

You stay like that for hours, working, debating, laughing. Somewhere around 5AM, while he’s going over a line of dialogue for the millionth time, your side of the wall goes quiet. Jeno looks up and sees you, head resting on your desk, face turned slightly toward the camera, asleep mid-sentence. 

He doesn't wake you. Instead, he takes a screenshot, just one, then whispers, “goodnight,” before ending the call. 

A few days later, you’re kissing him in the hallway outside the prop room. It’s tentative, breathless, his hand cupping your cheek, your clipboard forgotten between you. After that, it’s quiet, but it’s real. There was no big announcement, just a slow unraveling of something that already existed. 

The production crew has their suspicions, and you don’t deny it when Haechan raises an eyebrow and asks, “so…who’s Jeno smiling at like that between every cut?”

You just smile, float, let the hum of it warm your chest. For the first time in a while, you feel seen. 

But then things shift. Jeno gets more close-up shots. The director starts adjusting angles based on your notes. Jeno’s hitting his mark like he knew exactly where the camera would be. And he does, somehow. He knows which cues you’ve flagged, which scenes are getting reshoots, and which ones the editing team is prioritizing. 

At first, you’re flattered, maybe he’s just that intuitive and interested in your shared work. But then you overhear two PAs whispering near the monitors. 

“Of course, Jeno nailed that cut. He’s basically got a hotline to production now.”

“You think she’s slipping him notes?”

“No, but…it’s convenient, isn’t it?”

You shrug it off, but the words lodge themselves under your skin like splinters. That afternoon, when Jeno finds you outside the back entrance, coffee in hand, grinning like he always does when it’s just the two of you. 

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Jeno notices this much. “Hey. You okay?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I just–I overheard something.”

His brows knit together. “What happened?”

You hesitate. The words don’t come out sharp, just quiet and unsure. “Are you…with me because of me? Or because of what I know? What I can give you on this project?”

His smile falters, a second of something almost like hurt crossing his features. “You think I’m using you?”

“No,” you say too quickly. “I just…I don’t know anymore. People and talking, and it’s getting hard to ignore…and part of me is scared they’re right.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make your chest tighten. Jeno steps forward and sets the coffee on the table beside you. “You’re not just a shortcut or some strategy. You know that, right?” You want to believe him. But the whisper of doubt lingers. Not because you don’t trust him, but because you don’t trust the version of yourself that wanted so badly to be chosen that you didn’t ask the questions until now. 

Jisung grows quieter. The memes taper off, the voice notes stop altogether. He still responds when you reach out, but his replies are slower, thoughtful in a way that feels filtered. Like every word is reviewed before it’s sent. No more midnight chaos about Renjun’s weird snack combos, no new playlists. Yet he still texts you on Monday nights.

[Jisung🐥 9:02PM]

make sure you’re drinking water between setups. the lighting rig is brutal this week.

[Y/N 9:04PM]

look at you being all responsible

who are you and what have you done with my emotional support jisung?

[Jisung🐥 9:09PM]

guess he knows when to retreat to the shadows.

You frown at the screen. Something’s wrong, but when you ask…

[Y/N 9:12PM]

hey

you okay?

[Jisung🐥 9:17PM]

i’m fine. just tired. 

That’s all he says. No jokes, no gif, no dramatic videos of studio chaos. Just…tired. You want to press, but something inside you says not to. 

It’s a late Wednesday night on set, quiet, interrupted only by the buzz of fluorescent lights humming above you as you return to the office to grab your notes. The hallway is dim, echoing your footsteps. And then you see it. 

Just past the corner, half-shielded by the shadow of a scaffolding frame. Jeno. He’s not alone. He’s leaning close to one of the wardrobe assistants, her hand resting lightly on his chest as he chuckles at something she says. And then he kisses her. Quick, familiar, too easy. 

Your stomach drops. It’s not romantic, not even passionate. It’s flirty and careless, like it’s happened before, like it’s normal. Your breath catches, and you take a step back, eyes wide. Jeno doesn’t see you, doesn’t even glance your way. You run. 

Later that night, you’re under your blanket, screen dimmed, fingers trembling as you open your messages. There’s only one person you can text. 

[Y/N 12:44AM]

jisung…can i call you?

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Then reappears. Disappears again.

[Jisung🐥 12:45AM]

yeah. of course.

You call him and he picks up halfway through the first ring. You don’t even make it through your sentence before your voice cracks. You tell him everything, your words halting like you’re afraid they’ll collapse under their own weight. Jisung doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask questions, just listens. When your voice finally goes quiet, he says softly, “I’m so sorry.”

There’s a long pause. You wait for the ‘I told you so’ but it never comes. Just silence until Jisung speaks next. “You deserve someone who wouldn’t even look at anyone else.” 

You don’t remember exactly how the call ended, just that his voice stayed steady while yours wavered, and at some point, you whispered, “can you come over?”

There was no hesitation. Jisung showed up twenty minutes later, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a plastic bag of instant ramen in one and your favorite canned drink in the other. He doesn’t ask questions right away. He just moves through your apartment like muscle memory, filling your kettle, digging through your drawers for a pair of chopsticks, flipping on your old Bluetooth speaker with the playlist you both made months ago during a stormy night of edits and deadline panic. 

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding yourself together until the smell of broth fills the air, and he nudges your shoulder with the controller. “I found a bug in the third chapter. Wanna see it?” His smile is soft, familiar. 

You don’t answer. You just reach for the controller. You’re playing through the chapter with Jisung, but your hands are trembling too much to focus. You set the controller down and cover your face. “I should’ve listened to you.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first. You hear the game music fade into the background, your own breathing thick with tears you’ve been holding since the hallway incident. Then, softly, “I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.” You look up. His eyes are tired but kind. He’s not angry, not smug, just sad but steady. And then he says even quieter, “you’re not a burden, you know.” You blink, confused. “You’re my save point.” Jisung takes a breath. “You always have been.”

You unravel at his words. Not loud, not dramatic, just a slow fall into his arms, your tears soaking into his hoodie as he holds you. One of his large hands strokes your back in slow, grounding circles, the other still clutching the warm bowl of untouched ramen. You both stayed like that until one or both of you had fallen asleep. Your head rests on his shoulder, the game still paused, the background music still playing. The ache is still there, but it’s softer somehow because even when the world feels like it’s ending, he’s still here. 

The next Monday, you’re back at the studio. The lights above the set flicker faintly as staff adjust the backdrop for the dream sequence when Jeno wakes up Haechan. 

You’re scanning the shot list when a familiar voice calls your name. You turn to find Jeno standing a few feet away, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, eyes darker than usual. “Can we talk?” You hesitate, then nod. You follow him out into a quieter hallway, far from the soundstage and background chatter. He exhales. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.” You nod slowly, saying nothing. “I shouldn’t have let things get that far,” he continues. “With you…and the way I handled it after.”

There’s an ache in his voice, not unlike the silence that filled that hallway the night you saw him with the other staff member. But it doesn’t sting like it used to, it just feels distant. “I keep thinking about what I could’ve said,” Jeno murmurs. “What I should’ve done.”

You tilt your head. “And?”

He looks at you, then away. “I don’t know. I messed up, and I keep hoping maybe you’d text first or just…talk to me.”

“I did talk,” you reply quietly. “I just think you stopped listening.”

Jeno flinches at that. Not dramatically, but enough that you see the words land. “You meant more to me than you think.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But not enough to choose me.” The silence between you stretches, not sharp, just inevitable. 

He tries again. “Can I…fix this? Somehow?”

You meet his eyes, and it hits you that the part of you that used to tremble under his gaze is now still. “I think what I needed back then is different from what I need now.” And with that, you walk away. That night, the messages started again.

[Jeno 10:56PM]

I don’t expect you to respond

But I wanted you to know that I miss talking to you

[Jeno 11:08PM]

I thought about that time we stayed up editing a scene until sunrise

You fell asleep at your desk while on a call with me

I still have a screenshot I took

[Jeno 11:32PM]

I keep hoping it’s not too late

Even just as friends

You read every one but didn’t reply. Not because you’re angry, not anymore. You just finally understand the difference between wanting someone and choosing someone. So instead, you open a different chat and type.

[Y/N 11:34PM]

can you come over?

You get a response within seconds.

[Jisung🐥 11:34PM]

i’ll be there in a bit

When Jisung shows up, it’s quieter than last time, no ramen, no distractions. Just Jisung in a soft, gray hoodie, his hands in his pockets, and that familiar look like he’s exactly where he wants to be. You sit side by side on your couch, knees brushing, the controller resting between you, but neither of you reaches for it, not tonight. 

You break the silence first. “I think…” You hesitate, watching the shadows on the walls. “I think I was in love with an idea.” Jisung doesn’t move, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t interrupt, just listens like he always does. You glance down at your hands. “With Jeno, it was all…intensity. Like something I had to keep chasing. I thought if I tried hard enough, said the right thing, stayed up late, showed up early, gave a little more, maybe I’d get there. I’d earn it. Like I was auditioning for love.” You let the words hang for a moment. Jisung’s quiet presence makes it easier to breathe. “But with you,” you continue, turning your head to meet his eyes, “it feels like the truth. Like I don’t have to explain myself all the time, or prove I belong. You see me and you don’t look away.” 

There’s a beat of silence, deep and soft. Then Jisung nods. “I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he whispers. “Since our first Monday night.”

You smile, but something is trembling in it. “You knew?”

He shrugs gently. “I didn’t know what you needed. I just…wanted to be there when you figured it out.”

Your throat tightens. There’s no grand gesture, no confession backlit by fireworks. Just this, the honesty of the moment, the slow boom of something real. Jisung leans his head gently against yours, your shoulders touching. His body doesn’t lean in possessively, only comfortably. You feel the weight of him, solid, steady, safe. 

“This okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, eyes closed. “Yeah, it is.”

And just like that, the moment becomes your real save point. Not dramatic, not loud, but unmistakably yours. 

Production winds down during the week in a blur of final takes, lighting resets, and wrap-up shots that feel both urgent and bittersweet. There’s a quiet hum of satisfaction in the air, that rare sense of something good being captured, preserved in a reel of color-graded moments and choreography that now moves like muscle memory.

You still wear your headset. You still pace between monitors and shot lists, but something’s changed. You no longer flinch when you feel someone watching you because now, it’s him. 

Jisung doesn’t hover, he doesn’t interrupt your focus. But he’s always there, tucked somewhere just within your line of sight, leaning on a prop, sipping from a water bottle, exchanging a silent look when you both know the reframing needs one more adjustment. He still jokes when things get too tense, murmurs a deadpan comment about a camera angle making his nose look “criminally soft”, and it’s enough to make you snort behind your clipboard. But more than anything, he grounds you. 

One afternoon, a team member rushes over, flustered about a color issue in the scene with the red vintage car. You’re mid-note when Jisung steps closer, eyes calm. “Hey,” he says, not loud, just enough for you to hear. “Take a breath. We’ve got time.” It’s simple, barely a moment, but it slows your pulse. You nod, inhale, then return to the scene with a steadier voice. 

No one comments on the closeness, not openly, at least. But you catch the knowing looks. Haechan winks, and Renjun grins when Jisung steals a granola bar off your desk, saying it was “payment for emotional support services.”

When the director claps his hands and yells “cut,” that day, Jisung’s eyes go straight to yours. He doesn’t rush into a hurry or try to make it dramatic, he just walks over, shoulder bumping yours. “Proud of you.”

You don’t say anything. You just smile because you know he means it. 

Shooting wraps up the following Monday night, rolling one last time as Jisung sits on a swing set at a playground, fingers wrapped around the small candle he’s carried throughout the video’s sequence. Haechan and Chenle flank him on either side, gently swaying on their own swings.

The set is quiet except for the soft ambient hum of crickets in the distance. Jisung’s line comes next, his voice low, measured, and a little raw. “I lit it because I read online that candles can help with sleep, I just wanted to help after you said you were having a nightmare,” he said to Haechan. “But in the end…Mark-hyung, he just blew it out. Like it never meant anything, even when he’s the person who gave it to me.”

The silence that follows is deliberate, hanging like mist between the boys. The director quietly yells, “cut.” The camera stops, but Jisung stays seated. 

Lights dim, crew start dispersing, voices lowering as the finality of wrap night settles in. But Jisung doesn’t move from the swing, still holding the candle. It’s burned down and hollowed out slightly at the edges from the earlier scenes, but he holds it carefully, like it still might glow if he asks gently enough. 

Chenle looks over at Jisung from where they sat on the swings, still in costume, their hair wind-tousled from the final scene. “You okay?”

Jisung shrugged, eyes fixed on the candle as he tossed it between his hands. “It was a good take.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I asked.”

Haechan comes up behind them, his usual playfulness muted by the quiet night. He drapes his arms around the swing’s metal chains and rests his chin on his arms, lazily. “What’s going on in that big head of yours, Jisung?”

Jisung doesn’t answer at first. He rolls the candle slightly between his palms. “It’s stupid.”

“Say it anyway,” Chenle nudges. “Stupid isn’t anything new to us.”

Jisung exhales through his nose. “That line. The one about just wanting to help…it wasn’t just for the scene. I think I was talking about myself.” Chenle raises a brow. Haechan doesn’t interrupt. “I kept showing up,” Jisung says. “I kept holding on. Hoping that maybe if I just waited long enough, didn’t let the flame die, maybe she’d look back. Maybe I’d matter.” The wind picks up slightly, causing his hair to shift across his forehead. Still, he keeps staring at the candle. “And in that scene in the apartment, when Mark just walked off with the others and I was just…left alone. Like I always was.”

There’s a beat, then Chenle sighs. “Jisung…”

“It’s just a prop,” Jisung mutters. “But it didn’t feel like one.”

“It wasn’t,” Haechan says. His voice is surprisingly serious, grounding. “You put something real into it. That’s what made the scene work.” 

“But it still ended the same way,” Jisung replies. “Someone else walked off with the endin,g and I’m still sitting here like I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Chenle kicks at the gravel with his shoe. “You’re thinking too much again.”

“I know,” Jisung whispers. “I always do.”

Haechan moves closer, ruffling Jisung’s hair. “That candle didn’t go out on its own. Mark blew it out. There’s a difference.” Jisung blinks.

Chenle gestures with a tilt of his chin over to where you were helping the staff pack up equipment. “She’s not gone, Jisung. And you’re not invisible. You’re just…not the loudest. But you’re still the one she texts when it matters.”

“Every Monday,” Haechan adds with a smirk. “You don’t see her asking Jeno for ramen.”

That makes Jisung huff a laugh, barely there but real. “I didn’t expect it to end like this,” Jisung says after a while, eyes fixed on the candle. 

Chenle nudges him. “Endings always feel weird. Even the good ones.”

“I know,” Jisung replies. “It’s just…I thought helping would feel better than this.” His voice cracks a little. “I didn’t want anything in return, not really. But I didn’t think it’d feel like I was disposable.” 

Haechan tilts his head. “You weren’t. You were the safety net. That’s a heavy thing to be for someone.” 

“But she didn’t fall,” Jisung murmurs. “Not all the way. Not into me, not at first.” 

Chenle shrugs. “She didn’t need to. You caught her anyway.”

Jisung breathes in, slow and shaky. “It just…hurt, seeing the way she looked at him, the way Jeno-hyung looked at her. Like he still thought he had a chance.”

“But he didn’t,” Haechan assures. “Not really. She saw through it, eventually.”

Jisung traces the rim of the candle with his thumb. “Yeah, I know. I just think…for a while, I wasn’t sure if she ever really saw me.”

There’s a pause, then Chenle bumps him again. “She sees you now.”

That makes Jisung huff a laugh, barely there but real. He finally stands up from the swing. The candle’s still in his hand, but he doesn’t clutch it as tightly anymore, just holds it gently, like a memory. The night air is crisp. He exhales, and his breath fogs in the cold, drifting into the dark like a ghost of something he’s ready to let go. 

Even after the cameras stop rolling, you and Jisung keep your Monday night tradition alive. It starts with a text the first week after wrap. 

[Jisung🐥 8:03PM]

editing day check-in?

[Y/N 8:04PM]

only if you bring snacks

Within half an hour, he’s at your apartment door with your favorite pastries and two cans of your favorite drink, grinning like it’s the highlight of his week. Which, for both of you, it is. 

Jisung still sends you Mystic Messenger memes. He sends one when you mention being halfway done editing the teaser video for their music video. He sends another when the team finalizes the color grading. He sends a particularly dramatic one when the teaser video drops, complete with screenshots of fan reactions he saw online. 

On nights like those, you invite him over to sit together on the couch, a soft blanket draped over both of you. You scroll through the comments of the music video while Jisung lazily plays with the drawstring of his hoodie. 

“I think they like it,” you murmur, eyes scanning the comments. 

“They love it,” Jisung corrects. “You made that.”

You glance over at him. “We did.”

His cheeks flush faintly, but he doesn’t look away. “Can I ask you something kind of dumb?” You nod, eyes still on your phone. “Do you think…if we met differently, I still would’ve found you?”

You smile. “Maybe. But I like that I met you on a Monday on the first day of middle school.” 

Your apartment is quiet the following Monday night, too quiet. The kind of stillness that only comes when something big is about to change. Outside, the city is restless, filled with lit windows, honking cars, and people moving without knowing they’re stepping into a night that means everything to you and Jisung. 

The final edit of the music video drops at midnight. You both know this, but neither of you says anything at first. He’s curled up on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes fixed on the TV where some unrelated show plays with the volume low. You’re beside him, laptop open, pretending to check timestamps for another project, but your heart isn’t in it. 

“You think it’ll do well?” Jisung asks suddenly. His voice is soft, almost too careful.

You look up from your screen. “I know it will. It’s honest, and that always connects.” He nods, but doesn’t look fully convinced. You scoot closer, your shoulder brushing his. “You didn’t just perform in that video, you told a story. People will feel it.”

He hesitates, then turns his head toward you. “You think they’ll know it was about you?”

That makes you smile, small and slow. “Maybe. But I think the people who matter already do.”

His face softens as midnight hits. You both glance at the screen as the notifications flood in. Comments, tweets, streaming links. It’s already in the trending category on YouTube, and Jisung’s name starts climbing real-time charts. Jisung stares at it for a beat too long, blinking like it’s not real. Then both your phones buzz. The Dream Brew Crew.

[Haechan☀️🧸 12:05AM]

you did it candle boy 🕯️

congrats 

[Chenle 12:06AM]

they’re crying fr lmao good job dude 

Jisung snorts, shaking his head. “They’re so annoying.”

You grin. “They’re proud of you.”

He tucks his phone away and leans into you, resting his head on your shoulder. “You stayed,” he whispers. 

You shift so your cheek rests against his hair. “I always would have.”

The night moves on around you, social media exploding with reactions, staff members texting their congrats, even the director sending a surprisingly heartfelt message about his growth. 

And then, you feel the vibration before you see it. Your phone lights up with a notification. It’s a Mystic Messenger meme, Jisung’s face in the place of Yoosung’s avatar. 

[Jisung🐥 12:15AM]

My route unlocked 💕🐥

You laugh, loud and real this time. “Really?” you say, showing him the screen. 

He looks up, eyes twinkling, and shrugs. “I had to make it official.”

You don’t need to reply. Instead, you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers. The world is watching now, the video is out, and promotions are beginning. But here, on this couch, it’s still Monday night, and he’s still yours. 

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Perfect - Z.Chenle

[wonusite]

Hate to Love You (Not Really)

❝ The only thing worse than spending Valentine’s Day alone is spending it with someone you hate. ❞

PAIRING: lee seokmin x female reader

GENRE: enemies to lovers, coworkers au, fluff, smut

WORD COUNT: 3k

WARNINGS: coworker!seokmin, one sided enemies to lovers, pining, drinking, being forced to share a room, only one bed trope, seokmin is a HUGE simp, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampies, cockwarming, pussy drunk!seokmin, cock drunk!reader

A/N: this is for the lovely @drunk-on-dk as part of @svthub’s cupid for you collab! i really hope you like it! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

“We only have one room available.”

Those six words are the worst you’ve heard all day. If it weren’t for the heavy snow falling outside, you would immediately grab your things to try to find any other accommodation for the night. Not that you would have any luck since every other decent hotel you’ve been to is already full.

Seokmin glances over at you, nearly wincing at your dissatisfied expression. He clears his throat and fakes a smile as he looks back at the desk clerk. “We’ll take it. Thank you.”

The walk to your suite is silent and tense. In any other situation, you would’ve loved to stay in a luxury hotel, but being forced to share a room with your insufferable coworker isn’t how you pictured that happening. At least Seokmin isn’t stupid enough to crack one of his unfunny jokes as you two get inside the suite.

As if things weren’t already miserable, you find out that there’s only one large bed and a nice but uncomfortable looking couch. You let out a long, tired sigh. Just your luck. As if your day couldn’t get any worse.

“I’ll take the couch.” Seokmin’s voice is soft. “I don’t mind.”

You whip your head to look at him in surprise. His gaze seems shy, but he maintains eye contact. For some reason, you’re hyper aware of your heartbeat and how it’s slowly increasing. You clear your throat nervously and give him a single nod.

“Cool. Thanks.”

Silence falls over you two again. It’s not uncomfortable, but it is a little awkward. Mostly on your part because you hadn’t expected Seokmin to act so kindly towards you. After spending the entire day disagreeing about which manufacturer would be the best fit to produce the new wine bottles for the company, you thought he’d keep up his pettiness up to this point.

You tentatively sit on the edge of the bed, unsure of how to proceed. Ideally, you’d like to shower and order room service, but you can’t very well do it comfortably when you’re sharing a room with your coworker who you also happen to dislike a lot.

“Y/N?”

Seokmin’s voice is hesitant, as he inches toward you. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him so nervous. For some sick reason, you feel endeared by the sight.

“Did you want to get dinner? I saw they’re having a special wine tasting event since it’s Valentine’s Day.”

It would be so easy to turn him down, not to mention satisfying. But he’s looking at you so earnestly that you can’t let yourself be the one to crush the hope swimming in his eyes. And you are pretty hungry since you didn’t get to have lunch. Also, having a glass of wine (or several) sounds way too appealing to turn down.

“Okay.”

You’re not sure what demon has possessed you, but it’s one that’s messing with your mind because there’s no way you’re finding your mortal enemy hot right now. Objectively, you know Seokmin is good looking. It’s undeniable, however, you’ve never been able to perceive him as attractive because of how much you dislike him.

Although, right now, in his nice dress shirt that hugs his broad chest just right, you can’t think of him as the same guy who constantly tries to undermine you.

“You look beautiful, by the way.” Seokmin says as you two sit down at the table. “I should’ve said something sooner, but when I saw you my brain just short-circuited.”

It’s true. When you stepped out of the bathroom in a slip dress that fit you just right, Seokmin just about died. He knew he must’ve looked like a complete fool just gawking at you without saying anything, but it was just a natural reaction.

Meanwhile, you have to force your expression to stay neutral as the waiter brings out the first wine you two are meant to taste. You’re not sure why Seokmin is suddenly acting so out of character, and you’re not sure why you’re feeling flattered and shy about his behavior.

“Thank you.” The words come out neutral (luckily for you). “You look good too.”

When he smiles at you brightly, you wonder if this is what all the other women in the office feel at the pretty sight. Seokmin has an infectious smile that’s too bright not to reciprocate. You hide most of it through a large gulp of wine, the bittersweet taste quickly marring your expression into one of neutrality again.

“Like it?” There’s a teasing lilt to the question.

You hum against the rim of the crystal glass. “Try it. Tell me what you think.”

It’s hard to control your expression when Seokmin listens to you. He never does, and the fact that he did it so easily is jarring. Also, it doesn’t help that he looks damn good while doing so.

Seokmin lets out a noise of approval. He licks his lips and maintains eye contact with you. “Sweet.”

The smirk he directs at you when you awkwardly cough is infuriatingly attractive. It feels like you’re potentially reading too much into his actions, and before you can really begin to question anything, the next bottle of wine is brought out for you to taste.

You attempt to distract yourself with the wine, but you can feel Seokmin’s eyes on you. There’s something heated about his gaze, and you can’t help but wonder what’s gotten into him. Still, you can’t bring yourself to outright ask even though you can feel the wine beginning to give you a nice little buzz.

“You must like this one.” Seokmin says, pretty smile still in place.

He says it because you gulped down what was in your glass. What he doesn’t know is that it’s because of him that you feel the need to finish the wine quickly so you can silence all these inappropriate thoughts you’re having.

“You must not.” Comes your rebuttal when you see that he’s barely taken a sip.

Seokmin doesn’t say anything at first. You can see him thinking, almost like he’s contemplating on how to answer you. Finally, he flashes another one of his annoyingly cute smiles at you. “It’s not bad, but seeing you like it so much is better than the taste.”

“What’s your problem?” You demand abruptly, not caring that the waiters who brought out your food are looking like they just walked into the crossfire.

That heart-stopping smile drops off his face, and his expression falls into the familiar cold one you’re used to receiving. Finally, the uncomfortable knot in your chest comes undone, but it’s replaced by a different discomfort.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

You scoff, annoyed that he’s not willing to acknowledge his odd behavior. “Yes, you do. Why are you acting like you don’t hate me all of a sudden?”

His gaze becomes hard, but you swear you see a tinge of sadness somewhere in that cold look. “I don’t hate you.”

You can’t understand why he’s lying, and so blatantly at that. It’s obvious that he’s hated you since you inadvertently picked holes in his first major presentation. He’s been out to get you ever since, and you’re not sure why he’s trying to act like you don’t know exactly how he feels about you.

“Right.” You scoff incredulously. “You telling the entire office that you’re capable of doing this project without my help was out of fondness.”

A blush slowly crawls up Seokmin’s neck and spreads across his face. “That—!”

“Oh, and I guess you did me a favor by telling our boss that ‘no woman should spend Valentine’s Day working!’”

Seokmin feels himself start to panic because he had said that, but it’s really not what you think. And he has to clear that up. Like now.

“Will you please just let me explain?”

You’re thrown off because the wine is slowly easing your nerves and because Seokmin looks like a kicked puppy. With a quiet huff, you nod stiffly, not wanting to make a scene even though some of the people at the surrounding tables are already looking at you funny.

“I just– I didn’t want you to have to spend today with me.”

Everything just seems to stop. Seokmin looks so remorseful and like he’s about to cry that you can’t think of his explanation as anything other than the truth. But then there’s the big question looming on your mind: Why would someone who hates you try to do something so kind for you? Unfortunately, you’re so thrown off that you can’t form a coherent response.

“You– What?”

Seokmin lets out a forced laugh. Your dumbfounded expression is adorable and makes him think that maybe he hadn’t entirely screwed up.

“Last month, I overheard you telling Josh that you had big plans today. When we were put on the project together and found out we had to work today, I tried everything so you wouldn’t be forced to spend the day with me. I’m an idiot for not realizing how you would feel about the things I said and I’m sorry.”

If only this sweet, silly man knew the big plans you mentioned involved five of your favorite romcoms and a bottle of wine. You can’t fully process the onslaught of emotions hitting you with full force, and you wish you had the capacity to answer him intelligently.

“But… why? Why would you do that for me?”

Seokmin can feel the heat coming from his face, but he soldiers on with what he hopes is anything but an embarrassed expression. “Like I said. I don’t hate you.”

You just blink at him, and he has to laugh.

“It’s true. And I’ll prove it to you.”

Just when you think he can’t surprise you anymore, he signals over a worker you hadn’t noticed before. The lovely woman had been handing out single pink roses, and now she was giving Seokmin the remaining ones after he slipped her several bills. You gape at him as he boldly hands them to you with that dumb, endearing smile.

“For you.” He nudges them toward you. “I know you would’ve preferred red or white roses, but I’ll get them for you some other time.”

Now his words are making your brain short circuit because what the fuck? How could he know your preferences and what did he mean that he would get you your favorite flowers next time?

All your rationality has gone out the window, and so have your inhibitions. It’s why you don’t care to cut the dinner short while telling Seokmin to follow you upstairs. He’s so obedient that you eat it all up. That and his needy kisses are too addicting for you to think about how wrong you’d been this entire time.

“You feel good, pretty girl?” Seokmin wonders from between your thighs.

His entire body burns with desire when you give him a heated look as you slowly roll your hips, grinding your soaking cunt down on his awaiting mouth. You do it with a neediness that has his eyes rolling and his cock twitching. Seokmin has never looked hotter to you than he does with your arousal covering his mouth and chin. You’re so turned on that your juices are slowly dripping down into a mess on the sheets bellow you.

“Amazing.” You breathe out through a whine as Seokmin dives back in, flicking his tongue on your throbbing clit before fucking it into your needy hole.

His cock is leaking and twitching as he drinks up every last bit of your arousal. Seokmin moans and groans into your cunt as you eagerly meet every movement of his tongue with an enthusiastic grind of your hips.

“Fuck, baby. Wanna make you come.”

You clench around his tongue at hearing the earnest words. It makes you arch into him more, loving how his tongue is splitting though your folds and slurping up all your arousal eagerly. He drags his wet muscle over your clit before sucking and rolling it like he would do to an addicting candy.

He’s so into eating you out, so fucked out by your taste alone that you can’t stop your quickly approaching orgasm. Seokmin’s eyes are rolling to the back of his head, moaning and whimpering about how you taste like absolute heaven. There’s even a moment where he lets it slip about how long he’s longed to have a taste of you, and that just does it for you.

The coil in your stomach snaps, and you two moan in pleasure together. Seokmin’s cock throbs wildly at the sweet taste of your cream. He licks every inch of your pretty pussy, not wanting to waste even a single drop of what you’re giving him.

“God.” You breathe out, legs trembling around his head. “Hurry up and fuck me.”

Expectedly, Seokmin does exactly as you want. You don’t care that you might need some time to adjust to his cock’s impressive size, you just need him.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this, angel.” Seokmin hums against your jaw as his fat tip teases your entrance. “All needy and wet, just for me.”

“Please.” You whine into his cheek as he laces your hands together. “Want you so bad, baby.”

Your moans are loud and downright pornographic when Seokmin finally eases his throbbing cock into your cunt. You’re so warm and wet and tight that he already feels addicted. He could come just from bottoming out, but he won’t. Not before he feels you come on his cock.

You arch your back, mouth dropped open in pleasure. “Fuck me!”

And he does, nice and deep. Your legs hook around Seokmin’s slim waist to push him in deeper. His cock is ramming against a spot no one else came close to touching, and you’re sm quickly starting to lose yourself to the pleasure consuming you. His big cock smoothes along your velvety walls with every rough snap of his hips, and you don’t even try to contain your cries of pleasure.

“Feels so good.” You whimper into Seokmin’s mouth when he turn to plant a messy kiss to your lips.

Your eyes roll back as his tongue forces it’s way into your mouth. His thumb brushes the back of your hand gently, the tender action only spurring you on as you try to meet the wet connection of his hips with needy grinds of your own.

Seokmin’s cock throbs inside you, seeming to swell at your words. He reluctantly pulls way from your lips, hips not stopping for a second. Every thrusts feels like the air is lowly being forced out of your lungs. But you love every second. All you can do is moan out his name with ravenous desire as he fucks his cock into you.

“Pussy’s so fucking tight.” Seokmin groans as his free hand trails down to your swollen nub. It’s so cute to hear you moan out for him as he starts to rub gentle yet fast circles into your clit. “Feels so good around me. Sh-Shit, Y/N. Never wanna stop fucking you. Want to be inside this pretty pussy all the time!”

You’re so turned on by his need for you and your pussy that you can feel yourself on the verge of coming. Especially with the way his fingers twist around your messy clit. Your inside are fluttering as his leaking tip rams into your soft spot over and over again.

“G-Gonna come!” You cry out and you squeeze the hand that is still wrapped around yours.

You focus on his rough thrusts and how his hips dig into yours as his big cock stretches your little pussy open to fit him inside. The restless flicks to your puffy nub push you over the edge as Seokmin urges you to come for him. He licks and sucks on your pulse point just to drive you more insane than you already feel.

“Seokmin!”

Your orgasm tips through you intensely as you crema all over his aching cock. Seokmin curls his body over yours, wrapping his brawny arm around you back to press himself against you. Now you’re stuck in his strong yet gentle embrace, bodies practically molded into one as he continues to split you open.

His thrusts become sloppy as he keeps on fanning the flames of your orgasm. “Need to fill you up, angel. Want to see your pretty pussy dripping with my cum.”

“Come inside me!” You beg, eyes rolling back. “Stuff me full!”

Seokmin smashes his lips on yours, greedily swallowing your moans as he empties himself inside your hot cunt. His entire body shudders in pleasure as he fucks his cum deeper into you.

“Fuck, baby. Take it all. It’s just yours, angel.”

You’re slowly coming down from you high when you feel Seokmin’s lip brush against your ear. “I’m not done yet.”

That’s when you find out he’s just as insatiable as you are.

“Fuck.” Seokmin moans against your neck as his thrusts grow sloppier and sloppier.

He’s so drunk on the feeling of your hot cunt that he feels any coherent thoughts start to get hazy. “So fucking pretty. Always so fucking pretty.”

Seokmin pulls you in for another kiss, hips still grinding into yours with a need that turns you on beyond belief. You’ve already came on his cock two more times, and he’s mad with clear that he won’t stop until he stuffs your pussy one more time. Which he does. Thick ropes of his cum spill into you, adding to the mess on his heavy balls and the sheets bellow you.

His next kiss is gentle yet passionate. Seokmin hums into your mouth, still making no move to pull out. His cock acts as a plug for all his cum, and when you shift he groans against your lips.

“Let me stay inside you, baby.” He pleads with shining eyes. “Please.”

“Okay.” You sigh as he rolls you over so your weight is on top of him now.

And it’s only when your on the cusp of sleep that you realize Seokmin still hasn’t let go of your hand.

[cheers-to-you-th]

100 Ways to Lose Your Love (TEASER)

Pairing: Joshua x Reader Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, emotional slow burn Word count: Teaser 1k, Final 26.8k Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. Release Date: 6/25/25

full fic

Teaser for my fic in Yuki's 100 milestone collab, my bbgs are all cooking up in there so check out their stuff too, it's gonna be amazing.

Writing has always been my escape. It’s been how I ran away from reality into a place I can shape and form however I want for as long as I could hold a pencil, my little bunker in the tornado of life. My teachers had called it a gift, my parents called it useless, and I just continued writing through it all. It’s how I process your emotions, I guess, although now I’m starting to realize it may be how I avoid them. And yet, here I am, writing again.

The first time you met Joshua, it was the summer between your sophomore and junior years of college. Your friend, Soonyoung, invited you amongst a handful of his friends to go on a road trip from campus down to his parents' vacant vacation home and stay for a few weeks, enjoying the beach.

You said yes because the thought of going home to see your parents made your skin crawl, even if it meant sharing a house with near-strangers and dealing with sand in your shoes. Soonyoung had promised late nights, grilled food, and sunsets that didn’t need filters. You figured you could use a break—from school, from expectations, from yourself.

Joshua wasn’t who you noticed first. He wasn’t loud like Soonyoung, the Zoology major who’d attached himself to you the year prior, or constantly moving like Jun, who you’d never met before this but his constant foot tapping was starting to grate on your nerves. He didn’t make a big deal of his entrance when he showed up late, either—just walked up with his guitar case and an apologetic smile, soft-spoken as he said hi to the others. You were sitting on the porch steps, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup and trying not to feel out of place even though you knew a couple others there from shared classes.

He sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not crowding, not even really facing you—just close enough that you could hear him breathe between sips from his water bottle. You remember glancing over, expecting a brief hello or maybe one of those awkward small-talk moments where you both pretend the silence isn’t loud. But he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked out toward the driveway where Soonyoung was loudly arguing with Seungcheol about how to pack the cooler.

“Do you think they’ll still be fighting about ice packs when we’re thirty?” he asked suddenly, voice light, almost amused.

You snorted into your coffee. “I think they’ll still be fighting about everything when we’re thirty.”

That was it—your first exchange. Just a few words, a shared joke at someone else’s expense, and then the quiet again. You didn’t know what to make of him yet. He wasn’t unreadable, exactly. Just... settled. Like he knew how to take up space without demanding it. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone here, not even himself.

You ended up crammed between him and Minji—who you talked to a few times over the semester in stats—in Seungcheol’s beat up SUV. Jihoon, a music major, had aux, Soonyoung belting along as Wonwoo (comp. sci.) tried to drown them out with noise-cancelling headphones. Joshua’s smile was fond as he looked at them, occasionally joining in.

He had one of those quiet presences that didn’t feel the need to compete with chaos. You noticed it again during the drive, when Minji fell asleep with her head against the window and your shoulder began to ache from staying too stiff, too polite. Joshua, without a word, shifted slightly and leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough to make it feel like you weren’t holding yourself alone in the noise.

At one point, Jihoon passed the phone back for song requests, and Joshua didn’t even hesitate before handing it to you. “Pick something you won’t regret screaming later,” he said with a teasing grin, the first real note of mischief in his voice.

You scrolled, stalling, then picked a song from your high school playlists—too nostalgic, too dramatic—and halfway through, when you were laughing with your head thrown back at Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s friends from finance, trying to rap and Jihoon snapping at him to stop, you realized Joshua was looking at you. Not in a way that felt like pressure. Just… observing. Like he liked the way you looked when you weren’t trying so hard.

The house was nicer than you expected. Weathered wood, sand already in the doorway, old photos of Soonyoung and his family in every corner. You all chose rooms with the urgency of kids at summer camp—first come, first sleep—and you ended up with Minji, who said she snored and wasn’t sorry.

Those first few days blurred together: grilling badly, racing to the ocean, eating popsicles in the shallow end of the pool while the sun melted down your shoulders. You’d catch Joshua sometimes with his guitar by the fire pit, or humming a melody while washing dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He always smiled when he saw you—not a flirty kind of smile, something gentler. Something that made you feel like he saw through you a little, and didn’t mind what he found there.

It took three days before he asked you to join him for a walk on the beach.

It was after dinner—everyone else hanging back for a movie night with popcorn and the last bottle of Soonyoung’s dad’s expensive wine. You’d wandered outside for air and found him there, barefoot in the sand, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the right kind of silence.

“Want to come with me?” he asked, nodding toward the shoreline.

And you did.

You walked in companionable silence for a while, the sky streaked purples and oranges, the wind teasing at the hem of your hoodie. Every now and then your arms would brush, and you’d both pretend it didn’t mean anything. But you felt it. Every time.

“I like it here,” he said after a while, his voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Feels like you can breathe more slowly. You know?”

You nodded, and that was the first time you smiled at him like you meant it.

[ladybyakuya]

| BLIND + IZUMO HARUICHI.

+cw. — izumo haruichi x f!reader, coworker to lovers, oblivious pinning, flirting, confession, description of panic attack, claustrophobia & coping mechanisms, forced proximity, fluff, angst, character study, smut ( kissing ).

+wc. —3.1k ( shocker )

+syn.— last summer Izumo Haruichi came under your radar but this summer he has managed to get under your skin.

+notes. — part of ‘HELP WANTED’ mini server collab hosted by @interstellar-inn | redirect to blog navigation.

+tags. — @dear-koi @qichun @violet-turning-violet

The refectory of the office is oozing with ruckus this afternoon. It is not unusual but today it is just unbearable. The compartment plate in front of you is still filled with rice, curry, and salad as when you started eating your lunch. The line for the food is still alive; people are gossiping, taking food onto their plates, gossiping, taking spoons and forks, chopsticks— the sound of utensils clanking against each other one after another or sometimes all at once in sync is bugging you today. Your ears should be used to it by now after working for two years straight but it seems like a bother today. It is awfully loud in here. Everything is, even the heat.

Among this hustle and bustle, the only sound that bothers you the most is someone’s voice. It is faint to catch on from where you are sitting but the voice keeps coming to you in bits and pieces, like ebb and flow. Sometimes it is there and sometimes it is not. Sometimes your ears pick up on it but sometimes not and when it does not, your heart waits for it, even searches for the sound to reappear. And the heat is just making it worse. You can practically feel the beads of perspiration cascading through your cleavage as you search, waiting for the voice to turn up again. The air conditioner is on though, and the fans are working perfectly fine but with this kind of crowd, and heat in the dining place is at par with some blast furnaces.

“Well, I can take you there sometimes if you want,” Izumo states as one of the new interns, sitting diagonally to him, places a dumpling from her plate to his. Aoi Kaguragi, Izumo Haruichi, Reno Ichikawa, and Iharu Furuhasi are sitting at one table but Izumo is the most disconnected from them. 

“No. No. Haruichi-san, it’s fine. I can manage.” The girl sitting beside him pleads. A group of four girls who joined as new interns have occupied the table beside them. There is just a slit of partition between the two tables. Most tables are for a group of four people, but cubicle tables are cluttered together to make the team bigger, and better to establish a good workplace culture to some extent. 

Izumo expresses his thanks with a sun-kissed smile to the girl who just gave a dumpling to him, without asking. You make eye contact with him for a second but it's awkward. Aoi's nose shrinks. It acts as a distraction from Izumo’s azure gaze. Aoi stuffs his mouth with the dumpling Izumo just received out of disgust earning an alarming glare from Reno. Izumo does not even bat an eye to it. But the girl protests, “Hey. . .” Aoi glups it before saying, “he hates dumplings.” Iharu is busy eating his lunch. This guy . . . he woke up early, made breakfast for himself, got so busy and immersed with cooking that he forgot to eat. So, he is eating quietly. Reno keeps telling him to slow down but who is he? His dad?

“Well, wouldn't it be easier if you could get some directions and details?” The girl looks confused so Izumo divulges. “I live around there. So, yeah I could get you in touch with some agents if you want,” The girl looks at him with so much hope as if she has a chance to ask for the moon. 

“Oh my God. Really? Thank you so much Haruichi-san,” she chimes

Oh Fuck! Here it comes. Aoi, Reno, and Iharu share a look as you get up. The clank of your spoon was a little too loud to be ignored. Okonogi asks, “You didn’t even eat today too. Are you okay? Do you wanna leave soon today? I can finish your work if you want . . . ” 

“No. Kono-chan. It’s alright. I don’t feel hungry. I will eat when I feel hungry,”

“Yeah, gallons of coffee and tons of cakes,” Kikoru prompts without missing a beat. Your shoulders sink at her statement. She is not lying but gallons? Tons? That’s surely an exaggeration. You take your plate and as you walk past his table he gets up. Please let him not run into you. . . please god, please.

“Going to share the rest with your boyfriend?” He grabs a bottle from its designated section. You watch him walk, pick a bottle, and then come back but he halts in front of you blocking your way. Of course. Why didn’t you expect that? You should have taken a different route. 

“So what if I’m?” you squint your eyes at him since his Adam’s apple shift. Now, that’s different, unlike other days. Your eyebrows jump. Teasing each other is as easy as breathing for you and him. So, you just give in to this golden opportunity. “Your flirt game is so bad, no wonder you’re still single, Haruichi-san,” you snicker emphasizing ‘Haruichi-san’ since you have already been granted the authority to call him by his name but sometimes it is just amusing how he hates it when you do not use it; even if he specifically said that you can call him Izu-kun or simply Izumo. He just wanted to get included in your league of people; the people who you have given a nickname. It's almost like adopting a puppy.

Izumo rolls his tongue inside, along his bottom lip too quickly to pinpoint his frustration. He is pouting now. His hand proceeds to his nape scraping his hair for a moment in the hope of seeking some respite from this heat. Why does he even keep his hair long? Why not just cut it? Or put it in a bun. Your eyes go to the bunch of interns who are eagerly watching you two as if you are big stage actors. “My flirt game isn’t bad, . . . he trails off and then sighs. His hand swings back in his pocket as clarifies, “It’s just that . . . the person I like is a fucking idiot. That’s why I’m still single.”

You scan the group of interns at his valor display of vulgarity. Girls must find it hot, don’t they? That’s why he does it, isn't it? Good for him! He has an audience now. You bet they are practically swooning. Aoi’s face is a sight to behold. Iharu has given up. Even Reno has his head tipped down while holding the bridge of his nose. He is not someone who loses patience easily except Kafka Hibino, his mentor and co-worker.

“What a loverboy.” You opined to him before your gaze switched back to the girl who was trying all the ways to get his number. Yeah, it was very obvious especially since she was practically rubbing herself on him since the day she joined. How do people do that? Get hooked onto someone like the twinkle of a star. That too in this heat. It is hard enough to keep coherent behavior, thoughts, and habits intact but now you have another problem, Izumo Haruichi. He is being spectacularly annoying today. 

You look at the girl before saying anything. You will probably be doing her a favor. 

“don’t waste your time on him, he is going to break your heart, girl.” 

The spoon from her hands falls on the dish splashing a little bit of soup on her dress. People have already started to look at this table by now. 

“You’re just jealous,” the girl sneers back.

You part your lips forming an apology at the tip of your tongue but you realize the damage you have done. She hurriedly tries to clean herself with a napkin to avoid eye contact. 

You should not pick on people’s emotions like that, however small, however meek it may seem to you, it's a lot for them. What’s with you today? This is not like you. This is more like  . . . Haruichi. He has this habit. Maybe it's starting to rub off on you simply because he is now working with your team on this upcoming project.

Izumo has always been like this. Flirting with girls, leading them on, giving them hope, and then, breaking their hearts. Does he realize that? The hurt he leaves in his wake? He is like a swan in a lake leisurely swimming in the evening that attracts ducks, influencing them to be like the swan, elegant and beautiful when there is a surge of fresh batches of interns; every year. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it backfires.

His flirting is not limited to just girls. That’s how he became such close friends with Aoi. But then again, it is not exactly flirting. Could it be he is unaware of how he carries himself? Nah! That’s too much of giving him the benefit of the doubt or maybe has managed to charm a part of you. Yeah! That would happen in any case. He picks up on people’s emotions really quickly and does not hesitate to call them out. It’s a nasty habit. 

That is how much you know about him, as a co-worker. Outside this office, he is a total stranger to you. So, you do not have to look out for him, worry about being among the swarm of ducks, he might turn into one, or fearing if there hides a hawk among them.

“That’s too much talking for an intern,” Iharu remarks, taking his plate and standing up.

“I agree.” Reno nods his head. “Wait, what?” He is not surprised by Iharu’s statement but rather his wit. Before the situation gets elongated you try to put an end in your way but whether the bow will pierce the heart or the head you gamble on that.

“Yes. maybe you’re right. That was so rude of me. But you see,” you bow your head a little to match her eye level since her eyes are on her plate. “ I don’t go for committed boys.”

Izumo’s face is aghast. What did you just say? He is not committed. He is single. Excuse you, did you not hear him a while ago? 

Izumo looks at Aoi, clearly uncomfortable and frightened by your burst of bubbling behavior. That was odd of you. He has never seen you this annoyed. He has always been like this with you, teasing and flirting around you with other people. Maybe the heat is going in your head today. You walk towards the dustbin to empty your plate before keeping it on a designated table. Everyone watches you as Izumo follows you like a kicked puppy searching for his owner. It’s pathetic.

He is not pathetic . You are just dumb. How can you not get it? How can you not see it? His feelings for you? Well, not that he exactly laid his heart out in front of you but isn’t it obvious? Everybody on his team is aware of it. Everybody on your team is aware of it. Are you really that dumb? Or do you just choose to ignore his feelings? If it is the latter then he is done for. Perhaps, the fear of abandonment and rejection compels him to create backups while at the same time, it gives him a refuge to hide his feelings; keep them protected, warm, and soft; so that he can still talk to you, still be around you, breathe the same air as you.

After all, who would look for a leaf in a forest?

“Fancy a candy?” Izumo chimes as he leans against the door frame of the archive room while you slide the access card to open the door.

“No thank you.” You tartly reply with a poker face. God, he followed you here, which means he is gonna yap for as long as he is here and God forbid he better not talk about what just happened in the dining hall. 

Izumo mumbles to himself, stepping into the room, “Guess I’ll have it then,” with a pout.

“Did the storage closet door lock behind us?” you ask as the bang of the metal door sends jolts throughout your body.

“I think so,” Izumo walks towards the door to check. He hopes that you are not playing any prank or something but then again, who would like to be stuck in the archive room? Especially in summer when the air conditioner is out of service and the fans have been hopeless since last spring. Izumo hears a loud thud. As he turns he finds you curled up in a fetal position on the floor struggling to breathe.

“Oh no no no no” you blabber feeling the dread and anxiety piling on top of your body. It is getting heavier. Seeing you like that, Izumo forgets what to do. At first, his feet move slowly though, then he quickens his pace but finally skids towards you since his calf muscles betray him.

“Breath. Look at me.” His voice is so faint or maybe you are already sinking in the depth of the attack. You know what to do. The tactic to overcome this. But with people around it gets harder. Most people do not know what to do and even if they did they are only aware of the ‘321’ rule since it is easier to remember, faster to execute, and the default suggestion before the medic arrives. Right. Medic. You can call, right? You touch your hips for your cellphone feeling only your skin and clothes. Your phone is at your work desk. Fuck. Your only hope is this guy, Izumo Haruichi.

“That’s not. . . it. you inhale barely but manage to say the next set of words in one breath. 

“That 321 rule doesn’t work on me.”

Immediately, your chest starts to feel heavy. Your head feels heavy. Your breathing is labored.

“Yes, I know. I know.” Izumo assures. His voice is so still, so even that it gathers all scattered pieces on him finally. “54321 it is.” He adds. He tries to make you sit but you are so stiff under the influence of fear that even with his strength he is in no luck. Moreover, he does not want you to treat him as a threat rather than a cane to grab on.

“Identify 5 things you can see,” 

Your eyes roam everywhere, to the farthest point it can see things. It has already started to itch and water. You blink rashly before mumbling. “Files—you inhale a long breath. “cabinets, AC, tables, chairs” 

“Next. 4 things you can touch” 

“The wall,” you say and touch it. You can finally sit up now, leg sprawled on the hot floor. Next, you touch your i-card. “My ID card.” Then your hair clip. “my hair clip,” unfastening it from your hair letting your hair fall onto your shoulders; it's a turquoise one today, and finally his ID card. You grab it in your hand and watch closely, flipping it too to glance at the other side . What an awful picture of Izumo .

“Your ID card.” 

Izumo holds you by the arms. His touch feels cold against yours. The full-sleeve dress is the only barrier between his skin and yours. Your palms clamp around his upper wrists. 

“Okay, 3 things you can hear:” 

“A.C.” 

“Fans.”

“Your voice,”

Izumo nods every time but it becomes slow at your third pick. 

“2 things you can smell.” It sinks in him: how in desperation and hunger you seek whatever you can get.

You take your scented handkerchief out of your pocket. Izumo takes it and holds it against your nose. Your exhaustive eyes look at him. His perfume smells rather too sweet today. You fall into his chest, embracing him. “Your perfume,” You whisper nuzzling against him. He is still sitting with his legs folded. You can hear his heartbeat, yours too. You are alive. You are very much alive.

“1 thing you can taste,” He says in a low voice, like the start of a lullaby. Reluctantly you pull your face away and look up. At this angle you can see his tongue, it’s white due to the candy. Could it be lichi flavored? There is still a bit of it left, peeking against his teeth.

Curiosity cascades into your body like rain and soaks him wet in a fraction of a second. It is an entirely foreign sensation for Izumo: Your lips are plush and soft with no hint of lipstick. The way your fingers press into his chest is unforgiving to his taut muscles creating a sense of pain, but a different kind of pain; the good kind. You are desperate and forceful. Your lips taste like spicy and honey. What did you have for lunch today? 

WAIT. You break the kiss. Izumo is as stunned as you are. His azure is asking why did you stop? You are still holding on to him. How did he know that the ‘321’ rule does not work on you? Moreover, how did he know that you have claustrophobia in the first place? 

Ah! Now it makes sense.

The realization paints your mind like it's high on drugs. Before you can think twice, your hands trail up to his nape enveloping his face. He instantly pulls you into his lap folding his legs one over the other to make you comfortable. He is swift and strong. This time, he is the one to demand first. The candy must have melted by now. It was coconut-flavored. You do not remember swallowing it neither does he but only the feeling of your lips on his, his on yours. He pulls away from the kiss gasping for air. His mouth and nose are cherry-tinted. He is getting an earful from Aoi for sure.

“I have texted Aoi.” His hands recoil back into his pocket from under your shirt. “He will be here soon.”

Izumo looks at the ground. Is it awkward? Yeah! Definitely. Does he want this to get over with? NO!NEVER. Damn him for wanting you. Damn him for craving you even at desperation like this.

You give him a long hum. “Why do you look like a crumpled receipt? It’s not like I will break your heart once we are out of the room, Izumo.” You place a kiss on his cheek. “Still have to thank you for saving my life.” 

You get out of his lap. He blinks hopelessly. Yeah, his suffering isn’t going to end . You still are as dense as a cabbage and so defenseless, so tactless, by god it drives him nuts. “I love you,” Izumo mumbles to himself. Aoi opens the door as you look at Izumo. 

“What did you just say?” Both of you walk side by side as you two walk out of the room. Aoi is still holding the door.

“Nothing” You continue to scrutinize him with your eyes.  “I said, I hate you.”

You smile. “Yeah! I hate you too.” 

Poor Aoi is still holding the door witnessing the cheesiest corny confession ever.

—

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